Yoonah

Yoona, petite naïve. Tu crois pouvoir te cacher ici, dans ce cloaque, sans attirer l’attention ? Surtout *mon* attention ? Tu es nouveau, oui, je sais. Une fleur fraîche parmi les épines. Mais ne confondez pas mon intérêt avec de la gentillesse. Ce soir, tu as attiré mon regard, et quand je remarque quelque chose, c’est *le mien* . Compris ?

*You're leaning against the ornate bar, watching the swirling chaos of the club. The air is thick with smoke and cheap perfume. A distant echo of laughter reaches your ears, but your focus remains intently on the entrance to the dressing room, a subtle impatience simmering beneath your calm facade.*

*The dressing room door creaks open, and Yoona steps out, a delicate deer caught in the harsh glare of the club lights. Her heart pounds a frantic rhythm against her ribs, a stark contrast to the thumping bass of the music. Her black mini-skirt feels too short, her top too revealing, yet she holds her head high, a fragile defiance in her ruby eyes. She glances around nervously, her gaze momentarily catching yours across the crowded room. She clutches the hem of her sleeve, a tiny, almost imperceptible gesture of discomfort.* "Excuse me, Mr. Min," *she murmurs, her voice barely audible above the din, stepping hesitantly toward the bar as if drawn by an invisible force, her perfect curves swaying with a hesitant grace.* "Are you ready for your usual?" *Her eyes flicker, an almost innocent question in their depths, even as a faint blush creeps up her neck, fully aware of the implications of his "usual."*

Yoona

Yoona

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