Chapter 3: Gangnam Style

When the sun hit Baekhyun full in the face, it was all he could do not to cry like the man he was. So sharp was the pain that barbed through his skull that his first thought wasn't Where am I? or  this hangover, but instead: Am I dying?

Perhaps he was having an aneurysm. Or maybe a lobotomy - it would be an improvement.

"Executive Byun?" 

It was Jongdae's voice, with its soft edges and fluid roll. Baekhyun bemoaned the plight that was his life when even such a melodic sound grated like sandpaper into the open wound of his brain.

"No." Baekhyun kept his eyes closed and his face glued firmly to the desk.

"Good morning to you, too," the junior executive chuckled. He stepped inside and closed the door. Striding quietly across the room to the windows with a folio under one arm, he lowered the blinds.

"Nngh." Baekhyun moaned, instead of thank you.

"Rough night, huh," Jongdae commented. "Can I get you something?"

"Coffee," Baekhyun muttered, and something that sounded like a new head.

"Coffee I can do," the younger man said. Had Baekhyun been sharper of mind, he would've confirmed his suspicions that Jongdae had lowered his voice out of respect for his unfortunate condition. Either way, no sound was better than any sound, and the same could be said for light. When the door clicked shut the slight reverberation of the glass wall made him wince. He ventured to lift his head and open an eyelid.

The spacious office was bright with day, but the shades prohibited direct light. Moving slowly, so as not to jostle his head too much, he fumbled for the bottom drawer on the right side of his desk, and pulled it open. His fingers brushed crisp fabric, and he pulled out a fresh, folded shirt.

Standing was the next frontier, and though Baekhyun was weary he was brave - a man has to do what a man has to do, or whatever his father always said. On unsteady legs he stood and turned his back to the door, leaning against the desk as he fumbled with his buttons. His eyelids were fighting a losing battle with gravity, and by the time he reached the last button, they'd nearly slipped closed again.

The cool office air against bare skin was refreshing, and for the first time since waking he felt like he could breathe. Shaking the folds out of the new shirt, he undid the buttons and pushed his arms gingerly through the sleeves. He closed the cuffs and then went to work on the front. Pushing buttons through crisply dry-cleaned buttonholes was a challenge, even with fingers nimble as his, especially when his head wasn't cooperating.

When he opened his eyes again, the first thing he noticed was the jacket he'd worn the night before. It was draped neatly over the back of his tall leather chair. With a small frown he reached for it and patted down the pockets, extracting his money clip from the inner silk pocket. He quickly flicked through the bills folded into it and checked for his credit card. Everything was intact. He shook the jacket down in search for his phone, and nearly panicked until he noticed it plugged in and charging alongside his laptop.

A strange sensation washed over him - an unsettling suspicion that he was trapped in some distant dystopia, where everything reset overnight to jarring normalcy no matter the extent of damage he incurred the day before. Or maybe it was just the nausea. He swallowed nervously against such thoughts and regretted it instantly - his throat felt dry as a desert and choked up with sand. He pressed a hand to the desk and the other over his eyes and took a long moment to simply breathe, in and out, and find his equilibrium.

He couldn't remember a thing from the night before.

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