The night was thick with humidity and tension, Barcelona's lights blurring gold across puddled pavement behind the athletes' hotel. Joon-ho left the side entrance, the air heavy and close, mind still clouded from the interrogation earlier. His body ached from the lingering bruises of work—nothing he couldn't handle. He checked his phone, thumb hovering over a half-written message to Min-kyung, debating whether to warn her about the security staff or the strange men with unfamiliar badges.
He barely heard the footsteps until it was too late.
A low, mocking whistle cut through the silence. "Well, well. Here he is. The golden hands of Korea."
Joon-ho stopped, shoulders tensing. Ahead, under the sodium-yellow wash of a streetlamp, Min-kyung's ex-boyfriend stepped into view, his silhouette sharp and smug. Behind him, three—no, five—other men fanned out, thick-necked, the kind who were paid to follow orders and hurt people.
