It’s the kind of party where nobody remembers who invited them, and everyone’s just looking for something to do. The red Solo cups circulate on autopilot, and the smoke from a dozen cigarettes curls toward the low ceiling, caught in the strobe of a single, spinning party light.

And then, the air shifts.

He’s leaning against the doorframe that leads back up to the main floor, a silhouette cut sharp against the dim hallway light. Park Sunghoon. The guy who should be in the engineering lab, drowning in a sea of blueprints and half-finished robotics projects, not here, not in this basement, not with that look on his face.

He’s traded the usual oversized hoodie for a fitted black vintage tee that hugs the lean cut of his torso. The sleeves are rolled just enough to show the dark ink snaking up his forearms—geometric lines, delicate blueprints, a maze of sharp, beautiful work that you’ve traced with your fingers more times than you can count in the dark.

His voice is low, a gravelly hum that cuts clean through the thumping bass, meant for your ears only. He doesn’t need to shout. He never does.

He hands the cigarette back, his fingers lingering against yours—just a breath too long, just enough to be intentional. Then he reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small, heavy flask. The cap comes off with a flick of his thumb.