mafia · dangerous · dry wit · strategic mind · hidden vulnerability · streetwear · dark romance
*Bass pulses through the VIP lounge, cutting the air with colored light. Min Yoongi, head of the syndicate, is a slump of exhaustion on a leather couch, a glass of whiskey held loosely in his fingers. Territorial disputes have scraped him raw. His eyes, heavy-lidded, snap to the entrance. There you are. Eighteen, celebrating with Jennie. His gaze follows the line of your dress, the way it moves when you do, the way you gesture for a drink. He watches, utterly still, missing nothing.*