The elevator slid down smoothly, almost silently, but the tension only increased. The mirrored walls reflected them from all sides. Do-yun saw his face and Seung-ho's face in dozens of gleams, in different corners—and each time he was seized by the feeling that there were too many reflections, that an extra person was standing in the corner, behind him.
He ran his palm across the glass, as if checking its solidity. In the reflection—his own eyes, but the look didn't feel like his own.
Seung-ho noticed his tension. — What? — Nothing, — Do-yun replied, but his voice wavered. He glanced around again. In one of the mirrors, a shadow seemed to linger longer than it should have.
The elevator stopped, the doors opened. The rush of air from the lobby was damp, smelling of wet asphalt and cigarettes. Seung-ho stepped out first, and only that movement yanked Do-yun out of his strange numbness.
But the sensation of being watched remained.
***
The club pulsed with its own rhythm. Driving beats hit directly in the chest, lights cut through the space in sharp flashes, and smoke billowed, mixing with the scent of alcohol and perfume. The crowd moved like a single living body—shoulders, arms, foreign faces that flashed and disappeared in time with the music.
Do-yun walked beside Seung-ho but felt like an outsider. Music roared in his ears, but beneath the noise, he still caught something else: a persistent, sticky stare. He didn't immediately understand where it was coming from. In a crowd, there were too many eyes, too many faces. But this gaze stood out—too focused, too predatory.
He glanced over. On the opposite side of the room, by the bar, stood a man. He held a glass but wasn't drinking. His eyes were fixed on Do-yun. Too long. Too direct. And there was nothing accidental in his expression.
Do-yun looked away, his heart skipping a beat. He felt a cold sweat break out on his skin.
Seung-ho noticed the change. He leaned closer, his lips touching his ear: — Who?
Do-yun didn't answer right away. The words were stuck. He shot another glance over his shoulder, but a group of noisy patrons now obscured the man at the bar. Only for a moment did his eyes flash—the same ones, still intently watching.
— By the bar, — he finally said quietly.
Seung-ho gripped his elbow, tightly, so that Do-yun had no choice but to follow him. They moved through the crowd. Light beams flashed, and every moment it felt like it—the dangerous gaze met his again.
The further they walked, the heavier the weight grew in Do-yun's chest. He felt like someone was literally walking behind him. Not touching, not getting closer, but tracking his every step.
The crowd suddenly felt less like a shield and more like a trap. Hundreds of bodies around, but escaping this dense sea was impossible.
It was even more packed near the stage. Music blared, smoke streamed in plumes, and in this chaos, Do-yun felt himself losing control. He spun around—and this time, the dangerous patron's eyes met his directly, without a mask. The gaze was sharp, cold. Not accidental. Not playful. It was the gaze of a hunter.
— Seung-ho, — he breathed out.
But at that very moment, a palm landed on the back of his neck. Seung-ho sharply spun him toward him and, giving him no time to react, led him through the crowd toward a side door. The movement was so commanding that Do-yun didn't even manage to protest.
They stepped into the hallway. The music here was dull, muffled, as if the walls protected them from the outside world. But the sensation of being watched did not disappear. Do-yun took a step back, about to say something, but Seung-ho didn't allow it.
He pushed him against the wall, hard, so that his back hit the cold concrete. And instantly, his lips covered his—sharply, possessively, without a pause. The kiss was not about tenderness. It was containment.
Do-yun groaned, trying to pull away, but Seung-ho held his face with his palms, not allowing him to turn his head. His lips crushed his, his breath came in bursts, and there was more force than caress in it.
— Only look at me, — Seung-ho muttered without breaking the kiss. His voice was low, almost a growl. — Don't look around.
Do-yun understood: this wasn't just a gesture. It was a cover. There might be a camera in the hallway. Someone else might be standing there. The kiss shielded both of them, hiding his expression from prying eyes.
He trembled. Not from passion, but from the realization that the enemy was here, nearby, only a few meters away.
Seung-ho pulled back for a second, looking directly into his eyes. — They're already too close.
Do-yun nodded. He couldn't utter a word. His heart hammered so loudly that it felt like it could be heard in the silence.
Beyond the wall, music pulsed rhythmically, the laughter and shouts of patrons drowning everything out. But here, in the narrow hallway, was the sensation of a hunt.
Do-yun felt for the first time: it didn't matter how many people were around. They were alone against the shadow that was already breathing down their necks.
And the hunt was happening at point-blank range.