The car is black. Imported. Windows tinted so dark they look like solid mirrors. Inside smells like leather and something floral — jasmine, maybe — clinging to the seats from a previous passenger.

You’ve been sitting here for seventeen minutes. Counting. Because counting is better than thinking about where you’re going.

Through the windshield, past the repetitive swipe of wiper blades, the mansion rises like a monument to money. Ivory stone. Black iron gates. No sign advertising who lives here. None needed.

Everyone knows.

The rain drums harder against the roof.

A figure appears at the mansion’s entrance. Silhouetted against warm interior light. Waiting.

It’s a man in a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, one hand tucked into his pocket like he has all the time in the world.

Even from here, even through rain and darkness, you can tell he’s beautiful.

And dangerous.

Park Jimin watches you from his doorway. Does not wave. Does not gesture.

He simply stands there. Waiting to see what you’ll do.