32 parts Complete The streets were loud. Always loud. Always hungry.
Dunk's body ached. His stomach had stopped growling days ago - as if even it had given up. The city didn't care who fell on its concrete. Not when there were parties to attend and purses to clutch.
He sat curled against a rusted lamppost, wrapped in a rag that used to be a shirt, eyes barely open, mind long past caring. The world had turned grayscale.
Then it happened.
A voice-young, sharp, bubbling with laughter-floated from across the sidewalk. Talk of brands and boutiques, a string of designer names like spells: "Prada, Gucci, Balenciaga-no, not that again, please-" and then... footsteps slowed.
A boy, maybe 14, with warm skin and a smile too bright for this city, stepped forward. He wasn't dressed in gold, but his confidence shimmered. His eyes flickered to Dunk, just for a second.
He didn't say a word.
He just walked up, pulled out a packet of food from his glittery tote bag, and placed it beside Dunk. Then a folded bill-crisp, blue, too generous. He turned, already laughing again with his friends as they walked away.
He never looked back.
But Dunk...
Dunk never stopped looking.
⸻
Thirteen years later.
The party pulsed like a vein, neon and expensive.
Chandeliers trembled with bass. Flutes of champagne floated past on silver trays. Everyone glittered, but no one glowed.
Dunk stood by the entrance in a tailored black-on-black ensemble that screamed "touch me and die, but take a photo first." A soft silk scarf looped around his neck like smoke. Rings on every finger. The room shrank when he walked in.
"Who invited the bodyguard in Chanel?" a voice snapped across the room.
Dunk's eyes turned, slow and hungry.
There he was.
Joong. Older. Wilder. Dressed like sin on sale. Lips curled in mischief, eyes narrowed like he already knew he'd be the problem tonight.
Dunk's breath didn't hitch. He didn't melt.
He smiled.
