The club was alive. Music thundered, bass hitting the walls, spotlights cutting through the fog of smoke and humid air. But it all seemed distant to Do-yoon, as if he were watching the scene through glass. After a short break outside, he returned through the back entrance. The corridor met him with silence — only drops of water from his hair and jacket dripped onto the tiled floor. He tossed the damp cigarette pack into his locker and pulled the vest over his shirt. Buttoning it up, he took a deep breath. The waiter's mask was back in place.
***
The main room was the usual chaos: voices, laughter, the smell of alcohol, perfumes, pheromones, a spilled cocktail on the bar, the clinking of glasses. To everyone around him, he was just another waiter. To himself—the eyes and ears in this place. He moved quickly, tray in hand. He took note: who was sitting with whom, who stood up more often than the rest, who avoided the cameras. His gaze lingered on a group near the bar—four men, clearly not students or casual guests. One of them had crossed his path several times before. The one who appeared almost every week, changing suits and companions, but never his habits. He might be the one looking for a new victim, the thought flashed through his mind. Do-yoon pretended to adjust his tray, but in reality, he caught a movement in the mirror's reflection. The man leaned over to the bartender and said something, too quickly, too quietly. The bartender nodded and immediately disappeared through the service corridor door.
***
In the main room, the noise boomed, but a different kind of silence reigned in the narrow corridor behind the stage. Here, it smelled of metal, damp wood, and cigarettes. Faint neon from outside seeped through the dirty windows, leaving crimson reflections on the walls. Do-yoon walked slowly. His steps were muffled by the bass, but he heard them too distinctly himself. He stopped at the corner. There, behind a glass partition, was a staff office, more like a storage room: a table, stacks of folders, a couple of chairs. And voices.
— Do you realize you are risking too much? - The first voice was tense, familiar. Do-yoon strained to listen. It was one of the directors. — We are all risking, - answered the second, lower, more confident voice. - But if information doesn't move, we'll be crushed from above. — And you decided to sell it? - anger sounded in the first voice. — I decided to save the company, - the second cut in coldly. - Let Mr. Yoon play the honest owner, but his methods are too straightforward. He cares about appearances for the press. I care about us not losing control.
Do-yoon held his breath. He knew that voice. Director Lee — calm, reasonable, the one who always spoke reservedly and intelligently at the recent meetings. He was the one who seemed like an island of logic among aggressive colleagues. And he was the one now speaking as if he had long since crossed to the other side.
— You saw the reports, - Lee continued. - The missing Omegas hurt the reputation more than a drop in sales. But while everyone is busy with scandals, we can move the cargo as needed. — Are you saying that... - the other person's voice trembled. — I'm saying that unnecessary mouths must stay shut. And those who are too curious will find their own way into the pit.
Silence. Then a quiet chuckle.
— Even Mr. Yoon? — Especially if he gets in the way, - Lee said without hesitation. - No one should be above the system. Not even him.
***
Do-yoon pressed his back against the wall, his heart pounding against his ribs. It's him. Not Seungho. Not random employees. One of the people who sat at the directors' table, whose restraint seemed like reason and stability. I was wrong. He closed his eyes, trying to control his breathing. The steps inside the office ceased. He heard the sound of a chair being pushed back. Do-yoon quickly took a few steps back down the corridor, hiding behind the corner. A moment later, the door opened, and Director Lee walked out. His face was as calm as ever. Not a shadow of emotion. He adjusted his jacket, took out his phone, briefly glanced at the screen. And walked past in the corridor, failing to notice the figure in the shadows. Do-yoon stood motionless until the sound of the footsteps dissolved into the roar of the bass. He ran a hand across his face. Damp hair stuck to his forehead, but it wasn't rain — it was cold sweat. Now he had evidence. Not paper, not material, but stronger than any photograph. He inhaled deeply and looked toward the end of the corridor, where the neon lights reflected in the windows. Two feelings fought inside him — relief and fear. Relief: he understood Seungho was not the enemy. Fear: the enemy was much closer than he expected. And now I have to choose how to use this knowledge.
***
Somewhere far away, beyond the walls, people laughed, drank, and danced. And here, in the empty corridor, everything was decided quieter than any gunshot.