Y/N POV
As soon as their figures disappeared into the manager's car, silence crept in around me like a heavy fog.
I stood still behind the bus station, the cold night air brushing against my face. For a moment, I didn't move. Just stared at the fading trail of headlights in the distance.
Then, slowly, I looked down at my hand.
Her number.
Written in rushed blue ink, slightly smudged from my palm's sweat—but still legible.
I stared at it like it wasn't real. Like it might disappear if I blinked too fast.
Karina. Ji-min.
She gave me her number.
An idol. A celebrity. Someone whose face was on every billboard, in every music video. Someone like her, reaching out to someone like me—a nobody.
I ran a thumb over the ink.
What the hell was she thinking?
I wasn't anyone worth remembering. My hair was messy, my clothes smelled like smoke and cheap soap. My face was bruised. I didn't have a future. I was barely holding on to the present.
And yet... she looked at me like I mattered.
She chose to remember me.
I exhaled slowly and pulled out the old phone in my pocket—screen cracked, battery barely holding on. I tapped in the number and saved it.
Ji-min.
I didn't add a heart, didn't add "Karina." Just her real name. Simple. Quiet. Like I was trying to protect the moment from becoming something too big.
Then I slid the phone back into my pocket.
No use getting carried away.
She'd probably forget me by next week anyway. Maybe it was just a moment of adrenaline for her. Guilt. Gratitude. Whatever it was... it didn't change reality.
I looked out toward the empty road.
The last bus was long gone.
I could either wander back home and face whatever hell Kwang Hee had cooked up for me—or I could keep walking. Toward Itaewon. Toward the one option I had left.
I knew which one made more sense.
I adjusted my bag on my shoulder, shoved my hands into my pockets, and started walking.
The streets were quiet. Just the hum of distant traffic and the occasional flicker of a dying streetlight. My footsteps echoed on the sidewalk.
I didn't know what I'd find when I got there. If Sam would even be around. If the job would be real. If I'd end up in something I'd regret.
But anything was better than going home tonight.
I looked up at the sky.
No stars.
Just gray clouds and city light pollution.
Still, I kept walking.
One step. Then another.
I wasn't sure what the hell I was doing with my life anymore—but for the first time in a long time... I felt like someone had actually seen me.
And that feeling—tiny and quiet and confusing as it was—kept me moving forward.
The walk felt endless.
By the time I reached Itaewon, my legs were numb, my throat dry, and every step sent a dull ache up my spine. The city looked different at this hour—brighter somehow, louder, more alive than I remembered it.
And there it was.
The club.
Huge. Flashy. Towering over the other buildings like it owned the entire block. Neon lights blinked aggressively across its walls, and thick bass-heavy music leaked from its doors like thunder through cracks in a dam. The name of the club burned in electric purple above the entrance like a brand, bold and proud.
People swarmed the area—groups laughing, smoking, showing off watches that probably cost more than everything I owned. Designer heels clicked on pavement, men with sharp haircuts strutted like they owned the sidewalk.
And I stood there like a stain that wouldn't come off.
My hoodie was stained and torn near the sleeve. My jeans were faded, barely holding together at the knees. My hair was wild, unwashed, clinging to my forehead with sweat.
I could feel it.
The stares.
The silent judgment from every corner. I didn't even need to look at them to know they were whispering. I didn't belong here. I wasn't one of them. I wasn't anything.
But I was used to it.
So I walked forward and joined the line of people waiting to get in, keeping my head low and hands in my pockets.
Even at 3:45 a.m., there was still a long queue. I watched as people ahead of me laughed, flirted, and tossed their IDs to the bouncer like regulars. Like this was their world.
My turn came faster than expected.
The bouncer was built like a mountain. Thick arms, wide chest, and a glare that could kill. He didn't say anything at first—just looked me up and down like I was a walking garbage bag someone dumped at the entrance.
Then he scoffed.
"You lost, or just trying your luck?" he asked, voice dripping with sarcasm.
I kept my gaze steady. "I'm here to see Sam."
The bouncer raised an eyebrow like I just told a bad joke.
"You?" he laughed. "Sam doesn't talk to guys who smell like the bottom of a trash can. Get out of the line before you embarrass yourself more."
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the crumpled business card Sam had given me. "He told me to come. Gave me this."
The bouncer snatched the card from my hand. Looked at it for a brief second. Then tore it clean down the middle and threw the pieces at my chest.
"Yeah, right," he muttered.
The torn pieces floated to the ground like dead leaves.
"Now beat it, beggar," he said, shoving my head with one hand, like I was nothing.
My heart started pounding—not with fear, but with something I hadn't felt in a while.
Rage.
Still, I tried. One last time.
"Just call him," I said, voice tight. "Tell him Y/N is here."
The bouncer stepped forward, eyes narrowing. "What did you say to me?"
He pulled back his fist.
I saw it coming. I could've moved. I could've just backed away.
But I didn't.
I stepped to the side with ease. His punch sliced through the air, missing me completely. I turned my head slowly and looked him dead in the eyes.
That did it.
The calmness. The fact that I didn't flinch. It made him snap.
He came at me again—this time with both arms.
Big mistake.
I blocked the first swing with my forearm, twisted under his arm, and landed a solid elbow to his ribs. He let out a grunt, staggering. I didn't wait—I followed up with a sharp jab to his jaw, then swept his legs out from under him.
He hit the pavement hard.
Gasps echoed from the crowd. A few people pulled out their phones, recording.
Some guy behind me muttered, "Whoa... who the hell is this guy?"
I stood there, chest rising and falling with steady breath. My hands were clenched. My body, tense. But I wasn't shaking. I wasn't scared.
I was in control.
"Damn," someone else whispered. "That guy just dropped the bouncer..."
Then the club door flew open.
"What the hell is going on out here?!"
A voice I recognized.
Sam.
He stepped out, wearing a blazer over a black tee, hair slicked back, cigarette in hand. His eyes swept over the scene—the bouncer groaning on the ground, the crowd whispering, and then finally, me.
His eyes lit up.
He smiled.
"Y/N," he said. "You sure know how to make an entrance."
I didn't say anything.
He looked down at the bouncer. "You seriously tried to stop him?" he asked with a laugh, kicking the guy lightly with the tip of his shoe. "You idiot, I told him to come."
The bouncer looked up, stunned and confused. "Wait—this guy?"
"Yeah," Sam said, flicking his cigarette aside. "This guy."
He walked up and slung an arm around my shoulders like we were old friends. The crowd kept staring. The bouncer was still coughing.
Sam leaned in, grinning. "Looks like you're gonna fit in better than I thought."
Sam gave me a sideways glance as we stepped over the unconscious bouncer and into the club.
"So," he said, voice casual but laced with curiosity, "you showing up like this—does that mean you've decided to work with me?"
I kept my eyes forward, taking in the flashing lights and pulsing energy of the place. "Not exactly. I'm just here to look around. See what kind of place this is. What kind of work you're offering."
Sam nodded like he respected that. "Fair enough," he said. "But let's not talk about business in front of a crowd. C'mon, we'll go somewhere more comfortable."
As we moved deeper into the club, I felt like I had walked into a different world.
The place was massive—two floors of high-end chaos. Chandeliers shimmered above, reflecting off mirrored walls. Neon lights bathed the dance floor in purples and reds. Smoke curled in the air, blending with the heavy bass of the music and the buzz of conversation. People were laughing, dancing, drinking like they had no problems in the world.
And then there was me.
I felt like a ghost drifting through a party I didn't belong to. Everyone else looked polished—dressed in expensive brands, dripping with money and confidence. I was the only one here in clothes that looked like they belonged in a donation bin.
Sam waved over one of the waiters—a young guy in a black dress shirt with a headset clipped to his ear.
"Take my guest to our VVIP lounge," Sam said, slapping the guy on the shoulder. "Get him anything he wants. Drinks, food—whatever. It's on the house."
The waiter nodded and gestured for me to follow.
"Whoa, wait." I paused, looking at Sam. "VVIP? That's too much, man. I don't need all that. Just a regular seat's fine. I'm not ordering anything either. I don't have money for this kind of place."
Sam just chuckled and shook his head.
"Relax," he said. "This isn't about money. Think of it as compensation for the garbage my bouncer just pulled on you. You didn't deserve that. So just enjoy it a bit. I'll join you in a few minutes—I've got something to settle first."
I didn't answer. Just nodded once, quietly, and followed the waiter.
The VVIP section was on the second floor, overlooking the dance floor like a throne room watching over its kingdom. The table was huge—clean glass, soft black leather couches, dim ambient lights, and a view that made the whole place look like a living painting.
I sat down slowly, not quite knowing what to do with myself. Everything was too... clean. Too expensive. Too not-me.
The waiter smiled politely. "Can I get you something to drink or eat?"
I shook my head. "I'm good. Just... hot water, please. No food."
He raised an eyebrow, clearly not expecting that answer. But he nodded.
"I'll be back shortly."
And then I was alone.
I leaned back into the leather seat, hands clasped between my knees, eyes drifting across the club below. People were living like tomorrow didn't exist. Like pain and hunger and debt were just words they'd heard in movies.
I wondered what that must feel like.
Still... I wasn't here to feel envy.
I was here to survive.
I glanced down at my hand.
Karina's number was still scrawled there in blue ink.
Everything in my life felt like it was spinning too fast lately. Too strange. Too unexpected. And yet, here I was—sitting in a luxury VVIP lounge, with an idol's phone number on my hand, and a crime-connected club owner downstairs preparing to offer me a job.
What the hell was my life turning into?
The waiter returned with a small ceramic cup, steam rising gently from the hot water inside. I mumbled a quiet thank you, wrapping both hands around it, letting the warmth seep into my fingers. The contrast of something so simple and comforting inside a place this luxurious felt almost absurd.
It had been a while, and Sam still hadn't shown up. I glanced around. Loud music still throbbed from below, and the crowd didn't look like it was thinning out at all. It must've been close to 4:30 a.m., but this place looked like it had no intention of slowing down.
To pass the time, I pulled out my old, cracked phone. My thumb hovered uncertainly above the contact saved just a few hours ago: JI-MIN.
I stared at the screen.
Should I really...?
I mean, she gave me her number. She wrote it herself on my hand. That meant something... right?
Still, she was Karina. A top idol. Famous. Glamorous. Untouchable. And me? I was just a nobody with scars on his body and barely enough to eat.
I hesitated, fingers twitching. Eventually, I typed:
Hi. This is Y/N.
I stared at the message for what felt like an hour. Was that too plain? Too weird? Too forward? Did it sound creepy? Should I add a smiley? No. That's weird. Would she even reply? Or would this all feel like a hallucination when I woke up?
I hovered over the "Send" button, doubting everything.
Then I sighed, shook my head slightly, and tapped Send.
The message was gone.
Instant regret.
My hand dropped to my lap and I slid the phone face-down on the table like it had caught fire. I didn't even want to see if she read it. My thoughts spun in circles.
Why did I even message her? What was I expecting?
"Man, seriously?"
I flinched at Sam's voice behind me.
"You're at the VVIP lounge and all you're sipping is hot water?" he said, laughing as he slid into the seat across from me. "I told you—order whatever you want."
I quickly tucked my phone away. "Didn't wanna be a burden. I'm not used to places like this."
Sam just shook his head and waved a waiter over without another word. "Get him something good. No—something great. Whiskey on the rocks, and throw in some snacks. He needs to loosen up."
I tried to protest, but Sam just raised a brow.
"I said on the house, didn't I?"
I gave a quiet sigh and didn't argue further. It wasn't like I had the strength.
Once the waiter left, Sam leaned back against the couch, arms spread casually across the backrest, completely at ease.
"Anyway," he started, "let's talk business."
I nodded, sitting straighter.
"The job's easy. For someone like you? It's nothing. All you gotta do is keep an eye on the place. If shit goes down—if people fight, get rowdy, sneak stuff in—you step in. You don't have to be all over the place like the other bouncers. You're not on rotation. You're the guy we call when they can't handle something."
My brows pulled together. "That's it?"
"That's it," Sam confirmed, grinning. "You've got MMA training, yeah? This is a perfect fit. Half the time you won't even need to do anything. Just sit around and look scary."
I squinted at him. "It sounds... too easy. Too quiet. There's gotta be a catch."
He chuckled, grabbing a handful of snacks from the table. "You think too much. Look, sometimes things get messy. We're a big club. Big names. Big egos. You might have to rough someone up once in a while. But that's why I'm offering this."
He slid a folded slip of paper across the table. I unfolded it.
My eyes widened.
The monthly pay written on it was more than anything I'd ever earned. Almost too generous.
"You're serious?" I asked.
"Dead serious," Sam said. "You start tomorrow night. Or don't—if you're not feeling it. I'm not forcing anything. But with skills like yours, you'd be dumb to turn it down. No offense."
I looked down at the paper again. My head spun. That amount... it could change things. I wouldn't be rich, but I wouldn't be desperate anymore. I could finally breathe.
Still, a weight pressed on my chest. Something about it didn't sit right—but I didn't have the luxury of being picky.
"...Fine," I finally said. "I'll give it a try. If it doesn't work out, I'll leave."
Sam's grin widened. "That's what I like to hear."
I hesitated, then cleared my throat. "Uh... I got one favor to ask."
Sam raised an eyebrow.
"Do you know anywhere I could crash tonight? I... I can't go back home. Things there are... dangerous."
Sam's expression darkened, but only for a second. Then he pulled out his phone.
"Don't worry. I'll have someone pick you up in ten. Got a studio apartment nearby. Decent place. Clean. Safe. Consider it temporary till you get your first paycheck."
"Thanks..." I mumbled, genuinely surprised.
"And don't worry about rent right now. Just focus on showing me you're useful. We'll talk about rent later."
"I'll pay by the end of the month," I promised. "I don't want charity."
Sam laughed, getting up from the couch. "Damn, I like your attitude. Alright. I've got some business to handle. You stay here. Someone will come get you soon."
He turned and walked away, blending back into the neon-drenched chaos of the club.
And I... I just sat there.
The bass from the club below still throbbed up through the floor. It wasn't music anymore—just a dull, persistent beat that mirrored the tired rhythm of my heart. I stared at the untouched whiskey glass on the table, the ice slowly melting into the amber liquid, creating tiny cracks like the ones forming silently inside me.
My fingers tapped nervously on my knee. I picked up the glass, held it to my lips—but didn't drink. The scent alone was expensive. I could tell. Probably the kind of drink people here bragged about on social media. But I wasn't like them.
I wasn't part of this world.
This room... this club... this seat under a glowing chandelier—it didn't feel like mine. I was just a ghost wandering into someone else's life. A body sitting at a table it didn't deserve.
How did I end up here?
This morning I was curled up on the cold floor of a room that wasn't even mine, bleeding and bruised. I was scared I'd get stabbed in my sleep, hated by the people I called "family."
And now I was sitting in a VVIP lounge, sipping overpriced drinks, offered a job that paid more than any honest work I'd ever done.
It felt like I was living in someone else's skin.
But the weirdest part? The part I couldn't make sense of?
Karina.
Her number was still in my phone. The message I sent still read "Delivered." Not read. No reply.
That was fine. I wasn't expecting one. Not really.
Still... I picked up the phone again, stared at the chat.
Hi. This is Y/N.
That was all I wrote.
Was it too little? Too cold?
I could rewrite it a thousand times in my head and it still wouldn't sound right. Because how do you text someone like her? Someone who shines like she was carved out of stardust? Someone who looked me in the eye and didn't look away with disgust?
A part of me thought maybe I imagined her kindness. Maybe I hallucinated the way she looked at me. The way she thanked me. The way she slipped her number into my hand like it actually meant something.
But the ink on my palm had been real. The warmth in her voice had been real too.
So why would someone like her...?
I shook my head. I couldn't make sense of it. I didn't want to overthink it.
People like me don't get to ask questions like that. We just... take what we're given and survive.
I leaned back into the velvet seat, exhaling slowly. I didn't realize how exhausted I was. My body felt heavy. My mind, even heavier.
For a second, I closed my eyes.
Not to sleep. Just to rest. Just to feel.
I could still feel the sting of my foster father's boot. The way the floorboards dug into my ribs. The sharp pressure of that knife against my cheek. And yet here I was now—sipping luxury, offered safety, handed opportunity.
It didn't make sense.
But I couldn't afford to reject it.
So when Sam's guy finally arrived—tall, lean, wearing black from head to toe—I stood up without a word and followed him silently through the back hallways of the club. We exited through a side door where the night air hit me like a wave.
Cool. Quiet. Still.
We got into a black SUV. No one spoke.
And as we drove through the empty streets of Seoul, my thoughts drifted again—to her. Karina. The way she looked that night. The way she smiled even when she seemed tired. The sound of her voice.
I didn't know if I'd ever see her again.
I didn't know if she'd ever reply.
But deep down... part of me hoped she would.
Because in a world that never cared whether I lived or died...
...she looked at me like I mattered.
And that alone was enough to keep me going—for one more night.
The car stopped in front of a tall, modern building nestled between two older shops near the edge of a quieter district in Seoul. It didn't scream wealth on the outside, but it had that unmistakable look—sleek architecture, soft golden lighting, and clean sidewalks where even the shadows seemed expensive.
I stepped out of the car, still unsure whether this was some kind of elaborate scam or dream.
The man Sam sent—tall, expressionless, and built like a silent bodyguard—motioned for me to follow him with just a nod. His voice was low and emotionless when he finally spoke.
"This way."
That was all he said, but the coldness in his tone was enough to make my skin crawl. Not that I wasn't used to that kind of energy.
We walked through a side entrance and into the elevator. The man pressed a button. Level 9.
I looked down at my shoes, still crusted with dirt from walking to Itaewon. My hoodie smelled like smoke and sweat. I felt like pollution in this sterile, beautiful place.
How the hell am I gonna pay for a place like this? I thought as the elevator dinged.
The hallway was quiet, carpeted, and smelled faintly of air freshener and luxury soap.
We stopped at a black door with a digital lock.
"Password is 0427," the man said, staring at the door, not me.
I blinked. "O...kay."
My fingers hovered over the keypad. I punched in the code.
Beep.
The lock clicked, and the door swung open with a soft hiss.
I stepped inside.
And froze.
It wasn't a huge apartment—probably a studio—but it was miles away from what I was used to. Wooden floors. Soft ceiling lights. A plush grey couch. A TV mounted on the wall that was almost as wide as my old bed. The kitchen was small but modern. Marble countertop. Glossy black cabinets. And the bathroom—
I could already see the glass shower from here.
I didn't move for a moment. I couldn't.
"...How much is rent?" I muttered under my breath, completely overwhelmed.
The guy behind me didn't answer. He simply walked in, reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, and pulled out a brand-new phone in a black box.
He handed it to me.
"This is yours. Important contacts are saved. Use it."
I stared at it like he'd just handed me a live grenade. "Wait, what? A... a phone? Why?"
He gave me a look that said Don't ask questions, then turned to leave.
Before stepping out, he finally added, "Be ready. One o'clock tomorrow."
I frowned. "One p.m.? I thought the job started at night?"
He didn't reply.
The door closed behind him.
And just like that, I was alone again.
I set the phone down on the coffee table and walked around the place in slow circles. My fingers grazed the smooth surfaces. I opened the fridge. It was stocked. Bottled water. Energy drinks. Even a few boxes of instant food.
There was a washer-dryer tucked behind a sliding door. Clean towels. A bed with fresh sheets. And when I entered the bathroom, I stopped in my tracks again.
It was like something out of a hotel brochure—glass shower, rainfall head, black marble sink, and white lights that made even my bruised face in the mirror look cleaner than it should.
I ran the water.
Hot.
I stood under it for longer than I should've. The warmth soaked into every bruise, every muscle, every piece of pain I'd carried all day.
For once, I didn't feel like garbage.
After drying off, I threw on one of the simple white T-shirts left in a drawer and lay on the bed.
Soft.
It actually felt like I was sinking into it.
I picked up the new phone. The screen lit up immediately.
No password.
I opened the chat app and found the number I'd saved earlier from my old phone—Karina's.
Her message thread was still there.
And so was the last thing I'd sent.
Hi. This is Y/N.
Still just Delivered.
Not Read.
No reply.
I stared at it for a while, unsure what I was even hoping for. A part of me had already convinced myself she wasn't going to answer. That I was just some delusional guy thinking a top idol would talk to someone like me.
Maybe she regretted giving me her number.
Maybe it was her way of saying thanks and nothing more.
Maybe I imagined her kindness altogether.
I sighed and placed the phone face-down on the nightstand.
No more expectations. I didn't have room for hope tonight. Not when I was still trying to convince myself this apartment wasn't going to vanish when I woke up.
I set an alarm for 12:00 p.m., then laid back, staring at the ceiling in the dark.
The silence felt unfamiliar. Too clean. Too safe.
But it wasn't bad.
It was... quiet.
And for once, no one was yelling. No one was kicking my door in. No one was threatening to kill me if I didn't bring home money.
Just silence.
Just me.
And somehow, that was enough.
Tomorrow, I'd start this new job—whatever it really was. And maybe, just maybe, I'd finally get a chance to survive without being someone else's punching bag.
I closed my eyes.