Han counted the newcomers and let out a heavy sigh.
Two dozen guys stood before him like mannequins from a cheap boutique in the lower levels of the "Low Quarter": equally boring, lost, with no neon light in their eyes. He herded them into the hall—a straight line, like inventory in a warehouse—and immediately knew: they wouldn't amount to much.
The "Vermilion" hall used to host twenty hosts every evening; now, it was ten. And even those ten couldn't hold the audience's attention. Regular clientele—women of taste, accustomed to paying for illusion—saw the fakery instantly. Refusals were rising, profits falling.
— Why isn't there one decent one among them? — he muttered. — If he's going to be ugly, he should at least talk beautifully.
— Those ones become idols, — Rico Tan yawned, lazily stretched out on the bar counter. — We only have one handsome guy.
— You mean Jihan?
— Who else? If I were him, I would've already defected to "Monarch."
— What nonsense?
— He's smart, not poor, no debts. What is he doing here?
Because it's his bar, Han thought, but said nothing aloud.
— Are you two, by any chance, more than just acquaintances? — Rico added sarcastically.
— Want to pay off your debt with interest?
— Come on, I'm joking! But seriously—if he's not in love with you, why does he stay?
Cold fingers settled on Rico's neck.
— Because I'm in love with you, — a quiet voice whispered behind his back.
Rico yelped and jumped up. Kang Jihan stood behind him—a thin silhouette in a black shirt, unbuttoned at the throat. His eyes were amber, like autumn light, but with that electric gleam that appeared after "restoring balance." He smiled—softly, silently, dangerously.
— Damn it, Boss, don't do that! — Rico grumbled, clutching his chest.
Jihan laughed quietly—briefly, but enough to make even the surveillance cameras flicker.
Han, annoyed by this spectacle, stood up:
— Fine. I'm going to look for new victims on the street.
— Isn't it interview time? — Rico asked.
— Let Jihan glance at them with at least one eye. If he doesn't kick them out—we take them.
— Ha. If anyone even shows up.
Han cursed under his breath and slammed the door.
Only the two of them remained in the room.
— Hey, about what I was talking about with Han... — Rico began nervously.
— Forget it, — Jihan replied emotionlessly, scrolling through his phone feed. — I don't care.
— Seriously?
— I've worked in a dozen bars. Only here do they pay on time. That's why I stay.
— Well, yeah. Our director may be scary, but he's honest, — Rico scoffed. — Namir, the one who went to "Monarch," is probably regretting it already. It's a corporate hell: dress code, reports, scheduled clients.
— It's not a monastery here either, — Jihan noted, still not looking up.
— No clients, deadly boredom, — Rico continued. — Maybe we should go for a drink?
— I don't want to. The photosensitive disorder hasn't subsided yet.
He looked at his watch. Half-past seven.
The chime of the doorbell.
— Boss, did you finish the casting already? — Rico yelled, without turning around.
There was no answer. The silence was so thick that even the air conditioner seemed like an alien sound.
When Rico finally turned, his breath hitched.
A stranger stood in the doorway.
Tall, broad-shouldered. A gray suit, a tie knotted too carelessly to be accidental. Pale skin, a gaze as heavy as a predator forced to pretend to be human.
— Is this "Vermilion"? — he asked in a low, confident voice.
— Jackpot, — Rico whistled.
Jihan stood up.
— Yes. Are you here about an interview? I'll call the director... though, perhaps, you're already hired.
Their eyes met. The air grew thicker, like before a storm. This man exuded a danger that was scientifically calibrated, not crude.
Rico clicked his tongue:
— The image is old-fashioned, but the bone structure is gold.
The bell chimed again. This time Han walked in—fanning away cigarette smoke.
— These newbies are a nightmare. Oh... and who are you?
The stranger smiled slightly—and the smile sent a chill through the air.
— I'm looking for a man named Kang Jihan.
The air in the room became motionless. Jihan froze. Han and Rico simultaneously turned to him.
— They said, — the man continued, — tall, pale, with beautiful eyes. Looks like they weren't wrong.
He pulled an envelope from his inner pocket and handed it over. Inside—a wedding invitation. White, with gold embossing, and the initials: R. Sonaïn — Sela.
— I was supposed to marry a girl named Lo. Do you remember?
Jihan was barely breathing.
— What?...
— But the wedding didn't happen, — the man continued calmly. — Thanks to you.
Silence spread, thick and viscous, like blood on the floor.
— My name is Ryu Sungyeon, — he said, tilting his head slightly. — And I'm afraid I'm not very happy to make your acquaintance.
Rico forced a nervous giggle:
— Looks like we're... screwed.
Sungyeon spoke politely, even softly, but authority permeated his voice. Every word sounded like a warning.
— He was going to get married, and I was dumped for a host, — he said. — Funny, right?
He pulled out a check, tossed it onto the counter.
— One million Lune. For your time. Pour me something decent. I want to talk to Jihan.
— Sir, — Han began cautiously, — we don't serve men...
— I'm not a client, — Sungyeon smiled. — I'm a guest.
He took out a second check and placed it on top of the first.
— Lo said Jihan was special. I decided to check.
A third check landed on top.
— Not at all, Director?
Han swallowed. It became clear to Jihan: this man knows everything.
Jihan knelt down, dramatically grasping the man's trousers.
— I'm sorry! It was my fault! Please forgive me!
Sungyeon looked down, with a gaze that was closer to a kiss than a blow.
— Are you suggesting I hit you?
— If it calms you down.
— I'm too fastidious to even touch you, — he answered.
The blow was fast, precise. Jihan slammed against the wall, striking his shoulder hard, clutching his nose.
— A-ah...
— You have three days, — Ryu Sungyeon said softly, leaning closer. His breath brushed Jihan's face, smelling of leather, wine, and expensive loneliness. — In three days, you will call me yourself.
He tossed a business card.
R. Sungyeon / Contact 03-447-90 (Sector L)
— And don't try to run away.
He left without looking back. Leaving behind a ringing silence and the scent of expensive cologne, in which iron and salt could be heard.
Han and Rico rushed over to him.
— Boss, are you alive?!
— Can you stand up?
— I can, — Jihan rasped. — Told you he wouldn't touch me...
While Han applied ice to his face, Jihan opened his fist. On his palm—the crumpled business card.
— Ryu Sungyeon, — he whispered. — I will remember.
Later, in his white, almost sterile apartment, he sat before the screen. On the floor—empty bags of synthesized plasma. The StreamOne logo blinked on the screen.
— Ryu Sungyeon... — he murmured. — A bear with an actor's voice.
His phone rang.
— Did you make it home? — It was Han.
— Yes.
— Does your stomach hurt?
— It does.
— Will you meet him?
— I'll have to.
— Will you use Gaze?
— Of course. Even tigers turn into kittens under hypnosis.
— Be careful. You know if you stare too long, bleeding starts.
— I'm not a rookie.
He disconnected. A frame froze on the screen—a kiss in the rain.
Jihan chuckled.
— Funny.
He opened the chat, typed a short message:
Yes. I accept the game.
The reply came instantly:
Tomorrow, 10 AM. Mior Hotel.
He smirked.
— Well then, Ryu Sungyeon... we'll see which of us is the predator.