Page 133 of Ruthless Touch

“My soul is always drunk, my friend. It’s what makes me relatable.” Joon clutches the microphone like a lifeline as the opening notes swell. “Now shut up and feel my pain.”

What follows is simultaneously beautiful and ridiculous.

Joon’s voice is actually decent when he’s not trying to be funny, hitting notes that have no business coming from someone who showed up already tipsy.

But the way he gazes intensely at the TV screen, hand pressed dramatically to his chest, ruins any possible sophistication.

Priscilla records the whole thing on her phone, absolutely cackling.

“Your turn,” Joon gasps when the song ends, shoving the microphone at Priscilla and me. “Duet. Make it memorable.”

Priscilla scrolls until she finds something upbeat and vaguely empowering. A pop anthem that’s probably about heartbreak but sounds like a party. She takes the first verse, voice confident but sweet, while I hang back trying to remember the last time I sang anything.

When my part comes in, I lean into the lower register, letting my voice go sultry and rough. Priscilla breaks character halfway through the chorus, laughing so hard she can barely keep up. By the end we’re both just shouting the words and dancing so off-beat, it’s perfect.

“Sexy!” Joon calls out. “Our two American cuties singing like legends.”

“Like legends?” Gun asks. “Elise sounded like nails on a chalkboard.”

“Hey!” I say. “You’re supposed to pretend I’m doing a good job.”

“Goyangi,-ne, I love you. But singing is not your forte.” He grins at me with a cocked brow as if daring me to object.

I don’t. He’s completely right.

I sounded like a cat being drowned.

“Gun, you’re up,” Joon says.

“I don’t sing.”

“Everyone sings. It’s karaoke. That’s literally the point.”

“Pass.”

It takes another round of shots and increasingly creative threats before Gun finally caves, snatching the microphone with a glare that promises retribution. He selects something I’ve never heard before—a rock song, all gravelly vocals and driving bass.

When he starts singing, the entire booth goes silent.

His voice is rough and low, like gravel that’s been crushed into thousands of pieces. He doesn’t look at any of us, simply staring at some fixed point past the TV screen, completely unselfconscious.

It’s raw and real and completely unexpected.

When the song ends, none of us speak for a beat too long.

“Damn,” Priscilla finally whispers. “That was… actually good.”

“Right?” Joon nods sagely. “Leave it to Gun-woo to be an undercover superstar.”

I watch Gun’s face as he quickly shrugs off the praise and returns to his seat.

“You’re always surprising me,” I murmur, propping my chin in my palm.

He meets my eyes, his expression amused. “You keep coming back for more.”

The rest of the night blurs together in the best way—voices going hoarse, bottles emptying, laughter echoing off the mirrored walls.

We cycle through ballads and rock anthems and embarrassing pop songs from a decade ago. Joon attempts a rap and fails spectacularly. Priscilla and Gun do an awkward duet that mostly involves them arguing over who’s off-key.