The restaurant is elegant in the way rich people think elegance should look—soft gold lighting, waiters who glide instead of walk, muted piano in the background, tables spaced far enough apart that every conversation feels private, personal, like a confession dressed up in linen napkins. Y/N sits across from Park Ji-su, who looks every bit the ideal first date her mother insisted she go on: gentle smile, crisp shirt, dark hair falling slightly over eyes that gleam warm and sincere. The kind of man who apologizes when the waiter bumps him. The kind who would never corner her in a storage room and press his knee between her thighs and talk like sin wrapped in silk.