Do you really have a choice? Could you actually say no, hang up, go back to agonizing on the floor like this call never happened? Maybe. And yet, you wonder if that’s really how it is, or if it’s just an illusion, a front. Besides, if you actually denied Jungkook what he wants after signing that contract, he’d be well within his rights to grab it by the corners, pinch it tight between his thumb and forefinger, and rip it into two, four, a thousand pieces. White paper would fly like confetti before your eyes and… well, at this point, we all know what would happen next. There’s no point in spelling it out.

So you hang your head, trying to swallow the bitter pill. You can’t say why, but you feel more humiliated now than the night you two had sex. This feels like a true violation of your privacy, an assault on your will. Of course, Jungkook can’t really be blamed for it—not entirely, at least. It’s not like you ever explained your problems to him, and he doesn’t have the slightest clue how you were spending your evening before he called. Still, selfish as ever, that little voice, finally awake in the pit of your stomach, is indignant. Almost as if Jungkook should have the power of telepathy, and his lack of it is some unforgivable failing.

"Hurry up?" he says impatiently on the other end of the line.

Do I really have a choice? You wonder again. How stupid of you. You already know the answer.

You murmur your address with the same resignation as a condemned prisoner forced to walk the plank toward the gallows. There’s no thick rope swinging in the wind before you, but if there were, it wouldn’t make a difference. You don’t even know what’s bothering you so much—it’s definitely not the thought of seeing Jungkook. That, despite everything, is almost tolerable. No… what makes you so uneasy is the idea of being pulled away from your own personal torture—the one you grant yourself to feel like you're dying, and consequently, feel alive.

Jungkook hangs up without even a goodbye. You're not surprised; you wouldn’t have expected anything different. For almost five seconds, you stand there, phone clutched in your hand, staring at nothing—a mote of dust floats in the air, oblivious to the world around it. You envy it. If it weren’t for the fact that you have a conscience and it doesn’t, you'd dare say you both have about the same significance in this world. Just for a change, you're not the lucky one.

You shake your head and put the phone back exactly where you found it, then drag yourself toward the closet. You slide open the lightweight wooden door and sink to your knees. Before you are three orange blister packs. The pills are part of the incredibly expensive treatment you can only afford because you made the insane decision to sell your body. You tear them open, one after another, shake the pills into your palm, and then toss them back, down your throat. They scratch on the way down, almost making you cough, so you grab the now-cold herbal tea and quickly gulp down a couple of mouthfuls.

You need to get a move on. Even though everything still aches, even though you just want to collapse on the floor, even though the three pills swallowed together almost instantly bring on a wave of nausea. You get dressed like an automaton, a doll programmed to perform specific, mechanical actions. Then you go to the bathroom and wipe away the dried blood that stained your lips when you coughed. When you look at your reflection, you see nothing surprising. You wonder why Jungkook is willing to pay for such a wreck. Then, slowly, that fire inside you dies down… and once again, you feel like nothing matters.

Calm spreads through your mind like fog rolling into a clearing. You grab the brush and start pulling it through your hair. With every stroke, you feel calmer, more relaxed. When you look at your reflection again, you barely recognize yourself, and yet, there you are. As if you'd never really left.

You're putting on your shoes when you feel the phone vibrate again.
"I'm at the address, but there are no houses here. If you're fucking with me…" the message reads.

You don’t even bother replying. You grab your umbrella and head out of the apartment. The narrow alley is overflowing with trash, as usual; you have to weave your way through rotting tomatoes and crumpled cans. The rain spatters against the plastic bags, splashing onto you, so you quicken your pace. Jungkook’s car is parked right at the edge of the sidewalk, hazard lights blinking.

Even through the slightly tinted windows, you can see his frown. He must be surprised to see his escort emerging from a pile of garbage.

You get in the car and buckle your seatbelt. You don’t really know what to say, so you say nothing.

Jungkook, on the other hand, looks like he’s about to ask you something (definitely about the trash heap you just crawled out of), but then seems to think better of it. He closes his mouth and starts the car. The engine rumbles beneath your feet. "Did you eat dinner?" he asks.

No. On days when you want to punish your body for being a wreck, you don’t eat, and you don’t take your medicine. On days like these, your body loses, and your mind wins. You're in command, you hold the reins, you inflict the punishment, and your body endures. On days like these, your mind triumphs completely. You wonder if Jungkook would understand that. Probably, if you told him something like that, he'd think you were crazy. So, you say something else. "Yes."

"Good," he mutters.

You're certainly no expert navigator, but you immediately realize you're heading in the wrong direction, especially if the goal is Jungkook’s place. You should care, you should be alarmed, you should ask where you're going, but the inhibitors have already silenced whatever spark was left in you. So, simply, you don’t care. Knowing the answer, the destination, wouldn’t change a single thing anyway.

It’s silent in the car. If it’s awkward or embarrassing, you don’t notice. And if you do notice, maybe you just don’t care. Jungkook doesn’t seem like he’s in the mood to talk, anyway. One hand rests on the steering wheel while his left arm is bent. He’s nervously biting a hangnail on his thumb. It only takes one glance to see his mind is somewhere else entirely—maybe he’s even forgotten you're in the car with him.

You reach an area of Seoul known for its many nightclubs. The car slips into a paid underground parking garage, then pulls into a spot between two white lines. "Let's go," he orders. You unbuckle your seatbelt and get out of the car.

Jungkook opens the trunk and pulls out an expensive-looking red bag. There are gold Chinese characters printed on it that you can’t read.

"You can't show up dressed like that," he says. "Put this on." He plunges his tattooed arm into the bag and tosses a skimpy dress at you, nearly the same shade of red as the bag.

You look down at the fabric in your hands, then back at Jungkook, confused. "Where am I supposed to… How do I…?"

"Get changed here. Who cares?" he says, annoyed.

There aren't many people in the parking garage. Still, there's the attendant reading a magazine, someone walking to their car, someone else leaving theirs. It's not like it's crowded, but still…

"But…"

"Don't piss me off," he growls. "It's simple. Why do you have to make everything so complicated?" he complains, irritated.

Deep down, he’s right. What do you care? Your body is just a body, and since you signed that contract, it doesn't even belong to you anymore.

You take off your clothes, one piece after another. You drop them onto the ground as your skin meets the cold air, shivering. You're down to your underwear, but Jungkook stops you right there. "Take it all off. You can't wear anything under that dress."

You swallow that bitter pill too.

You don’t care, deep down.

You take off your soft bra, your panties. You stand there naked under his gaze, then slip into the red dress. You notice it only covers one side of your body; the other side is bare, held together by little rhinestone-studded chains connecting the two panels of fabric. It’s a sexy dress, very revealing, and it makes you feel like an impostor. You are not the kind of woman who would ever wear something like this.

Then, Jungkook pulls a pair of black, patent leather high heels from the bag.

"Know how to walk in these?"

"No," you confess.

"Figured as much. Try to learn fast," he says, handing them to you.

When you put them on and realize they fit perfectly, you wonder how Jungkook knows your size, your shoe number. Again, you decide it doesn’t matter. You pull yourself upright, feeling like you could lose your balance at any second.

Jungkook, noticing your struggle, offers you his arm. "The bruises on your face just healed. I'd rather not look like I beat you up," he says.

You take his arm.

"Aren't you interested?" Jungkook asks point-blank as you head out of the garage.

"In what?" you ask.

"Where we're going."

You blink rapidly. "Uh? I don't know. I guess not."

Jungkook furrows his brow. "Okay," he says. "Couldn't have done much about it anyway."

You don’t say anything else. But you feel Jungkook watching you. You wonder if he's intrigued, weirded out, or some mix of the two. You get into an elevator with a couple of distinguished-looking men, maybe in their sixties. No one speaks, and as soon as the doors open, you step out. The rain has finally stopped, but the air is still cold. Your nipples harden instantly; walking around in this dress is almost like being completely naked.

Jungkook pulls you along, and you speed up your steps. You only stop when you reach your destination. A club with a huge glass front, emanating a dark, purplish light. Elegant, silver letters stand out before your eyes.

Hongdae Sex Club.

"Hurry up," Jungkook orders, dragging you inside.

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