The Broken Dancer

Exit Wound

The night splits open with the sound of tires whispering over wet asphalt. The club's front doors, heavy and tinted, swing inward to a rush of cold air that doesn't belong here - sharp, outside air, carrying something that smells like consequence.

Two unmarked sedans roll to a stop beside the curb. Their headlights cut briefly across the dark entrance before extinguishing in unison. The quiet that follows isn't peace - it's procedure.

Four figures step out. No uniforms, no dramatic gestures. Just plain dark coats and clipped voices - the kind of presence that doesn't need to announce itself to command attention. At the front is Officer Kim, the court-appointed enforcement liaison. Beside him, a middle-aged man in a slate-grey suit carries a slim black case stamped with the gold insignia of the Seoul Central District Court. Behind them walks the welfare liaison, young, composed, her ID clipped to her lapel: Department of Wellbeing and Victim Support - Acting Under Counsel: Han Yura.

Inside, the club is mid-shift - dim music, glasses clinking, conversations low and rehearsed. Mr. Kang, the acting manager, looks up from his ledger as the doors open and instantly forgets how to breathe. "Good evening," says Officer Kim evenly. "We're here on an active court order."

He opens the black case and unfolds the document withing. The top reads, in neat type:

Temporary Protective Transfer Order: PARK, JIMIN. Issued under Article 34, Section 2 of the Wellbeing Protection Act.

The red seal glows under the low light - bright as blood against ivory paper.

Mr. Kang blinks, his mouth opening, closing. "I... I don't - There must be some -"

"Error?" Officer Kim finishes for him, tone still calm. "No. You've been notified."

He stares at the paper, throat working. And then, from the back corridor, a low voice cuts through the hum of the club like a blade:

"What's happening here?"

Mr. Park steps out of the hallway, immaculate as ever in a dark coat. For a heartbeat, no one moves. He was halfway down the private corridor - Mr. Song following, toward the dressing rooms - when the call came through his earpiece. "Sir, you should see this," one of his men had whispered. And now he stands at the threshold, the thin smile on his face more muscle memory than feeling.

He doesn't look at the officers first. He looks at the seal. Then at the document. Then, very slowly, at the name written across it.

"There must be a mistake," he says.

"There isn't," Officer Kim replies. His voice is gentle, but final.

Behind the bar, a few of the staff have stopped moving, pretending to polish glasses, to check receipts - anything to avoid being seen. The music plays on, muted and distorted, as if from underwater.

Mr. Park inhales once. When he exhales, the temperature in the room seems to drop. His tone doesn't rise; it doesn't need to. "You arrive without warning, you cite orders I haven't reviewed, you speak my son's name as though it belongs to you."

Officer Kim folds the paper back into its case. "Your legal counsel can appeal. The order stands until then." His words fall into the quiet like stones into still water.

Something changes in the father's expression - not rage, not even disbelief, but calculation, sharpened and frantic beneath the surface. He turns to Kang. "Tell Song not to move the boy until I say so."

He steps closer to the officers, his voice now a low thread of control stretched too tight. "Whatever this is, it ends here. You have no idea who you're dealing with."