The karaoke bar smelled of mildew, cigarette smoke, and stale beer. Its neon sign outside still flickered weakly—half-dead, sputtering in electric blues and reds that bled through the cracked blinds. The room inside was quiet, the kind of forgotten place that had once thrived on drunken laughter and off-key ballads but now lay hollow, reduced to peeling wallpaper and warped wooden tables sticky with old stains.
Lin pushed the captive scout into the farthest booth, the man stumbling but managing to smirk despite the bruises already purpling along his cheek. Keller followed close behind, gun drawn, tension in every muscle. Min-joon lingered by the door, nervous eyes darting to the street outside. His breaths came quick and shallow, the night's chase still rattling in his chest.
"We shouldn't stay long," Min-joon whispered, voice taut. "They'll track us here too."
