Just past 2am.

The bar was filled with soft talking. Murmurs among strangers, a whisper among lovers, maybe even the sound of among friends. There were the soft clinks of ice cubes against crystal glasses. The scrape of chairs against polished wood floors. Soft music playing from the speakers that hung around the corners of the darkness.

Kim JongIn was sitting at the end of the bar. The second to the last seat, if it really must matter. But of course, it doesn't. Not to him anyway. His head buried in his arms. His hair was messy, soft brown curls spiraling in every which way. Dressed in a crisp black suit and expensive leather shoes, he could have been mistaken as a rich kid that had too much too drink on a night out in the wilder side of town. Again, not that it mattered to him anyway.

There was no one sitting at the bar, but rather in the little booths that lined the room. No one that had called him in the past hour. No one that had messaged him. Perhaps they were too afraid. Too afraid that he would snap at them, push them away, scream that he didn't want their worthless condolences and useless pity.

“You done?”

It took a while for JongIn to realize that someone was talking to him. He raised his head off his arms. His eyes were red and swollen, dark circles beginning to form under them. Not that it mattered anyway. Nothing mattered.

“You done?” the voice asks again.

The bartender, who JongIn recalls goes by the name of Baekhyun, nods at a crystal glass that JongIn still has his hand wrapped around. The beverage is long gone, and the glass was now no more than a strong, bitter smell and melted ice cubes.

JongIn says nothing for a few moments, and Baekhyun blinks awkwardly in the silence.

“No,” JongIn finally says.
“Should...I get you a refill?” Baekhyun asks slowly. He hesitates. He knows this is would be the eighth drink JongIn has had in an hour, but he doesn't say so. Instead, he shifts where he stands, and glances uncertainly at JongIn.

JongIn sits up, squeezes his temples with his fingers, and sighs.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, sure, another.”

Four words. He doesn't say he's run out of money after the third drink. Doesn't say he feels nauseous. Doesn't say he's trying to drown himself in numbness to make all the pain go away.

Baekhyun nods curtly then head to the other end of the bar to mix up another drink.

JongIn stares blankly at the wall, his vision becoming focused then unfocused, then focused again. The sounds around him begin to fade into nothingness. Just murmurs in the distance at first, like a delicate thought that was held in his mind. He barely has a grasp on it it, and he worries, no, fears, that anything sudden might just make it slip away.

Then, nothing.
The sounds were nothing.

They were nothing, but not gone.
He could feel the noise bouncing around him. Each scrape of a chair, each plop of ice cubes, each whisper shook him, making his head burn with an unimaginable pain. His teacher in high school had once said that sound traveled in waves. That old man was right. Huh.

“Tell me the story.”

A voice beside JongIn jolted him out of the silence, making his senses scramble awake. The end seat of the bar was filled. A stranger sat there, dressed in elegant, obviously expensive clothing. Cashmere suit. Gold watch. Designer ring. Customized shoes. A long, lit cigarette held carefully between his fingers. A bit of ash fell onto the table's surface.

“What?”
“Tell me the story,” repeats the stranger. He turns out of the darkness and faces JongIn.
With light now on the stranger's face, JongIn could see his features quite clearly. Clear, bright, yet mischievous eyes of warm, dark brown. Innocent ones. Yet, maybe not so innocent at the same time.

Hair professionally styled upwards. An unusual color, JongIn notes. Burgundy. Strange. Smooth, flawless skin. Not a single blemish anywhere.

Perhaps like those idols splattered on magazines.

Perhaps like those skinny models on TV.

Perhaps like an angel.

Angels are perfect, right?

In fact, if JongIn could describe this stranger in one word, it would be perfect.

Nope, he decided. Nothing's perfect.
The stranger sighs, leaning back in his chair. He stares off into space somewhere. Somewhere where JongIn couldn't see.

“Tell me the story about the sun who loved the moon so much, he died every night to let her breathe.”

JongIn blinks, his eyes furrowing together slightly in confusion.

The stranger glances at JongIn, and suddenly laughs. A laugh that filled the room. JongIn was taken aback by the stranger, and he frowned slightly, obviously surprised by the stranger's actions.

“Don't mind me,” the stranger grins, setting down his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray and taking up a crystal glass.

A glass of something strong, JongIn observes, by the smell of it.

“I'm not usually into such creative, poetic crap,” the stranger smirks, his youthful eyes gleaming in the semi-darkness. “It's a story I heard when I was young. Hm. I never did get to hear the ending.”

JongIn doesn't know what to say, so he reaches for his own glass and takes a sip. As he set it down, he doesn't recall the bartender coming over to refill it. He looks down the bar. Baekhyun is cleaning some empty shot glasses with a white towel.

“You were zoned out for quite a while, my friend,” the stranger takes up his cigarette again, inhaling slowly then breathing out a wisp of smoke. “The ice is almost melted.”

He nods at the ice cubes, which are, indeed, half melted.

“Bad day?” the stranger asks. “Bourbon's good at really drowning everything out, huh?”

It takes a few moments, for the stranger's words to be strung together in JongIn's mind. He wants to be left alone. To mourn by himself. To be the only one around.

He felt his chest tighten, and something painful rises in his throat. He wasn't quite sure why he suddenly felt like screaming into the quiet. A maddening, demanding urge made him want to run away into the darkness of the damp Seoul night. Or cry endlessly with a heartache too horrible to bear. Or yet, leap from the rooftops in an attempt to end his own suffering with a quick and broken snap.

Instead, he finds himself motionless in his chair, his fists clenched tightly, as he replied quietly.
“Funeral.”

The stranger's expression softens a little a he bits the side of his lip in some form of sympathy.

“I'm sor--” the stranger begins, but he stops himself.

JongIn turns away quickly and takes another sip of his bourbon. The burning taste stings his tongue and the back of his throat, but he swallows, feeling the heavy sensation in his chest come off slightly.

Just slightly.

“You're not the kind of person who likes apologies,” the stranger says. “Am I right?”

JongIn says nothing.

There's the soft clink as he set s the glass down.

“Can I ask...what happened?” asks the stranger.

JongIn thinks the stranger is being too nosy. Getting far too personal. Getting too close. But yet, he's overcome with the sudden urge to tell everything. To pour his everything out. Like this person is someone he can trust. Perhaps like a brother. Perhaps like a friend.

Perhaps.

The internal debate struggles inside of him for a few moments, settling which facts he can and can't let go of. Eventually, he takes a deep breath.

“A mistake,” he says quietly. “I made a mistake.”

The stranger doesn't say anything, and at once, JongIn regrets opening his mouth. And angry, guilty feeling drowns him to the point where he feels like he can't breathe. The stranger remains silent, breathing in the end of his cigarette.

There's the sound of his exhale.

“You sound guilty,” the stranger says. “Who was it? A friend of yours?”

He breathes out a cloud of smoke.
“Brother? Sister?”

JongIn says nothing.

“Lover?”

JongIn's finger twitches involuntarily.

“What was their name?”
JongIn wants to get up and run, feeling helpless and embarrassed that he's letting the stranger go so far. But he can't get himself to. Instead, he clenches his teeth. So hard his head aches and his jaw feels like it's going to explode .

The stranger waits patiently for the answer, but it doesn't come. Jazz plays quietly in the background. Old men swap stories. College girls giggle about the two very two, rich, good looking boys talking at the bar.

“Oh,” the stranger replies, taking JongIn's silence as the answer. Again, there's a long silence between them. The stranger drops his gaze for a moment to rummage through his wallet. He takes out a few bill and flops them onto the counter.
“I'd better get going,” the stranger finally says.. He takes a last sip of his drink as he gets to his feet. “The drinks on me.”

The stranger's lips quirk into something between a smile and a smirk.

“I'll see you around, JongIn,” he says, then disappears out the door with the scent of cigarette ashes and overpriced cologne.

JongIn's just nods, and takes another sip of his drink. His head is spinning as he stares across the bar at the different bottles lined up up different sizes. He's reading a tall, clear bottle that reads “orange liquor” when he registers the latter of the stranger's words.

He finds himself running after the stranger, out the door and into the darkness of the city. Although midnight had passed hours ago, there are still people walking down the streets. He runs past his own, sleek black BMW, parked just in front of the bar's entrance. It gleams under the city's light. His heart is pounding. He catches a glimpse of the stranger, standing tall and lean, waiting at a corner for the crosswalk to turn green. His heart is pounding.

“W-wait!” he calls out.

The stranger turns slowly, and suddenly, he looks older than he is. No longer the innocent boy JongIn had spoken to just a moment ago, but maybe someone older and wiser. Someone that knows too much.

JongIn has to run to catch up with the stranger.

“How....how did you know my name?” he breathes.

The stranger doesn't speak. The two of them are silent figures that stand by a crossroad of a city that is anything other than silent.

“Do I...” JongIn frowns and shakes his head. “...know you from somewhere?”

The stranger smirks. “It's been a while.”

But the way he says so hints at something more.

“Who are you?”

The question is more like a plea than an interrogation. JongIn can't explain his desire to know more, the feeling of connection he had between himself and this person who he's sure he has never seen before in his life. JongIn expects the answer to be an old high school classmate.

A family friend.

A distant cousin.

A grieving acquaintance.

However, the answer to his question, is completely the unexpected.

“I am the Devil,” the stranger says.