GAME ON. (JIKOOK)

1. The dancer

The bar, known only by a symbol on the door, existed in the city's underground—a hidden haven for those who lived in shadows. No neon signs, no loud music spilling out into the streets. It thrived on whispers, a place where people came to disappear, to watch and be watched without judgment. Inside, the air was thick, heavy with smoke and secrets. Low red lights bathed the room, casting long, distorted shadows that slithered across the dark wood and leather, giving the space an otherworldly feel. Every corner was steeped in mystery, a sanctuary for those who knew how to keep their own.

A brunette sat in the farthest booth, almost swallowed by the darkness, his posture deceptively relaxed but alert. His eyes scanned the room with a calm detachment, though they missed nothing. He exuded a controlled kind of power, a presence that drew attention but didn't beg for it. His attire matched the room—dark, enigmatic. A sheer black shirt clung to his skin beneath a sleek leather jacket, the faintest sheen visible when he shifted under the low lights. Tight, well-fitted jeans traced the lean muscle of his thighs, leaving nothing to imagination. His skin had a warm, bronzed tone, the kind that seemed too perfect to be natural. His sharp jawline and the gleam of an eyebrow piercing gave him a dangerous edge, but it was the stillness in his gaze that was truly unnerving. It was the calm before the storm.

He sipped from his glass, a martini held lazily in his hand, though his attention never wavered from the room. It was a game he played—one of patience. Of waiting. His eyes flickered to the bartender, a woman with silver hair pulled into a sleek ponytail, her movements deliberate, like someone who knew more than she let on. She approached, her gaze locking onto his, something unreadable in her expression.

"Here for him?" she asked, voice low, as if uttering the words themselves held power.

The man didn't respond at first. He merely stared at her, his lips curling slightly, but it wasn't a smile. His fingers slipped into his jacket pocket, producing a thick stack of bills, which he pushed across the bar in silence. The bartender's eyes widened ever so slightly, her red-painted lips curling into something sharper than a smirk.

"Private time?" she asked, though it was more a statement than a question.

His response was only in the shift of his gaze—cold, hooded, calculating. The bar seemed to hold its breath in that moment, a pause before the world turned.

Suddenly, the red light in the room dimmed further, casting the space into deeper shadow, while the soft hum of conversation stilled. All eyes, as if connected by an unseen thread, turned toward the stage at the far end of the room. A collective sigh, almost imperceptible, rippled through the crowd, anticipation crackling in the air like static before a storm.

The music shifted, a haunting, sensual melody with a low, pulsing bass that seemed to echo through the bones. Smoke curled in lazy tendrils across the stage as the spotlight flickered to life, illuminating a figure that stepped from the shadows.

There, under the red light, stood a lean figure, ethereal and otherworldly. His skin, pale as moonlight, gleamed in the soft light, a contrast to the dark, smoky room. He moved with a grace that was almost unnatural, every step precise, calculated to draw eyes. His legs were wrapped in fishnet stockings that clung to his lithe form, and his hips swayed under a shimmering thong that sparkled like stars in the night. Above his torso, barely covered by a sheer, translucent crop top, his stomach muscles shifted with every movement, his body an artwork of seduction.

A mask obscured most of his face, adding a layer of anonymity that only made the scene more charged, more dangerous. Yet it was the small cat-ear headband nestled in his strawberry blonde hair that drew a few soft gasps from the audience. It was a contradiction—innocence layered over temptation, hiding something darker underneath.