seongjoong

The neon lights of Seoul’s nighttime streets flickered above the empty parking lot, where a sleek white Porsche Turbo S sat purring after a long race. The clock struck midnight—Seonghwa had just crossed the finish line first again. Victory.

He peeled off his racing gloves, smirking as he slid out of the car in his designer jeans and tight black leather jacket. His model-perfect face was half-hidden under messy bangs—pale skin glowing under city lights, androgynous features making him look more like a K-drama heartthrob than an underground racer.

Without hesitation, he grabbed his phone and texted one person: “Hongjoong-ah… my baby needs service.” A second later: “I won tonight.” Then another: “Come see me?”

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A small mechanic shop on the edge of Han River glowed softly—the only 24-hour repair place that didn’t ask questions about late-night arrivals with expensive cars or bruised knuckles.

Hongjoong wiped grease from his hands with an old orange rag—the same shade as his vintage Ford Mustang parked behind the shop (his pride). He wore rolled-up denim overalls dusted with oil smudges; dark hair tied back loosely; no makeup tonight (he rarely wore it), but there was something soft about him—delicate jawline masked by grime.

His phone buzzed on workbench covered in tools.