[YearsAgo]
The air changed when they walked in.
Even before the music dipped and the lights caught on their silhouettes, people felt them—like a shift in gravity. The kind of entrance that makes heads turn, drinks pause mid-air, and breaths catch for no reason other than sheer presence.
The Holy Trinity.
Jungkook. Taehyung. Jimin.
They weren't just beautiful. They were lethal.
Jungkook, tall and brooding, in all black and fury, his jaw tense from another fight with Sayuri. Taehyung, smooth and slow-moving, all sharp cheekbones and careless confidence. And trailing just a step behind them, Park Jimin—his face deceptively soft, like sin wrapped in silk.
Girls whispered.
Phones lifted.
Hearts broke quietly in the background.
Jimin didn't notice. Or pretended not to.
His angelic face glowed under neon, hair perfectly windswept like he'd just walked off a magazine cover. His pout, unbothered. His eyes? Sugary and distant.
They slipped into a corner booth like kings claiming their throne.
Drinks flowed.
Laughter bled into bass lines.
Bodies gravitated toward them like moths to an open flame.
Models.
Actresses.
Pick-me girls with glossy lips and no shame.
They didn't need to be hunted—they offered themselves up.
"Another furniture down?" Jimin asked Jungkook with a half-smirk, sliding him a tequila.
Jungkook let out a low chuckle, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Almost hit the mirror this time. She threw my phone into the toilet again."
"She's creative," Taehyung mused, sipping something dark.
"I needed to get out," Jungkook growled, voice tight with leftover anger.
"Say no more," Jimin grinned, raising his glass. "Tonight, we don't think. We dance."
That was their rule. Their ritual.
When life got heavy—when heartbreak, scandals, or rage loomed—they slipped into the night and let the music swallow them whole.
This was who they were back then.
Untouchable. Addicted to chaos. Beautiful in ways that hurt to look at.
Clubbing wasn't a hobby. It was survival.
And that night?
Celine was somewhere in the same crowd.
But neither of them knew.
Not yet.
"Another bottle," Jimin called over the music, gesturing smoothly to the waiter. The tequila was kicking in, just enough to ease the tension in his shoulders, not enough to drown him. Yet.
He leaned back in the booth, arm slung over the seat, eyes lazily scanning the crowd as Jungkook nursed another drink and Taehyung was already grinding with some girl whose hips didn't lie and dress barely covered anything.
And then—
He saw her.
Across the room, near the bar. Dressed in black—barely. Strategic cuts hugged her like secrets. Her hair was bleached, a strawberry blonde that glowed under the club lights, swaying with each fluid step like silk in a breeze.
She was dancing—but not for anyone.
Just herself.
Loose, hypnotic, free.
Jimin's lips parted slightly.
He knew a dancer when he saw one.
And she moved like her bones were music.
She turned.
Met his gaze.
And didn't flinch.
Didn't smile.
Didn't melt like the rest.
Her friends did.
They were already whispering, nudging each other, eyes wide as they drank in Jungkook like he was carved by gods. A couple even made their way toward the boys' booth—flirting, laughing, starstruck.
But not her.
She stayed seated. Cool. Effortless.
Unbothered.
Celine.
(He wouldn't know her name until much later, but the mystery of her already dug its claws in.)
She didn't chase.
She watched.
And when she noticed his stare, she smiled—but not sweetly.
She reached for the salt. Licked it.
Took her shot of tequila like a dare.
Sucked on the lemon with a wink that said I know you're looking. And I still won't come to you.
Jimin leaned forward, lips curling.
Intrigued.
Taehyung was being swallowed by the dancefloor by then, some girl twerking her soul out like the beat was her heartbeat.
Jungkook, temporarily distracted, didn't notice Jimin shift.
Jimin stood.
But when he looked back—
She was gone.
No trace.
No goodbye.
Just the ghost of tequila and citrus in the air.
He chuckled to himself, running a hand through his hair.
So this is how it starts, he thought.
And God, he had no idea what was coming.
-One Week Later-
It started the way it always did—Sayuri slamming a door and Jungkook downing a whiskey like it was water.
"I swear I'm done," Jungkook muttered.
"You said that last week," Taehyung replied, buttoning up his black shirt like they weren't about to dive headfirst into debauchery.
"And the week before that," Jimin added with a sigh, slipping a silver chain around his neck and running a hand through his hair. "But go off, King."
Jungkook just scowled. "She said I'm emotionally unavailable."
"You are," the two chimed in unison.
But like the loyal degenerates they were, they took him out. Again.
This time to a high-end bar downtown, tucked behind mirrored doors and walls that breathed money and perfume. They expected something quieter. Something less... obnoxious.
Instead, the place was packed. Bodies swayed like they'd been paid to sin.
They slid into a corner booth—VIP, of course. Eyes turned. But the boys didn't care. They were used to being looked at like art on fire.
No drinks yet.
Then came the voices.
"Jiminie?"
He turned, and there they were—three girls he knew, all limbs, heels, and glossed lips. One for each of them. Unspoken math, perfect distribution.
"Can we join?" one asked, already sliding in.
Jungkook shrugged. "Sure."
They chatted. Drank.
Taehyung's girl was already whispering in his ear, giggling like a schoolgirl. Jungkook, dead-eyed and freshly single, had his hand snaked lazily over his date's shoulder, drinking like he wanted to forget the world.
Jimin?
Jimin was polite.
Smirking. Charmed, but not charmed enough.
"We're just waiting for one more," his friend said.
"Oh?" he raised a brow, lazily spinning his glass. "What's she like?"
"Trouble."
And just like that—
She arrived.
Celine.
Black pants that looked painted on. A halter top that shimmered under lights. Hair tied up messily, two strands falling down the sides of her face. That same smirk. That same electric, untouchable chaos.
She didn't look at the others. She saw him.
Jimin bit back a smile as she slid in beside him like she owned the seat, the booth, and possibly the city.
"You again," he murmured, eyes scanning her like a challenge.
"You looked bored," she replied, pouring herself a drink without asking. "I'm here to fix that."
Taehyung was too distracted to notice the storm brewing beside Jimin. Jungkook barely lifted his head, deep in his haze of heartbreak and whatever perfume his date was wearing.
But Jimin?
Jimin felt alive.
He leaned closer. "So... dancer, tequila girl, and now savior of my night?"
"I'm also allergic to bullshit," she said sweetly, taking a slow sip. "Just in case you planned to flirt with that."
Jimin grinned.
"You should be careful," he whispered, voice dropping. "I'm dangerously good at this."
She blinked at him, fake innocent. "At what?"
"Making people fall."
Celine let out a breathy laugh and tilted her head. "You'll need more than that, pretty boy."
She was bratty.
Sharp-tongued.
Quick-witted.
Chaotic.
And God, she was a spark Jimin hadn't felt in years.
He leaned back, letting her fill her glass.
"Fine," he said with a lazy smile. "Your move."
She took her shot. "Try to keep up, Romeo."