In front of the VIP room.
I’d been thinking the path felt strangely familiar — and then I recognized it. That room. The one where I’d been beaten black and blue by the man and nearly violated.
My shoulder ached as if remembering that night.
I hesitated at the threshold, unable to bring myself to walk in — and once again, the man stood at the doorway looking at me, and spoke.
“Nothing like that will happen. Come in.”
“…….”
God, am I an idiot — why does one sentence from him put me at ease.
A brief quiet passed, and then my feet, which had stopped, began to move again. I’d thought the man had gone ahead of me, but he had already come around and was following behind me.
A room that could hardly be called an entertainment venue room — more like a hotel suite.
The floor was covered in plush carpet, and soft lighting wrapped around the entire space. The overall atmosphere was intimate, decadent, and unmistakably high-end.
To think I’d be coming back here.
Even so, now that I was actually inside, the aversion I felt toward the place itself was gone. That’s how fickle people are.
I’d wondered what “setup is done” meant — and now I saw it: food arranged neatly on a square white table. Two bottles of liquor in different sizes and shapes, a bucket of ice, two clear glass tumblers. And on top of that, a candle giving off a faint scent, and a single fresh flower I didn’t know the name of, placed in a vase.
But…
Something was off.
More precisely — the type of food.
Sitting right next to the extravagant bottles of liquor was a steaming bowl of doenjang jjigae, looking freshly made and utterly out of place.
“……?”
The doenjang jjigae in its clay pot, still letting off steam, was surrounded in the center by stir-fried shishito peppers and anchovies, japchae, various seasoned vegetables, rolled egg, and braised galbi — all served in ornate handcrafted ceramic bowls. My eyes lingered on the rolled egg. The vivid yellow, rolled thick and neat, looked soft and fluffy as a cloud.
This isn’t a drinking spread — this is a dinner table….
My brain stuttered to a halt at the sight of food that, even seeing it with my own eyes, I couldn’t quite believe — a spread straight out of a Korean home-style restaurant, and here of all places.
I stood there blankly staring down at it, genuinely confused about why I was seeing this in a West Hollywood VIP room.
I felt a gaze on me and looked up — the man was watching me intently.
“Which one of these is your favorite?”
“Pardon? Ah… the rolled egg.”
“Figured as much.”
“……?”
Before I could do anything, he suddenly picked up his chopsticks, lifted a piece of rolled egg, and held it out toward me.
“……??”
The rolled egg was right in front of my face, and before I knew it, I’d opened my mouth — and in it went.
“……???”
I chewed the rolled egg slowly and looked at the man. His expression hadn’t changed much, but somehow he seemed to be in a good mood.
Oh!
I’d forgotten my place and let a client feed me again. I wasn’t sure what was going on, but first things first — get a grip.
I quickly swallowed the rolled egg. Then, hastily picking up my own chopsticks, I lifted a piece of rolled egg and held it out toward the man.
“…Please have some too, sir.”
Even as I said it, I wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to do — but it still felt better than sitting there passively letting him feed me.
The corners of the man’s mouth slowly, almost imperceptibly, curved upward.
A smile that drew a gentle arc at his lips — he let out a short, quiet laugh like a breath, then opened his mouth and accepted the piece of rolled egg.
I couldn’t get used to this side of the man. So completely different from the first impression he’d given.
Why is he suddenly acting like this?
Was it because he was what the boss always called a “gentleman client”?
Though for that title, his hands and his nature itself were anything but — they burned like fire. Just moments ago, hadn’t he flattened a Gold Class customer’s face against his palm like a pancake?
The way the mood kept shifting was unnerving.
In any case, I kept my chopsticks moving diligently so as not to get on the nerves of this capricious client. The problem was that the man was just as diligent as I was.
It wasn’t like I could refuse when he kept offering, and I nearly lost my mind.
By the time we’d finished our unexpected dinner, I felt properly full. I hadn’t even noticed I was particularly hungry — but it seemed my stomach had been emptier than I thought.
Why was I suddenly thinking of that scrawny dog.
Maybe I should’ve given it a bit more.
It nagged at me slightly that tossing it one boiled egg had been all I did. By now it had probably wandered out through the open gate, but…
I thought of how it had come into my arms without a shred of suspicion after nothing more than one egg being thrown its way, and found myself murmuring without meaning to.
“…Puppy.”
The moment the word left my mouth, the man suddenly snatched my wrist.
Ugh! What now—!
Startled, I leaned back and looked at him.
Dilated pupils. An unfamiliar expression.
From a face that had always been so difficult to read — an emotion of intense agitation was now coming through, unmistakably and powerfully. His trembling eyes were close to something that bordered on madness.
“Do you remember?”
The man asked me that, out of nowhere.
“Pardon?”
Naturally, I had no idea what he meant, and asked back in bewilderment.
The man opened his mouth again, as if expecting something.
“Puppy.”
Was he incapable of speaking in full sentences.
He just kept throwing single words at me like we were playing twenty questions — no wonder the conversation wasn’t going anywhere.
It seemed like he was asking if I remembered something about a puppy — I had no idea what the context was, but I had to say something.
“I was just thinking of a dog I saw this morning… there was no other meaning to it.”
“A dog?”
“Yes. It was a stray that had been wandering around the area.”
“You said puppy.”
“It followed people so easily, I thought it must still be young.”
“…….”
The man’s mood plummeted in an instant. Something that looked almost like disappointment crossed his face.
He returned to his usual unreadable expression and muttered quietly.
“…A young dog.”
He was repeating my words back as if turning them over — and I genuinely thought he was out of his mind.
Don’t tell me he’s going to bite me again.
On instinct, I raised my hand to cover the nape of my neck — where he’d gnawed into me like a rabid dog. He’d bitten the same wound before it even had time to scab over, so there was no guarantee he wouldn’t do it again.
But the man slowly released the hand that had been gripping my wrist and picked up his glass.
And then he quietly sat there, drinking.
That was when it happened.
Knock knock.
A heavy knock on the door.
The man’s gaze, glass in hand, moved toward the door.
“Han Representative.”
At the deep male voice coming from outside, the man set down his glass and said —
“Come in.”
With that permission, the door opened and a broad-shouldered man in a suit stepped in — built like one of the guards at the entrance.
“The Chairman is asking for you.”
At those words, the man’s brow visibly furrowed. It was an expression mixed with irritation, displeasure, and every other negative emotion.
The man quietly set down his glass and stood.
Is he leaving?
Watching him, I felt like I should at least see him off, so I started to rise with him — when the man, just before stepping out, said to me:
“…I won’t be able to come for a while.”
“Ah… I see.”
As if I’d been waiting for him or something.
Even after the man left the room, my shift wasn’t over. There was still a long stretch of time left, and I returned to work the same way I had at the start. With players who were polished and practiced at hosting, there was no reason any client would choose a player with a busted arm over them. I had expected as much.
From the start, it had been a stretch for someone with nothing better to offer than any of them to be assigned VIP duty.
Even without hosting, there was still work to be done. Mostly filling in where the servers were short-handed — I served additional orders of drinks and snacks as they came in, refilled ice, and cleared and reset tables. Having worked part-time jobs before, one hand was enough. If anything, it was easier than jobs where I’d had to haul a grill plate multiple times with heavy lifting.
I was on my way out the back door to throw out some trash.
“Hey.”
Someone called out to me.
A chain hanging at his neck caught the light in a flash. He wore a flowing, lightweight top that came down to his solar plexus. A lean frame, ash-gray hair. And lips — plump, thick, and taut enough that a single poke of a needle might burst them, whatever he’d put on them — I startled slightly at the sight.
An unfamiliar face. Someone who looked considerably younger than me. He was one of the players.
He held a cigarette in one hand, spat once on the ground, then walked slowly toward me. He was quite a bit shorter than me — though he didn’t seem to care about that in the slightest.
The player came up close, looked me up and down with eyes that had gone sharp, then opened his mouth. He prodded my body with his index finger — jab, jab — as if pushing me away as he spoke.
“No smell on you whatsoever. But you don’t seem like a top either.”
What’s a “smell”?
“You actually gay?”
Would it matter if I said no? Could I even do this job then?
Maybe. West Hollywood catered to gay clients, after all. Which meant the man I’d been exclusively assigned to was also gay… How had I only just realized this now.
I neither confirmed nor denied the player’s question.
“From what I can see, you can’t even host properly. Do the clients disgust you?”
“No.”
“No, my ass… Fucking hell. It’s written all over your face.”
I’m wearing a mask. What’s there to read.
Was it because I wasn’t the warm and personable type that I was coming across that way. I got called blunt often enough at part-time jobs — but I could tell the difference between well-meaning advice and someone picking a fight for no reason.
I narrowed my eyes.
Whether he’d sensed something shift in the air, the player kicked the trash bag I was holding. It burst on impact, and the contents splattered all over my trousers. Of all things, it was food waste inside. But the food scraps that had just come out didn’t feel disgusting. I’d scooped up maggot-ridden corpses before — what was a little food waste. I stared at the scattered trash, then raised my eyes to the player.
At that, the player jutted his chin toward the burst bag and said:
“What are you looking at? Clean it up.”
“…….”
What’s the point in dealing with this any further.
There were people like this everywhere you went. I’d had bottles thrown at me, been spat on, had my backside kicked before — this was child’s play by comparison.
