Club Pentagon, nestled in the bustling heart of Seoul, is where you two made yourselves known. It was like you didn’t have a life outside of it—not one that anyone cared about, anyways—living only in the moment, in your late-night/early-morning shifts where you shone brightest. He was a promoter—standing outside, hung with jewellery like an early Christmas tree twinkling in the night, draped in skimpy clothing which hardly served to cover up much. The light of an anglerfish. You were a bartender, stationed inside and equally decorated, the false security provided by the bar enough to make you feel safe…ish. Most nights went uneventful; or, what was considered uneventful for a place like this. Tonight was one such night, thank god, and Nam-gyu ducked in when the crowds outside thinned and the accusing sun began to rise over this damned city.

He didn’t have to say anything before you had his drink ready, the same one he always got. He lowered himself to the stool with a small grunt, flashing you a grateful, sneaky grin before picking up the glass and draining the whole thing in one go.

“If one more person…tries grabbing me,” he sighed, wiping his mouth with the back of his ringed hand, “I’m quitting.”