My heart did a strange, violent flip. A cold spike of adrenaline shot through my veins, mixing with the whiskey burning in my bloodstream. 

What do I do?

If I walked away, I'd spend the rest of the night wondering. I'd lie awake in my safehouse, staring at the ceiling, tortured by the image of him sitting alone at a bar, drinking himself into oblivion. I'd replay the moment in my head a thousand times, wondering what would have happened if I'd just—

I couldn't approach him as myself either.

But with the balaclava covering the lower half of my face, and the heavy club lighting casting everything in shadow and neon... he'd never know it was me.

A naughty, reckless plan built in my mind, dark and seductive and entirely wrong. 

I shouldn't. It was a massive breach of protocol. It was manipulation. It was predatory. I was supposed to be observing, not engaging. I was supposed to be gathering evidence, not playing games with a drunk, lonely man who had no idea he was being hunted.

But he's not just a target anymore, a treacherous voice whispered in the back of my mind. He's the man who cried after he touched himself. He's the man who wears flower pajamas and watches melodramas alone. He's the man whose voice makes my chest ache.

I should walk away. I should turn around, finish my drink, and go home.

But I found myself already moving, hands pulling my balaclava back up over my lower face, up to the bridge of my nose, my boots carrying me across the sticky floor toward him like I was under some kind of spell.

This is wrong. This is so fucking wrong.

But I couldn't stop. I didn't want to stop.

He looked pretty wasted. His round glasses were pushed up into his curls, making him look almost boyish, vulnerable. He was staring blankly at a melted ice cube in his empty glass, his shoulders slumped, his entire posture radiating a profound, crushing loneliness. Seeing him like this—so unguarded, so sloppy, so utterly alone—relaxed the tension in my shoulders and replaced it with something darker. Something possessive.

He's mine, the thought flashed through my mind, unbidden and terrifying. He doesn't even know it yet, but he's mine.

I slid onto the stool next to him, close enough that our knees almost touched. I felt myself twitch in my jeans, a physical betrayal I couldn't control.

"Hey," I greeted, my voice slightly muffled and deeper than usual through the knit fabric. "Can I buy you a drink?"

He blinked slowly, sitting up straighter, and regarded me cautiously. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, but there was a flicker of something in them—curiosity, maybe hope. He looked around, wondering if I was actually talking to him, before giving a lopsided grin. He nodded too eagerly, like he couldn't believe someone—someone mysterious and interested—had actually approached him.

The sight of it—the desperate, pathetic hope in his eyes—made my chest tighten with something that felt dangerously like guilt. And something else. Something darker.

He looked so easy to break; it hurt.

"What'll you have?" I asked, signaling the bartender.

"Whiskey," he mumbled, his speech thick. "Neat."

I ordered him a double, paying with a special card I kept for undercover expenses. The bartender slid the glass over, and Mr. Lee took a clumsy sip, coughing slightly as it burned down. His throat worked, his Adam's apple bobbing, and I watched it with an intensity that should have alarmed me.

Lick your lips, I thought, the command sharp and possessive. Go on. Do it.

He didn't, of course. He just sat there, swirling his glass, completely unaware of the effect he was having on me.

"Loud in here," I said, leaning in close so he could hear me over the music. Close enough that my shoulder brushed his. Close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his body.

He shivered slightly at the contact, but he didn't pull away.

"Yeah," he slurred slightly, his eyes became curious. He squinted at my masked face. "You... you look familiar. Do I know you?"

My pulse spiked. Could he make me out behind the mask? Does he somehow know it's me?

"Doubt it," I lied smoothly, keeping my voice steady. "I don't come around here often. You look like you're having a rough night."

He let out a bitter, self-deprecating laugh, resting his chin in his hand. His elbow bumped mine, and neither of us moved away. "You have no idea. Work is... aigoo, work is a nightmare."

"What do you do?" I asked, keeping my tone casual, though my entire body was coiled tight with tension.

"I teach. Math. High school."

"Sounds rough."

He nodded enthusiastically, his curls bouncing. "They can be little monsters," he said with a fond smile. He took another heavy drink, then a frown marred his face. "and... there's this one student. He's... difficult."

My blood went cold. He was talking about me.

"Oh?" I prompted, keeping my voice neutral.

"He's..." Mr. Lee trailed off, swirling his glass. "He's intense. He looks at me like... like he knows something. Like he's trying to figure me out." He shook his head, taking another drink. "It's unsettling."

Good, I thought, a dark satisfaction curling in my gut. It seemed my efforts weren't going to waste. 

But even as the thought formed, I felt a sharp pang of guilt. What if he was innocent and I was just throwing temptation his way? That would be unfair. I was an adult after all. 

"Well, kids who aren't smart will do anything to frustrate their teachers; maybe that's what he's trying to do." 

"No. I don't think that's what this is. He's smart," Mr. Lee countered, his voice rising slightly over the music. "But he gets all the math sums wrong. Deliberately, I think. It’s like he’s mocking me."

"Maybe he’s not as intelligent as you think. I said.

Mr. Lee shook his head vigorously, his curls bouncing. "No, he is. I know he is. His eyes... they’re so intense." He stopped, peering at me. "Kinda like yours, but darker. More.... I don't know..." 

He smiled awkwardly, completely unaware of the irony. "Then he has no sense of personal space. He’s always invading my space. It’s driving me crazy."

I leaned closer, lowering my voice, my lips almost brushing his ear. "Crazy like annoying, or crazy like you want him?"

Mr. Lee drew back. His fingers tightened around his drink.

There it was. A reaction. I watched him carefully, waiting for a mistake.

"Aish!" He finally muttered. "Are you crazy? He's my student. Of course I'm just frustrated."

He took a nervous swallow of his drink. Too quick. Too defensive.

But defensive didn't mean guilty.

"Right..." I said, letting the word stretch.

He glanced at me.

"What?"

"Nothing."

I leaned back, giving him room. "I just thought there was more to it."

His expression tightened. "There isn't."

The answer came too quickly. I filed that away.

He emptied his glass and his eyelids started drooping. He swayed on his stool, nearly knocking over his glass. 

"Alright, that's enough for you," I said, standing up and catching him by the elbow before he could slide off the barstool. My grip was firm, possessive.

"M'not drunk," he mumbled, leaning his weight heavily against me. He was surprisingly soft and yielding against my rigid frame. The smell of whiskey and yuja was intoxicating.

"Sure, you're not," I murmured, my voice dropping lower. "Where do you live?"

I already knew, of course, but I asked anyway, because I needed him to believe this was a chance meeting. 

He mumbled an address that was mostly just street names, his words slurring together.

So cute when he's drunk, too.

The thought was sickening. I was romanticizing his vulnerability, his loss of control. I was enjoying his helplessness.

I shook my head, wrapping his arm tightly around my waist and securing my own arm around his shoulders to support him. His body fit against mine like it was made for it. I could feel every breath he took, every subtle shift of his weight.

"Hold on tight," I murmured, my lips brushing the shell of his ear.

He shivered again, and this time, I felt it. Felt the way his body responded to my proximity, the way his breath hitched, the way his fingers tightened almost imperceptibly against my side.

My mind short-circuited.

He's attracted to me.

But not to me as Ji-ho. He was attracted to this. To a masked stranger. To a dominant voice in a dark club. To the promise of someone who wasn't bound by the rigid hierarchies of Korean society.

So which one did he actually want?

The question hit me like a physical blow, sharp and confusing and entirely unwelcome. If he was this responsive to a random stranger in a balaclava, what did that mean about his attraction to Ji-ho? Was it real? Was it just the thrill of the forbidden? Or was he just so desperately lonely that he'd latch onto anyone who showed him attention?

And worse—was I jealous?

Jealous of myself. Jealous of a mask. Jealous of a persona I'd created to manipulate him.

Fuck.

Why was I having an existential crisis about whether he liked me or my disguise?

Outside, the cool night air hit us as I led him to my Ducati. I swung a leg over it, then turned to help him mount behind me.

He hesitated for a moment, his glassy eyes studying my masked face. Then, with a small, trusting smile, he climbed on behind me, his arms wrapping around my waist.

I felt his hands settle on my stomach, tentative at first, then firmer as he held on. His body pressed against my back, warm and solid.

This was so fucking wrong.

As I kicked the stand up and revved the engine, I felt him flinch and cling tighter. It was then I knew that I was past the point of no return.

We pulled away from the club, the wind whipping past us, his arms wrapped around me like I was home...

This investigation was dead in the water. I wanted to ruin him in every possible way.