Joon-ho slipped out of the pounding lights and heat of the dance floor, weaving through a crush of bodies, the air sticky with sweat and perfume and spilled drinks. Laughter and bass faded behind him as he ducked through the thick velvet curtain to the quieter shadows of the VIP room. For a moment, he just stood there, exhaling—feeling the weight of the party, the thrill of being surrounded by beauty and chaos, but also the ache of needing to catch his breath.
He grabbed another drink from the low table, poured a splash of whiskey over ice, and let the glass rest heavy and cold in his palm. Leaning back on the leather banquette, he reached into his jacket, fished out a slim black pack, and lit a cigarette with the slow ritual of someone who smoked only for pleasure, not habit. The first drag burned sweet, the taste earthy, sharp; he watched the smoke curl toward the mirrored ceiling as he settled in, letting the thrum of music seep into his bones at a safer distance.
