Touch Therapy: Where Hands Go, Bodies Beg-Chapter 257 - 258: Cassio

The black car pulled up to the curb with a low, expensive purr. The driver grinned and opened the door for the Korean volleyball girls, who poured out in a flurry of glitter and perfume—Ji-hye, captain So-young, and the rest, still riding the high of Olympic victory. Ji-hye clutched her gold medal, fingers still not quite believing it was real, her body humming with exhaustion and excitement.

Joon-ho exited last, careful with his arm—bruised but healing—pausing a second to take in the scene. Barcelona’s night air was cool and salt-bright, the Mediterranean wind blowing up over the rooftop club Valeria had claimed for her victory party.

From the street, Cassio looked almost ordinary. But once they passed the velvet rope—ushered in by Valeria’s personal guest list—the music hit them like a wave. Heavy house beats vibrated up through the marble floor, colored lights spun over glass, steel, and the manicured rooftop garden. Athletes from half a dozen countries had already gathered: Spanish girls in tight dresses and gold jewelry, a smattering of German sprinters, a table of French swimmers, even a cluster of bored, impossibly tall Eastern European models.

Ji-hye’s eyes widened at the crowd and let out a low whistle. "Are we even dressed enough for this?"

The captain grinned, smoothing her hair. "Tonight we’re gold medalists. We could wear pajamas and get away with it."

Valeria appeared at the entrance, arms wide, already half a bottle in. "Mis coreanas!" she yelled over the music, snatching Ji-hye and the captain into a bone-crushing hug. "This is your night, chicas!"

She planted a loud kiss on Ji-hye’s cheek, smearing lip gloss. "I have vodka, gin, too many boys, and a rooftop full of troublemakers. Let’s go!"

The Korean girls were swept into the current—first drinks, then laughter, then the dance floor. Spanish and Korean mixed with English and whatever else anyone could shout above the bass. Valeria led the charge, twirling Ji-hye into a wild spin, then pushing the captain toward a grinning Spanish libero. Other girl was gone in seconds, trailing after a French hurdler. Even Joon-ho found himself drawn in by the chaos, a glass of something cold and citrusy pressed into his hand.

The rooftop was all glass and open sky, Barcelona’s skyline spread below, the harbor lights glittering in the dark. The VIP lounge sat to one side, cordoned off by velvet rope and a pair of massive bouncers—Valeria’s personal fiefdom for the night. Ji-hye found herself perched on a sleek white couch, gold medal swinging as she laughed at the captain’s bad attempts at Spanish.

Valeria collapsed beside her, eyes bright. "You did it," she said, voice suddenly soft beneath the party noise. "You played like a demon. My uncle’s here—he watched the whole match. Come meet him."

She pulled Ji-hye and Joon-ho away from the noise, through a sliding glass door to a quieter outdoor lounge. The air here was fresher, cooler, scented with tobacco and herbs. There were only a few people: Valeria’s closest friends—a lean girl with short hair and a piercing in her eyebrow, a broad-shouldered guy with a gold chain—and, at the center, a man in his fifties. He wore a sharp navy suit, rings on every finger, and had a smile both warm and dangerous.

He rose to greet them, holding out both hands. "Valeria has told me so much. Congratulations, campeonas. And to you, señor Kim," he added, shaking Joon-ho’s hand with surprising gentleness. "She speaks very highly of her Korean friends."

Ji-hye blushed, bowing slightly. "Thank you. It’s... a lot to take in."

The uncle laughed, gesturing for them to sit. "Tonight, you’re not strangers. You’re family. Valeria told me about your troubles this week. That won’t happen here. You’re under my roof."

Valeria flopped down next to her uncle, grabbing a bottle from the table and filling shot glasses for everyone. "My uncle runs this part of the city," she said, half-mocking, half-reverent. "Nobody causes problems here. Not with him watching."

The friends introduced themselves—Inés, the short-haired girl, an up-and-coming boxer; Mateo, the broad-shouldered one, played basketball for Spain and moonlighted as Valeria’s bodyguard. Conversation turned quick and teasing. Inés quizzed Ji-hye about her spike technique, and Mateo tried to convince Joon-ho to try paella at his mother’s restaurant.

Drinks flowed. The laughter was easy. Even Joon-ho, tense at first, relaxed into the rhythm. He swapped stories with Valeria’s uncle—who turned out to be charming, surprisingly funny, a man who spoke in parables and made every toast a tiny performance.

At one point, Valeria looped her arm around Ji-hye’s neck and said loudly, "This one? She saved the match. If I’d known she was this good, I would have bribed her to play for Spain."

Ji-hye snorted. "You can’t afford me."

Valeria’s uncle laughed, eyes twinkling. "Careful, Valeria. These Koreans are tougher than you think."

For a little while, the world was perfect: gold medal glittering on Ji-hye’s chest, Joon-ho finally unguarded, Valeria glowing with pride and wine, her uncle a watchful, benevolent king presiding over his strange rooftop court.

But the city always had shadows.

Joon-ho excused himself after an hour, weaving through the rooftop crowd toward the restroom inside. The music pounded through the floor—dancers sweating and shouting, bartenders juggling bottles, the line for the toilets long and loud.

He washed his hands, braced himself in front of the mirror, and for a second let himself grin: gold medal, a night with friends, a sense of having survived. But as he stepped out of the men’s room, he felt a shift. The corridor was empty, lights dimmed, music suddenly muffled.

He turned, and found his path blocked by two men he recognized instantly—thugs from that night in the alley. Their faces were set, hard and mean, a sick sort of eagerness in their eyes.

"Señor Kim," one said, his accent thick, tone mocking. "You are very lucky. But luck always runs out."

Joon-ho tensed, glancing behind him—no escape, the way back blocked by a third man, lean and sharp, face split by a scar.

"Come with us," the first said. "Our boss wants a word. You don’t want to make a scene."

Joon-ho’s mind raced. He was on Spanish turf, but Valeria’s uncle’s words echoed in his head: nobody causes trouble here. Still, these weren’t locals. They didn’t care about boundaries.

He tried to keep his voice even. "If you touch me, you’ll regret it. Valeria’s friends—her uncle—"

"Your Korean friends can’t help you now," the second thug spat. "This is between us."

They moved fast—one grabbing his arm, the other shoving him forward. Joon-ho twisted, planting his feet, but the third man drove a fist into his side, just above his healing bruise.

Pain flared, but adrenaline surged harder. Joon-ho elbowed back, catching the thug in the ribs. The grip loosened; he twisted, driving his shoulder into the man blocking his way.

He nearly broke free—but the third caught him by the hair, yanking his head back.

"Don’t make this worse. Our boss wants to see you. You’re coming."

Joon-ho spat on the floor, breath ragged. "Tell your boss if he wants to settle this, do it himself. Stop hiding behind little men."

The insult landed. The man with the scar backhanded him across the face, splitting his lip. Joon-ho staggered, but stayed upright, eyes defiant.

Before they could drag him further, a door opened at the end of the hall—Mateo’s head appeared, a mountain in a suit, eyes narrow. He caught sight of the scuffle and shouted in Catalan, voice booming.

The thugs froze.

"Hey! What’s going on? This is private."

Joon-ho wrenched free as the three thugs hesitated. Mateo barreled down the hall, not alone now—Inés right behind him, fists balled, ready to fight.

The thugs bolted, vanishing through a side exit before security could reach them.

Mateo grabbed Joon-ho by the shoulder, steadying him. "You alright?"

Joon-ho nodded, shaking, pain blossoming in his side and jaw. "Yeah. I’m fine. Just idiots."

"Let’s get you back to Valeria and the others. You don’t leave alone, understood?" 𝘧𝓇𝑒𝑒𝑤ℯ𝑏𝓃𝘰𝑣ℯ𝘭.𝘤ℴ𝘮

Back on the rooftop, Ji-hye and Valeria were deep in conversation with Valeria’s uncle, laughter replaced now by a low tension. Ji-hye glanced up, her face paling as she saw the blood on Joon-ho’s lip.

"Oppa! What happened?" She rushed over, voice rising.

Joon-ho tried to play it down, but Mateo cut him off. "Three men. Not ours. Tried to jump him by the bathrooms."

Valeria’s eyes went cold, sharp as broken glass. She put her arm around Ji-hye, murmuring softly in Spanish. Her uncle stood, face darkening.

"Describe them," he said to Mateo, his voice soft, dangerous.

Joon-ho did. Mateo filled in the details, and the uncle nodded once. "I’ll handle this. You are safe here. Tonight, nobody touches my people."

Valeria squeezed Ji-hye’s hand. "This is my fault. You should have been with us. We watch each other’s backs here, always."

Ji-hye shook her head, voice shaking. "No. This is because of me. Because of Min-kyung’s ex."

Joon-ho wiped the blood from his lip, then took her hand. "It’s not your fault. It’s not Valeria’s. He’s not going to ruin tonight. We’re together. That’s what matters."

The group gathered close, Valeria’s friends closing ranks around them. For a while, the night went on—the music louder, the air sharper, the rooftop party still spinning beneath the city stars. Drinks were poured, jokes returned, but the joy was now laced with steel.

Above them, Barcelona glittered—beautiful, dangerous, and wide open.

Tonight, gold medals hung heavy on their chests, and every smile was a promise: we protect our own.