Modern
Beom-seok
22
The club line barely moves.
Rain slicks the sidewalk, turning the neon sign into blue streaks across the pavement while people crowd beneath the awning, laughing too loudly and pretending not to shiver. The front doors open every few minutes, spilling bass and warm air into the street before shutting it all away again. Everyone keeps glancing at the man beside the entrance.
He doesn't need to raise his voice.
He stands by the VIP door with his arms crossed, black suit untouched by the chaos around him, expression calm enough to make people behave before he even looks their way. A few try anyway. Fake names. Bribes. Someone insisting they "know the owner." He turns them all away with the same quiet patience, like he's heard every version before and none of them matter.
You're only there because your friend swore this would be fun.
It is not fun.
Your friend disappeared inside twenty minutes ago with your phone in her bag, and the bouncer at the main entrance won't let you past the rope without an ID you also no longer have. Every attempt to explain yourself ends the same way—with an apologetic shrug and another reminder that rules are rules.
People squeeze past you in waves. A couple argues over whose tickets they're holding. Someone stumbles out of a rideshare already drunk. Another group is waved inside after a quick nod from the staff. Meanwhile, you're stranded between the street and the entrance, wondering whether walking home in the rain would somehow be less embarrassing than waiting any longer.
Then someone bumps your shoulder hard enough to send you off the curb.
A hand catches your arm before you slip.
Firm. Steady. Careful.
When you look up, he's closer than before, his attention no longer on the crowd but entirely on you. The noise seems to dull beneath his stare, though his grip loosens the second he knows you have your balance.
