There wasn’t much in town Assistant Inspector Kim Wonsik hadn’t seen. From being a fresh faced recruit on the force to his recent promotion, he’d seen the that man did to man on a regular basis. The small and petty things, the large and obscene. You got numb to it, or at least he did. Maybe if he spent a little time ruminating on the idea he’d have been saddened by the fact, but that would suggest he’d spent time at all on introspection.

The truth was, the inside was just as corrupt as the out. And year after year of seeing it poison and bloat its way through the ranks in the department just took the wind right out of a guy’s sails. Nobody cared what he did anymore, so long as he wasn’t trying to cause waves. No one wanted to see him at another disciplinary hearing, or so he’d been told. Keep quiet, serve his time, take home that paycheck, wash, rinse, repeat.

Only 23 and already jaded. Somewhere inside him there was an 18 year old crying, but he couldn’t really be bothered to care. It was hard not to be absolutely weary when everyone in the precinct knew he’d only gotten his promotion to keep him quiet. Squeaky wheel gets the grease, was how the saying went. A ‘friendly’ reminder that he should just shut up and focus on the small in the form of a nice pay increase, and leave all the ‘confusing’ details to his superiors.

Great, now he was part of the corruption too.

Was it any wonder he spent his nights with a glass of liquid fire in his hand and a vacant look on his face?

No one hassled him as he walked the cracked sidewalk down a less respectable street in his district. The street lamps, or the ones still in service, flickered and buzzed to keep him company. Anyone in a mile radius in that part of town could smell the cop on him and made their business elsewhere. And Wonsik, for his part, let them.

The shadows in the alleys seemed to grow longer the further into the grimy neighborhood he walked. He kept the collar of his jacket turned up and his hands shoved into the pockets, posture hunched as his breath puffed small vapors in the autumn air. His hair was growing too long, the soft black locks he had to shove back to stand at an odd angle just to keep it out of his eyes.  The stiff starch in his shirt and pants had long since faded away and if he wasn’t careful he looked a little rumpled at the worst of times. But again, no one really cared or even bothered to notice. Least of all his partner, who, of course, was going to handle everything for their latest case.

Nothing like feeling the metaphorical door shut right in your face.

Still, an early night meant he wouldn’t have any trouble getting a seat at the bar.

Those small victories, the silver lining so to speak.

The End of the Line was exactly what it sounded like, the last stop for those who had a mind to lose their cognitive thought processes. It was quickly becoming one of Wonsik’s favored haunts, which probably said something about his state of being.

For what it was, the establishment was downright fancy. Not keen on the flashing lights and loud clashing music that kept the young crowd around, instead it was exactly what it said it was. The end of the line, last stop for those who were looking for that last shot to oblivion. Most nights there was live entertainment, a singer with piano accompaniment and some crooning jazz tune. It wasn’t drawing in the crowds but Wonsik had to admit he’d come to crave listening to the singer a bit.

The neon sign was buzzing, and it seemed like the ‘n’ in ‘Line’ was beginning to dim. Wonsik took one more glance around the street, empty of everything, it seemed like he should have been able to hear the wind howl. Inside he could hear the gentle thrum of sound against the heavy double doors.

Melodious tinkling of piano keys accompanied by a rich smoky voice greeted him as he pulled the door open. The metaphysical tendril of sound slithered out to wrap around him and pull him inside. It wasn’t large inside, and it wasn’t much to write home about. Past the coat room, a glorified unmanned closet, was the long split level room that served as the lounge. Along the left wall, in the sunken part of the room, was a well worn wood bar, high backed leather seats dotted along the counter while a handsome wood shelf system sat behind it. Tables and chairs scattered around the lower portion, while the floor raised up to the stage. A slightly rounded outcropping with lights along the edge. A medium grand piano took up most of the space, where a lone microphone stand was manned by the singer.

The atmosphere inside the bar was lax, nearly laid back, but not exactly in a comfortable way. More like a given up hope kind of way. It seemed appropriate. People there weren’t in the mood to chat, huddled in around their drinks, lost to themselves or the music.

Not that Wonsik could exactly blame them, it’s what he’d planned to do after all. He ambled his way to the bar and set down at the end closest to the stage, a good two seats away from the nearest patron. If any of the regulars there had him for a cop no one had made a fuss about it. The usual bartender came over in no rush. He was tall despite his slouched posture, wide shoulders and blood auburn hair that’d grown just slightly too long, hanging down to almost cover one eye, the white sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows and a skinny black tie around his neck.

He wasn’t much for words, as Wonsik had discovered. Not like the bartenders at other clubs who’d stick around to have small talk or lend an ear. No, he was more like a sentry, long eyes roving the bar, quick to assist those who came to sit and then back to watching and waiting. Most people appreciated it, Wonsik included.

“Gin and tonic,” it’d been the same drink he’d ordered since stepping into the establishment, but the bartender didn’t make assumptions. Wonsik liked that. With only a nod, the man turned his back to him, reaching from memory for the bottles he’d need.

Years of experience had made Wonsik naturally analyze the people around him. The man two stools down was already past half drunk, and looked to be sleepy on top of it. The bartender was tense with the knowledge as well. Wonsik had yet to see a bouncer, so he had to wonder if the man took care of problem customers himself. But he also couldn’t remember a night that anything more than a raised voice had taken place. Something about the bartender seemed to silence others, and even as finely tuned a trouble antenna as Wonsik’s, he’d yet to be able to place the tall man. He was a mystery… Wonsik hated mysteries, especially ones he had no excuse to solve.

Around the tables were those who came for the drinks or for the entertainment. It was a fairly obvious divide. The ones there for the music couldn’t tear their eyes away from the stage, or the handsome young man on it. The only star of their stage, though he had no billing outside of the club, Lee Hongbin sang nearly nightly on the stage. Smooth, deep voice haunting the spaces, somewhat sad, somewhat lonely, just the right amount of need. He wore red. The slacks and jacket almost too bright over the black shirt, the top few buttons artfully undone exposing his collarbone. His hair always seemed slightly wet, dark locks hanging into his eyes.

Addicted? Maybe, maybe he came to the bar just to hear him sing, or look at him, god knew that he’d taken his fill every night. Watching those slightly smoky eyes sweep shut as his adam’s apple bobbed, small hands clutching the microphone stand as he sang about loss. Was it the emotion he felt a deeper connection to?

“Your drink,” the bartender’s light voice always took him off guard, soft, quiet, not at all what he’d have expected. The glass he placed on the bar was clean and clear, the ice making an almost cheerful clink that sounded out of place in the lounge.

“Thanks,” Wonsik dug in his pocket for his wallet, “start a tab?” His badge fell onto the bar, as he tugged his wallet free. Pulling his card from it’s well worn slot, he glanced up to see the serious bartender’s eyes glued to his slightly dulled shield.

“We’ve passed inspection,” again with the soft tone, but it wasn’t difficult to take the meaning under the words. He didn’t want trouble, and a cop usually meant just that. It also had Wonsik’s metaphorical hackles rising. Years on the street had taught him one thing, people quick to make excuses were usually hiding something. “We don’t have trouble here.”

“Not here for a sting,” Wonsik quickly stuffed the badge back into his jacket, annoyed that it’d been spotted at all. “Just a drink, and the tab, thanks.” Both of them eyed each other warily, suspicion obvious on either side as the man behind the bar sized him up anew. An uneasy stand still.

Long, spindly fingers took the card from him, the suspicious gaze tearing away from him to start the account. That was certainly new. Wonsik didn’t like it. It was going to be more than a pain in his if there was something shady going on there. He could already hear the upper brass dismissing his claims.

Annoyed once again, he let himself forget it, at least for the time. There were more important things to attend to, such as his drink and the sultry tone of the song playing. He could only hope that whatever it was the bartender was playing at, he’d be smart enough to keep it from being waved in front of Wonsik’s nose.

Worries melted away though, as did most else as he began his trek toward oblivion. The burn of alcohol suited his mood. Why not burn it all to the ground? Giving up was hard, but giving in was easy. And when the singer seemed to almost beckon him with his eyes to fall into the trap of his song, Wonsik gladly let himself. Tumbling deep, cocooned in the crooning of a lost lover, the no good scoundrel, who took a piece of him.

One drink, two, four, he was losing count. If the bartender was annoyed with him it sure didn’t stem the flow of liquor. In almost no time at all he could tell the set was ending, the mood had gone even more mellow than before. Almost closing time. Wonsik normally didn’t last until then, and it bothered him slightly that he had this night.

Eyes vacant, his brain told him that he needed to get up, but his body refused. The echo of sound seemed to bounce around his skull, a haunting melody. There was no point in staying, not really, with Hongbin off the stage and the shop in it’s twilight hour.

“Gin and tonic,” he heard a voice beside him, deep, not the bartender and he blinked sleepy eyes to see the singer propped up on the seat next to him, offering an almost sweet smile for the bartender. It was a departure from the soulful or sinful looks he gave on stage and Wonsik felt himself sink a little. Just stay a little longer, just until he finished his drink.

The singer waited, face propped up on his fist against the bar top. Wonsik continued to steal small glances guiltily, becoming more and more aware that the distance from bar to the stage didn’t do the man’s face justice. There was a certain perfection to it, one that almost felt false, everything too in place, too right.

A small clink as a glass so similar to his own was set against the polished wood, and Wonsik diverted his eyes elsewhere. Maybe if he’d been watching he’d have seen the other turn to him, offer a smile and raise his glass. “Not a bad set, was it? You’re here often, so you’d know right?”

Too much alcohol and no inhibitions. He wasn’t equipped to handle that face looking at him.