"That fox screwed us over on three shipments—all of them fakes!" one of the brawny men sneered.

  "How can you call them fakes?" Dylan wiped the blood from his head. "For the price you paid, of course the quality might be a little... off."

  "You dare talk back, you bastard!" The man grabbed Dylan by the collar and landed a hard punch to his stomach.

  "Hey! Stop that!"

  Security guards from outside the booth rushed in, one grabbing the brawny man's arm from the side, another inserting himself physically between them.

  "Get out! This isn't the place for your trouble!"

  Taking advantage of the chaos as the guards and thugs wrestled and shoved, Elian quickly ducked beside the sofa, grabbed Dylan's arm, and dragged him to the floor. He then hauled him along the wall and out through the corridor on the other side of the booth.

  In the dimly lit stairwell behind the fire door, Elian propped the limp Dylan against the wall and hissed in a low voice, "What kind of business are you really in?"

  "Curiosity killed the frog prince," Dylan gasped, head tilted back, blood trickling down his chin. "But business is business. Why do they have to be so nitpicky?"

  "Damn it, how many people have you pissed off?"

  "Not many... really not many," Dylan's voice was broken by pain, yet still held a thread of laughter. "Just didn't expect to run into them here... Lucky me."

  "Any luckier and we'd be dead here tonight!" Elian shot him a glare over his shoulder, his eyes catching sight of moving shadows behind them.

  Footsteps surged towards them like a tide. Gritting his teeth, Elian turned, hauled Dylan's entire body onto his back. Dylan grunted, warm blood smearing onto the back of Elian's neck.

  "Hold on!"

  They raced through the booth's corridor, charged down the stairs. The sounds of chaos from the booth faded behind them. They pushed through a fire door, finally shutting out the noise.

  "Little guy, didn't know you were so strong," Dylan mumbled, his body immobile, yet his mouth still running even during the escape.

  "Would you shut up!" Elian snapped, breathing heavily.

  Soon, however, Dylan fell silent. He went completely limp. Jolted by the violent motions as Elian dashed down the stairs, he slumped bonelessly against the taut back.

  His chin rested on the young man's shoulder. Every jolt sent sharp pain lancing through his wounds, but strangely, beyond the pain, another sensation grew clearer.

  Elian's heartbeat.

  Through two layers of fabric, through his own ragged breathing, the steady thudding drummed against his own chest.

  —Thump. Thump. Thump.

  And his hair.

  With each running stride, those soft, flaxen strands kept brushing against Dylan's nose, carrying a scent of dampness and shampoo. This fragrance was utterly different from the club's cloying incense and the metallic tang of blood—like the purest antidote.

  And his tensed muscles.

  Dylan could feel the rise and fall of Elian's shoulder blades straining with effort, could feel the tremor in the arms holding his legs, yet there was no slackening.

  The floaty sensation from the drugs, the hallucinogenic haze from the smoke—none of it compared to the reality of this moment.

  This was a peace he'd never reached while curling up in chemical escapes from reality.

  And he, finally, dared to close his eyes, if only temporarily.

  Elian carried him out through a side exit of the club. Cold wind instantly flooded their collars. They crossed neon-lit streets, darted through alleys reeking of garbage, and finally ducked into a dark lane where even the streetlights were broken.

  "Dylan! You're not dying on me, are you? Wake up!"

  The young man leaned Dylan against the wall and collapsed onto a low wall a few steps away, panting heavily.

  "Not dead yet," Dylan said, pale as a sheet, yet still able to quip, "Ha... Running through the night like this is kind of romantic, isn't it?"

  Elian didn't reply, just turned his head and gave him a cold look.

  Then, without warning, he punched him in the shoulder—

  "Hey! Little guy!" Dylan curled up in pain. "Is this payback?"

  Finally, Dylan saw the emotion in the young man's eyes. He knew Elian was genuinely angry.

  Elian stood up, brushing dust off his pants, his tone unusually serious. "I never want to set foot in a place like the Jungle again."

  His gaze locked onto Dylan. "And you shouldn't go back either. That place will swallow your conscience."

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  "My conscience has long since—" Dylan tried to retort with a sneer but was silenced by the sharp look in Elian's eyes.

  "You want to keep doing drugs, that's your choice." Elian looked at him, the distant city lights reflected in his eyes. "I'm not naive enough to try and change your life. But at least... don't throw your life away too."

  Images flashed through Dylan's mind—countless times losing consciousness on drugs, being chased and beaten by gang members. For once, he had no comeback.

  The alley was dark, but the young man's clear eyes held the distant lamplight and, simultaneously, reflected Dylan's own haggard, battered appearance.

  How absurd, Dylan thought.

  All these years, no one had ever seriously warned him like this. He was a FitzGerald, a rich kid. The police couldn't touch him, social workers wouldn't waste their breath on him, let alone the scheming dealers.

  He'd always thought this unshackled life was perfect.

  But he... he didn't actually hate this feeling of being lectured.

  "Not even my mom ever lectured me like this," Dylan finally laughed, then winced into a cough as it pulled at his wounds. "Are you... my mom or something?"

  "You really love handing out nicknames, don't you?" Elian sighed. "You're still bleeding. You need a hospital."

  "You just punched me, and now you want to take me to the hospital?" Dylan blinked, trying to regain some of his flippant tone.

  "Two different things," Elian replied curtly. "Punching you was because you deserved it. The hospital is because I don't want to watch you die."

  With that, he stood and reached out to pull Dylan up.

  Night wind funneled into the alley, carrying the damp, distinctive scent of the city in the early hours. They were silent for a few seconds, until the low purr of an engine sliced through the quiet.

  Elian turned, alert. A black Rolls-Royce was gliding to a stop at the mouth of the alley.

  The rear door opened. A tall, imposing figure stepped out. The moonlight cast his suit in cold, sharp lines. His face was a mask of icy fury.

  "Boss? What are you doing here?" Elian exclaimed in shock upon recognizing the man.

  Vance Heaton's gaze fixed in the darkness, landing on the blood-smeared young man.

  "What are you doing here?" The words held a torrent of urgent worry and simmering anger.

  "Uh, it's a long story... Dylan ran into some trouble."

  For some reason, under that intense gaze, Elian felt a pang of guilt.

  Vance was silent for a beat, followed by a question pressed through clenched teeth. "Dylan Fitzgerald."

  "What's this? Daddy come to pick me up?" Dylan slowly opened his eyes, meeting Vance's stare, a daredevil smirk tugging at his bloody lips.

  "Where did you take Elian without permission?"

  "Without permission?" Dylan shot back, unimpressed. "Listen to yourself. Since when is the little guy yours?"

  Elian wanted to facepalm. Even now, this guy has to be cocky.

  Is he really not afraid of bleeding out?

  "Mr. Heaton, the priority is getting him to a hospital. We can sort the rest out later, okay?"

  Elian shifted Dylan's arm from his shoulder towards the waiting driver.

  Vance's expression remained stormy, but he gave a slight nod to the driver, who immediately stepped forward to take over. The driver couldn't help but glance at Elian. The boy looked even more disheveled than Dylan, his face smudged with drying blood and exhaustion.

  Once the car carrying Dylan had driven off, Vance's expression darkened completely. His steps were measured yet carried a palpable pressure as he closed the distance to Elian.

  "Uh, boss... Let's talk this out?"

  Strange, why do I feel like a kid who snuck out to play and got caught by his parents?

  "Where exactly did he take you?" Vance's voice was cold.

  "Nowhere in particular..." Elian unconsciously took a step back.

  "Not going to tell me, is that it?" Vance's eyes swept over the shattered mask on the ground. "It's fine. I know he took you to the 'Jungle'."

  "How did you know—"

  "What did he do to you? Kiss you? Force you to do anything?" Vance's voice suddenly rose, his anger barely contained. He reached out abruptly, gripping Elian's chin, forcing him to look up. "Did you give them your real name?"

  "...What?"

  Elian was stunned, forced to meet those churning eyes. The grip wasn't harsh, but it carried a distinct possessiveness and an unusual anxiety.

  "I'm asking if you gave them your real name. Did you?" Getting no immediate answer, Vance grew more urgent.

  Elian vaguely sensed that beneath the anger, there was a thread of genuine concern.

  "No..."

  A visible wave of relief washed over Vance upon hearing the answer.

  He stared at Elian's face, so close, as if suddenly waking from a trance. He jerked his hand back, muttering, "Sorry. I shouldn't have grabbed you like that."

  He turned his head slightly, trying to mask that moment of loss of control.

  "Ha... it's okay." Elian rubbed the back of his head.

  It seems there really are a lot of illegal dealings in the Jungle, otherwise Vance wouldn't have reacted like that. Still, it was the first time he'd seen his usually unflappable boss so unhinged, and he had been scared for a moment.

  "The 'Jungle' is a notorious den in wealthy circles. The crowd is... complex. Don't go near it again," Vance stated.

  "I don't plan on ever setting foot in a place like that again..."

  "It's a good thing you didn't 'register' with your real name. That would have caused... considerable trouble."

  "I didn't... Dylan stopped me."

  "At least he has some sense," Vance said with disdain.

  "Yeah..."

  An awkward silence fell. The air seemed to hold only the sound of their breathing.

  Then, a deafening "GURRRRRRR" erupted from Elian's stomach, shattering the quiet between them.

  "You're hungry?" Vance raised an eyebrow, a strangely uncharacteristic expression flickering across his face.

  "N-No."

  An even louder "GURRRRRRRR" followed.

  "Well... I guess I only had a little to drink tonight, no actual food."

  Elian crouched down, covering his head. He admitted, at this moment, he wanted nothing more than to vanish into the ground from sheer embarrassment.

  "Let's find something to eat."

  Vance, however, stated it quite matter-of-factly.

  But it was the middle of the night. Everywhere was closed. Where could they possibly find food?

  So—

  Before Elian fully processed it, he found himself sitting in a fast-food restaurant with the Heaton heir—no, his boss.

  And not just any place. One of those chain restaurants. The ones with the yellow arches, open 24/7, the kind blamed for America's obesity crisis.

  Vance was still in his immaculate suit. The expensive fabric formed a stark contrast against the slightly greasy floor tiles.

  He was tall. Sitting in the cramped booth for two, his long legs almost brushed against Elian's. The young man subtly tried to make himself smaller. Thankfully, Vance seemed to notice and shifted his legs aside.

  In front of Vance sat a glass of Diet Coke—but seriously, who drank that stuff? Elian wouldn't touch it even if it were free.

  In front of the young man, however, was a spread: golden crispy fries, fried chicken, a burger, and a cup of ice cream.

  "Did you order too much junk food?" Vance asked.

  "Boss, you just don't get it. This is food for the soul."

  He then picked up a steaming hot fry, popped it in his mouth, savored the crispy texture, and a blissful expression spread across his face.

  "Love is like freshly fried fries. It's the hottest ones you remember for a lifetime," he declared with confidence, expounding his Fry Philosophy.

  "So, who, for you, are the hottest fries?"

  Vance arched an eyebrow.

  "Cough, cough—The point isn't who, the point is that freshly fried fries are the best thing in the universe!" Elian nearly choked on his own saliva.

  Watching his exaggerated reaction, Vance's usually stern expression softened a touch. A hint of something gentle even surfaced in his eyes.

  "You're still the same as before, so obsessed with fries."

  "The same as before?"

  Elian paused, slightly taken aback. A few hazy images suddenly flashed through his mind.

  Memories long faded.