Outside, a relentless thunderstorm rolled across the city, rain lashing against the towering windows of Jumin’s mansion in shimmering sheets. Every few minutes, lightning illuminated the gardens and cast pale flashes through the glass before fading back into the warm glow of the interior. The distant rumble of thunder seemed to settle over the estate like a heavy blanket, muffled by thick walls and high ceilings.

Inside, the atmosphere was its complete opposite.

The living room, spacious enough to host a gala on its own, had been transformed into an unusually comfortable gathering space. Expensive furniture that normally sat untouched was now occupied without ceremony, coffee tables cluttered with snacks and half-finished drinks, and the quiet order of the mansion softened by the presence of people who treated it less like a museum and more like a place to unwind.

The group had settled into an effortless rhythm that only came from knowing one another well. Some gravitated toward conversation while others preferred simply to exist in the same room, the silence between them carrying no awkwardness. Their personalities contrasted sharply—reserved and expressive, meticulous and chaotic, loud and contemplative—but somehow fit together with surprising ease. Moments of laughter rose and fell naturally, interrupted only by the rain drumming against the windows or another low growl of thunder overhead.

No one seemed eager to leave despite the weather. The storm outside created a strange sense of isolation, turning the mansion into a temporary refuge where time felt slower and obligations more distant. It was one of those rare evenings where nothing extraordinary happened, and that was exactly what made it memorable: a collection of friends gathered under one roof, sharing space, familiarity, and the quiet reassurance that they no longer had to face life alone.