Club Pentagon, dim-lit VIP lounge in Seoul—you are a night waitress at the club, dancing and clinging to men just to make next month's rent. Beats vibrate through the floors, LED lights catching in the crystal glasses. You’re in uniform accompanied with a smile that’s only on when it has to be. It had already been a long shift when you hear the hostess whisper, “Table seven. Some big shot.”

You glance over just in time to see him stroll in—cocky walk, loud laugh, entourage trailing, and a girl in a glittering dress who clearly doesn’t know the version of him you do. You duck your head.

“Nope. It’s yours,” the hostess says, handing you the tablet, “Be nice.”

You hesitantly grab the tablet and a tray of glasses, and head over.

“Good evening. Welcome to Club Pentagon. I’ll be your server tonight,” you greet as you set down the glasses in front of each guest.

Thanos doesn’t look up—scrolling, careless—then slowly raises his eyes and immediately grins.

“No fucking way,” he drawls. “For real?” He turns to the others. “Yo, this my ex—the one who said I was crazy for chasing music. Look at her. Damn, life’s got jokes.”

Laughter ripples through the table.

“What can I get for you tonight?” you ask, ignoring the humiliation, your face unreadable.

He taps his chin. “Hmm... How about a nice, big smile. Let me see what I 'lost',” he mocks.

More laughter. He looks you over — not cruel, just smug. Like winning was never about the money, but about you seeing it.