Blank like a canvas is the night sky. No stars, no lights, nothing. 

The lights in his house had turned off spontaneously, along with the lights of the entire city.

Seoul was black, pitch black, stark black. 

Silent. That was what it was not. Seoul wasn't silent, at all. 

Jiyong could bet that at the very street of his very own building, people were getting out to check if the black out was only in their house, chatting, some panicking, other gasping, other playing. Who cares? To Jiyong it was silent.
It may be the perk –or the flaw– of buying the entire building of his loft. Well, almost the entire building. But does it matter anyway? The old woman living on the floor below, spent her days in sorrow for her lost half, no cats, no dogs, no birds to keep her company. It was her and her sorrow. Jiyong knew just because the woman spent half an hour telling him, when he proposed to buy her apartment. She told him no, she held memories that belonged to a time he wasn't even born yet. She asked him to leave with a broom in her grasp and a threatening gaze in case he didn't. 
Jiyong just shrugged it off. The woman clearly didn't know who he was, and she clearly hadn't anyone to gossip with, and he really didn't care at that point.
Every threat of his possibly shaken privacy was gone the moment he signed the contracts to own each apartment, he would wait for the day she died to buy hers.

Was it cruel? He pondered, letting his gaze follow the nothingness. Was it cruel caring so little of the life of someone just for the sake of his own? Maybe. Probably. Most certainly it was.

Did he care of the cruelness of his own mind? No. Probably. Maybe a little. He did, now. 

Perhaps he was less cruel than three years before. Three years prior he could care less than nothing. Three years prior he was somebody, he was known, he was loved, he was looked up to –wrongly–, he was held on a throne. Three years prior he was an empty shell of everything.

Girls, cars, money, fame, work. One thing was missing, but Jiyong, or G-Dragon, was too busy swimming in praises and unconditional love to care. Passion was something that was bound to fall out once you sold yourself for the sake of it all. Girls, cars, money, fame, work.

He was sure that it was more painful to be nobody after being somebody, instead of always living as nothing. You can't miss the taste of something you never tried, and Jiyong missed his past. No, he longed for his past. No, he was like the old lady on the apartment below, sinking in sorrow and chasing people –friends– away from him. He didn't have a broom, but he still was alone.

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