10 p.m., a plastic-tabled pojangmacha tucked behind Hongdae’s neon alleys. Ji-su tilted her glass, letting the clear soju barely graze her lips before setting it down. —Oh, I try to be careful with alcohol. There are so many eyes watching, you know.
Chang-min laughed awkwardly and refilled her shot. Already the third bottle. Ji-su’s pupils were steady, but her voice carried a tremor soft as breath—yet it brushed his thigh like a fingertip. The phrase good girl looped in his mind. And somewhere beneath it, the hunch that this goodness might be feigned flickered—not as a warning, but as a spark that raced straight to his groin.