Dark Harmony • Part 2
Masterlist
Genre: Dark Rockstar Romance
Pairing: Troubled Rockstar Han Jisung x Fem!reader
WC: 6731k
TW: 18+, MDNI, Substance Use/Abuse, Violence, Sexual Content, Toxic / Obsessive Behavior, Strong Language, Mental Health, Disrespectful Treatment
Synopsis: Step inside the depths of Jisung's troubled mind, where shadows linger and memories haunt. He desperately wants to feel something real, something meaningful, but he constantly tries to numb the overwhelming pain and trauma from his past. Watch carefully as he inevitably becomes obsessed with Y/n—perhaps finding in her a new drug, a new addiction, a new high that might finally fill the void within him.
AN: This story contains significant drug use, which will be a recurring theme throughout—not in every scene, but in most of it. If this content makes you uncomfortable, please don't read. Love you guys.
Special thanks to @snow-flake-writes to not only reading my works and editing but just being there for me. I am so appreciative of you. I wouldn’t be doing this without you. 🩷🫰
Jisung’s POV
The most shrill annoying squeal jolted me awake from the deepest sleep I had ever had. Well in years at least.
The sound ripped through the peaceful dark like a blade—high-pitched, feminine, terrified. My consciousness clawed its way up through layers of chemical fog, alcohol and whatever else I'd let Felix talk me into last night turning my skull into a throbbing mess of regret.
I barely registered the weight next to me before light exploded across the room, brutal and unforgiving. The curtains were being ripped open with unnecessary violence, and I squeezed my eyes shut against the assault, groaning.
"What the fuck—"
Then I heard it. That laugh. Low, dark, dripping with amusement that never meant anything good.
Hyunjin.
I forced my eyes open, squinting through the pain, and there he was. Leaning forward slightly, hands in his pockets, that predatory tilt to his head that he got when he was sizing something up. His eyes—Christ, those eyes—were fixed on the girl next to me with an intensity that made my stomach turn.
She'd shot upright at some point, clutching the sheets to her chest, knuckles white. Her eyes were wide, glassy with fear, darting between Hyunjin and me like she was trying to figure out which one of us was the bigger threat. Her hair was a mess, lips swollen, a bruise blooming on her collarbone that I vaguely remembered putting there.
I was still mostly flat on my back, naked except for the sheet barely covering my hips. My chest was exposed—ink dark against tan skin, the tattoos I'd gotten in moments of either clarity or stupidity depending on who you asked. My head felt like it was splitting open.
"Hmm," Hyunjin hummed, and the sound made my skin crawl. His gaze dragged over her slowly, deliberately, like he was memorizing every inch. "He must have really liked you."
The tone of it—mocking, possessive, wrong—cut through the fog faster than anything else could have. I pushed myself up on my elbows, then further, sitting up despite the way the room spun and my skull screamed in protest.
"Get the fuck out, man."
My voice came out rough, raw from whatever I'd been smoking, but the edge in it was clear enough. Hyunjin's smile only widened, that wicked, razor-sharp thing that never reached his eyes.
He straightened up slowly, like he had all the time in the world, still watching her. Then finally, mercifully, he turned toward the door.
But he paused with his hand on the frame, glancing back over his shoulder.
"Chris needs us all," he said, voice flat now, business. "So get your hungover ass up, give her some money for her troubles, and get her out."
The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence that followed was somehow worse than his presence had been.
I could feel her staring at me now, those terrified eyes burning into the side of my face. I couldn't look at her yet. Couldn't deal with whatever expression she was wearing—hurt, confusion, shame, whatever cocktail of emotions Hyunjin's words had stirred up.
My hands were shaking slightly as I dragged them through my hair, trying to think through the pounding in my skull.
I needed a fucking drink.
The silence that settled was thick, suffocating. Neither of us moved for a long moment, the weight of Hyunjin's words still hanging in the air like smoke.
Then she shifted—slowly, carefully—sliding out from under the sheets. The mattress dipped and rose as she moved, and I kept my eyes fixed on the ceiling, jaw tight, trying to give her some semblance of privacy even though we were long past that.
I heard the soft rustle of fabric as she gathered her clothes from where they'd been scattered across the floor in last night's haze. The quiet pad of her bare feet against hardwood. The slight hitch in her breathing that told me she was still rattled.
And then—fuck me—I couldn't help it. My eyes flicked over just as she reached the bathroom door, and I caught a glimpse of her bare skin, the curve of her ass, the marks I'd left along her hips. Something tightened in my chest, low in my gut, a pull I didn't want to acknowledge.
The bathroom door clicked shut, and I finally let myself breathe.
Last night came back in fragments—disjointed, vivid, too real for comfort. The club. The bass vibrating through my ribs. Making sure I had another drink in my hand while Hyunjin watched from the shadows like he always did, calculating, waiting.
And then her.
I'd spotted her from the stage—just another face in the crowd at first, illuminated by the strobing lights as I moved through the set. But something about her pulled my focus. The way she moved with her friends, completely lost in the music, unbothered by anything except the moment. Not trying to get noticed, not pushing toward the front. Just... there.
That's what caught my attention. In a sea of people screaming my name, reaching for me, she seemed content in her own world.
I couldn't look away after that. Between songs, during the instrumental breaks, my eyes kept finding her. And the more I watched, the more I needed to know who she was.
I'd caught Hyunjin's eye from the side of the stage, jerked my chin toward her section of the crowd. He'd understood immediately—he always did. By the time I finished the set, adrenaline still pumping through my veins, sweat dripping down my spine, he was waiting in the wings with that knowing smirk.
"Got her," was all he said, and I didn't ask questions.
She'd been confused when Hyunjin brought her backstage, her friends left behind, starstruck. But when her eyes met mine, something shifted. She wasn't starstruck. She was curious, cautious, sizing me up the same way I'd been watching her.
I didn't waste time. Offered her a drink, watched the way she considered it—considered me—before accepting. I was a bit of an awkward mess, never as confident or cool as I portrayed myself on stage.
When I'd suggested leaving—casual, like it didn't matter either way—she'd hesitated only a second before nodding.
That's when everything changed.
She'd loosened up after that, walls crumbling in real time. I remembered slipping her the pill—molly, small and unassuming—watching as she'd considered it for half a second before trusting me enough to take it. Her laugh got easier after that, her touch bolder. By the time we made it back here, she was pliant and willing and so fucking responsive it made my head spin. She'd blown my mind—literally, figuratively, every way that mattered. The way she moved, the sounds she made, the way she looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that existed.
And then after—Christ, after—I hadn't wanted her to leave.
That never happened. Ever. I liked my space. Needed it, actually. The solitude was where I functioned best, where the noise in my head quieted down enough for me to think. I didn't do sleepovers, didn't do cuddling, didn't do the soft morning-after bullshit that people pretended meant something.
But last night had been different. After we'd fucked like animals, high and desperate, hands everywhere, mouths colliding messy and harsh—we'd ended up in the shower.
The water had been scalding, steam filling the bathroom until I could barely see. But I could feel her, pressed against the tile, legs wrapped around my waist as I moved inside her again. Slower this time, deliberate, watching the water run down her face, her neck, between her breasts. The way she'd looked at me then—eyes half-lidded, lips parted, completely undone—had nearly killed me.
We'd stayed there until the water ran cold, until we were both trembling and spent and barely able to stand. We stumbled into the bed still half damp but laughing like teenagers.
And when she'd curled up next to me, warm and clean and still smelling like my soap, I hadn't pushed her away. Hadn't made an excuse or called her a cab. I'd just... let her stay.
And I'd slept. Actually fucking slept. Through the night, deep and dreamless, the kind of rest I hadn't had in years. No nightmares, no waking up every hour drenched in sweat, no staring at the ceiling until dawn trying to outrun my own thoughts.
It was the chemicals, I told myself firmly. The molly, the alcohol, whatever else had been in my system. That's why I'd been able to rest. Had to be. Nothing to do with her specifically, with the weight of her beside me or the sound of her breathing or the way her hand had ended up resting against my ribs.
Nothing to do with her at all.
The bathroom door opened, and she emerged fully dressed—sparkly mini dress rumpled, jacket in hand.. Her hair was still a mess, dark and tangled. Her lips were swollen from my teeth, her eyeliner smudged into shadows that made her eyes look bigger, darker. There was a vulnerability to her now that hadn't been there last night, something raw and unguarded.
And she was absolutely mesmerizing. I couldn't deny that even if I wanted to.
I sat up fully, running a hand through my hair, trying to find words that didn't make me sound like the asshole Hyunjin had painted me as.
"Listen, umm..."
Fuck. Her name. I'd forgotten her name. The realization hit like a punch to the gut, shame burning hot in my chest.
"Y/n," she said quietly, saving me from my own failure. "Jisung... my name is Y/n."
Somehow that made it worse. She remembered mine—of course she did—and I couldn't even hold onto hers for twelve hours.
"I'm sorry about Hyunjin," I said, the words coming out rougher than intended. "He doesn't know boundaries or fucking mann—"
"It's fine."
She cut me off, voice flat, detached. She was already moving toward the door, bending to scoop up her shoes without bothering to put them on. Her fingers fumbled with the handle, and I watched her shoulders tense as she pulled it open.
"I have to go. It was nice meeting you."
There was something final in her tone, something that felt like an ending I hadn't agreed to.
"And don't worry about giving me money," she added, pausing in the doorway without looking back. "Save it for the next whore."
The door shut with a quiet click that somehow felt louder than if she'd slammed it.
I sat there, frozen, staring at the closed door like it might open again. Like she might come back and say something else, anything else. But she didn't.
After a moment, I fell back against the mattress, arms spread wide, staring up at the ceiling. The pristine white plaster was smooth and flawless, recessed lighting casting a soft, ambient glow across the room. I traced the clean lines of the modern crown molding with my eyes, trying to make sense of what had just happened.
A breath escaped me—half laugh, half exhale—soft and disbelieving. My lips curved into a smile I couldn't quite suppress, even as my chest felt tight with something I didn't want to name.
Y/n.
This girl—this sharp, beautiful, infuriating girl who'd let me give her molly and then proceeded to unravel me completely—was not going to be easy to forget.
Not easy at all.
Days later..
The underground fight club was a cathedral of violence.
Located in the gutted remains of an old factory, the space had been transformed into something primal. Concrete walls sweating moisture, industrial lights casting harsh shadows across the crowd packed shoulder-to-shoulder around the chain-link cage at the center. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, blood, cigarette smoke, and money—so much fucking money changing hands with each brutal exchange.
The roar of the crowd was deafening, a living thing that pulsed with every landed punch, every body slammed against the mat. Hundreds of people crushed together, faces twisted in excitement and bloodlust, hands clutching wads of cash and drinks, screaming themselves hoarse.
In the cage, Changbin was a fucking beast.
He moved like controlled chaos—compact, powerful, every muscle in his body coiled and explosive. His opponent, some new guy trying to make a name for himself, was bigger. Taller, longer reach, probably outweighed Changbin by twenty pounds. Didn't matter. Changbin was dismantling him piece by piece.
A jab. A cross. A devastating hook that connected with the guy's jaw so hard I heard the crack from where Chris and I sat in the shadows of the elevated platform overlooking the cage. The opponent's head snapped to the side, mouthguard flying, blood and spit arcing through the air in slow motion before he crumpled to the mat.
The crowd exploded.
Changbin didn't celebrate. He never did. Just backed off, chest heaving, waiting to see if the guy would get up. Professional. Controlled. Everything I wasn't.
I tipped back my glass, the amber liquid burning its familiar path down my throat. Hennessy. Third glass. Or was it fourth? I'd lost count, but the bottle on the small table between Chris and me was significantly lighter than when we'd arrived.
Chris's eyes were on me. I could feel his gaze like a weight, that assessing look he got when he was trying to read one of us. The boss. Always watching, always calculating, always three steps ahead of everyone else in the room.
"You doing okay?"
His voice cut through the noise, low and careful. Too careful. Like I was a bomb he was trying not to detonate.
I should've been drunk. Three—four?—glasses of Hennessy on an empty stomach, still riding the comedown from last night's chemical cocktail. Should've been slurring, swaying, feeling it. But my head was clear, too clear, thoughts sharp and cutting and refusing to blur no matter how much I poured into myself.
I set the glass down with more force than necessary, the sound lost in the chaos around us.
"Peachy, boss," I said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Never better. Living the fucking dream."
I grabbed the bottle, not bothering with the glass this time, and downed what was left in two long pulls. The burn was good. Real. Something to focus on that wasn't her face, her voice, the way she'd looked at me before walking out.
Save it for the next whore.
I saw Chris's jaw tighten out of the corner of my eye, his hands flexing against his thighs. He was holding himself back—I could practically see him counting to ten in his head, pushing down whatever sharp response wanted to come out. Chris didn't lose his temper often, but when he did, it was biblical.
The moment stretched, tense and uncomfortable, the kind of silence that felt louder than the screaming crowd.
Then his hand landed on my shoulder. Surprisingly gentle. Warm and solid and grounding in a way that made something in my chest constrict.
"Whatever you're going through, man," Chris said quietly, leaning closer so I could hear him over the noise. "I'm here. We all are."
The sincerity in his voice hit harder than any punch Changbin had thrown tonight. Chris meant it. He always did. That's what made him dangerous—not his connections or his ruthlessness or the empire he'd built in the shadows, but the fact that he genuinely gave a shit about the people under his protection.
It made me want to tell him. About the girl, about the sleep, about the way I couldn't stop thinking about her even though I should've forgotten her the second she walked out. About the gnawing emptiness that had settled in my chest the moment the door clicked shut. About my nightmarish past.
But I didn't. Couldn't. Because admitting it out loud would make it real, and I wasn't ready for that.
Instead, I stood abruptly, shrugging off my jacket and breaking whatever moment had been forming between us. In the cage below, the ref was raising Changbin's arm, declaring him the victor while others rushed to attend to his unconscious opponent.
I felt Chris's eyes on me, heavy with concern and questions he wasn't asking.
"Where are you going?"
I turned, walking backwards toward the edge of the crowd, and plastered on my most striking grin—the one that had packed the Omen Club night after night, that made the crowd lose their minds when I took the stage. Boyish and charming and completely fucking fake.
"Didn't Changbin tell you?" I called over my shoulder, still moving. "It's my night to shine, boss. First fight. Have to go change."
Then I spun on my heel and disappeared into the crowd, letting the press of bodies swallow me whole. Hands reached out as I pushed through—touching, grabbing, wanting something from me. I ignored them all, focused on the path toward the back, toward the dressing rooms we all shared.
The back room was cold concrete and flickering fluorescent lights.
I pushed through the heavy metal door, letting it slam shut behind me, cutting off the roar of the crowd. The sudden quiet was almost worse than the noise—it left too much space for thoughts I didn't want, for her face to surface again in my mind.
Y/n.
I shook my head sharply, like I could physically dislodge her from my thoughts, and moved toward the lockers lining the far wall. The space smelled like old sweat, blood, and disinfectant that never quite worked. Our fighters' gear was scattered around—hand wraps hanging from hooks, gloves paired haphazardly on benches—but I was alone.
Good. I needed alone right now.
I stripped off my shirt, tossing it onto the bench, and stared at my reflection in the grimy mirror mounted between lockers. The lighting was harsh and unforgiving, casting shadows that made the dark circles under my eyes look like bruises. I looked like shit. Felt worse.
My hands were already wrapped, the black tape tight and familiar around my knuckles. I flexed my fingers, watching the way the material pulled across my skin, focusing on the physical sensation instead of the gnawing emptiness in my chest.
But then she was there again. In my head. Those dark eyes, her voice soft and sleep-rough in the morning light.
Y/n... my name is Y/n.
"Fuck," I muttered, bracing my hands against the edge of the bench and dropping my head.
This was insane. One night. One girl. It shouldn't matter. Couldn't matter. I'd been with plenty of women—more than I could count or remember—and none of them had crawled under my skin like this. None of them had made me sleep through the night or smile like an idiot at my ceiling or feel this fucking empty when they left.
I needed to stop. Needed to focus. Needed to feel something else—anything else—besides this suffocating weight pressing down on my chest.
My eyes drifted to my jacket crumpled on the bench, to the inner pocket where I kept my insurance policy. The little baggie that made everything sharp and bright and manageable.
I shouldn't. I was about to fight. Should be clear-headed, focused, controlled like Changbin always was.
But control had never been my strong suit.
I grabbed the jacket, fishing out the small plastic bag and the house key I used. My hands were steady as I tapped out a line on the bench's surface—muscle memory, routine, something I'd done a hundred times before. The white powder formed a neat little path, promising relief, promising numbness, promising that I could push her out of my head and just feel nothing for a while.
I bent down, positioned the key, and inhaled sharply.
The burn was immediate and familiar, racing up through my sinuses and hitting my brain like a lightning strike. I straightened, tilting my head back, letting the chemical rush wash over me. My heart rate kicked up, my senses sharpening to razor edges. The exhaustion, the fog, the weight—it all lifted, replaced by crackling energy and cold focus.
Better. This was better.
I wiped at my nose with the back of my hand, blinking hard as the room came into hyper-focus. Every detail suddenly crisp—the rust stains on the lockers, the crack in the mirror, the distant thump of bass from the crowd beyond the door.
And her face, still there, still haunting the edges of my consciousness even through the high.
I grabbed a clean pair of fight shorts from my locker, changing quickly, movements sharp and efficient now. Slipped on my shoes, adjusted my wraps one more time. Stared at myself in the mirror and saw someone who looked ready. Someone who looked dangerous.
Good enough.
I pushed back through the metal door and into the corridor leading to the cage. The noise hit me like a physical force—the crowd's roar intensifying as they spotted me emerging. Hands reached out again, touching, grabbing, screaming my name. Some I recognized from the club, regulars who came to watch me perform violence the way they came to watch me perform music.
"Jisung! Fuck him up!"
"Make us rich, pretty boy!"
"Break his fucking face!"
Their voices washed over me, feeding the buzzing energy racing through my veins. But underneath it all, quieter, more persistent—her voice.
Don't worry about giving me money. Save it for the next whore.
I gritted my teeth, pushing through the crowd faster. She didn't understand. Didn't know what she was talking about. I wasn't—this wasn't—
The cage loomed ahead, chain-link and shadows, the mat already stained with Changbin's opponent's blood. My opponent was already inside, bouncing on his toes, rolling his shoulders. He was my size, maybe an inch taller, similar build—lean muscle and coiled energy. Dark hair, sharp features, eyes that tracked me with predatory focus as I approached.
This was going to be a real fight. Not like Changbin's mismatch. This guy looked like he knew what he was doing.
I climbed through the cage door, the ref checking my wraps perfunctorily before stepping back. The crowd's noise reached a fever pitch, money changing hands in a frenzy of last-minute bets. I could see Chris up on the platform, leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on me with that assessing look that saw too much.
The ref called us to center. My opponent and I faced each other, close enough to smell the adrenaline rolling off him in waves.
"Keep it clean," the ref said, voice flat and bored. "Fight until someone taps, goes unconscious, or I call it. Understood?"
We both nodded. My opponent's eyes never left mine, dark and intense, looking for weakness. I gave him nothing back—just the chemical-bright focus of the cocaine still racing through my system and the hollow emptiness underneath that no drug could quite touch.
"Touch gloves if you want. Then back to your corners."
We didn't touch gloves. Just backed away, taking our positions, the cage suddenly feeling both too large and too small.
The bell rang.
He came at me fast—faster than I expected—closing the distance with a combination that had me immediately on the defensive. Jab, cross, hook, all sharp and precise and well-trained. I slipped the first two but the hook caught me on the shoulder, sending a shock of impact through my arm.
Shit. He was good.
I circled left, trying to create space, but he pressed forward relentlessly. Another combination, this one landing cleaner—a jab that snapped my head back, a body shot that drove the air from my lungs. Pain bloomed hot and sharp across my ribs.
The crowd roared approval, smelling blood.
I tried to counter, throwing a cross that he slipped easily, and suddenly I was off-balance. He capitalized immediately, sweeping my leg and taking me down hard. My back hit the mat with brutal force, and then he was on top of me, raining down punches from mount position.
I covered up, forearms protecting my face, but shots got through—glancing off my temple, splitting my eyebrow, making my vision flash white. I could taste copper, feel blood running hot and wet down the side of my face.
And through it all, through the pain and the chaos and the screaming crowd—her face.
Those dark eyes. That soft voice. The way she'd curled against me in sleep, trusting and warm and real.
My name is Y/n.
No. No, I couldn't—I needed to focus—
Another punch got through my guard, connecting solidly with my jaw. My head snapped to the side, blood and spit flying, and something in me cracked.
Not physically. Deeper than that. Something inside that I kept locked down, kept controlled, kept buried under chemicals and violence and carefully constructed indifference.
The darkness that lived in my chest, coiled tight like a snake, waiting.
It stirred. Uncurled. Woke up.
And suddenly everything changed.
I bucked hard, using my hips to throw him off-balance, and exploded upward with raw, uncontrolled strength. My opponent's eyes widened—he felt it too, that shift, that change in the air between us.
I caught him with an elbow on the way up, feeling cartilage crunch under the impact. Blood sprayed hot across my chest as I reversed our positions, slamming him down onto the mat with vicious force. His head bounced off the canvas, and I saw the moment of disorientation flash across his face.
The darkness poured through me like fire in my veins—hot, chaotic, utterly unhinged. This was the part of me that didn't think, didn't plan, just destroyed. The part that felt everything too much and needed to make the world hurt as badly as I did.
I started hitting him.
Wild. Emotional. Messy. Each punch thrown with everything I had, no strategy, no finesse—just pure brutal force. His guard came up but I tore through it like it was nothing, my fists connecting wherever they could. A wild hook to the body. A sloppy hammer fist that still split his temple open. Another punch that caught more skull than face but sent blood streaming anyway.
He tried to roll, to escape, but I followed like an animal, all instinct and rage. Took his back sloppily, arms wrapping around his neck in a choke that was more brute force than technique, squeezing hard enough to feel him struggle while my other hand delivered brutal, uncoordinated strikes to wherever I could reach—ribs, sides, the back of his head.
The crowd was screaming but I couldn't hear them anymore. Just the sound of impact—fist meeting flesh, bone, the wet crack of something breaking. Just his breathing, rapid and panicked and weakening.
Her voice, still there, still haunting me even through the darkness.
Save it for the next whore.
I hit him harder. Released the choke and mounted him again, raining down punches with no rhythm, no control. His face was a mess now—blood everywhere, one eye already swollen shut, his nose clearly broken. He wasn't fighting back anymore, wasn't defending, just trying to cover up and survive.
But I couldn't stop. The darkness wouldn't let me. It wanted more—wanted to drown out her voice, wanted to make me feel something besides this gnawing emptiness, wanted blood and pain and destruction as proof that I was still alive, still real, still something.
I pulled back for another strike and suddenly there were arms around me—strong, familiar, dragging me backward.
"Jisung! Jisung! Stop! He's done!"
Changbin's voice, harsh in my ear, his arms locked around my torso in a vice grip. I struggled against him wildly, the darkness still raging, still wanting to finish what it had started.
"Let me go—"
"He's done," Changbin repeated, his grip tightening. "You won. It's over."
Other hands joined his—Minho suddenly there, helping pull me back, away from the broken body on the mat. The ref was waving frantically, medics rushing into the cage, surrounding my opponent who wasn't moving, wasn't conscious, maybe wasn't even breathing.
The darkness receded slowly, reluctantly, sinking back into the depths of my chest like a tide going out. And in its wake—nothing. Just emptiness. Just the hollow ache that I'd been trying to escape.
And her face. Still there. Always there.
I stopped struggling against Changbin's hold, my body going slack. He and Minho lowered me carefully to my feet, hands steadying me as I swayed. Blood covered my hands, my arms, my chest—most of it not mine. The metallic smell was overwhelming.
"Jesus Christ, Ji," Minho muttered, his face pale as he looked from me to my opponent. "What the fuck was that?"
I didn't answer. Couldn't. Just stood there breathing hard, watching the medics work frantically, hearing the crowd's shocked murmurs replacing their earlier bloodlust.
I'd gone too far. Again.
Chris was suddenly there, having made his way down from the platform. His face was carefully neutral but his eyes—his eyes held that dangerous calm that meant he was furious and trying not to show it.
"Get him out of here," he said quietly to Changbin and Minho. "Now. Before anyone starts asking questions we don't want to answer."
They guided me toward the cage door, through the crowd that parted for us in uneasy silence. No more cheering, no more celebration. Just wide eyes and whispered speculation and the metallic smell of too much blood.
And in my head, on repeat, drowning out everything else—her voice. Her face. Her name.
Y/n.
I'd wanted to feel something. Wanted to push her out, to numb the pain, to prove I could still function without thinking about her every goddamn second.
Instead, I'd left carnage in my wake and she was still there, still haunting me, still the only thing that felt real in a world I'd just painted red.
The Long Island iced tea burned pleasant and familiar down my throat as I let my fingers drift across the acoustic guitar strings, pulling out fragments of melodies that went nowhere. Backstage was quiet now—the performance over, the crowd dispersed, just me and the lingering buzz of adrenaline slowly fading into the chemical comfort of alcohol.
My mind kept circling back to last weekend. The fight. The blood. The way I'd completely lost control in front of hundreds of people who'd paid good money to watch underground brutality but even they had gone silent when I'd crossed that line.
Chris's wrath had been... unexpected. I'd braced for the explosion, for the cold fury that could freeze the air in a room. Instead, he'd been calm. Dangerously calm. The kind of calm that meant he was thinking ten steps ahead while you were still trying to figure out step one.
"No fighting. No jobs unless we're desperate for manpower. One month."
Simple. Clean. Effective punishment that left me twitching with restless energy and nowhere to direct it.
I should've been more annoyed. Would've been, except being benched meant I had time to myself. Time to breathe, to write, to perform, to lose myself in music instead of violence. I could handle a month of that. Wouldn't even be difficult.
Except.
Except Chris had put Hyunjin and fucking Minho on babysitting duty. Two of the most observant, perceptive, impossible-to-shake bastards in our entire operation. They watched people the way cats watched mice—patient, unblinking, seeing everything without seeming to look at all.
I'd already caught Hyunjin lurking near the venue entrance earlier, pretending to scroll through his phone. And Minho had texted me twice today with casual questions that weren't casual at all, fishing for information about where I'd be and who I'd be with.
Suffocating. That's what it was.
I let out a heavy sigh and set the guitar down carefully against the amp, then grabbed my glass and drained the rest of the Long Island in three long swallows. The alcohol mixed with the lingering remnants of whatever I'd done before the show—nothing too heavy, just enough to take the edge off—and I felt that pleasant floating sensation starting to build.
Good. I needed that tonight.
I caught my reflection in the mirror hanging crookedly on the dressing room wall—shirt soaked through with sweat, hair plastered to my forehead, probably smelling like a gym locker. But it was my face that made me pause. The bruise blooming purple-black along my cheekbone, the split in my eyebrow that had scabbed over dark and angry. My jaw was tender, discolored where a hit had landed clean.
I lifted my hands, studying the knuckles. Swollen. Bruised in shades of purple and yellow-green, the skin split in places that would take days to heal properly. Evidence of last weekend's fight still written across my body like a story I couldn't erase.
Should change. Should shower. Should do a lot of things.
But her face flashed through my mind again—Y/n, with those dark eyes and that soft voice and the way she'd looked at me that morning like I was something worth more than the blood on my hands—and suddenly I couldn't stand being alone in this dressing room for another second.
I needed noise. Bodies. Distraction. Something, anything to get her out of my fucking head.
Not bothering to change or wipe the sweat from my hair, I pushed myself up from the couch and headed for the door. My dressing room opened onto a narrow hallway that led deeper into the venue—toward the bar, the crowd, the people who'd lingered after the show looking for their own distractions.
I could feel my phone buzzing in my pocket as I walked—probably Minho checking in again, or Hyunjin. Let them. I wasn't doing anything wrong. Just going to have a few drinks, maybe find some company that didn't haunt me when I closed my eyes.
The hallway opened up into the main space, music thumping from the speakers now that the live set was done, bodies moving in the dim lights. I scanned the crowd with practiced ease, looking for... what? I didn't even know anymore.
Someone caught my eye almost immediately.
She was moving through the crowd with that particular kind of confidence that drew attention without trying—dark hair catching the lights, body swaying to the music. When she spotted me, recognition flashed across her face immediately, followed by a slow, deliberate smile.
She knew exactly who I was. And she was more than happy about it.
I didn't have to approach her. She came to me, weaving through the bodies until she was close enough to touch, her hand sliding up my arm with practiced ease.
"Hey," she purred, eyes glittering with excitement. "Jisung, right? I loved the show."
"Bar," I said simply, already turning. She followed without hesitation, her fingers lacing through mine like she belonged there.
We reached the bar and I signaled the bartender, ordering drinks without asking what she wanted. She didn't seem to care, pressing close immediately, her hands finding my chest, my arms, touching with the kind of confidence that came from knowing she'd snagged something worth bragging about.
"Two Long Islands," I told the bartender. When the drinks came, we drank them fast. Ordered more. Then more again.
The alcohol burned down my throat, mixing with everything else already in my system until the world started to blur in exactly the way I wanted. The girl kept talking—about the show, about how long she'd been following my music, about something else I wasn't listening to. I nodded occasionally, drank more, let her presence fill the silence without actually engaging.
She didn't seem to notice. Or maybe she didn't care. She was on my arm, in my orbit, and that seemed to be enough for her.
After the fourth or fifth round—I'd lost count—she tugged at my hand, leaning in close to speak over the music. "Come on. VIP section. It'll be quieter."
I let her lead me through the crowd, my steps heavy and uncoordinated, the alcohol making everything feel distant and muffled. The VIP section was roped off, dim and exclusive, plush seating arranged around low tables. She pulled me down onto one of the couches and immediately climbed into my lap, straddling me with clear intent.
Her mouth found mine and I let her kiss me, tasting alcohol and lip gloss and nothing that mattered. My hands settled on her waist more out of habit than desire, my body going through the motions while my mind drifted somewhere else entirely.
She didn't notice. Just kept kissing me, her hands roaming over my chest, my shoulders, my neck. When she broke away to trail kisses along my jaw, I let my head fall back against the couch, eyes drifting closed.
To soft eyes and a softer voice. To the way she'd looked at me that morning with something that might've been concern, might've been care, might've been something I didn't deserve.
Y/n.
This girl's hair was wrong—too coarse, not silky enough. Her touch was wrong—too aggressive, not gentle enough. Her scent was wrong—sharp perfume instead of something subtle and clean.
Everything about her was wrong because she wasn't her.
The girl's lips worked their way down my neck and I let my eyes drift open, unfocused and heavy-lidded, scanning the crowd below us on the dance floor without really seeing. Bodies moved in the dim lights, a mass of strangers losing themselves in music and alcohol and temporary oblivion.
And then I saw her.
My entire body went rigid.
Y/n was there in the crowd, maybe twenty feet away, but she wasn't looking at me. She was dancing. Moving with her friends, body swaying to the music with an ease and freedom that made something twist in my chest. Her arms were up, hair whipping as she spun, laughing at something one of her friends said.
Tight black jeans that hugged every curve. Simple grey t-shirt that somehow looked better than anything I'd ever seen on anyone. Hair pulled up in a messy ponytail that exposed the elegant line of her neck as she moved.
She looked happy. Genuinely happy. Free in a way I'd never be, lost in the music and the moment and her friends' company without a care in the world.
Gorgeous. She looked fucking gorgeous.
And she had no idea I was watching her.
The girl attached to my neck kept working, trying to create a hickey I didn't want, hands roaming over my chest with increasing desperation for my attention. But I couldn't look away from Y/n. Couldn't stop watching the way she moved, the way she threw her head back when she laughed, the way she was so brilliantly alive on the dance floor.
Everything about this moment was wrong. This stranger on my lap, her mouth on my skin, the alcohol buzzing through my system—all of it felt like a sick joke compared to watching Y/n be free and happy and so far out of my reach.
Something snapped.
I grabbed the girl's shoulders and shoved her off me—not gently, not carefully. She landed hard on the floor with a startled yelp, her ass hitting the ground as she stared up at me with shock and indignation.
I didn't care. Didn't even look at her.
My eyes were locked on Y/n as she spun again, laughing, completely oblivious to my existence. The twisted, obsessive part of my brain that had been screaming her name for days roared to life with an intensity that burned through the alcohol fog.
She was here. Right here. Dancing like she didn't have a care in the world while I was drowning in the VIP section with someone who meant nothing.
Slowly, I pushed myself up from the couch. My legs felt heavy, unsteady, but I moved anyway. One step, then another, heading toward the edge of the VIP section.
Toward her.
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