Haejun hesitated. Screw the food money and everything else—he just wanted to give it all up and run like hell right now, with everything he had. His fingertips trembled, a fine, uncontrollable shake. Learned fear came crashing down on him.

“What the fuck are you doing not taking it off?”

His fingers fumbled at the helmet. He’d never been late on interest, he’d been paying steadily—there was no reason for them to pick a fight. He told himself there was nothing to be scared of, but his heart still thudded unevenly in his chest.

He wished they’d just let him go, but the way the bastard stared at him, eyes rolling white, made it obvious—he had no intention of letting Haejun leave until he did exactly what he was told.

Even so, he couldn’t take the helmet off. He didn’t want them to know who he was. When Haejun kept hesitating, Choi Manseok spat out a curse and yanked the helmet off by force.

His vision went bright, the breath that had been stuck in his chest finally bursting free. And yet it still felt like his throat was tightening. He lowered his head instinctively, only to have his hair grabbed and his head jerked back. After getting a good look at his face, Choi Manseok grinned, flashing yellow-stained teeth.

“Thought your voice sounded familiar. This fucker changed jobs, huh. Cha Haejun—what, you don’t suck dick anymore?”

“Hyung, who is he?”

“Him? One of our VVIP customers.”

“Cha Haejun, Cha Haejun... ah. The little bastard his dad sold off.”

The punk nodded exaggeratedly, smirking. Haejun cursed over and over inside his head. If he’d known this would happen, he should’ve just given up a few lousy bills and turned back.

No wonder the rain had been coming down like it had a fucking vendetta.

Choi Manseok narrowed his sparrow-slit eyes even further. A vile smile spread across his face as he slung an arm over Haejun’s shoulders and pulled him close.

“Come on in. It’s fate running into each other like this—have a drink before you go.”

“I’ve got deliveries to make. I’ll be on my way now.”

Haejun forced the words out and braced his legs. There was no way in hell he was sitting in that sealed-in space, trading drinks with these gangsters.

The excuse was reasonable. Still, out of nowhere—thwack—a burst of sparks exploded in front of his eyes. His cheek burned, hot and raw, and thick, warm fluid streamed down before he could even inhale.

“Hey, you fucking bastard. How many times have I told you not to make me repeat myself?”

He’d been hit near the ear; the ringing lingered. What he’d thought was just a runny nose was blood, dripping past his philtrum and splattering onto the floor.

There was no point resisting. Even # Nоvеlight # if he tried to run, he’d be caught before he made it out of the corridor, and one hit would turn into ten. The helplessness carved into his body pressed down on him.

Dragged by Choi Manseok’s grip, he was hauled inside the apartment. In a corner not visible from the entrance, a middle-aged man was kneeling naked on the floor. It looked like he’d been beaten—his lips and the area under his nose were smeared with blood, his eyelids swollen red, his torso and thighs mottled with bruises. He trembled violently, sobbing, tears and snot pouring down like rain.

“......”

For a split second, Haejun saw his own past layered over the scene. He deliberately turned his gaze away.

This had to be the man’s house, but the punks spread food across the table like it was their own place. They didn’t spare the homeowner a glance as they tore through the lavish spread.

Haejun sat next to Choi Manseok like a sack of barley someone had dumped there. The smell that had made his mouth water back at the restaurant was nauseating here. His stomach churned; he felt like he might puke any second.

“So. How’s the new sucker you latched onto?”

“......”

“What, did this fucker eat his ears? Didn’t get hit enough?”

Choi Manseok raised his hand high. When Haejun flinched on reflex, he lowered it, satisfied. He patted Haejun’s shoulder, smiling as if kindly, even shoving a piece of sweet-and-sour pork right up to his nose. It was obvious he’d get hit if he didn’t eat, so he forced it into his mouth.

“It’s just that you’ve been paying so nicely lately, sir. I was curious how you’re making money so well.”

“I’ve been working hard at deliveries......”

“Bullshit. You selling your ass, right?”

“......”

“Ass doesn’t pay that well. How hard you gotta work it to make that kind of cash?”

He told himself he couldn’t hear anything, couldn’t see anything. Haejun bowed his head, clenched his fists, counted numbers in his head. And in between those numbers, Lee Kangjoo kept intruding.

The day it snowed for the first time, sitting together on a park bench. Drinking alone with him. The miracle of waking up side by side in the same bed.

He missed him. Desperately.

He was enduring the bed of nails that felt like it would stab him bloody, clinging to those memories—when suddenly a hand shoved in between his legs.

Haejun jolted and snapped his thighs shut. Choi Manseok kneaded the soft flesh of his inner thigh, then leaned in close and blew warm breath against his ear as he whispered.

“Been a while since I saw our Cha Haejun’s crotch. Should we crack it open today?”

“......”

“Kidding, you fucker! What’d I even do to make you this scared? I said no blood—so don’t cry, yeah? Our customer’s been paying so well, why would I carve you up again, huh?”

Haejun just stared down at the floor. The hand resting on his thigh trembled faintly.

“Still, the cutting felt fucking amazing. Never had a piece as tasty as you.”

It felt like hundreds of centipedes were crawling all over him at once. The unbearable disgust made Haejun’s hair stand on end. Bile rose in his throat. He barely managed to keep from vomiting all over Choi Manseok’s face.

“Cha Haejun. How about you miss just once? Or sell your ass to me too. I’ll fuck you real good.”

“Does this fucker sell his ass too?”

“Hey, look at him. You think anyone’d buy cock from this body? Only blind assholes would.”

Choi Manseok cackled at Haejun, stiff as a board. The other punks, watching the spectacle, chimed in with their own obscene jokes, snickering along. Only Haejun and the middle-aged man were outsiders to this feast—the chickens being picked clean.

When Haejun said nothing, Choi Manseok smacked his lips. He gave Haejun’s shoulder a couple of rough pats, then poured kaoliang liquor into an empty glass and shoved it toward him.

“I have to drive, so I can’t—”

He didn’t even finish before getting hit on the head again. The nosebleed that had stopped started flowing anew. When he wiped it with the back of his hand, a red line streaked from beneath his nose to his cheek.

“Drink.”

He took the glass, but couldn’t bring himself to drink it. It was just one shot—he could down it quick, wait until it wore off, then leave. He didn’t know if he was just stupid, or if some part of him still wanted to cling to pride even in a situation like this.

“Hey. Hold him.”

Choi Manseok had no patience left. The brutes on either side locked down Haejun’s arms. The loan shark grabbed his hair and wrenched his head back, tipping the kaoliang bottle. Clear, vicious liquor gushed all over Haejun’s bare face. He shook his head and opened his mouth uselessly, and the room erupted—whistles, fists slamming the table, raucous noise.

Every spot the liquor touched burned and stung. His nose felt like someone had poured chili water into it; tears and snot streamed down his face. Liquor poured into his open mouth as he gasped for air, slipping down his throat and triggering violent coughing. It pooled at the back of his tongue, and every time he gagged, a wet gurgling sound came out.

Choi Manseok drained the bottle down to the last drop. He slammed the empty bottle onto the table, then slapped Haejun’s soaked cheeks over and over.

“I gave you good, expensive booze out of old affection, you fucking bitch—and you can’t even drink it.”

The gangsters laughed along with the wheezing sound. It was a place where nothing but mockery and humiliation reigned.

After hacking up the last of his coughs, Haejun sat there like a stone. Choi Manseok finally seemed to lose interest. He flicked his hand at Haejun like he was shooing a fly.

“Get lost, fucker. We’ll enjoy the food.”

He had no courage or strength left to demand his pay. This was probably his only chance to get out, so Haejun staggered to his feet and left the room. Behind him, he heard the middle-aged man’s toothless plea to be spared, but he didn’t turn around.

He reached the spot where he’d parked his bike, helmet in hand. The rain was even more vicious now. He climbed onto the bike without putting the helmet on, without pulling on a raincoat.

Even though he wanted to get away as fast as possible, his body felt heavy, like cotton soaked through with water. The liquor Choi Manseok had poured on him seemed to have seeped into his veins after all. The raindrops pounding into him hurt—each one heavy and exhausting.

“......”

Haejun bowed his head and stayed like that for a while. The scar deep between his legs throbbed dully.

That was why he hated rainy days. It was all the fucking rain’s fault.

* * *

Sometimes in life, you step on a caterpillar. Running into Choi Manseok wasn’t something he could just curl up and rot over.

Instead of sulking in a corner, steeped in gloom, it was better to go out and make money doing deliveries. Interest wouldn’t wait for Haejun. It was swelling by the second, lying in wait for the moment it could crush him to death.

He met Yohan during a short break after lunch. He must have been working hard lately—dark shadows lay under his eyes. When Haejun gave him honey water, he sipped it like an exhausted bee, then slumped forward onto the table.

“Cha Haejun, I’m fucking dying.”

“People don’t die that easy.”

“Why is living this hard?”

Haejun drained his own drink and looked at him. It was strange, hearing this from the realist who always said whining was pointless and you should just go work instead.

“Something happen?”

“No. Just tired.”

“How many rounds did you run yesterday?”

Yohan held up two fingers. Even after opening four tables in a row, Yohan usually bounced right back up the next day to do deliveries—seemed like even his stamina was wearing down.

“Drink a lot?”

“Dumped about half. Barely drank any booze, but... the customer on the second round was into jiu-jitsu.”

He said it was chaos—getting flipped and twisted all over—and leaned back, rubbing his neck. On the exposed nape, faint red nail marks were visible. He didn’t need to say it’d been rough. Haejun had had customers like that too, so he didn’t press.

“Park Yohan. Ever squeeze anything out of a sucker? A watch, cash, a car.”

He asked instead about the kind of “practical gains” Yohan was always harping on.