The voice came from a guy leaning against a brick wall, flanked by two others. They were wearing leather, studs, and expressions that said they ate foreign exchange students for a midnight snack.
"Foreigner," the leader sneered, pushing off the wall. "You lost? Or just looking for trouble?"
"I'm looking for a bus," I said, my voice tight. "And I think I found the wrong stop."
"Nice hair," one of the lackeys laughed, reaching out to grab my ponytail. "Is it real?"
Fight or flight? My brain screamed. Flight. Definitely flight.
I looked down. By my foot, sitting outside a closed flower shop, was a large, heavy ceramic pot containing a decorative (and very heavy-looking) palm tree.
"Sorry, tree," I whispered.
I grabbed the rim of the pot and, with a grunt of effort, heaved it. I didn't throw it at them—I wasn't suicidal. I threw it at the pavement right between us.
CRASH.
Ceramic exploded like a grenade. Dirt and palm fronds flew everywhere. The hooligans jumped back, cursing and shielding their faces.
"You crazy—!"
I didn't wait for the rest of the sentence. I spun on my heel and bolted.
"Get him!"
I sprinted down the dark alley, my long legs eating up the distance. I heard heavy footsteps behind me, but I had the advantage of panic-induced adrenaline. I vaulted over a pile of trash bags, rounded a corner, and burst out onto a busy main street.
The crowd was thick here—couples, students, salarymen. I dove into the stream of people, weaving like a fish, using my height to spot gaps. I ran for two blocks, turned left, ran another block, and finally ducked into a doorway, gasping for air.
My chest was heaving. I checked behind me. No leather jackets. No angry shouts. I was safe.
"God," I wheezed, leaning against the wall. "Why? Just... why?"
I looked up to see where I was. It was a side street in Hongdae, lined with bars and underground clubs. And then, I saw him.
Fifty meters away, stepping out of a taxi, was a figure I knew better than my own reflection by now.
Park Jun-seo.
He wasn't in his uniform. He wasn't even in the polite casual clothes he wore around the neighborhood. He was wearing a black leather jacket, ripped jeans, and combat boots.
He looked around quickly, checking for witnesses, and then slipped through a graffiti-covered door that was vibrating with bass.
My jaw dropped. The Student President? The Golden Boy? Entering a sketchy underground rock club on a Wednesday night?
"Are you kidding me?" I groaned to the sky. "Am I a magnet? Do I have 'Show Me Your Secrets' tattooed on my forehead?"
I couldn't leave. This was too good. This was Quest 2 material.
I stepped out to follow him, but my phone buzzed in my pocket.
Ha-neul: Where are you? Abeoji is asking.
I stared at the screen. If I told them I was being chased by hooligans in Hongdae, Mrs. Lee would send a SWAT team.
I typed, my fingers flying.
San: I'm with Jun-seo. We're... hanging out. Don't worry.
Technically, I was about to be with Jun-seo. It wasn't a lie. It was a... geographical approximation.
Ha-neul: With Jun-seo?Shibal, what are you...
I shoved the phone back in my pocket, even without finishing reading her message and approached the graffiti door.
I pushed it open.
A wall of sound hit me. Drums, bass, and the smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke. It was dark, crowded, and hot.
This wasn't a polite noraebang. This was a dive bar. A club
I squeezed through the crowd. Bodies were pressed together, swaying to the DJ's interlude track. A girl with heavy eyeliner grabbed my arm as I passed.
"Oppa! Nice face," she shouted over the noise, waving a phone. "Number?"
"No phone! No Korean! S-sorry!" I yelled back in the most possible Ukrainian accent , twisting away and diving deeper into the crush, trying to spot Jun-seo, u
Then, without warning, the house lights cut out.
Pitch black.
The crowd cheered. I froze, unable to see my own hand in front of my face.
Suddenly, I felt a body press against me. Hard.
Soft curves. Perfume that smelled like vanilla and danger.
And then, a hand. A hand that definitely did not belong to me, sliding down my stomach and landing boldly, firmly, on my... southern regions.
"Whoa—!" I gasped.
Before I could push the hand away, lips were on mine.
It wasn't a polite peck. It was an ambush. Wet, hungry, and aggressive.
I froze. My brain short-circuited.
I purely instinctively started defending myself with my tongue—attempting a parry—but let's just say my fencing skills were rusty, and I was up against a Grandmaster. I surrendered immediately.
For five seconds, I was lost in the darkness, being groped and French-kissed by a total stranger in the middle of a rock club.
Then, a guitar chord slashed through the air.
CLACK.
The stage spotlights blinded me.
God help me please!
I pulled back, gasping, my eyes adjusting to the sudden glare.
On stage, standing at the microphone, gripping it with both hands, was Park Jun-seo. But he looked... wild. He wore a black face mask, but it was definitely Jun-seo. His hair was messed up, sweat shining on his forehead, eyes closed as he screamed the opening lyric of a band song.(honestly it felt like he glowed even more than back at school)
He opened his eyes. He looked right at the crowd.
He looked right at me.
Panic.
If he saw me—if he saw San, the "Representative". The truce would be over.
I had no choice.
I grabbed the girl who had just assaulted me. I didn't even look at her face. I just clamped an arm around her waist, pulled her flush against me, and spun her around in a violent, dramatic tango dip.
I turned my back completely to the stage, burying my face in the girl's neck to hide.
"Take me!" I whispered frantically into her ear, hoping she couldn't hear the terror in my voice. "Just... dance! Don't stop!"
The girl, clearly thinking she'd just scored the easiest hookup of her life, wrapped her arms around my neck and giggled.
"Oppa is fast," she purred.
Behind me, Jun-seo's voice roared through the speakers, singing energetically about betrayal and lies, while I stood there, clutching a stranger, praying to every god I knew that the Golden Boy had bad eyesight.