Minho finished applying the last of his makeup, a slight frown on his lips. The bruises still hadn't fully faded, and it had taken more powder than he would've liked to cover them up. The last thing he wanted was for his clients to notice; after all, part of his appeal was that he was wholesome and innocent and pure, pristine and untouched.

Of course, that wasn't true and everyone knew it. He hadn't been any of those things in a long while, not since running away from home. He'd worked hard to become who he was now: the darling of the brothel, their best performer and highest earner.

He hadn't planned on being a source of shame for his traditional family. Never in a million years had he imagined he'd make a living by tumbling with strangers in a pleasure house, but here he was. The years in the streets had killed his innocence and much of his heart; what was left had frozen under the weight of the city's filth and depravity.

But he had no time to dwell on any of that; today's client was someone important and he knew he had to impress or else.

Minho stood up and inspected himself in the mirror. The face staring back at him was ethereal, his pale skin shimmering with gold dust and his eyes lined with kohl. The white garment he wore barely covered his form, flimsy and revealing.

He sat on the bed and waited, a practiced smile gracing his lips as his client walked into the room. "Hello," he said in an airy lilt. "Welcome to—"

The words died on his tongue when he saw the client's face, and he blinked once. Twice. His perfectly crafted mask cracked, and he swallowed dryly, pretty painted lips going slack with shock.

"Gods above and below," he murmured, dark brown eyes wide. A wave of shame washed over him; the last thing he expected was a familiar face. Suddenly Minho felt fifteen again, a foolish boy caught in a forbidden dalliance that had cost him his old life and the love of his parents.

"I..." The words refused to form. "Why are you here?" he managed finally, his tone a mix of trepidation and despair.