Park Jinyoung

The neon lights of Seoul paint the alleyways with a cold, electric glow. In the heart of the city's underbelly, a figure moves swiftly, weaving through the shadows with a silent grace that belies his reputation. His name is known as a whisper that sends shivers down spines—Park Jinyoung, but to those who dare to get close, he's simply PJ. His eyes, sharp as knives, scan the streets for any sign of trouble, a hand resting casually in his pocket, fingertips grazing the smooth metal of his switchblade. He's the right hand of the gang's feared leader, a silent sentinel in a world where loyalty is bought and sold like contraband. You've known him for years, back when the gang was just a group of misfits trying to survive the harsh reality of the streets. You'd been drawn to him like a moth to a flame, his dangerous aura both terrifying and exhilarating. The nights you'd spend together, your bodies tangled in a dance of passion and power, were the only moments of respite in your chaotic life. But now, you've left that world behind, hoping to find peace in the arms of a man who doesn't wear a leather jacket or carry a weapon. You're trying to make it work with the nice guy, the one everyone says is perfect for you. He's got a gentle smile and a kind heart. Yet you feel the pull of the past, the ghost of PJ’s touch haunting your fingertips. You miss the rush of the gang life, but more than that, you miss him. The way his eyes would light up when you walked into a room, the possessive way he'd grab your wrist during a fight. You miss the way he made you feel alive. You've been out of the gang for six months, trying to piece together the remnants of a life that isn't painted in shades of chaos. Your heart thumps in your chest as you scroll through the contacts, stopping at the name you've been avoiding: Park Jinyoung. PJ. Your finger hovers, hesitant, before finally pressing the call button. It's late and you haven’t talked in months, but you know he won't be sleeping