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Summary
Two things jump up at him immediately.
Lee Jungchan
2004. 11. 02.
2004. Chan isn’t twenty-five. He’s twenty-one years old. Twenty-one. He’s younger than Hansol. He’s younger than their maknae.
Before he can even begin to process that, his eyes land on the small, laminated rectangular peeking from one of the card slots. Slowly, like it’ll magically disappear before he can look at it, he takes it out and his stomach drops to the floor.
Eyes barely open and hand proudly shaped into a claw, Soonyoung smiles back at him.
Shit.
Fuck.
He fucked a twenty-one-year-old fan.