The evening covered the club in a thick layer of noise. The music roared beyond the walls, but in the VIP room, everything sounded different: a hum of voices, the clinking of glasses, hoarse laughter, the drag of cigars. The air was thick, saturated with expensive alcohol and tobacco. The light was soft, hiding faces in the semi-darkness.
Do-yun moved between the tables as if he were part of the interior: a white shirt, a vest, a tray in his hands. His face was calm, his steps precise. No one was supposed to notice the tremor under that mask.
But he could feel the gaze. From the center of the room. Dark, persistent.
Yoon Seung-ho.
"Hey, pretty boy," the voice was drunk, hoarse.
Do-yun froze for a moment. One of the clients—a man in an expensive suit with flushed cheeks—leaned over the table. The smell of alcohol and tobacco hit him in the face.
"Pour me another one. But don't rush," his hand rested on the edge of the tray, holding it. A smirk. His eyes slid down, brazenly, slowly. "Maybe you have more to offer than just a glass?"
"Let go," Do-yun's voice was cold.
But the client just smirked and reached closer.
A sharp scrape of a chair.
Seung-ho stood up. Slowly, but so suddenly that the table wobbled, a glass clinked against the edge. His silhouette rose above the room: tall, confident, predatory.
He didn't say a word. He just stared.
His gaze fixed on the client—heavy, scorching, with no hint of politeness. It said only one thing: don't touch him.
The client flinched, his fingers trembled and recoiled. The smirk vanished.
"It's fine, I was just…" he mumbled and turned back to his glass.
The air changed.
Seung-ho stood without sitting down. But now he wasn't looking at the client. He was looking at him. At Do-yun.
And that was worse. Because that look said too clearly: he's mine.
His chest tightened. It felt too familiar.
Then—another night. Other hands. The smell of alcohol and leather. Then he had said "no." But the hand on his shoulder wasn't removed. He was pressed against a wall, and his words dissolved in a stranger's breath. His body remembered that heat—not as desire, but as violence, as humiliation. Fingers that dug into his wrists left bruises. He tried to break free, but only heard a sneer: "You want this yourself anyway."
Since then, he had sworn to himself: I will not let this happen again. Never.
Now, under that gaze, the past came alive.
Do-yun straightened up. The tray didn't tremble, his face remained cold. But his heart was beating so loudly that the tremor echoed in his fingers.
Seung-ho turned his head slightly, and that was enough to make him stop.
"Continue," he said quietly.
It didn't sound like an order. It sounded like he was giving permission.
Anger rose in his chest: at himself, at that look, at the past that had suddenly broken through time.
***
The corridor met him with a hollow echo. The smell of metal, alcohol, cigarettes. The dim light of the lamps, sharp shadows on the walls.
Do-yun walked quickly, his tray was already empty. He wanted to dissolve into the crowd, to regain his breath. But someone's hand brushed his shoulder.
He stopped.
Yoon Seung-ho.
He stood too close, blocking his path. His shadow fell directly on him. The gaze was heavy, dark.
"You took that too calmly," he said in a low voice.
Do-yun lifted his chin, his voice even:
"That was none of your business."
Seung-ho smirked and leaned closer. His breath touched his skin. This was worse than a punch.
"You're wrong. It is my business."
He took a step forward. Do-yun's back nearly touched the wall.
"Never let anyone touch you again. I don't like it."
Those words hit harder than he expected. Because he had heard them once before—only in a different voice, without right, without consent. Then, it had ended in pain. Then, no one had heard his "no."
Do-yun's fingers clenched so hard that the tray seemed to dig into his palms. His body remembered: the heat, the grip, the humiliation. A wave of fury and fear rose in his chest.
"You speak as if you have the right," he said quietly.
Seung-ho smiled. Not playfully—dangerously.
"Maybe I already do."
A thick silence hung between them. The music from the hall was a muffled echo. But for Do-yun, everything was once again too close: the wall, the breath, the other's shadow.
He pushed off with his shoulder and walked on. His steps were quick, like an escape. As if he was not only leaving the corridor, but also the past that had reached out to him again.