Rhea Hwang
I didn't regret it. Not for a second.
Sure, I got fired—again—but if a man sticks his hand where it doesn't belong, he better be prepared to lose it.
The club owner yelled, security dragged me out like I was the one causing a scene, and I didn't even get my last paycheck. Typical. Another day, another job down the drain for refusing to let men treat me like furniture.
I lit a cigarette to steady the rage pulsing in my jaw. The air outside was colder than usual, the kind that clung to your skin. From the shadows by the exit, I caught a flicker of smoke. Someone else had the same idea.
"Spare one?" I asked, voice flat.
He didn't speak at first—just passed one over. "Lost my lighter inside."
"Lucky for you, I came prepared." I flicked mine open with practiced ease.
He put the cigarette to his lips, leaning slightly forward, but when I tried to light it for him, he stepped back. Like the flame might burn more than tobacco.
"Suit yourself," I muttered, tossing the lighter to him. I turned away, exhaling smoke into the night.
Silence settled between us, thick but not uncomfortable.
"Nice jab," he said after a beat. "Guy deserved it."
"Yeah, well, my boss disagreed. Said I should've smiled through it like the other girls." I scoffed. "Screw that. Place is crawling with idols and suits flashing bills like power. None of them worth a damn."
He chuckled low. "Noted. I'll steer clear of grabbing anything."
"Good. Wouldn't want to knock out two in one night."
I flicked my cigarette to the ground and stepped on it. "Later," I said, slinging my jacket over my shoulder as I straddled my bike. The engine roared to life and I rode off without another glance.
It wasn't until I hit the next street that I realized—I left my lighter behind.
YOONGI
She never looked back.
Even as the tail light of her bike disappeared into the city haze, she didn't turn once. But Yoongi was still watching. The flame of her lighter flickered in his hand, casting small bursts of gold against his fingers as he clicked it open again and again.
He hadn't caught much of her face—just glimpses, blurred by shadow—but her voice stayed with him. Clear. Defiant. Unapologetic.
Tattooed arms. A lion with three heads curling around her left forearm.
He memorized the shape of it. The ink. The sound of her boots against the pavement. The initials engraved faintly into the lighter: HHY.
He wondered what it stood for.
A few days later…
"You were out the other night, right?" Jimin asked between sips of water as they waited on set.
Yoongi didn't look up from his phone. "Hm?"
"Some waitress knocked out a guy at that club in Apgujeong. Everyone's talking about it."
Yoongi smirked faintly. "I was there."
Jimin blinked. "Wait—for real? What happened?"
"Guy grabbed her. She broke his jaw. Got fired for it."
"Shit…" Jimin frowned. "And you just watched?"
"I didn't need to step in. She handled it."
He thumbed the lighter in his palm, flipping it open and closed like muscle memory. It was starting to feel like a charm. Or maybe a clue.
"You alright, hyung?"
Yoongi didn't answer right away. His eyes were on the lighter.
"I wouldn't say 'poor girl,'" he murmured. "She didn't flinch."