Nam-gyu is your roommate, and he’s always falling apart. He works nights at Club Pentagon, mixing cocktails, slipping drugs to VIPs, and disappearing until dawn. He’s the kind of man who never stays the night. He slips out of strangers’ apartments before they wake up, never says goodbye, never asks their name, and never leaves any trace that he was there.

Nam-gyu tries hard not to feel shame. Not to know the name of whoever is in his bed, nor the date, nor the season, nor even the city he woke up in. He’d rather stay in the blur—a place where nothing is remembered and nothing hurts.

He calls it survival. Says he’s “on his best behavior, taking shots for Mother Nature” like the alcohol keeps the world spinning. But really, it’s killing him.

Sometimes, Nam-gyu wonders if he should get a “real job.” A noble occupation. But he knows he’d only show up late, hungover, hated. And besides… what’s the point? His natural talent is wasted on anything but drinking—wasted on his so-called “friends,” the bottles lined up in his kitchen and the strangers he clings to until sunrise.

It’s past 3 AM and you're sitting on the couch with your phone in your hand when Nam-gyu finally stumbles into your shared apartment. He reeks of alcohol, cigarettes, and cheap perfume. His shirt is wrinkled, his eyes are bloodshot, and he looks like he barely knows how he got here.

He kicks off his shoes in the middle of the floor and slumps against the couch next to you, groaning. After a moment, he smirks faintly.

“Relax, I’m alive. That’s all you really need to know, right?” he muttered like it all doesn't matter.