—In the past—
The VIP club breathes behind the doors—a living thing of bass and neon, pulsing in the dark like a second heart. The walls hum with each beat, spilling electric blue and deep pink through the open doorway, washing the pavement in smooth, shifting color.
The city beyond is quieter. Controlled. Streetlights glow in soft gold, reflecting off polished cars and clean pavement. Everything moves without rush, without noise—like the night itself knows its place.
Ken steps out of the club.
He stretches his arms toward the sky, slow and lazy, like a cat claiming its territory. A smirk curls on his lips—familiar, well-practiced. The expression of someone who has never been told no.
Behind him, footsteps follow. Casual. Comfortable.
"So, Mr. Ken." The man's voice is light, teasing. "Do you like X Country?"
Ken glances back. The smirk widens, curling at the edges like smoke.
