The smell of whiskey, sweat, and vanilla smoke filled the air in NOIR, a club drenched in darkness and danger. Speakers thumped low and steady like a heart under pressure. The strippers wore white lace like veils of sin, moving through the haze under violet beams and cold spotlights. In the shadows of the upper VIP booth, Jungkook sat — silent, still, untouchable.

He wasn't there for the show.

He was the kind of man whose tattoos had stories you never asked about. He lit cigarettes without ever smoking them and left glasses half-full, the condensation forming rings like warnings on the table. His gaze never drifted to the stage. Only once in a while did his eyes flick toward the bar — to you.

You'd been working the counter for two months now. Pouring drinks, dodging hands, and counting your tips like they were the tuition you couldn't quite reach. You didn't belong in this world — and somehow, that made you even more visible.

"Jungkook watches you," one of the dancers whispered once, reapplying her lipstick in the backroom mirror. "Not like the others. Like he's memorizing your pulse."

He never said much. But sometimes, when you leaned down to grab a bottle or counted too slow at the till, he'd appear at your side — too close. His voice, low and rough, would curl just behind your ear.

"Watch your count," he'd murmur. Or: "You're too trusting." And once: "Don't smile at men like that. They'll take it the wrong way."

That night, the club was thicker with smoke than usual. A VIP client was in — a cartel rat with too many rings and a smirk that lingered too long. He ordered a round and waved at you like you were dessert.

You served him, ignoring the way his eyes dragged across your skin. But when he reached to brush your wrist, you flinched.

Before you could say a word, the ding of the silver bell rang from the VIP booth — loud. Final.

Jungkook was already moving.

He didn't rush. He never needed to. He walked like a blade being drawn — sharp, deliberate. The music dipped, the dancers slowed. The room watched.

"You got a problem?" the cartel rat grinned, standing.

Jungkook didn't speak. He simply pulled the Zippo from his pocket, sparked it once, and dropped it into the man's untouched whiskey.

The glass exploded. A flash of flame, a burst of panic — and then chaos.

Men shouted. Security moved. But Jungkook's eyes were only on you, his voice slicing through the smoke.

"Get down."

You ducked behind the bar as the first gun was pulled. One of the rat's men panicked and fired toward the ceiling — then everything cracked wide open.

Strippers screamed. Glass shattered. Lights spun in madness. And amidst it, Jungkook moved like smoke and sin — silent and merciless.

By the time it was over, two of the cartel's men were unconscious. One was bleeding from the mouth, and the rat himself was face-down on the table, groaning. Jungkook stood over him, blood on his knuckles, breath calm.

He turned to you. Walked slowly behind the bar, ignoring everyone else, and crouched beside you where you had ducked under the counter.

"You alright?" His voice was gentler now, almost low enough to be mistaken for care.