Two weeks pass before he sees the woman again. Dedicated, he spent every night of those two weeks conveniently using the road where he had met her. He roamed the streets he detested as if he were familiarizing himself with an addiction of that which he had not yet heard. At first, it was a reminder - and then it was a practice - and then it was a habit, like walking and talking and flirting were his habits.

"It's you," he says, and he knows he's correct. She's wearing black, just like last time. "Do you not change?"

She grimly stares at him. Her eyes shift as if a hood had been pulled over them.

"And you?" She answers. "Do you always stay the same?"

She's the greatest riddle he's ever heard, and despite the extent to which she puzzles him, he wants her. "I'm a man of my word."

"I'm not interested in your word."

Straight. Blunt. A reply with which he never had to cope. A rejection with which he never learned to hear. "Can't you give me at least half of your time?"

"I'm afraid I don't know how much of that is. And it seems like you don't know, either." Her eyes glint; twitches. Was it a wink of the light, or did her face change? "How much longer do you plan on being naive?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that you know nothing about the kind of person you are. Before or after." Her lips wrinkle. She is biting them. "I have an appointment. Please move."

"All right." Himchan steps aside to let her pass. As she moves, he calls, "Visit me sometime. I own the cafe in the Creek district."

She smirks, but she nods, and that is all Himchan needs before he hurries home and plans for the next day. Tomorrow is Thursday, and if she wants change, he will give it to her. He will order coffee.

The stores always close too early for Sehun. Whenever he craves a particular snack, he has to ask someone like the Tender to buy it for him. He doesn't like asking him. He'd rather do it himself.

And he would, if he could, but he can't, so that's why he stays inside during the day when most people would be awake and waits for his doorbell to ring. At 4:26 pm, Sehun opens the door, accepts the drink from his acquaintance the Tender, and pays him cash.

"Don't worry about it," he says. "It's on me." He leaves, and Sehun closes the door.

Sehun suspects that the Tender pities him, but he is far too disconnected to ask. Forming friendships has never been his forte. Avoiding them, however, is.

He brings his Caramel Macchiato to the table and places it beside three pills. He tears the skin of the pills with his teeth, spills the contents into the drink, and pops the case into his mouth. He doesn't usually take his pills this way since it hurts more, but he needs the pain and the caffeine to keep him awake. So he drinks, and those sixty seconds come with triple the tightening inside his brain. Afterwards, he unwraps the clasp around his leather bound journal and reads.

'Life is'

'Dull'

He thought.

Of all the ways that he could

Describe a thing so exalted

So fleeting

Of all the words he could choose

He decided that life

Is dull.

He takes his pen and writes.

Perhaps it was only his own

That he was judging.

Perhaps if he lived as someone else

He could say

A different thing.

But he is not someone else

He so tediously reminded himself.

He is a man born through hate

A man decided by fate

To fall into darkness

To fall into the same hate

That bore

Him.

Sehun drifts to sleep. The pen rolls away from his fingers and stops against the base of the cup. The coffee, which has long settled cold, shivers at the impact. Outside, the night is warm. After a fruitless day at work, a young man returns to his lonely penthouse. Unlike Sehun, he is able to roam whenever he wishes; and unlike Sehun, he was able to finish his coffee.

Why didn't she come?

His offer was inviting.  He established that he was witty and accomplished. Aren't those aspects most girls would want to know in a handsome stranger? Those are details he would want to know. Is she not interested in learning more?

He still lighted a cigar, but he didn't order green tea like all the other Thursdays. She was supposed to come so he could mention it to her. He was going to pretend as if he hadn't heard her advice. He was going to see if she would notice.

But she didn't come.

The dreams changed. Gradually at first, and then instantly, like fireworks spitting at the sky until it lit on fire. Before, it was always about the same thing - he visualized success, which encouraged him to transform his goal into a reality. But when the time came for him to try the thing of which he had only heard, he lacked the self-discipline. He failed.

And just like that, all he ever saw at night was the constant replication of his failure. His mind remained in the place where his body had left. It was a memory that clung to him; a thought that he wished were distant, but quite recently, had become a nightmare.

Sleep used to be an escape. Now, whether awake or asleep, he is haunted by the person he yearns to become.

Always, the anxiety that accompanies the expectation of the future weighs more than the probability of a good or even bad result.

But what should he care? His future is boundless. It is the ascent to success that worries him.

Only in his dreams is that success repeated. During the hours of chosen rest, he sees it – that glimmer of hope, that possibility of an end, that recreation of a happy ending. To others, what he has now is the goal sought after by millions of people. But to him, the prize is the one they do not cherish. His trophy is their punishment.

Sehun wants to take this trophy and burn it to the ground.

Himchan retraces his steps to find her. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he is more invested in the woman than he planned. Still, he knows his tendencies. He keeps himself in check. He is aware of what commitment can do to a person.

He is curious, and his curiosity is hungry.

For two nights in a row he visits the club, but he does not see the same girl either inside or outside of the building. On the third night, he takes with him a pack of cigarettes and seats himself at a table distant from the busy scene. When girls try to approach him, he shoos them away with the smoke from his diminishing stick.

Himchan glances at the watch. He will wait for thirty more minutes.

“Are you going inside?” The Tender asks. Sehun stares at him from beneath the visor of his hat. The Tender passes him a drink. Sehun catches it.

“Not tonight.”

“It’s been so long.”

“Two years is not a long time.”

“When will you let yourself enjoy your life?”

“On the day it ends.”

“Your surroundings aren’t your prison,” the Tender murmurs as he wipes clean a glass cup. “It’s your mind.”

“I like it there, Tender.”

“You hate me, don’t you? For that day.”

Sehun lightly taps the drink. The liquid shimmers. “No. You did your job as a Binder. But you’re a tender, too. You’re a tender today.”

The Tender understands. “Tell me if you need another one.”

The pale, yellow wine distortedly reflects Sehun’s face. He closes his eyes. Opens them. His face is still wrongly construed.

A woman opens the door, and a repetitive thumping of rich bass briefly settles over the quiet room. People who came for a peaceful drink glare at her as she clumsily reaches the counter. She sits a stool away from Sehun. She orders a drink, and then she coyly smiles at him.

“I’m going inside.” Sehun leaves the drink and the thirsty girl and opens the door.

The music is so loud that it almost tips him over. He stands, listening, as every sound, from the heavy rhythm of the song to the whispers of women at a table across the room, travels over bobbing heads and raised hands until it reaches his ears. It’s too much, too soon. One by one, he selectively turns the noise off until all that remains is the music and the conversations of nearby people.

Twenty more minutes.

Himchan scans the floor. There is no woman in black. There are only lonely, sad girls and boys, wading in a pool of their loneliness, sticking to each other like glue in hopes that the nearness of the opposite will fuel them with an inflation of fulfillment. He is just like them, he supposes, except he isn’t dancing.

He sees a new guest enter. He is wearing a hat, so Himchan cannot see his features, yet despite not knowing his face, he feels strangely attached to him. He watches the man stand at the edge of the dance floor in total distaste of the scene before him, and then he walks straight through it. He disappears and appears within the crowd like light flickering off of running water. Himchan cannot force his eyes away.

And so someone helps him. His vision is blocked. A woman turns around, and he sees – it’s that woman. The one he wants to play.

Himchan stands and dives into the crowd, as well. She evades him skillfully, hiding here and reappearing elsewhere. He follows her until she leads him outside and into an alley. He looks down both ways. She isn’t there.

“Stop looking for me.” She closes the door. The music is muffled, as if someone had put a hand over the speakers. “You don’t even know what you want.”

“To find you.”

“You don’t know who I am.”

“I’d like to.”

“Not me,” she responds. Sarcasm her lips. “You do not want to know me.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I’ll ruin you.”

Himchan laughs. He has to. “I’ve already been ruined.”

“I can’t fix you.”

He doesn’t want to be fixed. He wants a good time. A night different from the other girls. Why is she being so difficult? “Do you know why I was looking for you?”

“Because you’re needy.”

“Because I want to.”

He knows he’s said the wrong thing, but apologizing would not change his words. Every time he has spoken with her, he has felt as if he were being backed into a corner. He fights back, expecting to win, yet he always makes the wrong move and loses. She repels his moves and makes him want to change his motives. Her attitude is like that man’s he saw in the club - irate with the world in which she is forced to occupy.

“Where did you get that?”

“Get what?”

“That mark,” she says. “On your neck.”

Himchan covers the scar with his hand. He had left his coat with its collar behind. “It was an accident.”

“What did you do? Spill coffee on your neck?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter. Because I know what that is.”

If it were possible, Himchan’s blood turns colder. “An accident.”

“An act committed by a creature who couldn’t control himself.”

A creature.

“And you are its consequence. You’re dirty blood.”

“I am not like them – “

“You aren’t,” she agrees. “That’s why you don’t belong anywhere. Not with your employees at your coffee shop. And not with me. So keep your disgusting mind away from me. You’re a stupid mistake.”

She leaves. Himchan holds on to the doorknob to keep himself from falling. He hadn’t realized it until now, but it wasn’t simply desire that urged him to chase after her. It was the part of him that was a mistake.