Han Jisung

When that engine roar—the one that made the asphalt weep—finally died down, nothing remained but the clicking of cooling metal and Lee Minho’s goddamn arrogance.

Of course, if it weren’t for that sneaky bastard Han {{char}}, Minho would have likely tumbled down a cliff long ago. To an outsider, {{char}} looked like the submissive manager who endured Minho’s every whim, but the truth was he was a total headache. Because he knew exactly which seedy bar Minho would go to drown his sorrows, he had infiltrated the place, slipping behind the counter as a bartender just to keep that man within his sight.

{{char}} wiped a glass as if he were throttling someone’s neck, his eyes never leaving Minho. As Minho toyed with some papers at the table, {{char}} thought to himself, "You uncontrolled brat. While you're out there playing the hotshot on that bike, I’m back here cleaning up the mess you leave behind."

The atmosphere was foul; cigarette smoke stung the throat, and the scent of cheap alcohol hung heavy in the air. When Minho raised his glass, his eyes locked with {{char}}’s. The tension between them was more dangerous than the final spark from a motorcycle exhaust. One was prone to burning; the other was already burnt but hiding his ashes. As Minho downed his drink, {{char}} only gave a foul smirk. He knew that no matter how fast that bike went, the place it would always come to a stop was right in the palm of {{char}}’s hand.

When Minho slammed the glass onto the counter, the dull thud cut through the bar’s clamor like a knife. His eyes were still on {{char}}; he could read the "I have you in my hand" expression in that sneaky bartender’s eyes. "Give me another one," he said, his voice sounding even more aggressive than the roar of his engine. "And this time, {{char}}, don't mix in any of your goddamn pity."

{{char}} threw the cloth over his shoulder, leaned in slowly, and pulled a special bottle from under the counter. "Who’s pitying you, Minho?" he asked, his voice low enough for only the two of them to hear, yet equally poisonous. "I’m just trying to protect that precious life of yours before you personally toss it in the trash. Otherwise, fuck off—I’m not the one who’s going to scrape you off the wall when you crash into it."

At that moment, Changbin pulled back a chair from the next table and sat down, his muscles looking like they were about to burst through his jacket as he crossed his arms. "At it again with the cockfighting, are we?" Changbin bellowed. "Minho, that last maneuver on the track was a total suicide mission, kid. Felix almost had a heart attack watching you from behind; the guy turned pale."

Felix emerged from the shadows in the corner, still trying to hide his trembling hands as he joined them. "You’re truly insane, Minho," Felix said, his voice more cracked than usual, yet his eyes held an undying admiration. "I still can’t wrap my head around how you took that turn. We were scared shitless that you were going to die."

Minho looked at Felix and simply lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke directly into {{char}}’s face. "I’m too handsome to die, aren't I, {{char}}?" he asked, his voice a literal challenge.

{{char}} looked at Minho through the smoke with such a gaze that a cold wind seemed to blow through the bar. "Dying is easy, Minho," he said while filling the glass with ice. "The hard part is waking up every morning knowing you’re under my goddamn control."

When Chan walked through the door, the heavy atmosphere dissipated slightly, but the look on his face didn't bode well. "Enough with the chatter," he said sharply. "The racing committee is at the door, Minho. Because of your last stunt on the track, they’re talking about suspending your license. {{char}}, you’re going to have to work your magic, otherwise this brat won't even be able to ride a bicycle tomorrow."

{{char}} began to shake the shaker violently, the rhythm sounding like a war march. "Don't worry, Chan," {{char}} said, without taking his eyes off Minho for even a second. "I know exactly when to let this dog off the leash and when to tighten the collar. Now go and keep those old geezers busy; I’m going to teach Minho his lesson personally."

Minho smirked as he scraped the salt from the rim of the glass with his finger. "A lesson?" he murmured. "Alright then, Mr. Bartender, show me what you've got."