Chapter Text
Rich leather blended with warm, smoky amber to create an intoxicating aroma. The scent of pure luxury.
San ran his hands down the steering wheel, savoring the smooth texture of treated mahogany under his calloused palms. The plush leather seats molded around the weight of his body perfectly. He let his eyes flutter shut in pure contentment as he leaned back into the headrest.
His precious sanctuary, an adult version of a secret treehouse tucked away in the woods.
A vintage 1966 Jaguar E-type with a deep emerald green finish. His baby. Sure, she may be pushing sixty, but to him? She’d only just reached her fifth birthday, and every year she only grew sweeter with age.
Back then he was fresh out of his teens— arrogant, naive, and with more disposable income flowing out of his pockets than common sense. It made perfect sense to go out and buy a stupidly expensive car. At the time he could barely afford it, opting for something different, a classic, to represent the sophisticated image he yearned for.
He assumed people would take him more seriously, but in reality, nobody ever pointed out how ridiculous he looked behind the wheel. Everywhere he went, he wore a painfully cocky grin, convinced he was the epitome of masculinity.
Over the years, he grew into the car. His shoulders were now broad enough to fill out the custom leather seats. He developed a better sense of taste. The black tailored slacks and matching silk shirt he’d ironed to a perfect crisp that morning actually matched the rich interior of the cabin.
As for his arrogance, he’d like to believe he outgrew that too.
8:30 PM
San glanced at the flashy titanium watch on his wrist and watched the tiny silver gears turn with every passing second. Just a few more minutes. Earlier today, he filled up the tank with plenty of gas, so why not sit here for a little longer? Let it all burn into waste like the ticking free time he had left.
But the heavy odor of burning gas was too strong to ignore, it clung to the back of his throat. If he stayed here any longer, he'd definitely give himself a migraine. With a heavy sigh, he steeled his composure and clutched the gear stick—shifting it into first gear with a smooth, metallic click and driving off into the concrete wilderness of the night.
You’d think after a few years of this routine, he’d get used to the chaos of Saturday night. Yet he still struggled to pull himself together before driving down to the nightclub, or remember why he even got into this mess in the first place. Running the joint gave him enough stress to sprout gray hairs faster than he could book a salon to cover them.
At this point, he was in too deep. This empire was built by his own hands, after all. Too many people relied on him for a successful night; customers, employees, even down to the local liquor vendors waiting to stock the shelves of his bar.
He didn’t want to let anyone down, he couldn’t let anyone down.
He was thankful for his success, of course. The power. The reputation he’d earned. The money that allowed him to buy and sell brand new sports cars, like going to the mall and exchanging a pair of jeans. But all he wanted to do was curl up in his warm, comfortable bed and catch up on the newest episode of his favorite dating show— maybe use one of those aloe facemasks in the fridge he saved for lousy nights like these.
While weaving through the sparkling, metal jungle of the city, San rolled the windows down to feel the late autumn wind gently nip at his cheeks and rustle through his black, slicked down hair. The smooth rumble of the engine purred underneath the thick soles of his loafers.
He took the back alleys, snaking through odd run-down streets and looping in unnecessary circles— letting the roar of the wind fill his ears and cleanse his mind to a blank, zen-like slate.
The club was modest, sporting the same loud and neon light plastered exterior as any other on the block. Its dated interior was covered in plush velvet and glossy vinyl, covering up the skeletons of its previous inhabitants. Like an old bike fixed up with a fresh coat of paint– it was reliable. Located in such a prime part of the entertainment district that it advertised itself.
He pulled into the private parking lot: a narrow alley with a handful of stalls, tucked between high-rise buildings. Though he rarely encountered trouble himself, it was safer for his arrival to be discreet. In this city, watchful eyes always lurked in the shadows for an opportunity to strike. He quietly dipped through the back entrance, shoving his apprehension for the night beneath the doormat.
His shoes clicked along the tile as he weaved through a tight corridor lined with musty cardboard boxes and empty bottles of liquor. God, did anyone clean up around here? The sound pierced through the muffled thrum of the dance floor, bleeding under the heavy steel doors that sealed off the employee-only area.
Just a quick in and out, he repeated to himself with every step.
At the end of the hall, he reached the poor excuse of a back office: A dusty storage room with paint peeling off the walls, dimly lit by fading fluorescent lights that looked like they’d give out any second.
“You’re late,” the general manager announced in a grating voice, raspy from years of chain-smoking.
Rocky was always tucked in the corner— hunched over that same old desk, with mountains of paperwork strewn all over the place. San knew that wasn’t his real name, but he didn’t care enough to find out. Actions held more weight than whatever tacky alias he’d picked out for himself.
“Everything from last night is accounted for.”
Rocky sniffed obnoxiously loud without as much as a glance in San’s direction. He pressed a rolled up bill against his nostril and snorted a neat line across the desk, coughing as he leaned back into the stiff plastic office chair. His beady eyes drifted shut, the unnaturally smooth planes of his face straining against the tension in his jaw.
San would be lying if he wasn’t bothered by the open use of cocaine right in front of him, especially when Rocky oversaw the entire cashflow. However, he never missed a single penny, and dealing with him all strung-out and irritable was much more bothersome. Underneath the addiction and short temperament— way, way, under— he was a good man inside.
The foundation of the club's success was built alongside the demons that every employee and patron carried under this roof.
They were woven into every curtain, hidden beneath every tile.
“How’s the bar tonight, pretty busy?” San walked over to an unmarked duffle bag resting on the floor, zipping it open and quietly counting the rows of cash neatly strapped and arranged inside.
“The usual. A fucking wreck.” Rocky groaned.
San cocked his head, curious to hear if the complaint was any different from the same rants he heard week after week.
“Those new bartenders… too thin-skinned. Not gonna make it.” The manager huffed and smoothed a hand across the top of his carefully gelled salt and pepper hair. “They couldn’t fight their way through a wet fuckin’ paper bag.”
Yep, it was the same old complaints alright.
“They’re learning. If you practiced a little more patience in your life, you wouldn’t be aging so fast.” The crumpled bills felt greasy between San’s fingertips and made the entire bag reek like the bottom of a shot glass.
“Customers love them, and you can’t deny we’ve been consistently making more since they started the new drink specials.” San shot him a quick half-hearted smile before continuing, “I didn’t hire them to fight, that’s what you’re here for. As the supervisor.”
Even as he turned back to counting the cash, he perfectly envisioned the manager rolling his eyes.
“It’s fucking annoying,” Rocky grumbled.
“Go on, keep complaining. Without me, you couldn’t afford to sit back here and blow 8-balls like it's free.”
“Fair enough.”
Rocky leaned forward and chuckled, a flicker of amusement flashed across his glassy, bloodshot eyes. “What about you, already tryna’ rush outta here all quick… is your girl waiting for you?”
San almost laughed out loud. His girl. If only he knew, the most action he’d be getting was entirely dependent on how steamy tonight’s new episode would be.
“You’d like to know.”
“What? My job is to know everything that goes on around here– you said it yourself.” Rocky shrugged.
“If a woman was waiting for me, I wouldn’t be wasting my time talking to you right now,” San teased playfully.
He scooped the duffel bag off the floor, a cloud of dust rising with it and sprinkling the top of his shoes. It didn’t matter how many times he cleaned the place, or whoever he paid to do it. The grime always returned twofold, like a permanent stain.
Rocky slapped a hand over his chest in feigned shock. “Ouch.”
With the bag thrown over his shoulder, San brushed off what he could from his slacks and turned to leave, looking back one last time to give Rocky his usual goodbye speech.
“Good work tonight, as always. You got everything handled?”
“Always do, boss.”
Tonight went better than expected, and he always expected the worst. It didn't take long to finish what he needed to do: Pick up the deposit and make sure the place didn't burn down while he was away. Somehow those two simple tasks always spiraled into a whole ordeal.
“Alright, see you tomorrow. Don’t get too carried awa—” Before San could finish his sentence, the office door swung open and crashed into the wall so hard the room shook.
He shouldn’t have gotten too excited before he jinxed it.
“S-Sir!!!” One of the new trainee bartenders burst into the room and struggled to catch his breath, eyes blown wide like a deer caught in the headlights.
“What’s going on?” Instantly, San spun around on his heels and snapped into action.
“Boss! There’s a– there’s a fight at the bar.”
Rocky scoffed, indifferent to the sheer panic drenching the young bartender’s voice. “There’s always fuckin’ fights at the bar, what you can’t handle a couple of drunks?”
“No, No! This is different. I think one of them has a weapon– a knife. I’m not breaking up a knife fight, no way. Please, we need your help right now!!” Spit flew from his lips with each exasperated word.
San clicked his tongue. Of course this happens the second he walks out the door. He jabbed his tongue inside his cheek, already growing frustrated.
Out of the three men in the room, only one of them was capable of breaking up that fight. It always fell onto him– and the last thing he needed was the police showing up to pile more onto the mess he’d have to clean up.
“Alright.” San sucked in a deep breath.
He abandoned the doorway, his gate to freedom, and tossed the duffle bag back into the room. He turned to where Rocky sat way too comfortably in his executive throne, and tilted his chin towards the single line of white crystals left untouched on the desk.
“Gimme a bump.”
The manager smirked and shook his head in disbelief— then held out the same bill he used earlier, dangling it between his fingertips.
Carefully, San took it from his grasp and rolled the waxy paper tube in his palm, hesitating. He tried to ignore the way his heartbeat pounded in his ears like a blaring alarm bell, then brought his face close to the desk.
He avoided using party drugs for the most part, turning a blind eye to the endless fountain of free dopamine hits within arm’s reach— whether it's because he grew out of his bad habits, or simply didn’t have enough time anymore.
Maybe a hit here and there on the rare night out, just to make the social expectations bearable. On those painfully long nights, when his own brain fought against him to hold together the charismatic, commanding persona of a man who had his life together.
He knew this was a bad idea, but rebelling against that gnawing voice in the back of his mind, the one trying to steer him away from trouble and a horrible comedown later, only made the indulgence more tempting.
Besides, a little powdered confidence wouldn’t hurt to deal with whatever disaster waited outside the backroom.
The moment he inhaled, the familiar numbness spread through his nose and down his throat. Bitter like battery acid and poor-decisions on the back of his tongue.
Pure adrenaline shot through his veins white-hot, pumping his blood in time with the high bpm of muffled music in the distance. That old friend he hadn’t felt in so long, a tingling warmth of euphoria, spread through his body— dripping from every pore like his skin was drenched in the sweetest honey.
It’s been long enough that he’d forgotten how good that first hit felt.
He was fucking bulletproof.
From that point onwards, reality lurched into fast-forward. The timeline got blurry. Minutes. Seconds. All flashing past him like disjointed jump cuts.
He rounded the corner, blowing past the heavy steel doors with ease. A surge of energy coursed through him as the roar of the crowd pulled him into its hungry maw.
Neon strobe lights drenched the floor, shifting and warping as they seemed to flicker faster, burn brighter. A kaleidoscope of colors washed over the pulsing sea of people, molding the room into a single, breathing entity.
He saw every detail of the dark room in perfect clarity. Heard each rhythmic footstep. Smelled the sweat of exhilarated bodies pressed tight.
For the first time all night, San felt alive.
Over the volume, distant shouting drifted from the far end of the bar. He weaved through the packed crowd, light on his feet. The unmistakable scent of wet copper reached him first, cutting through the cloud of stale cologne and spilled liquor.
Two slender, swaying silhouettes lingered on the outskirts of the crowd. One of them clutched his forearm, the fabric of his cheap polyester blouse sliced clean. It was too dark to assess the severity of his injury.
All around them, the crowd continued to weave and flow, a churning ocean. Even if they killed each other right there, the night would keep turning— their screams would blend into the laughter and heavy bass as intoxicated club-goers danced the night away only a few feet away.
Without a care in the world.
The injured one shook with anger, eyes bulging out of his head. Christ, he must’ve been high out of his mind, especially for San to notice it in his own coked-out state.
He puffed his chest out and bared his teeth at his opponent: a smaller, skinny man holding a small pocket knife in his hand. He was way too comfortable with recklessly throwing himself at danger— as if the blood splatters slipping under his scuffed, pointed dress shoes were merely an inconvenience rather than a deterrent.
“Nah, we're not doing this in here,” San inhaled sharply, then projected his voice from the bottom of his chest.
“Get out of my club.”
As they both turned to face their interruption, San gripped the shoulder of the gangly man holding out a knife.
He slammed him against the bar, sending him reeling until he scrambled to catch the counter and steady himself. Nothing but skin and bones, the cheap cologne he drenched himself in probably made up half his weight.
In the corner of San’s vision, one of the bartenders cowered against the back wall, clutching a wine bottle so tightly his knuckles looked like they’d tear right through his skin.
“Who the fuck are you?” One of the men slurred in delayed response.
It didn't matter who.
San didn’t like to get violent, but at that moment under the influence, his morals were a little blurred. Old habits fell right back into place.
He quickly closed the distance, pressing his body against the knife wielder and caging him against the bar counter until the air between them was suffocating. San swallowed any attempts of intimidation with his solid, imposing frame.
The tip of the blade pressed into his lower abdomen, barely the taste of a threat. He wasn’t afraid of a flimsy pocket knife, or the idiot who clearly didn’t know how to use it.
“You can slice each other to pieces outside if you want, but don’t do it in front of my customers.” San leaned in, ensuring each word wormed its way into the smaller man’s ear and stuck in his head.
Right as the attacker prepared to retaliate, teeth clenched as he tightened his grip on the knife, San covered his shaking fist with a firm grip of his own.
He squeezed their hands together, holding the knife with an even tighter, vice-like grasp. The man paused, all that confidence he held a moment ago frozen with him.
“Go ahead,” San growled into his ear, taunting him. He squeezed harder, crushing the bony hand trapped in his, urging the tip of the blade to pierce the fabric stretched across his stomach.
“What are you waiting for? Do it.”
The attacker hesitated, still unsteady on his feet. San wrestled the knife away and effortlessly maneuvered him into a chokehold, one arm hooked around to hold the edge of the blade right under his jaw.
It was laughable really, but San was kind enough to give him a demonstration of how to do this right.
The muscles in San’s forearm tensed as he thrashed under him, only coming to a stop when the knife pressed into his skin. San felt the man’s intense, rapid heartbeat pounding through his ribcage like it’d burst through his chest.
“Woah, woah, woah, wait– wait!! It wasn’t that serious man–”
San met the frightened eyes of the injured one across from him with pure rage, curling his lips into a snarl for daring to interrupt him.
“What, you wanna play with knives, huh?”
It irritated him how quickly they gave in after putting on such a big show. Pissed him off even more for wasting his time.
“Why are you scared now?”
With his thumb balanced on the spine of the blade, San pressed it in a little deeper. Until he heard a whimper of genuine fear claw its way out of the throat under his palm.
“You’re fucking crazy,” the previously bold attacker managed to spit out, straining against the blade to his throat.
“Don’t wanna play anymore?” San snarled.
San’s fragile self-control slipped between his fingers, and he leaned into the sense of freedom it left behind.
Deeper.
The dull knife pressed into the man's neck, not quite sharp enough to break the skin. If only this guy stopped moving, San wouldn’t have to use as much force to subdue him.
Deeper.
Bit by bit, he let his strength win. He was stuck in a trance as the anger boiling in his chest controlled his actions, infuriated that these fools were putting his business, and his people in danger. The man continued to thrash under him, clawing at San's forearms with each useless attempt to break free. The blade sank into flesh until a warm trickle of moisture dripped down his fingers.
“Are you trying to fucking kill him? What the fuck is your problem!?”
And then everything froze.
The club was so loud that nobody noticed the commotion, they were concealed by the madness. Nobody turned when the knife slipped from San's hand and clattered to the floor, immediately swept away by a stray footstep that wandered into their space.
His fist clenched around nothing, frozen.
His breath seized in his throat, his chest squeezing him from the inside.
Frozen.
When the man slipped out from under him and ran towards the exit, he couldn’t react. His legs wouldn’t move. His pounding heart pulsed in his head even louder than the bass that vibrated through the floor, drowning his thoughts.
It barely registered when the sudden chill of the AC hit his skin, damp with sweat. Was it even his own sweat? He couldn’t feel it, more like his brain telling him what was happening. Unwholly disconnected from his own body.
He still needed to break up the fight.
Everyone was counting on him.
So why… ?
He couldn’t feel his hands, couldn’t get the joints in his fingers to work. His eyes glazed over, staring at nothing but the blur of people around him yet unable to register any of their faces.
He was too terrified to look down, to see if his disgusting, blood-soaked hands were even connected to his body anymore. To look at how much of the crimson stained his palms, drenched as if he freshly butchered a pig.
With every second that passed, he knew the pool of liquid at his feet would only grow larger. Creep towards the dance floor and seep into the tile. Stick to the soles of careless dancers and track throughout the entire building.
Every pair of eyes in the room burned into the neon red target painted across his forehead. He needed to crawl out of his unbearably hot skin, hide from all these prying eyes— but his body still wouldn’t move.
“Shit, shit! Everything is going wrong tonight!” Somewhere behind him, the bartender yelled out in frustration, snapping San back into reality.
All at once, his body thawed out, like a sudden jolt of electricity reconnected his nervous system and thrust him back into the madness of the dance floor.
“What now?” San growled. The bartender flinched and took a step backwards, huddling against the back of the bar. The scowl dropped from his face, he didn’t mean to scare the poor guy.
“Uh… we ran out of vodka. T-This is gonna screw us over for the whole night! So many orders… the drink specials are all vodka based. Fuck, I don’t— Sorry! One second sir I’ll be right with you…”
If gods were real, San wondered which one he angered enough to get stuck with such a disaster of a night.
“How did you just notice this?” San’s patience was long gone, like their stock of liquor, apparently.
“I-I thought we had more! Someone messed up the inventory and—”
He pinched the bridge of his nose, like the small gesture would somehow hold him all together. It wasn’t right to take his stress out on this poor bartender who’s barely been here a few weeks. He knew this.
He exhaled slowly. The rush of air burned, razor sharp through his sensitive nose. Fresh air sounded like a wonderful idea anyway, he needed to get the hell out of this nightmare and calm himself down.
“Handle it. I’ll figure something out.”
Once outside, the stagnant, dirt tinged air of the parking lot cooled him down. Instant relief, but short-lived— quickly replaced by a pounding headache as he began to sober up.
He was completely drained, emotionally and physically.
The euphoria was long gone, but left him with a gnawing anxiety, winding the nerves in his entire body unbearably tight. That acrid, chemical aftertaste still lingered on his tongue, curling in his stomach and leaving him nauseous.
At least when he finally looked down at his hands to assess the mess, only a few drops of blood stained his fingertips. It wasn't as bad as he thought it was.
God, he wanted nothing more than to go home– relax in his bed and sleep off this awful experience. The inside of his car allowed him some semblance of peace, and finally, silence. Nothing but the sound of his own slow, exhausted breaths.
After a moment, he reluctantly pulled himself together, straightening his posture to insert the key into the ignition. He just needed to push through this, the sooner he could get home and wash the night’s grime off his body, the better.
Click.
The engine whirred faintly but failed to start.
Click. Click. Click.
Nothing.
“Now? Seriously?” San groaned out loud to himself.
He fumbled for his phone in his pants, fighting against the restraints of his pocket and growing more and more frustrated as his fingers slipped. Finally, he pulled it free, and quickly unlocked it to call the only person he could think of.
The phone rang. Each chime that crackled over the speaker frayed his fragile nerves a little more.
Of course.
Wooyoung never answered the phone the first time you called him. It took maybe two, three attempts to get through to the damn guy. San didn’t know why he expected tonight to be any different, especially this late at night, but it still pissed him off anyway.
Alright. He'd try calling one more time.
He huffed and gripped the phone so tight his knuckles turned white, restraining himself from smashing it through the damn windshield. After two rings, he heard the click of the call being picked up– and started shouting at the speaker before Wooyoung even had a chance to greet him.
“I need you to come down to the club, now.”
After a long pause, a soft voice responded. “Well, that’s definitely one way to ask me out.”
“No– I’m not… ugh.” San groaned, and dug the heel of his palm into his forehead in frustration. “My car stalled. You need to come fix it.”
“… It’s way past business hours for you to be ordering me around, you know.”
San sighed. Wooyoung never answered the phone with a simple ‘hello’ like a normal person.
“Okay– fine. I’ll pay whatever special fees you want. Fine.” He threw his free hand up in the air as he spoke, exasperated. “I have places to be. I’m a very busy man… I don’t have time for this right now.”
“Ok, I’ll be there in about… an hour or two. Yeah. I wanna finish this chapter I’m on. Oh! I just started reading this new sports manhwa abo– ”
“Two hours?” San cut him off before he could ramble about nonsense any further. “I don’t think you understand this is an emergency. I don’t care about your chapter, you need to get your ass down here.”
The line paused for so long, he pulled away to glance at his screen and confirm the call was still connected.
“… Nah,” Wooyoung answered sharply.
“Huh?”
“Nah, I don’t think I wanna work for someone who talks to me like that.”
San clenched his jaw so tight he could hear his own teeth grinding in the silence of the car.
“Are– are you kidding me right now?”
“Why are you so angry anyway?” Wooyoung’s voice softened over the speaker.
“It’s none of your business.”
“San. Calm down, you’re overreacting.”
There was nothing Wooyoung could’ve said at that moment that would've set off his microscopically short fuse any more.
“I’m the one overreacting? I call you with an emergency. I ask for your help, instead of any other lousy mechanic in this city… and you blow me off like it’s my problem?” San was so angry he couldn’t stop the stream of consciousness from spewing out of his mouth in a blazing, unfiltered tangent.
“Man, fuck you,” San muttered.
Click
After several long seconds of silence, the realization hit him. Wooyoung hung up. San slammed his phone on the dashboard so hard the interior rattled before it clattered to the floor, getting stuck somewhere between the seats.
The consequences of his outburst settled in like a slow, creeping flood. The sour taste left in his mouth was now a result of his own actions— and in that tiny, dark parking lot, San regretted everything.
He regretted calling Wooyoung. He regretted taking over this club, and all the problems that came with it. He regretted even getting up and leaving his house at all. And that muffled, persistent hum of generic pop music still managed to invade the confines of his car, taunting him.
His composure was balancing on the tip of a knife, and in the privacy of his car, he was starting to crumble apart.
Enough time passed that the effects of the drugs mostly wore off, yet his headache only grew worse the longer he sat in silence. Another thing to add to his list of regrets from the night. His body fought between being too hot or too cold. The stiff, sweat soaked fabric of his dress shirt clung to his skin and amplified his discomfort.
Maybe he’d sit here until everyone goes home, until the sun rises.
Just let everything fall apart.
He locked the doors with the click of a single button, in preparation for when a staff member came inevitably banging for help. Right as he settled into the plush leather seat to surrender, squeezing his eyes shut, the loud pop of a motorcycle engine roared outside. The sound intensified as the driver pulled into the parking lot, rattling his car from the rumble before abruptly cutting out.
San already knew who it was, he didn’t bother to open his eyes until a sharp tap of knuckles rapped against his window. He smoothed his palms down the sharp panes of his cheekbones and tried to pull himself together, then turned to the sound.
Though it was dark, he could still make out the playful glint in Wooyoung’s uneven eyes shining through the glass, lit up by a soft orange glow from the cigarette dangling from his lips.
Wooyoung shuffled to the side as San unlocked the door and pushed it open, gravel crunching underneath his boots. A trail of smoke swirled into the car, carried by the cool breeze. He pulled out a hand that was stuffed in the front pocket of his leather jacket and plucked the cigarette from his lips, sending a scatter of glowing embers to the ground with a smooth flick of his finger.
“I’m charging you triple the rate. Double is for off hours, and triple is for being a massive asshole about it.”
The wind gently whipped his long, ink black bangs around his face as he spoke, escaping the messy ponytail that held the rest of his hair. He balanced the cigarette back in-between his lips and wiped a palm across the leg of his jeans, then held it out as San climbed out of the driver’s seat.
A peace offering.
San swatted his hand away, but breathed a shaky sigh of relief. “Thank god you came.”
The world could be going up in flames, and somehow Wooyoung would still find his way to him. For reasons San could never understand why, but he appreciated the loyalty. Over the few months they had known each other, Wooyoung proved himself to be reliable in his own, strange way.
From the first day they met, his light-hearted personality was so effusive it was off-putting. San didn’t trust people brazen enough to act like they’ve been his best friend for years. Especially before they even knew a single thing about him— but he quickly learned that’s just how Wooyoung is.
They met by chance. San walked into a hole-in-the-wall restaurant on a whim, after a regular told him their grilled steak couldn’t be beat on this side of town. Definitely not the type of neighborhood he liked to be hanging around, but that usually meant the food was worth it.
While awkwardly hovering around the take-out window with grease stained walls and a horrific amount of grime caked between the cracked tiles, Wooyoung waltzed in and instantly started badgering him. So many questions, you’d think he was an undercover cop.
Not a cop, thankfully. Just an amateur mechanic that really needs a haircut and won’t keep his nose out of San’s business even if it kills him.
Wooyoung wouldn’t let him leave the damn restaurant without exchanging numbers, promising to offer him cheaper rates than anyone else in the city.
He knew it was just an excuse for Wooyoung to tinker under the hood of his nice car, but his enthusiasm was endearing, and it eventually shaped the relationship they had now— somewhere between friendship and a business transaction.
Despite all this, San found himself inexplicably drawn to his charms. Maybe it was the way his smile held genuine warmth, crinkling the edges of his deep brown eyes. Or the way his boisterous fox-like laugh instantly disarmed him. It was rare to find someone he could let loose around and have a casual conversation about his day, or his favorite cars.
In a world where everyone held an ulterior motive, always trying to use his wealth, or status to get something from him, Wooyoung restored his faith in people.
Wooyoung pursed his lips together and took one last, long-winded drag, then tossed the cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his heel.
“No other mechanic is gonna deal with your bullshit at this hour, regardless of how much you tip.”
San chose to ignore that comment and leaned back against the frame of the car, crossing his arms and struggling to decide where to even begin.
“You look pretty rough,” Wooyoung commented, giving him a skeptical once over before settling on his features. “You alright?” San could only imagine how bloodshot and wild his eyes looked, even in the darkness.
“It’s been… a long night.” Long night was an understatement.
“Figured.”
Now that Wooyoung was standing in front of him, fidgeting with the sleeve of his jacket and waiting for San to speak after he told him to fuck off earlier, the guilt stuck in his throat like cement. It was hard to even look him in the eye.
“Uh… I’m sorry— I shouldn’t have raised my voice earlier, or cursed at you. I—”
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t give me your sob story, I don’t need to hear it. I’m here, aren’t I? Just tell me what’s wrong with your car so I can get you out of here.”
He’d totally forgotten about his prior sense of urgency… the reason he yelled at Wooyoung over the phone in the first place. With a huff, San leaned forward and uncrossed his arms to dig around in his pocket and hand his keys over.
“The engine keeps making this clicking noise, it won’t start up. I just got it serviced, so this shouldn’t be happening. I was able to drive here, I don’t understand.”
“Right, right,” Wooyoung mumbled to himself and nodded along as he circled around to the front of the car.
He popped the hood open and stretched his arms high to raise it open, causing his jacket to ride up his abdomen and reveal a sliver of his bare midriff. San quickly tore his eyes away from the sight when Wooyoung cocked his head from under the hood to look up at him.
“Where did you get it serviced?”
“8th avenue, in the hills.”
Wooyoung clutched the hood for support as he leaned over in a fit of bubbling laughter. His half-smile was illuminated by a dim, reddish-purple glow from the back entrance of the club.
“Seriously?”
“What?”
Wooyoung clicked his tongue. “Sannie, you're too handsome to let people take advantage of you like that.”
It bothered San when people called him nicknames, especially cute ones— but arguing with Wooyoung was pointless.
The wind picked up, dragging a blanket of clouds across the sky that draped across the moon and smothered what little light the night had left. San sniffed, the distinct scent of petrichor tickling his raw and sensitive nose.
“It’s the best shop in the city, what do you mean?”
“It’s a total money laundering front,” Wooyoung pulled his phone out of his back pocket and fumbled with the screen until the flashlight flicked on, then ducked down into the complex maze of components.
“They can’t even download a GPS update on a new car without fucking it up, and you took your Jaguar there? C’mon now. They don’t know what to do with all of this, you should’ve just called me.”
“Why, so you can give me attitude and show up when you feel like it?”
“If you didn’t like my service, you would’ve stopped calling me by now,” Wooyoung said matter-of-factly, the pout in his voice evident even with his head tucked away.
Well, he couldn’t argue with that.
San watched Wooyoung work intently, carefully digging through wires and metal tubes. It was hard to read his expression in the dark as he searched for any hint of an update. Wooyoung’s eyebrows furrowed tight in concentration, the silver barbell that decorated one catching the strain against his skin.
When he focused, he had this habit of chewing the inside of his cheek back and forth– just one of his many interesting quirks.
“Any luck?” San inched forward, creeping behind him and peering over his shoulder as if he had the slightest clue what Wooyoung was doing, rummaging his scarred and oil stained fingers through the maze of metal. At this distance he caught a trail of his cologne when a gust of wind rolled past them– rich sandalwood wrapped in a deep, sweet vanilla, mixing with the burnt metallic smell that wafted from the still-warm engine.
“Fuel injectors’ clogged.” Wooyoung shook his head and grimaced, then continued, “You spent all that money, and they overlooked something so simple.”
“Is that bad?” San asked in a quiet voice.
“It’s really disappointing that you have this beautiful car and have no idea how to take care of her.” As Wooyoung turned over his shoulder to meet San’s curiosity, San instinctively took a step back from the sudden lack of space between them.
“Should be a simple fix. Uh… you wouldn’t happen to have break cleaner around here, would you?”
“Wooyoung this is a nightclub, not an auto shop. What the hell do you think?” San scoffed at the absurdity of his question.
“I don’t know! I heard you can poison people with it, I’m sure you do all kinds of shady shit here,” Wooyoung exclaimed, voice rising in protest. He swiped his wind-swept bangs out of his eyes with the back of his hand, then rested it on his hip and looked at San like he was the one that said something crazy.
San groaned, his attitude was exhausting. So sassy. When he glanced down at his watch and realized how much time passed since he left home, he couldn't believe how late it was. How the hell was it already past midnight?
“Alright, I can figure it out.” Wooyoung stepped out from under the hood and brushed past him. His hand trailed across the broad width of San’s shoulder in a gentle, reassuring pat. A subtle touch that unwound the tension in his frame by a few more threads.
“The way you're getting all worked up over there, I know you won’t wait for me to go back to my shop,” Wooyoung sighed.
A few feet away, Wooyoung rustled through the storage compartment under the seat of his motorcycle. The nosy voice in the back of San’s brain really wanted to know what he kept in there– probably just equipment and empty cigarette cartons, but he still strained his neck to sneak a curious glance. He must’ve found what he was looking for when San heard a soft ‘Hah! There you are’ mumbled from under his breath, returning with a handful of well-used, oil stained tools.
Wooyoung resumed tinkering in the engine, focused and mumbling to himself as he bent over and worked closely. Stray wisps of hair clung to the back of his neck and curved down the collar of his jacket, catching San’s attention when the breeze rolled through. He tried, and failed, to fight the loose strands blowing around his face.
Sometimes San wondered if he kept it long because he liked it, or if he couldn’t be bothered to cut it.
Wooyoung popped up after only a few minutes, wearing a satisfied grin stretched wide enough to carve those charming lines into his cheeks, then tossed the keys to San without a warning.
“Go on, try the engine now.”
San’s delayed reaction snapped right in time, catching them before they fell to the ground. With a smile that confident, he couldn’t help but think of how funny it would be if the car stalled anyway. However, the engine finally roared to life when he inserted the keys– and the pure relief that washed over finally, finally, melted the last bit of stress holding him hostage all night.
“You’re an absolute lifesaver, I can’t stress it enough,” San hopped out of the driver’s seat right away and answered Wooyoung’s smile with one of his own, just as bright.
With a loud thud, Wooyoung closed the hood. He retrieved an old, frayed rag from his back jeans pocket, wiping away the black streaks of motor oil smeared across his hands. He took extra care to clean the gaps in between the intricate chrome rings that always adorned his fingers
“I’ll invoice you later. Triple rate! Don’t forget!” His soft voice lowered into a stern tone, but that playful smile that always tore right through San’s defenses tugged at the corners of his lips.
“Sure, thank you so much.”
They shared a moment of silence in the darkness, only the sound of the wind whistling around them to muffle the distant hum of the nightclub.
Wooyoung was dimly illuminated by the colorful remnants of distant strobe lights that emphasized the sharpest points of his features, the rest falling into the shadows. A warm, familiar face he’d seen enough times to recognize anywhere. Yet it was impossible to truly read him, like he’d never flipped past the front cover of a book.
Across the slope of his prominent nose, a faint blotch of oil stained his skin. San gestured to his own nose and mimicked a wiping motion. His mouth hung open in silence, the words caught on his tongue. It was only polite to point it out, but he didn’t want to be weird about it.
“Hey, you got a little something…” San trailed off into a mumble.
Wooyoung’s eyes momentarily widened in surprise. He roughly smeared the rag across his nose, much more careless than San would’ve wiped his own face, but he got it all. San held his breath, feeling unsure of what to do with himself, like he might’ve crossed the line after all— until Wooyoung’s voice interrupted the jumbling mess of thoughts running through his mind.
“Oh… thanks. Am I good?” Wooyoung paused, waiting for San’s confirmation.
“Uh, Y-Yeah,” San exhaled.
The silence crept back in. With only the two of them alone in the parking lot, it was oppressively quiet. As if Wooyoung could hear every breath, every piece of gravel crunching under San’s feet as he anxiously shifted in place. He wondered if Wooyoung felt it too— that strange, palpable tension that lingered in the air and left San feeling entirely too exposed, despite how dark it was.
He studied Wooyoung's face closely, trying to search through the depths of his dark, unreadable eyes for any sign of mutual understanding. For any reassurance that San wasn't going crazy.
Wooyoung answered with a stiff smile that didn't crinkle his eyes around the edges. It felt strained, masking an emotion that San couldn't make sense of.
“Next time, you should've just wiped it off my face without saying anything. Haven't you watched enough romance movies to know how it goes?” Wooyoung teased, but the playfulness in his voice didn't match either. He broke their gaze first and shuffled over to his motorcycle parked a few feet away.
He always did this. High-tailing it out of there so quickly, before San could even begin to unpack whatever that was just now: a hairline crack in Wooyoung’s painfully overzealous facade to reveal something real underneath.
San wanted to see more of that side of him, past the cheeky smile and quips, but Wooyoung was always faster. He knew his favorite car model, and what he liked to order from the noodle shop down the street— but he realized at that moment, he had no idea who Wooyoung actually was.
Maybe it was the lingering drugs in his system, or the fact that his sanity and rational thinking muddled into a huge mess, but he felt bolder than usual. So he decided to be a little selfish. He couldn’t resist grabbing onto any loose thread he could find, just to unravel Wooyoung a little more.
As Wooyoung slung one leg over the seat of his bike in preparation to leave, San hurried over to him and interrupted his exit, shoes clicking along the parking lot in sturdy steps.
“Hey wait!”
Wooyoung paused in the middle of tossing his bangs out of his eyes with the help of the breeze, holding his helmet in his hands. He shot San an annoyed, skeptical look, with one eyebrow furrowed more intensely than the other— mirroring the asymmetry of his eyes.
“What now?” Wooyoung sighed.
“I uh…”
Why was it so humiliating? Doing something as simple as expressing gratitude. San’s entire body burned hot. Hopefully the false confidence he pushed through his voice was convincing enough.
“Thank you, really. If you ever want to drink? I mean— If you ever want to stop by the club for a night. Drinks are on me.” Shit, mid-sentence, it sounded like he’d practically asked Wooyoung on a date. He hastily kept going, tripping over his words.
“Oh— bring a couple guests too if you want, I’ll cover you guys.”
Wooyoung’s annoyed expression softened into a smirk. He sank down onto the motorcycle seat with the helmet in his lap. “I appreciate the offer, but I don’t drink much these days.”
“What do you mean these days, you talk like an old man,” San teased him, voice light and airy.
Wooyoung’s jaw clenched, molding his smirk into a hard line— but it only lasted a moment. The frown quickly dropped along with his shoulders. He slumped forward, leaning onto the handlebars, and exhaled dramatically.
“I feel like I lived the life of an old man.” The sound of keys jingling sprinkled through his words as he stuck them in the ignition.
“Mmm… I’ll think about it. Gonna head out for the night though.”
The familiar, ear-splitting rumble of his engine tore through the air as it roared to life, signifying the end of their conversation. San associated the sound with his arrival or departure, synonymous with the transient nature of their relationship. Always leaving before San could get to know him beyond surface level small talk.
Wooyoung pulled out of the parking lot, walking his bike backwards until he passed the curb that marked the boundary between San’s territory, and the wilderness of the city beyond. Now that he was fully suited up, the darkness transformed him into a faceless, all black figure.
No different from any other stranger passing through the back roads.
San gave him a tiny wave and cupped a hand around his mouth to shout over the engine. One last goodbye to steal another second of Wooyoung's time.
“Drive safe, be careful getting home!”
Be careful getting home?
Ugh.
He hoped his lame goodbye was muffled by all the noise, but Wooyoung sent him a half-hearted wave in response as he drove off into the shadows, and San all but physically cringed.
Yeah, he probably heard it.
Well, at least if his car doesn’t stall any time soon, he'd probably forget about it by the next time they meet.
Eventually, San made his way home. Back to the quiet, gated community, where the towering skyscrapers blended into residential alleyways and town homes. After running around the city and piling every bottle of vodka within a 15-mile radius into his car, he didn’t want to think about how the crates of liquor might’ve scratched up his interior and damaged the leather seats.
And as he finally pulled into his driveway for the night, he was too exhausted to care.
Despite the flashiness of his vehicle or accessories, San kept a comparatively minimal home. Wide open spaces with neutral colors and sleek silhouettes. A few houseplants here and there, and a couple of throw blankets on his sectional couch. Enough small touches to make the place less sterile— and completely opposite to the overstimulating, dingy nightclub in every possible way.
In the shower, he scrubbed his skin raw, letting the hot water and steam soak into his skin. Regardless of how much soap he used, how many times he scratched the loofah across his palms until the bristles snapped, it wasn't enough.
The blood still dripped down his fingertips.
He blinked rapidly, trying to assure himself it wasn't real, but the water flowing through his hands ran red.
It poured through the gaps in his fingers, staining the walls, the floor— crimson red, soaking in between the grout of every tile. The water curled down his body, like veins pulsing vivid red. It pooled below him, coagulating into a thick syrup-like substance around his feet.
He tried to shut the water off, frantically twisting the shower knob, but his wet, crimson stained fingers wouldn't stop slipping.
It kept flowing, and flowing.
Hot steam fogged up the room, heavy and humid. It coated his lungs and made it difficult to breathe. His chest heaved in heavy pants. This was supposed to be soothing, relaxing. The smell of his favorite herbal body wash stung in his nose and agitated his pulsing headache, overwhelmingly acrid.
It’s happening again.
Squeezing his eyes shut made the visualizations worse. The longer he kept them closed, the higher the red water rose— up to his ankles now and rapidly rising to his knees.
The feeling of that defenseless man at the bar writhing under his grip replayed like a broken record. San could still feel the way his body trembled and trashed under his muscles, the way he strained to keep him in place.
He never should've gotten involved. He shouldn’t have laid a finger on him. Why did he let himself get high? One bad decision after another, piling onto the mess of poor choices he’s made in his life.
The water was up to his chest now, but the panic started to subside into an almost peaceful sense of nihilistic acceptance. Soon it would submerge his head and he'd drown.
He wouldn't have to think, wouldn't have to feel this crippling guilt anymore.
San’s eyes snapped open at the last second.
He was back in his pristine shower, nothing but soap and water ran down the planes of his chest, traveling down his arms and legs in little streams. Clear, filtered water swirled nothing but suds down the drain.
He glanced through the steam at his hands. Clean, just skin. So unsettlingly clean that it still didn’t feel like his, like looking down at someone else's hands attached to his body. Underneath his nails, the remnants of oil stained his fingertips.
How… When did he get oil on his hands?
Oh.
Slowly, his recollection of the rest of the night came back to him, what happened after the bar fight.
Right. His car broke down. Wooyoung came to fix it. He probably shouldn’t have, after San yelled at him, but… he still did.
San let out a shaky breath, releasing some of the tension in his body along with it.
He finished up in the shower, lingering a bit longer to make sure the water ran clear. As he dried the last drops of moisture on his body, the towel was uncomfortable and scratchy on his raw, reddened skin.
Somehow he calmed himself down. It'd been so long since he spiraled like that, he was terrified he'd forget how to pull himself out of it. He returned to a state of normalcy— although his version of ‘normal’ hadn’t resembled anything close to okay in years.
As he walked around his bedroom with a towel tucked around his hips, he went through his nightly ritual. He dimmed the lights low and eased into the quiet relief of the day finally coming to a close. His freshly washed pajamas felt cozy on his skin, and the soft bed with all his favorite pillows and blankets felt even cozier. When he flipped on the TV across the room and remembered about the new episode he was waiting for, his anxiety all but melted away.
Last week ended on a cliffhanger. San was dying to know if the teacher would accept the gym rat’s confession. He was kind of an idiot, definitely a douche, those types visited his club every night— but the way he put his whole heart into planning elaborate dates and gifts for her was so romantic. He couldn’t help but root for them, desperately wanting to believe their love story would work, but he also knew it was a scripted reality TV show.
It didn’t hurt anyone if he indulged in the fantasy.
Just as San pulled the covers and clicked play on the remote, not even past the opening intro— his phone buzzed next to him, tangled somewhere in the sheets. He stubbornly let it ring. It's way too late to be calling him and after tonight, he didn’t care if the club went up in flames after all.
But as stubborn as he tried to be, the sense of responsibility he couldn't shake even for his own benefit ultimately won. He shifted through the blankets and picked up his phone, sliding across the screen to answer without missing a second of his show.
“Hello.” San answered curtly.
“S-Sa—” a single broken sound crackled over the receiver. The caller sounded out of breath, he was unable to recognize the voice from a single syllable.
“Hello? This is San speaking.” San repeated himself, growing frustrated.
“San. I—It’s me, I need help.”
Instantly, his heart fell straight through his stomach and sank to the floor, a million questions stirring in his mind. He jolted upright the moment he recognized that soft, husky voice.
Wooyoung? It was incredibly unusual for him to be calling him this late at night, or calling him at all.
“Wooyoung? Why are you calling me, what's going on?”
“I—” Wooyoung broke into a coughing fit, struggling to string his words together. “Sorry, I— I got jumped. They took everything. I didn't have anyone else to call. I need your help.”
“Who is ‘they’? Are you hurt?” San questioned.
“I—Yeah. Yeah, they fucked me up it's hard to walk. S-Shit. Shit. I owe a lot of money. A— a gang. I owe the wrong person a lot of money so he sent his fucking goons after me.”
“Oh my god, Woo.” San stood out of bed, throwing the covers off himself.
“Fuck, I don't know if they're gonna come back they'll fucking kill me. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit—” San could hear Wooyoung's voice growing frantic, unraveling over the phone.
“Stay there, I'll come get you. Just tell me where you are.” San began unbuttoning his pajama shirt with rapid flicks of his thumb as he spoke.
“Scarlet Alley. Behind the jazz club,” Wooyoung gasped.
“What the hell are you doing in a place like that?” San exclaimed.
“Now is not the time to give you my life story just hurry the fuck up San! Please—”
The urgency in Wooyoung's voice sent a chill down his spine.
“Alright, try to stay calm. Are you able to get to the main road? There's more people there, it's safer.”
“I don't know— I — I don't—” San could hear Wooyoung's voice rising in pitch, cracking like he was about to burst into tears.
“Okay, okay. I’ll be there in 15 minutes,” San reassured him in a calming, stern voice, switching into damage control mode.
After a long pause, Wooyoung finally answered in a small, breathless voice.
“Okay.”
San hung up the phone, still frozen in a half-way state of undress.
Was this another one of his bad jokes? The panic in Wooyoung's voice felt too real, too genuine. He's never heard him like that. San could only imagine how rough of a shape he was in right now. Every instinct in his body screamed that something about this situation was terribly wrong.
If only it was easier for him to just be selfish.
He hastily grabbed the dirty, blood stained clothes he wore earlier off the floor, slipping right back into his uniform. The dread creeping up his neck grew worse with every passing second. He hurried to his dresser, ripping open the drawers in a mad search.
Where was the damn thing?
After nearly pulling it apart, he finally found what he was looking for. Buried beneath his neatly folded crisp button up shirts was a handgun and a small, worn cardboard box of ammunition.
San didn’t carry his gun often, although he should. It made him anxious to carry a lethal weapon. If he had to resort to violence, he'd rather take the responsibility with his own two hands, his own flesh, versus letting a gun do the work for him.
He took a deep breath to calm his shaking hands and ripped out the magazine from the bottom of the pistol, reloading it with a fresh clip from the box. He didn’t have time to figure out if there were enough bullets left or not.
The cool metal of the gun sent goosebumps down his skin as he tucked it in the back of his waistband, underneath his shirt and flush against his back.
In the background, the dating show continued to quietly play on the TV, and sheets were left strewn across his bed in the shape of where he laid. The sliding glass door to the patio connected to his bedroom rattled gently from the breeze. The clock on the wall in the living room continued to tick in a steady rhythm.
Everything was left frozen in an almost unsettling contrast of normalcy as he ducked through the front door and back into the dark, oppressive cover of the night. Ready to face whatever was waiting for him.
Whatever was waiting for Wooyoung.
He left so fast he didn’t even fully dress himself, buttoning up his shirt with one hand as he drove, the other gripping the steering wheel tight as he sped through the city.
A million different scenarios ran through his mind all at once. He analyzed how he would approach each one, what he would say. He rehearsed the script in his head, the exact way he’d draw the gun from his back.
After each traffic light he ripped through, the glitzy office buildings and expensive apartments gradually blended into worn concrete towers and run down strips of sidewalk, illuminated by the flicker of neon bar signs.
The red-light district remained unchanged, an uncomfortably familiar part of town to him.
He pulled up to the curb, parking a short distance away from the back alley Wooyoung told him to meet him at. The bile in his stomach churned so violently he could taste it in the back of his throat.
Outside it was dead silent. Eerie. So quiet, his own hurried breaths echoed.
San swiped the pistol off the passenger seat and swallowed hard, frozen with the gun that suddenly felt heavy and foreign in his palm. His thoughts were a jumbled mess, but he didn’t have time to plan out his approach.
He clicked his tongue in frustration and decided to carry it drawn in his hand.
The sound of his nervous footsteps on the pavement punctured the unsettling stillness in the air– despite his attempt to move silently as he circled around the bright jazz club entrance.
Puddles littered the uneven, pot-hole ridden road, reflecting back the night sky— and the outline of his body, to whoever may be lurking in the darkness. The smell of wet asphalt and decay clung to his nose, growing stronger as he approached the alley.
Wooyoung. Where the hell is he?
San rounded the corner with the gun held straight in front of him, eyes locked and ears open. He tried to ignore his heart pounding in his ears. It was terrifying, but he tried to swallow his fear. Wooyoung was in danger, Wooyoung needed his help.
It was way too quiet.
His heart lurched in his throat, sticking to his tongue and making his mouth dry as he scanned the alley. Wooyoung was nowhere to be found. Dread settled into his bones and he froze where he stood, his limbs too heavy to keep moving.
“Wooyoung!” San pulled his resolve together and called out, desperately hoping to hear a response— although he knew he wouldn’t get one.
He squinted through the darkness, scanning his eyes across the grimy, concrete hallway and finding nothing.
No. No. No. No. No. No. He was too late. He took too long getting down here, wasted too much time hesitating, and now—
Would it be better or worse if he found Wooyoung’s lifeless body crumpled on the road?
He questioned every puddle like it contained a pool of blood instead of dirty rainwater, assuming the worst. Being met with absolutely nothing, the uncertainty of the unknown, was overwhelmingly suffocating. His mouth filled with saliva, feeling the intense urge to vomit as his anxiety spiked to an all-time high.
God, he really screwed up this time.
“Fuck,” he wanted to cry out, but all that came out was a hoarse whisper. His hands unfurled from the claw grip he held on the trigger, slowly his arms slumped to his sides as the muscles in his upper body finally gave up.
Is that… chemicals?
A sharp, cloyingly sweet scent filled all of his senses in an instant. San reeled as a cloth was shoved over his face. The wet fabric clung to his lips with every gasp.
He thrashed against the sudden invasion— but his attacker wrapped their arms around his head with an unexpected strength and jerked him backwards with so much force he nearly tumbled backwards.
It all happened so fast, he couldn’t fight back. His vision grew hazy, his body heavy, too heavy. Too sleepy. All at once, his strength melted away. He struggled to keep his eyes open.
San wanted to turn his head, see who snuck up on him, but it was as if every muscle in his body started to float away.
As his eyes fluttered shut, unable to resist the black shadow that crept over his vision and pulled him into its endless depth, he wondered if this was his final moment.
The last thing he saw were the stars above him.
In the darkness of the alley, he strained to make out the few glittering flecks of light that spanned across the wide, open expanse. The rain clouds from earlier faded away. He caught a single shooting star dancing and shimmering across the sky. It was beautiful.
As his consciousness slipped away, he wondered if Wooyoung got a chance to see how pretty the stars were that night.