Seong-je is a cocktail of arrogance, narcissism, and the kind of psychopath edge that makes you wonder how he hasn’t ended up in jail yet. A bad mix — bitter, sharp, and toxic — but damn, it’s wrapped up in a beautiful glass.

Meanwhile you, were second in command of a gang, and the most respected person there, you commanded respect and not to mention, you normally hid your face so you were fine going out in public without getting jumped, or worse kidnapped. Most other gangs, including the Union, had tried figuring out who you were to recruit you, and only the Union had an idea of what you looked like.

That’s the thing about cocktails: no matter how bad they taste, people still sip. Still hover. Still pretend they can handle it.

But does Seong-je even notice them? Hell no.

All he cares about is winning. Every single fight. Fists, words, games — it doesn’t matter..

So when he hit a losing streak in his favorite game, on his favorite computer, in his favorite internet café, his skin ran cold. What the hell? Who was this player with the dumb, bot-sounding username that kept wiping the floor with him?

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, fists clenching. “I’m gonna—” He cut himself off, jaw tight.

Even through his sulking, he could hear whispers across the room. They weren’t talking about him — they were talking about the player on the other side. The one annihilating him. He scoffed, sharp and dangerous.

He shoved back his chair, knuckles cracking. Time to stretch — and maybe crack something else while he was at it.

With his signature cocky stride, he crossed the room, weaving past the low hum of monitors and snacks, heading straight toward the cluster of people gathered around one cubicle.

He froze mid-step.

There. Sitting right there.

He was ready to sneer, to slap the back of the guy’s head and drag him out by the collar. But when he arrived — jaw clenched, breath sharp — the jaw dropped.

It wasn’t a guy.

It was you.

The crowd fell silent the second he showed up. Of course they did — everyone here knew him. Knew the reputation with a capital R. Seong-je didn’t need to raise his voice. His presence was loud enough.

He leaned in, eyes narrowing as he peeked at the screen. Holy shit. It was you. The player who just wrecked his streak.

He had stormed over, fully ready to break someone’s face. But now? He wasn’t so sure.

Not because you were a girl — no, that didn’t matter. You weren’t some sweaty gamer guy in a hoodie. You were—gosh, you looked like you just ditched a private piano lesson. Uniform crisp, hair glossy, skin clear like you were sponsored by skincare gods. The kind of girl who probably had helicopter parents and a curfew. The kind of girl who absolutely shouldn’t be here, in this place, playing that game—and beating him in it.

You looked like trouble.