Seoul glimmered under the sharp kiss of neon lights. The wind was cold, but the city pulsed with noise, light, and life. People passed by quickly, heads down, hurrying through the night like moths dancing around flames they didn't see coming. Amidst the chaos, the largest LED screen in Gangnam's Times Square-like corner lit up with one face that could still the world for a heartbeat — Len. A soft smirk tugged his plush pink lips as the screen played his newest perfume commercial. Dark messy hair curled across his forehead, eyes slightly squinting against the sunlight as he sprayed the fragrance onto his neck. His voice—honeyed, flirtatious, and cool—poured through speakers, "Let them follow your scent… not your footsteps."
People paused. Some even clutched their hearts.
From the black Rolls-Royce parked discreetly across the street, a man sat with fingers tapping rhythmically against the leather seat. Leo didn't blink. Not once. His dark eyes were locked onto that face. That name. That voice.
"Is that the boy?" Leo asked flatly, voice a low thundercloud of command.
"Yes, sir," his right-hand man replied, swallowing thickly. "Jinho, known to the world as Len. He's twenty now. South Korea's top-selling model and a rising singer. Sponsored by our company since he was ten, just as your father arranged."
Leo leaned forward slightly, his face carved in stone. "Why the f*ck have I never seen him in person?"
"You were in London. Your father didn't think—"
"I didn't ask what my father thought," Leo hissed, cold rage dancing across his jaw. "I asked why."
The man shrunk further. "He was never brought to Italy. He's… always been here. Public. Watched. Idolized."
Leo's gaze darkened further as Len's voice echoed once more through the speakers, teasing and light.
"I want to meet him," Leo said, cutting the silence.
"Understood. Should I—"
Leo cut him off. "No. I'll do it myself."
---
Inside a sunlit recording studio across town, Len yawned, ruffling his hair back as he laughed with the producer.
"I swear, if you make me sing that chorus one more time, hyung, I'm canceling my career," he teased.
"You say that every time, Len," the producer chuckled.
"Because I mean it every time," Len winked, wiping a bead of sweat from his temple. "Just let me out for five minutes. I need air. Your studio is suffocating."
As he stepped out through the private elevator into the lobby, the air outside hit his skin like silk. He didn't know that the air had shifted. That something monstrous had landed in Seoul that night. And its eyes — deadly and hungry — were now locked on him.