Play with fire and you'll get burned. Dance with desire and you might just fall in love.
The story of a stripper and a guy who can't seem to get away.
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The Liaison club stood as a fortress of opulence in Seoul's underbelly, a clandestine haven where the city's elite shed their public masks. Tucked behind an unassuming steel door in Gangnam, it opened into a world of decadence: the air heavy with the musky scent of oud cologne, the sharp tang of aged whiskey, and the sweet undertone of imported cigars. Crystal chandeliers hung like constellations, their golden light fracturing across the room, illuminating plush velvet armchairs in deep sapphire and oxblood. The walls, swathed in silk the color of midnight, swallowed sound, save for the low, sultry hum of a jazz quartet tucked in the corner—saxophone notes curling through the haze like smoke. This wasn't a place for the ordinary; it was a crucible for power, where billionaires brokered deals and socialites traded secrets over crystal tumblers, their laughter sharp as broken glass.
Jimin navigated this world with the ease of a predator in its domain. His blond hair shimmered under the chandeliers, a stark contrast to the black suit that clung to his frame—tailored to perfection, the fabric shifting with every step to reveal the lean muscle beneath. The top two buttons of his shirt hung open, exposing a sliver of collarbone that caught the light, a quiet defiance against the club's formality. His eyes, dark and piercing, swept the room with a restless intensity, betraying the calm of his exterior. He belonged here, among the untouchable, yet something in his posture—a faint tension in his shoulders—hinted at a man who never fully relaxed.
He was searching for Jay, his younger brother, whose return to Seoul had stirred a cocktail of anticipation and unease in Jimin's chest. What's he been up to? The thought flickered as his gaze landed on a figure at the bar—Jay, leaning casually against the counter, a glass of water cradled in his hand. He looked older, more solid, his dark hair swept back, his frame filling out the navy shirt he wore. There was a steadiness to him now, a quiet gravity that hadn't existed in the reckless kid Jimin remembered.
A grin split Jimin's face, warm and edged with mischief. "Jay!" His voice cut through the din, carrying that familiar teasing lilt.
Jay turned, his dark eyes sparking with recognition, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Jimin, you actually showed." His tone was light, but there was a shadow of reserve beneath it. He set his glass down and closed the distance, pulling Jimin into a brief, tight hug—two sharp claps on the back before stepping away. "Good to see you."
"You too, bro." Jimin studied him, noting the subtle changes—the way Jay's jaw set, the faint lines around his eyes. "You look... grounded. What's up? Still living out of suitcases?"
Jay chuckled, scratching the back of his neck—a nervous tic Jimin knew from childhood. "Something like that. Been drifting—Tokyo, Singapore, Bankok, Busan, back here. Guess I got tired of running."
"Running?" Jimin tilted his head, eyes narrowing playfully. "Not from me, I hope. You've been dodging my calls too long." He paused, then grinned. "Crash at my place in Seocho-gu. No more hotel bullshit."
