I shrug, turning away from the mirror to face him fully. The movement pulls at the soreness in my side, and I have to bite back another smile. “It’s just part of the show, old man. Crowd loves it when I bleed a little. Makes ‘em think they got their money’s worth.”
“The crowd loves a winner,” Hansol corrects sharply. “They don’t pay to watch you get your head knocked off because you’re chasing a thrill. They pay to watch you do the knocking.” He pushes off the doorframe, his bulk making the small room feel even smaller. “I’m not your therapist, kid. If you like the pain, that’s no business of mine. Not my circus, not my monkeys. But it becomes my business the second it makes you slow. The second you lose because you were too busy enjoying the punch to throw the next one. You understand?”
His eyes are hard. This isn’t concern. This is business.
“Loud and clear,” I say, my voice easy. I pick up the envelope, feeling the satisfying heft of the cash inside. “I didn’t lose.”
“No,” he concedes, turning to leave. “You didn’t. This time. Just remember, the guys who last in this game are the ones who give out more than they take. Even the ones who like taking it.” He pauses in the doorway, looking back over his shoulder. “Clean yourself up. You look like hell.”
Then he’s gone, the door swinging shut behind him with a solid click.
Alone again, I let out a breath. My torso in the mirror is a scoresheet of tonight’s activities—the reddening blotch on my ribs, the scrapes on my knuckles, the old tattoos winding through it all like permanent shadows. I run my fingers lightly over the new bruise, the skin hot and tender. Hansol’s words echo.Fucking masochist.
Maybe. Probably. But he’s wrong about one thing. It’s not aboutlikingthe pain. It’s about needing the proof. The unmistakable, physical confirmation that I’m here, in this body, and I can feel something that isn’t just the dull, restless buzz that lives under my skin most days. Pain has edges. It’s specific. It demands your attention. It’s honest in a way most things aren’t.
My phone, buried in the pile of my clothes on the bench, vibrates with a sound like an angry insect. I dig it out. The screen lights up with a text from Wooil.
Wooil:Crowd sounded insane. You alive? Some of the guys are heading to Eclipse later. You in? Need to celebrate you not dying.
A real smile touches my mouth this time, pulling at the cut on my lip.
The thought of going straight back to my cramped, silent apartment makes my skin itch. The adrenaline from the fight is fading, leaving behind a hollowed-out, jittery feeling. The noise of a club, the press of bodies, the possibility of finding someone to burn off this leftover energy with... that sounds better. A lot better.
My thumbs move over the screen.
Me:Still breathing. Mostly. Eclipse sounds good. What time?
The reply comes almost instantly.
Wooil:Now-ish. We’re at the noodle place around the corner from you. Get your pretty, bruised ass over here and we’ll go together.
I type back a quick ‘k’ and toss the phone onto my clean shirt.
Finding someone to roll around with tonight might be exactly what I need. Something uncomplicated. A different kind of impact. A distraction with warm skin and no questions asked. The idea settles the restless feeling a little, gives the buzzing energy a direction to flow.
I splash cold water on my face, wincing as it hits the cut. I pull on my leather jacket over a fresh, dark tank top. I stuff the envelope of cash into an inside pocket, the bulk of it a comfortable pressure against my chest. One last look in the mirror. The guy staring back still looks a little wrecked, but his eyes are bright, anticipatory. Ready for the next thing.
Eclipse is packed. The bass line from the speakers is so heavy I feel it in my sternum. Bodies press together on the dance floor, a writhing mass of limbs and sweat under the strobing lights. The air is thick, humid with the heat of too many people in too small a space.
Wooil hauls an arm around my shoulders the second we push through the entrance, his grin already wide and loose. He’s had a few drinks at the noodle place, enough to make him chatty and tactile. I let him steer me through the crowd, his hand gripping my shoulder like he’s afraid I’ll bolt.
“There’s Dojoon and the guys,” he shouts over the music, pointing toward a booth in the corner. I can barely make out the faces through the crowd, but I nod anyway.
We weave through the press of bodies. A few heads turn as we pass. I catch the flicker of interest in some eyes, the way they linger on the tattoos crawling up my neck, the piercings glinting in my ears. Wooil notices too. Of course.
“You’re like omega bait, you know that?” he says, leaning close so I can hear him. His breath is warm against my ear, tinged with soju. “It’s that whole dangerous alpha thing you’ve got going on. They can’t resist.”
I snort.
We reach the booth. Dojoon is there with a couple of other guys I recognize from the fight circuit. They’re already deep into a bottle of something that looks expensive, probably paid for with tonight’s winnings. Dojoon raises his glass when he sees me, his grin sharp.
“The man of the hour! Heard you put on a hell of a show tonight.”
“Just another night,” I say, sliding into the booth beside him. Wooil drops in on my other side, already flagging down a server.
The conversation flows around me. Fight talk, mostly. Who’s moving up, who’s washed out, which promoter is skimming off the top. I half-listen, my attention drifting to the club around us. The lights paint everything in shades of blue and purple, turning faces into masks. The music shifts, something with a faster tempo, and the crowd on the dance floor surges.
It doesn’t take long for the omegas to notice us. Or more specifically, to notice me. I see them approaching before they reach the table, drawn like moths to a flame they don’t understand. Three of them, all dressed to kill in tight clothes that leave little to the imagination. They’re pretty in a polished, deliberate way. Big eyes, glossy lips, the kind of practiced sweetness that’s supposed to be appealing.
