Despite the obvious appeal, he'd never really enjoyed alcohol; he'd never savoured the archaic taste, nor relished in the stale scent, but right now it seemed that he simply ​had to drink it. It was befitting of his image, the ripped jeans exposing his grazed kneecaps, hood lowered over his eyes to protect his identity, tattered leather jacket sporting a few unsightly rips.

He dumped the six-pack of beers on the store counter, keeping his gaze down, refusing to meet the eyes of the stout shopkeeper. The shopkeeper would be analysing him, hewing out the faintest trace of recognition – a name on the tip of their tongue they couldn’t quite speak – and if he were to so much as tilt his head, the name would become clear to them, as clear as the label on the gaudily branded alcohol he was trying to buy.

"Identity?” droned the masculine keeper, blinking heavily.

Taemin froze.

He hadn’t thought this through – he was twenty-three, yet looked young for his age, but if he were to show his driver's license then the shopkeeper would instantly know him, and rumours would be circulating the web within minutes. L​ee Taemin, finally found, a lonely, depressed, homeless alcoholic. Truthfully, his lips were s to alcohol and he wasn’t technically homeless, he just refused to live at home, but the internet wouldn’t believe that. They had no reason to but his own pathetic excuses.

"Forget it,” Taemin muttered deeply, before brushing past the late-night customer behind him, earning an angered glare. Taemin seemed to have a penchant for earning glares these days.

The street outside was cold, the nip of the breeze somewhat acrimonious as it clawed at his vapid skin. A car trundled by almost silently, tail-lights creating a muted blur as he wistfully glanced after it. Behind him, the low buzz of the convenience store mingled with the artificial lighting, the haze illuminating the litter-strewn pavements in the pitch of the night.

Taemin jammed his hands into his pockets and walked.

His condensing breath formed a disappearing trail, as he quietly hummed a song that was fading quicker from his thoughts than his exhalations were in the prickling night. Neomu areumdaun-daun-daun-daun view. The dance was fresh in his mind however, and he found himself tapping the rhythm against the insides of his empty pockets, despite the vigorous flaring of his nostrils at the alleyway’s putrid scent. It'd been almost two months since he’d danced last. Anything he'd done since then he didn’t consider dancing, he considered it an emotional outlet, a method of unleashing whatever ‘demons’ he had trapped within him, however clumsy and idiotic that description was.

Arriving at his hotel room was a familiar routine of events. He tru