The next hour is close to torture. I struggle to stay calm, to pretend I’m enjoying myself, but every polite smile feels like a mask stretched too tight. My responses are muted, clipped, as if I am speaking through a layer of glass. Every laugh, every clinking glass, the base tremor of the music feels amplified, a constant assault on my overstimulated senses. The lights are too bright, the press of bodies too close. I can feel the seams of my composure fraying, my internal timer ticking down with relentless precision. I count the minutes, then the seconds, until Hyun finally gives the signal—a subtle nod, almost imperceptible.

Relief crashes over me, so intense it is almost dizzying.
Escape.

Stepping out into the cool night air is like shedding a heavy, suffocating cloak. The world outside the club is quieter, the chaos of the dance floor replaced by the hush of a Busan back alley. The alley is narrow, slick with the sheen of recent rain, the cobblestones uneven beneath my feet. Neon signs flicker overhead, their reflections dancing in puddles. The air carries the scent of street food and distant ocean salt, a sharp contrast to the perfume and sweat inside.

We exit through the back to avoid the bustling front street, slipping into the shadows where the city’s nightlife pulses just out of sight. Four bodyguards flank us, their suits immaculate, eyes scanning the darkness with practiced vigilance. Their presence is a silent warning: these are the children of Busan’s elite, not to be trifled with.

Parked at the curb are three cars—sleek, black, and impossibly expensive. A Rolls-Royce Phantom. A Maybach S-Class. A Bentley Flying Spur. Each gleams under the alley’s dim lights. Chauffeurs stand nearby, posture rigid, earpieces glinting. The scene feels absurd in its opulence. A private parade in a forgotten corner of the city.

Dae walks beside me, her arm linked with two of her girlfriends, one on each side, all from the same college, all dressed in designer clothes that shimmer in the low light. Their laughter is soft, conspiratorial, as if the world belongs to them.

I pull my noise-cancelling headphones down. I no longer need them. The quiet street is a balm, soothing the raw edges of my nerves.

“You did so well, Jay!” Hoon nudges me, grinning. He has a newbie clinging to his arm—a boy who looks too young for the club, with baby-pink hair and a blue leather outfit that hugs his frame.

“Yeah,” Dae agrees warmly. “I thought you were going to bail when you got back from the bathroom, but you stayed till the end. Thank you.”

I see the urge in her eyes—to hug me, to squeeze me tight—but she knows better. She knows how touch can feel like fire when I’m overstimulated.

I reach for her hand. She immediately unhooks herself from her girlfriend for this rare show of affection. I squeeze once, quick, then let go, avoiding her gaze.

“I met some weirdo in the bathroom,” I say quietly. “He took my headphones. But I made him give them back.”

“What?” Hoon’s anger flashes, then softens into curiosity, his eyes narrowing playfully. “Was he hot? Was he flirting with you?”

Dae snorts. “Jay wouldn’t know someone was flirting even if they sat on his lap naked and offered themselves as tribute.”

Everyone bursts into giggles, the sound echoing off the alley walls. I struggle to get the joke. My mind snags on the memory of him. Had he been flirting? The stranger’s smile. The way he’d looked at me.

Was that what flirting felt like?

“I think he was just trying to make friends,” I mutter, tucking my chin down and watching the stones beneath my feet. It still embarrassed me—how hard it was to connect, how friendship felt like a language I never quite learned.

“What did he look like?” Dae presses. “Maybe we can find him and convince your Mum to let you stay out. You’re twenty-one, Jay. Time to lose your virginity and live a little.”

The thought of being with a total stranger terrified me.

“Who says I’m a virgin?” I shoot back, hiding my fear just as my security escort swings open the door of my car.

Dae's eyes become huge circles. “What? Jay! Have you been holding out on us?” Hoon calls after me. “You better tell me when it happened, I’m your best fri—”

I pull my noise-cancelling headset back on and sink into the plush leather seat, relieved when the door slams shut. The car’s interior becomes a cocoon of quiet luxury, the world outside fading instantly. As we pull away, I imagine Hoon still shouting after the car.

I cherish that Hoon and Dae treat me like I’m normal. Sometimes, I almost believe I belong.

But tonight, I’d had enough.

The drive home blurs into city lights and soft music. When we arrive, a doorman bows, and the elevator whisks me up to the penthouse. The doors open onto a vast marble foyer. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the skyline, the sea glittering in the distance. Everything gleams. Everything is curated.

My father owns the largest IT empire in Busan. It shows.

The apartment is more palace than home, staffed by a small army. Tonight, they’re all awake.

My mother is still up, a K-drama blinking on the massive screen. She rises the moment she sees me.

“Oh, my baby,” she gushes, pulling me into a brief hug. I let her. She is always safe. Warm. Familiar. She smells like oud and vanilla. “How was it?”

“It was loud,” I mumble into her shoulder.

She laughs softly, brushing my hair back. “Sorry, birthday boy.”

“I got cake." I say, " your favorite - red velvet and white chocolate. They’re bringing it up.”

“Yay!” Mum squeals. “Thank you for ordering my favorite kind of cake on your birthday.”

She beams, then adds, “Your dad called. He sent you a present. It’s by your bedside. Alongside mine.”

I grunt. The familiar ache settles in my chest. Dad was always away for important milestones as this...

“Want something to eat?” she asks gently.

“No. I had some cake,” I lie.

She studies me, then gestures to my coat. “Ready for them to take that?”

I nod.

“Gwenchana dum dum dum dum dum dum dum dum dum dum…” I mutter, preparing for my welcome routine.

The maids move in smoothly. Coat off. Shoes off. Slippers on. Everything seamless. Predictable. Safe.

“Thanks, Mum,” I say softly.

She smiles, brushing my cheek. “Happy birthday, Jay.”

In my room, I open Mum’s gift and laugh out loud. The unreleased writer-script version of "The Omniscient" a manhwa series. She always knows.

My father’s gift sits beside, a charcoal-gray box with an intricate design. I open it even though I already know. Another Richard Mille. I snap the box shut.

In the shower, the overload lingers. My body hums. My thoughts fragment. The exhaustion will last for days.

And yet—

A flicker remains.

Bleached hair.
Kind green eyes.
A lopsided smile.

I feel the knot in my stomach again, feel it press lower. 

I turn the water hotter, letting it sting my back.

I grit my teeth and welcome the pain.

Yes.

That feels better.