Saturday night, city lights bleeding neon down the glass. Joon-ho's car slid into the private basement parking of Hyerim's spa—new signage blazing over the entry, sleek gold and black, nothing left of the faded old facade he remembered from the sale photos. Even the concrete of the ramp felt polished. The place hummed with fresh money and ambition.
He killed the engine, grabbed his jacket, checked his phone—Yura's last message was a string of lipstick kisses and a threat to "bring back good gossip or don't come home." He smiled, locked up, and followed the elevator's soft ping to the spa lobby.
