The air in Cloud 9 was thick with sweat and perfume, bodies pressed together in a writhing knot of music and laughter that only grew filthier as the night rolled on. The pulse of the club pounded in Joon-ho's chest even from behind the heavy velvet curtain of the VIP room, each bass drop vibrating in the glass of whiskey he cradled between his hands. Outside, the world was a blur of glitter and abandon; in here, a fevered hush lingered, sticky with the scent of sex, alcohol, and too many whispered secrets.

The main floor heaved. It was after midnight now, that dangerous hour when inhibitions finally collapsed and everything sharpened at the edges. A line of chaebol sons and minor celebrities staked out the bar, their eyes scanning the crowd for something—someone—to claim for the night. Models poured from every shadow, heels glinting, legs bare, voices raised in laughter and challenge. In the farthest booth, two idols made out as if they were the only ones in the world, their hands wandering, the others at their table egging them on.

In the middle of it all, Harin and Hye-jin ran their own quiet hustle. They held court over a cluster of fresh-faced girls—would-be idols, social media darlings, a couple of freelancers with sharp eyes and sharper tongues. Harin poured soju and whispered offers, her laughter low and inviting, drawing out secrets and ambitions from girls who leaned closer, eager for a taste of something real. Hye-jin, always composed, traded EON gossip and tales of agency betrayals, listening, assessing, marking down the standouts: a girl with a dancer's posture and bite, a YouTuber whose every glance dripped with practiced innocence. Numbers were traded, smiles offered, promises seeded for a future that might come sooner than anyone guessed.

Min-Kyung's crew ruled a prime corner. Min-Kyung herself, bare-shouldered and wild, spun with Alina and Rina, their laughter bubbling up over the music. Natty, all legs and irreverence, perched on the booth's back, leading the others in a dare: who could collect the most drink offers and reject them with style. It was a game of predatory girls and hopeful boys, the losers licking their wounds and the winners—always the LUNE girls—basking in the envy that followed wherever they danced.

Alina, luminous and unyielding, drew both admiration and resentment. She led Rina and Natty in a toast, their shot glasses clinking, and turned away another hopeful suitor with a dismissive wave. Rina blew him a kiss as he slunk off, the girls dissolving into giggles, arms slung around each other in their own little fortress of beauty and bravado.

Up in the VIP room, Joon-ho found a different kind of peace. Mirae, finally cooling down from her earlier wildness, curled under his arm, cheeks flushed, hair damp at her neck. Yumi pressed in close on Mirae's other side, still half-draped in her skirt and tube top, her head pillowed on Mirae's breast. The memory of their earlier escapade—mouths, hands, heat, and cum—lingered in the heavy air, thick as incense.

Yumi nestled deeper against Mirae, sighing in contentment. "Big sister… you're amazing," she whispered, voice blurred by alcohol and awe. Mirae stiffened, then relaxed, one arm curling protectively around Yumi's back. The intimacy was new—sisterly, but threaded with the aftertaste of sex and confession. Mirae kissed the top of Yumi's head, her own shame and pride swirling together in the dark.

Joon-ho stretched out his legs and lit another cigarette, the tip flaring orange in the gloom. "This'll help mask the smell," he said with a crooked grin, exhaling smoke toward the window. "Little trade secret, girls. Clubs like this—best way to keep the staff from whispering about what we get up to."

Mirae pouted, nudging his thigh with her knee. "You're the reason I lost control. If anyone gossips, it's your fault."

He just laughed, unashamed. "I like it when you lose control." His eyes slid to Yumi. "And you, little one? Still glad you joined us?"

Yumi nodded, wide-eyed, cheeks pink. "I wanted to try. With both of you."

"Good girl," Mirae whispered, then—embarrassed—hid her face in Yumi's shoulder. She grabbed the bottle on the table and threw back a shot in one gulp, grimacing as the burn hit her stomach. "Shit—that's strong."

Joon-ho poured water for her, and Yumi stroked her back. "Careful, unnie. Don't want you passing out on us."

"I'll just rest," Mirae mumbled, stretching out on the banquette and pulling Yumi close. The two of them tangled together, half-dressed, half-dreaming, the line between sisters and lovers blurred by exhaustion and intoxication.

Joon-ho stood and moved to the wide window that overlooked the main dance floor, smoke trailing behind him. The view was pure chaos—his chaos. Harin's circle had grown, laughter spilling up from their corner, every few minutes another new face pressed close to whisper or slip a card. Hye-jin was fielding questions, jotting notes on her phone, eyes sharp as she weighed each girl's potential. Their group was magnetic; even from a distance, Joon-ho could see LUNE's gravity growing, the next generation of stars orbiting ever closer.

He watched Min-Kyung's crew, too—Rina swinging a friend in a drunken circle, Natty downing a shot and flashing a grin at the DJ. A couple of chaebol types tried their luck, only to be laughed off or dismissed with a roll of the eyes. No men here tonight unless they were invited, and almost none were.

Joon-ho smiled to himself, pride swelling in his chest. This was what he wanted—his women, his world, a growing empire of loyalty and beauty. Even the ugly parts, the danger simmering at the edges, only sharpened the sense of ownership and control.

He turned his gaze to a commotion brewing near the opposite end of the floor. A group of tall, severe European models had arrived, their energy all sharp elbows and stiletto glares. At the center was a woman Joon-ho recognized instantly: Baek Ji-hwan's mistress, the infamous "crypto queen," trailed by her own entourage. Their arrival shifted the current in the club, tension coiling, drawing every hungry eye.

The crypto queen spotted Alina at once. Something electric snapped between them—a collision of pride, rivalry, and old wounds. She glided straight for Alina's booth, her friends fanning out behind her, phones poised and ready for drama.

Alina didn't move, chin high, lips curled in a dangerous smile. The girls around her tensed, reading the signs of battle. The DJ dropped the volume a notch, as if sensing trouble. Conversation at surrounding tables died.

"You lost, princess?" Alina's voice was low and venomous, her Russian accent sharpening the words. "Or just slumming it with us tonight?"

The crypto queen's reply was sweet as poison. "Just making sure the has-beens are enjoying their last free drinks. Fashion week will be rough for the desperate, no?"

Rina snorted, "Better desperate than bought."

Natty, always game, raised her glass in mock salute. "Cheers to the losers!"

The crypto queen's mouth twisted. "Careful, darling. Wouldn't want your agency getting blacklisted… again."

Alina's eyes narrowed. "If you ever had the talent to be blacklisted, maybe people would remember your name."

That was the tipping point. The crypto queen stepped closer, crowding Alina against the booth. Min-Kyung moved to stand between them, voice low but fierce. "Take your trash talk and leave."

The mistress's friends circled, phones at the ready, egging her on in French and English. The tension crackled. Someone in the next booth began recording.

Without warning, the crypto queen shoved Alina's shoulder, nearly spilling her drink. The contact was brief but hard, and Alina staggered, her ankle twisting as she hit the edge of the seat. The club staff swooped in—discreet but firm—separating the two groups before anything worse could happen.

Rina and Natty hauled Alina back to the booth, Min-Kyung snapping at the mistress, "You touch her again, you'll be drinking your cocktails through a straw." The crypto queen just smirked, letting herself be steered away by security, her clique hissing insults in her wake.

Alina gritted her teeth, face pale, but only for a moment. As soon as the rival group was gone, she straightened, brushed off her dress, and flashed the table a brave, wicked smile. "Fucking amateurs."

Min-Kyung crouched beside her, voice gentle. "You okay? Ankle?"

Alina nodded, but there was a tremor in her jaw. "Just pride. I'll live."

Natty squeezed her hand. "That bitch wouldn't last a day in Moscow."

Rina laughed, "Or Seoul."

Joon-ho watched all of this from above, smoke curling from his lips, jaw set. He considered stepping in, but Min-Kyung and the girls had it handled—at least for now. Still, he filed it away. There would be consequences. Nobody touched his girls and walked away free.

Back in the VIP room, Mirae and Yumi were curled up together, dozing. The tension from earlier had faded, replaced by soft breathing and the gentle thrum of the club outside. Joon-ho sat on the edge of the booth, stroking Mirae's hair, letting his women have their peace.

Below, Harin and Hye-jin wrapped up their recruiting, cards exchanged, future LUNE prospects drunk and hopeful. The models regrouped at Min-Kyung's booth, club staff bringing a complimentary round to smooth the lingering edge.

Joon-ho finished his drink, his mind already working through the night's fallout—the lines drawn, the loyalties tested, the games that would play out on the runways and in boardrooms long after the club closed. For now, he had what mattered: his women safe, his circle tight, his empire growing by the hour.

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