Chapter Text
Kim nursed the drink like it belonged in his hand. He kept his shoulders loose, his eyes drifting casually across the club’s floor while the glass stayed cool against his palm. On the surface he looked like any other man here—a customer with money to spend and appetite to match—but every detail of him was sharpened toward a different purpose. The exits. The lines of sight. The door to backstage. The narrow one tucked behind velvet rope that, if his notes were right, led to Tony’s office.
The bartender didn’t so much as glance at him. Tall, glasses catching light from the strobes, the man moved with mechanical disinterest—pour, pass, collect, repeat. His eyes weren’t on Kim, weren’t on the bar at all. They were fixed across the room, following the man at centre stage.
Kim followed the gaze.
The dancer was showy, easy with his body, spinning around the pole with a grin that worked like a net. He winked at the crowd, hips snapping with practiced rhythm, his bare skin glowing under the pink floodlights. A bundle of bills was already stuffed into the leather strap hugging his thigh.
It was busy tonight. Good. A crowd this thick gave Kim cover to blend in. He leaned back against the bar, taking another slow sip. Every beat of the bass drowned out thought and conversation, but his eyes cut through the haze. Kim took his drink and went to sit in on of the leather chairs, view directly to the centre stage.
Tony had enemies. That much they knew. Suspicions had built for months: illegal trafficking, coercion, the sort of predation that left no neat evidence behind. His club was the front. His dancers the product. But proving it? That was why Kim was here.
The stage shifted. The DJ—young, with a white streak in his hair and the name Dean glowing on the booth behind him—announced the end of the routine. The dancer, Babe, the DJ had named with a holler, hopped down, grinning, sweat shining on his chest and disappeared into the crowd.
“Next up, Sonic!”
Kim barely looked. His eyes snagged instead on a shift near the office. Tony had stepped out.
The man was exactly as the files had painted him. He was slim, sharp, leaning on a cane like it was both necessity and weapon. He carried himself like someone who expected the room to part without asking. He murmured something to the bartender, and though Kim couldn’t hear it, the tilt of Tony’s head, the dismissive flick of his hand, said more than words.
Tony limped forward, scanning the floor with a predator’s patience. Then he stopped a man with a touch to the arm—a dancer broad through the chest, pale skin gleaming under the blue lights, black thong stretched tight. There were bills stuffed in the band already, but he didn’t look triumphant. He looked… rigid. Scared, though his face showed only stillness.
Kim studied him.
The man’s body was muscle cut from long discipline, his stance coiled, as though bracing himself for something unseen. His eyes were dark, so dark they nearly vanished under the strobe and never once softened as Tony spoke at him. Kim couldn’t hear the words but he didn’t need to. Tony leaned in close; the dancer nodded once, stiff.
And then—Kim faltered—those eyes shifted. Right at him.
Caught staring.
Heat shot down Kim’s throat, not from the liquor. He turned his head toward the stage where Sonic was throwing himself into a spin, glitter flying from his wrists. He tried to look like any other man here. He gave it a beat, maybe two, before sneaking another look.
But the broad-shouldered man was gone.
Kim adjusted his sleeve, feigned indifference. His gaze drifted lazily across the room again, though his pulse betrayed him. He was too aware of the air shifting near him. The weight.
A hand slid over his shoulder.
Kim tensed before he could stop himself.
Then he saw him. The same man. The dancer. Up close, his presence swallowed space. A faint smile curved his mouth, but his amber eyes were empty, untouched by it. With slow, elegant precision, he swung a leg over and lowered himself into Kim’s lap. He moved like smoke: practiced, seductive, body pressing down in a way that filled every inch of Kim’s personal space.
“You like what you saw?”
The voice was smooth, low, teasing, but not playful. More like a blade dressed in silk.
Kim almost let it show, how startled he was, but years of training steadied him. He leaned back, let the glass dangle in his fingers, played at calm. “Wasn’t looking.”
The man’s smirk widened, still hollow. “Liar.”
Kim tried to breathe through it, to remember his role. Another customer. Just another man in the crowd. But those eyes kept searching him, as if they saw straight through the mask.
Flirtation rolled off the dancer’s lips with ease—compliments, innuendo, a brush of breath against Kim’s ear. But his eyes stayed cold, watchful. Kim wasn’t here for pleasure, wasn’t falling for it—yet his heart gave a hard, traitorous thump.
And for a second, he thought: this one’s different.
Kim slipped the bill between two fingers and held it out, steady, casual. The dancer plucked it with a practiced grace, tucked it into the black strap at his hip, and his lips tilted in something that might have been a smile if not for the eyes above it.
“Name?” Kim asked, leaning back just enough to look like he wasn’t begging for the information.
The man leaned closer, amber eyes holding his like a dare. “Kenta.”
It was given easily, maybe too easily, and Kim almost second-guessed it. But then Kenta’s fingers slid through his own, tugging him from the bar stool like he was nothing more than another paying client. Kim let himself be led, the thrum of bass and the chaos of the floor fading as they moved toward a side corridor.
For a moment, he caught the view from behind. Broad back, tapering waist, a roundness to his ass that made Kim’s throat tighten despite himself. In the flicker of coloured light, he thought he saw faint lines crossing the pale skin of Kenta’s shoulders—scars, maybe—but then the flash was gone, replaced by shadow. Kim didn’t want to assume. Still, the idea lodged somewhere deep.
The private rooms were smaller, quieter. The door clicked shut, and the music was muffled but still there, something low and heavy with bass. The room was all mood: dim lights set in the corners, a loveseat against the wall, and mirrors that stretched across one side like an invitation. Everything smelled faintly of cologne, leather, and sweat.
Kenta didn’t waste time. He began with distance, hips rolling slow, arms lifting above his head in a languid stretch before sliding down his chest. His body moved to the rhythm with effortless command, a performance honed razor sharp. Kim sat back, legs parted, eyes tracking every shift of muscle under skin. He told himself he was working. Observing. Blending in.
When Kenta came closer, Kim let instinct take over—slipping his hands onto narrow hips, feeling the heat of him through the thin strap of fabric. The dancer moved against him, grinding down in smooth circles, the play of hard muscle under his palms undeniable.
Kim gave another bill. Then another. His hand brushed Kenta’s thigh as he tucked it in. The man smirked, bent close enough for breath to brush Kim’s cheek, but his eyes were still wrong. Empty, distant, smiling only where he had to.
Kim leaned in, pitched his voice low. “How long you been working here?”
Kenta’s hips didn’t falter. He spun, lowered himself to the floor, slid back up Kim’s body in a wave that could have buckled weaker knees. “Long enough,” he murmured. No real answer.
Another grind. Another teasing brush of skin against skin.
Kim tried again. “The boss treat you well?”
That earned him a laugh—quiet, sharp, without humour. Kenta leaned close, lips ghosting over Kim’s ear, whispering like a secret meant for seduction. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want answered.”
The tension stretched, thick, pulled tight like wire. Kim shoved another note against his waistband, more to buy time than anything else. Kenta arched against him, his scent faint but sharp under the perfume of sweat and smoke. Every movement was designed to tempt, but none of it was real. Kim knew that. Still, his pulse betrayed him.
“Not like your usuals, are you?” Kenta’s voice was lower now, almost thoughtful. He rolled his hips down against Kim’s lap, steady, slow, searching his face. “You watch too much. Don’t drink enough. Careful, aren't you?”
Kim’s heart gave a hard thump. For a second he wasn’t sure if he’d slipped, if his cover had cracked. He forced a grin, leaning back, playing the patron. “Maybe I just like the view.”
Kenta’s smile curved sharp, knowing. “Careful,” he repeated, this time with weight.
The music shifted again, beat cutting through the heavy quiet. Kenta pulled away, straightened, and with one last slow roll of his hips, ended the dance. His eyes, flat and guarded, held Kim’s with an intensity that pressed against the edges of his ribs.
“You should stay away,” he said simply.
Then he was gone.
Kim sat there for a beat longer, the smell of him still clinging to the air, the echo of his body against his own lingering hotter than it should. He adjusted his jacket, smoothed his expression, and left the room without looking back.
All the way home, the case replayed itself in his head. Tony, the doors, the staff. But threaded through it was something else: the flash of scars, the hollow smile, and the amber eyes of a man too beautiful and too broken to be ignored.
Kim had barely slept. He’d gone home, stripped off the stale scent of smoke and sweat with too-hot water, but the shower hadn’t washed the memory of the night away. Not Tony’s cane tapping against the floor, not the sight of money-stuffed waistbands, not the heavy bass rattling his chest.
And not Kenta.
Kim rubbed at his eyes and forced himself back into focus, staring down at the files spread across his desk. Photos paperclipped to reports, timelines scribbled in the margins, bank records highlighted with yellow streaks. Every line pointed back to Tony’s club, to the man who had a reputation for keeping his workers close and his secrets closer.
But Kim wasn’t looking at Tony’s file. He was staring at the notes he’d jotted about “K. Chen.” Height. Build. Pale skin. Amber eyes. Muscular. Distinct faint scarring on the back (unconfirmed). And then, underlined twice: Smile doesn’t reach eyes.
He flipped the page before he could start obsessing.
The bullpen was waking up with phones ringing, chairs scraping, the smell of burnt coffee drifting from the pot that had probably been sitting on the warmer since 5 a.m. Pete dropped into the chair across from him with his usual smartness, tie neat, hair gelled back.
“You look like hell,” Pete said. He cracked open a pastry bag and took a bite, swallowing before speaking through crumbs. “Club keep you up late?”
Kim didn’t answer right away. He shuffled the files, tried to anchor himself in facts. “Tony was there. Saw him talking to staff. Bartender, dancers. Same as always. He’s careful. Never puts a hand where someone might see it. But there’s something off. The dancers, they don’t just look… tired. They look owned.”
Pete leaned back, chewed thoughtfully. “And?”
Kim hesitated, the pen rolling between his fingers. He thought of Kenta’s weight in his lap, the heat of him, the way he’d whispered careful like a warning, not a tease.
“And one of them noticed me.”
That got Pete’s attention. He frowned. “Noticed how?”
“He read me. Didn’t say it outright, but he knew I wasn’t there just for the show.” Kim kept his voice even, though the memory of amber eyes made his chest tighten. “Could be trouble. Could also be an opening.”
Pete blew out a breath. “Or both.”
Kim leaned forward, tapping the folder. “I need to get closer. Not just to Tony—we’ve tried that route, it’s too locked down. But the dancers? They see everything. If I can get one talking…” He trailed off.
“You mean him.” Pete smirked faintly, too sharp. “The one who saw through you.”
Kim didn’t deny it. He drew a line down his notes, wrote: Approach carefully. No pressure. Offer trust first.
Pete wiped sugar from his hands. “Or he rats you out to Tony the first chance he gets. You’re gambling.”
“Yeah,” Kim said quietly. His jaw tightened, his eyes fixed on the pages but seeing something else entirely—Kenta’s hollow smile, the shadow of scars. “But it’s a gamble we don’t win this case without.”
Pete studied him for a beat longer, then shrugged. “Your call. Just don’t let a pretty face screw the op.”
Kim gave a noncommittal grunt, but inside his chest, something tightened. He wasn’t sure if Pete was wrong.
The plan was thin, fragile—go back, keep playing the client, let Kenta think he had him hooked, and see what surfaced in the cracks of conversation. Build trust. Piece by piece.
He told himself it was for the case. He told himself it was just work.
But his pen stilled over the name “Kenta Chen” again.
The club was louder tonight.
Bass thumped through the floor, vibrating up Kim’s boots as he stepped inside, keeping his head down and his body language loose. Just another man who looked to drink and watch. Smoke curled thick in the air, mixing with cologne and sweat, and the lights pulsed in shades of red and violet that painted every sharp angle in shadow.
He slid onto a barstool, ordered a whiskey neat, and scanned the room like he wasn’t scanning the room.
Then the spotlight shifted, and Kim’s attention followed.
Kenta was on stage.
The crowd roared, bills fluttering like leaves as the music surged, and there he was — black thong, heavy boots, chains glinting in the strobe. His body moved like it knew the music better than anyone else in the room, sharp and fluid, each motion deliberate and slow in a way that demanded attention. Glitter clung to his cheekbones, eyeliner sharp enough to cut, and under the heat of the lights, his pale skin gleamed with sweat.
Kim didn’t blink. Couldn’t.
Patrons crowded close, pressing folded bills into the straps on his hips, the band of his underwear, and Kenta took it all with the same hollow smile, that practiced curve of his lips that never reached those sharp amber eyes.
Kim forced himself to lean back, fingers curling loosely around his glass, every muscle in his body reminding him: Undercover. Blend in. He nodded absently to the music, pretending to enjoy the show like the others, but his gaze never strayed far.
When the set ended, applause erupted. Kenta stepped off the stage, bills fanned between his fingers, sliding them into a roll as he strode toward the bar. Kim caught the faint smell of cigarettes and sweat as the dancer came to stand next to him, ordering something low and bitter.
“I thought I told you to stay away,” Kenta murmured, voice smooth but flat, pitched low so only Kim could hear.
Kim turned his head just enough to meet those amber eyes. Close up, the liner made them darker, deeper, and Kim’s throat went dry despite himself. “Couldn’t keep away,” he said easily, like every other patron who thought they had a shot. He let a smirk ghost across his mouth. “Guess you made an impression.”
Kenta’s expression didn’t shift. But there was something—just a flicker—in his gaze. “Don’t,” he said, sharp and quiet, before tipping his glass back.
Kim watched him, careful not to stare too hard. He needed time alone with him, a conversation outside this noise. “Smoke with me,” Kim said casually, like it was nothing, like they were strangers in a bar and not two men dancing around an unspoken truth.
For a moment, Kenta didn’t answer. His gaze drifted, sharp and calculating, sweeping the club floor — the patrons, the exits, the door to the back rooms, and then the second-floor balcony where Tony was leaning against the railing, cane in hand, a shadow among shadows.
Kenta’s jaw flexed. He set his drink down. “Maybe another time,” he said, voice unreadable, and then he was gone, slipping back toward the staff doors, disappearing into the neon-dark maze behind the stage.
Kim exhaled through his nose, tamping down the frustration curling tight in his gut. He stayed, sipping his whiskey, watching another dancer — younger, leaner, all false smiles and practiced winks — take the stage. He threw a few bills onto the edge of the runway to keep up appearances, but his mind wasn’t on the kid twisting under the lights.
It was on the man with amber eyes and glitter on his cheeks, the one who smelled like smoke and danger and a warning Kim couldn’t quite decipher.
When he finally paid his tab with cash to leave no trail, he stepped back into the cool night air, the thump of bass still humming in his bones, Kim knew one thing.
He needed a better plan.
Kenta didn’t trust him. Not yet.
But Kim had time. And if he wanted to take Tony down, if he wanted to find out what Kenta knew — what Kenta had seen — then earning that trust wasn’t optional.
It was everything.