PART I

word count: 15264

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Wonwoo lives simply in his attic on 36th street in Old Gray Hale, until he gets involved with an arrogant egoist from New Gray Hale by the name of Kim Mingyu.

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Wonwoo breathed in the dusty air, his dark eyes scanning the filthy streets through the grimy window in his attic. The mold growing upon the walls was certainly unhealthy, and fumes from paint were combining to create all sorts of sickening toxins within the expanse of the small room. There was no doubt that this was close to a destitute style of living, but Wonwoo felt he was living richly. His eyes slowly drifted away from the window as he saw policemen from the street barge into the building with loaded weapons, and rather than panicking, Wonwoo was inexorably unfazed. It was first knocking, and then crashing. Soon followed screams and pleas, yet Wonwoo sat there, his ears persistently ignoring the sounds. He picked up his canvas, dipping his paintbrush in a small amount of black paint and created figures on the canvas, regardless of the chaos happening just outside his door.

“Please! Don’t break it!” The old man cried. Crash. “No! You can’t do this to me, don’t arrest me!” Wonwoo continued to add details to the pine trees of his painting.

The crashing and banging died out into an ominous silence, the last of it heard on the street below as they took the man away. Wonwoo felt remorseful for those who desired music, like the old man next door who played the violin. With beauty that was heard, they were bound to be caught, while Wonwoo stayed locked up. Painting was a silent beauty, something he could maintain without being caught.

Wonwoo critically assessed his work, tilting his head to the side in order to observe his piece of art from different angles. He furrowed his brows, thinking deeply of which concepts were right within the painting, his charcoal hair falling in front of his eyes. A deep sigh brushed past his lips as he set the canvas on the floor, covering what little was left of his black and white paint. The painting was missing color - it was the only thing he could perceive from his work. He set his brushes in a cup of water as he recalled the last time he had his hands on a sort of colored paints. Black and white were all he could typically afford, a four-ounce container of acrylic black paint coming in at a hefty price of 40 dollars, acrylic white being a few dollars cheaper at 35. Oil paints tended to be double the price of acrylics, but Wonwoo was careless for the messy medium of oil, knowing it wasn’t his personal favorite in the first place. As for colors, no matter the medium, they came at a price of 60 dollars or more. When Wonwoo could barely pay enough money to keep the electricity and water in his house running and not to mention how he barely ever had food in his fridge, he most definitely could not afford paint. He gathered himself and moved to the hatch at the corner of the attic, pushing it down to reveal his rundown apartment. A small ladder attached to the latch allowed him to easily get down. Pushing the hatch back up, Wonwoo turns around to face his artless and tasteless apartment. He moves himself to the kitchen sink, washing the paint from his hands. A deep chuckle emerges from his throat as he realizes what nonsense it was that he had to erase the “evidence” from his hands. Paint on someone’s hands was the equivalent of blood on a murderer’s hands as his father always told him. This was a screwed up society.

A crystal chalice rimmed with gold pressed to the boy’s lips, the aged red wine within the cup emptying into his mouth as his eyes browsed the party laying right in front of him. He didn’t feel grateful for the expensive cup in his hand nor the fancy wine he was using lavishly. Hell, he was so buzzed that he forgot that this was his own million dollar penthouse, hosting a million dollar party. He never cared about the way money left his hands so hastily, because nevertheless, more money would be handed back to him the next day. He was Mingyu Kim, son of Chulhyeon Kim, one the richest men in the large city of Gray Hale. Kim Mingyu was set to take his father’s place as the CEO of Baldrick Hospital, and Mingyu saw it as being an heir to the throne. Baldrick hospital was highly famous, while also notorious depending on the person, for containing artists and musicians who were caught. There was work ahead for Mingyu, piles upon piles of paperwork for the business waiting for him after his father’s retirement, yet until then Mingyu would play. He spent his days either sleeping, almost always hung over, and if he was up to not being so lazy he would attend modeling photo shoots and shows as his job, but when night came he wasted himself away.

Nights consisted of excessively preposterous parties where he drank until his feelings faded, and the only food available were delicacies such as caviar. Women were clinging at his side, begging for attention or night in his bed, yet he gave them no satisfaction. A simple chuckle bubbles from his mouth, a smirk encasing his lips as he pressed his wine glass against his lips again. His hand caressing the woman’s cheek, his dark bronze eyes looking into hers with such false purpose. “Not tonight darling, not tonight.” His deep tenor voice rang like a soothing jazz tune. Any woman would obey to his words.

Setting his glass down, Mingyu removed himself from the scene to the balcony. There were few people on the balcony, all of them not paying attention or either too busy making out with their partner. Mingyu was just a little drunk, but it didn't stop him from admiring the appealing skyline of Gray Hale. It was a large city, populated with at least 15 million people. It was split into several districts, much of the districts containing towering buildings. The night was dusted with purple and blue lights on the building, giving it an aesthetic and pleasing feel to Mingyu’s eyes. Beyond several skyscrapers, it seemed the city dispersed into nothingness, but Mingyu knew there were things there. Well, people actually. Society is one hell of a , Mingyu deems to himself as he thinks of old town Gray Hale. Everyone ignored the clear poverty happening on that side of the city, and Mingyu laughs out loud realizing he was one of those people ignoring it. Maybe he was just getting emotional or soft from all the alcohol. Old Town was filthy, archaic and stuck in the past. The people were either thieves, beggars, or criminals. Crime rates were extremely high, and the thought of music and art hiding around every corner disgusted Mingyu. Mingyu scoffed, no wonder why the people of Old Town were so terribly off - they associated themselves with art.

“Only twenty more minutes, only twenty more minutes,” Wonwoo repeated under his breath, sliding the last tray of bread into the oven. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, leaning against the wall.

Mr. Smith, the owner of the bakery and Wonwoo’s boss, entered the room, from the front of the shop. “We sold all of our bread today, save three loafs for tomorrow morning and take a loaf with you home,” the old man speaks simply with a hint of tiredness. Mr. Smith was a small old man with a gray beard and bright blue eyes that told stories. He was not too kind nor too mean, he was living with no means but to only live. The man was the definition of balance, it seemed he had found his way around life’s obstacles throughout all his 67 years of life.

Wonwoo allowed a small appreciative smile spread on his lips, nodding his head. “Thank you very much, boss.” He removed himself from the wall and stood straight.

Mr. Smith nods back, no expression on his face as he removed his apron and placed it on the table. “I’ll be heading home, if you don’t mind could you close up the shop?” He looked exhausted, Wonwoo feeling rather sympathetic for the man.

“Of course,” Wonwoo takes the request immediately, beginning to clean up the mess from his previous batch of bread. Mr. Smith mouths thank you at Wonwoo, grabbing his aching back as he grabs his coat and belongings, heading out the back of the shop. “Get home safely mister!” Wonwoo says right before Mr. Smith exits, the man waving back at Wonwoo without facing him as he exits the building.

Wonwoo cleans the remains of the flour dusted across the surface of the wooden counter. The oven beeped after several minutes of Wonwoo strolling around the kitchen finding tasks to keep himself busy. Slipping oven mitts on he removes the bread from the oven, the luscious smell of cooked grains filling the air. He places the tray on the counter, covering three of the loaves and bagging one for himself. His footsteps echo against the walls as he walks to the front of the shop, the click of the lock on the door confirming the bakery was secure.

Returning to the back of the shop, he removes his apron setting it next to Mr. Smith’s, gathering his belongings along with his fresh bread. He exits the building not heading for his home, but down an alley proceeding to a different street. The night quickly fading in from the radiant dusk.

Francis street was perceived as threatening to the public eye - murals painted along the buildings, houses holding countless artists and musicians booming with creativity. It was a disgrace to those who believed art was evil, while for artists like Wonwoo himself, it was pure beautiful rebellion. The murals were often covered by government workers every other week or so, houses bombarded by police with warrants to search for any source of creativity within the premises.

As Wonwoo’s feet traced the path of the sidewalk, he admired every bit of the murals he could, as they would be gone soon. His eyes flicker to a playground on the other side of the road, broken and significantly memorable. He tears his eyesight away and continues walking.

“Hey Jeon Wonwoo!” A familiar voice ahead shouts, Wonwoo lifting his head from looking down at his shoes.

Wonwoo smiles at the bright face of his cousin. “Hey,” Wonwoo waves, patting his cousin on the back as they both turn entering the auto shop - his cousin’s and uncle’s home and workplace. “How have you been Jungkook? It’s been a couple of weeks.”

“Just been getting jobs in and out of the shop,” The boy nods a little bit, his lip protruding in a small pout - a strange yet common mannerism of the boy. Jungkook was only two years younger than Wonwoo and was more of a younger brother than a cousin.

Wonwoo and Jungkook make small talk with each other, making their way further into the shop where a red rusted convertible sat. “You got dinner for us, boy?” A deep voice rings from underneath the car in a teasing manner.

Wonwoo snickered at his uncle’s comment. “I actually have a loaf of bread to share.” He waves the bag with the bread in it, despite knowing his uncle couldn’t see due to him working on the car. His uncle was only 38 years old, Junyoung Jeon, younger brother to Wonwoo’s father.

Despite his black hair with a few selective gray streaks, he still held a youthful face. He had a sarcastic attitude, yet was selflessly motivated.

Junyoung pushed himself out from underneath the vehicle. "You two can head upstairs, I’ll wash up and be there for supper.”

The house was directly above the auto shop, a small kitchen combined with the living room, a single bathroom, and two small bedrooms - if you considered a bedroom as a small corner of the room blocked off by curtains.

“I made some pasta,” Jungkook sets the food on the dining table, “it will go perfectly with the bread.”

Wonwoo sets the bags of bread alongside the pot of spaghetti. Jungkook finishes off clearing the tables, Wonwoo settling into a dining chair. “So how have you been? Still busy with the job at the bakery?”

“Yeah. Prices went up again on paints, I have to keep up with it,” Wonwoo speaks casually only lowering his voice a little bit as he speaks of paint. They were raised in secrecy, or they knew they would be taken away.

By the time Jungkook had settled himself into a chair at a table, Junyoung had made his way upstairs. His hands were clean of car oil and gasoline, but his shirt still remained stained and dirty. He sat at the table, brushing his hand through his hair before, he served himself a small serving of pasta and a slice of Wonwoo's bread. Jungkook and Wonwoo followed Junyoung’s movements. The three ate in silence, and everything seemed quiet and peaceful until police sirens began blaring outside. Junyoung put his fork down, swallowing his food and moved towards the window. “It's the neighbors,” he spoke monotonously, returning back to his seat, and immediately returned to eating.

Wonwoo had noticed more and more people were being raided by the police lately, and the thought reminded him of his own family. As if Junyoung knew exactly what Wonwoo’s thoughts were, or perhaps he thought the same thing. “Tomorrow is Jaemin’s birthday,” Junyoung spoke quietly while still chewing his food. The way he spoke seemed like he was expecting an answer.

Wonwoo’s father, Jaemin Jeon, would have been turning 44 tomorrow. When Wonwoo was young he didn't realize how cruel the world was until his parents were taken away. He was only seven and he lost his family. He knew his parents always hid away in a walk in closet where he learned that they painted and drew masterpieces. The laws never quite made sense to Wonwoo at a young age, but all he knew is that his parents told him he couldn't speak of the paintings or drawings and Wonwoo obeyed. Wonwoo was on his way home from school on a cool November evening, when everything was taken away. He was merely admiring the color changing leaves, the dark sky setting a beautiful overcast over the city. He was oblivious to the world until his family's small home came into sight and he saw many men barging into his house with weapons. Frozen in place he watched everything happen from only a few houses down from his own. When he saw his parents screaming and lashing out like children as the police carried them out of the house, Wonwoo truly began to fear. He was ready to run forward and do all he could to stop what they were doing to his parents despite the impact a seven-year-old could do, but suddenly someone grabbed him by the arm pulling him away and into a house nearby. His vision was so blinded by tears, it took him a few minutes for him to recognize he was in a house only a few down from his. It was his first-grade teacher who had grabbed him by the arm and brought him into her own home, and at the time he didn't quite understand why she had done that. Wonwoo didn't ask any questions and simply screamed and cried. From the window, he saw his little brother Bohyuk taken away too.

Eventually, his teacher explained to him that his family wasn't coming back - and of course, Wonwoo didn't react to that well either. She eventually found the information of his uncle, getting into contact and bringing Wonwoo to him. From then on, Wonwoo was raised by his uncle along with his cousin Jungkook. While a lot of things didn't make sense at the time, they certainly made sense now.

His parents were obviously taken away to the hospitals for their association with art, presumed dead by now. Bohyuk, Wonwoo's little brother was only 5 years old so they wouldn't have taken him to a hospital. He and his uncle had both assumed he was adopted by a family in Gray Hale, with a changed name, a new identity. Wonwoo also had come to realize his teacher was also an artist - she sang and drew as well, and she was taken away as well only a few years after she saved Wonwoo. He thanked her silently for taking him into her home that day because he knew well enough that he would've been taken away too.

Despite his family being ripped away from him, Wonwoo didn't regret the childhood he had. His uncle Junyoung allowed his painting skills to bloom, as he admired the talent not being very artistic himself. Jungkook enjoyed the musical arts, a child prodigy when it came to singing and the guitar. Junyoung became a father to Wonwoo, as Jungkook became a brother. They were his family.

“Thinking much, kid?” Junyoung glanced towards Wonwoo’s still eyes.

“Hm,” Wonwoo swallows his food, shaking his head, “just reminiscing.”

Mingyu woke with a pounding migraine and an aching body. It was no surprise, this was certainly how any alcoholic would wake up. He pulled his sheets over his head, groaning loudly.

He heard the door to his room open, light footsteps following. “Mr. Kim, your father is on the phone.” Mingyu lifts the sheets up, eyes squinting from sensitivity to light. He motions his maid to bring the phone, and she does as she says handing him the phone.

“Yes?” Mingyu’s voice is guttural and irritated.

“I need you to come over today. It seems there is a possible job opportunity that you will take.” Mingyu scoffs at his father's demanding attitude.

Am I finally landing a job at the hospital? Dear god, I hope not. Mingyu groans, “what time?”

“By 11, I don't care if you're terribly hung over or still drunk.” His father harshly hangs the phone up.

Mingyu gently sets the phone down rubbing his temples, his eyes fluttering shut. “Tell my chauffeur to be ready by 10:30. Make me a drink or something to get over this hangover.” Mingyu commands his maid, and she does not hesitate to bow and be on her way.

When Mingyu arrives at the Kim family household he is greeted by a servant at the door. He doesn't greet them, moving forward into the large household floored by marble, and expensive gold touches along other architectural features. Proceeding toward his father's office he is shocked to see a woman sitting in the office across from his father. Her crystal blue eyes immediately catch sight of Mingyu, her lips settling into a pleased yet firm smile. “He is perfect, sir.” Her voice rings as she turns back Mingyu’s father, and Mingyu brings his footsteps to a halt before sitting down. What the ? Am I being sold for ion or something? Mingyu thinks abstractly of the strange woman.

“Take a seat.” Mingyu’s father directs Mingyu to sit across from them. He slowly sits, still confused at the absurd circumstance.

“I'm Ella Moreau, director, and manager of Gray Hale Movement project.” She reaches out to shake Mingyu's hand, and he shakes her hand anyways despite not knowing what the hell the project was.

His voice is slightly hushed with an awkward ring to it. “Mingyu Kim.”

“This woman is looking to make a movement against the poverty in Old Gray Hale through modeling. She contacted me with interest to make you as the head model, and I highly recommended you do so.” Mr. Kim explains. Mingyu wondered as to why she contacted his father rather than his agency yet chose to ignore it.

“I think you are perfect for this role, and I'm a fan of some of your other modeling work,” Ella adds.

Mingyu laughs at himself silently for worrying that this meeting might have been a proposal for him to work in his family's hospital or possible ion when in reality it was simply a modeling project. “Thank you.” He didn't really genuinely mean thank you - who needs to thank someone for complimenting on your attractiveness?

“The project with last approximately two months. You may be the only head model for a while up until we find a second model for the project.”

Mingyu nods, “will I be paid?”

She laughs. “Of course. You will be paid well.”

Mingyu smirks. He is in love with the thought of going into a huge project like this. More money, more fame.

The weather was rather hot and humid, and Mingyu most definitely would rather be spending a nice day like this by the pool rather than the repulsive setting of 36th Street in Old Town. Mingyu could barely keep his eyes open, and the urge to rub his eyes was driving him insane - but stupid makeup forced him to resist the urge. He had been to multiple locations in Old Town to take photos by now, and he was really getting exhausted of smelling factories and other putrid smells. The entire purpose of the photo shoot was to bring awareness to the poverty that consumed Old Town, and honestly, Mingyu wouldn't have taken this job if it weren't for the massive amounts of money he was getting paid. The city and government wanted to renovate Old Town from the bottom up but needed to promote poverty and the poor people bringing harm to themselves through art, so Mingyu could at least say he was working for a good cause. Mr. Kim had his ways of persuading Mingyu as well such as always holding the fact Mingyu never did volunteer work at the hospitals like his mother and sister. He lazily laid around the staff, waiting for more directions Ella Moreau suddenly strolled over to Mingyu’s side. She was tall, around 5’10”, with elegant ice blond hair that reached her waist - Mingyu often pondered why she chose a business position over a modeling position after he had met her the first time. Perhaps directing for a campaign like this was just as well paid, Mingyu thought. “Mr. Kim, I'm afraid to say the staff forgot lunch. We are going to have to stop by one of the local shops.” Mingyu shakes his head, exhaling at his manager’s news.

“Where will we go?” Mingyu's eyes hover against all the shops, their exteriors consisting of deteriorating red bricks or rotting wood. A single shop stood out against the others, its appearance still magnificently ugly, but it's yellow awning was certainly eye catching.“We’ll go to that one.” Mingyu points to the building, the wooden sign in the window reading Smith’s Bakery.

“Okay,” Ella nods her head. “Is there anything you want specifically?” She leans a bit to the side, her eyes concerning Mingyu’s wants and needs.

Mingyu simply digs into his pocket, retrieving his credit card. He holds the piece of plastic out, “Just buy it all. It's my treat for all the staff. Oh, wait-” he slides the credit card back into his pocket, pulling out a few hundred dollar bills instead. “They probably don't have the technology to take credit cards.” He places the money in Ella’s hand. Ella takes the cash, her head bowing in acknowledgment. “Make sure it's good food. I don't want trash food.” Mingyu speaks up, his makeup artists now hovering around him while touching up his flaws, or what little flaws he had.

Ella smiles lightly, “Of course.” Her heels turn on the rough pavement, starting towards the shop.

When she first enters the shop there are two customers, one at the front paying, another browsing through a pastry case. The customers drop to an eerie silence their eyes staring at Ella, a hint of fear yet also awe. Her heels click against the wooden floor as she walks to the front, her entire presence contrasting against the room. Ella’s eyes meet with the boy working the front of the bakery. His dark hair hung in his eyes in a strangely elegant manner, his facial features soft yet edgy, she couldn't help but be mesmerized by such beautiful deformity. His voice rang with deep vibrato, “how may I help you?”

The other customer had long since rushed out of the store, intimidated as to why someone from central Gray Hale was in a small bakery like this.

“We will buy everything you have.” Wonwoo gapes at the offer from the strange woman, unsure of how to respond immediately.

“Uhh, oh-okay,” Wonwoo nods feverishly, stumbling upon words.

The woman hands the money to him, Wonwoo immediately astonished. “Is 1000 enough?”

“Well-,” Wonwoo stops speaking for a second, his face flushed. “I think we only have 500 worth of goods.”

“Just take it all.” She smiles in a mesmerizing way that draws Wonwoo’s attention in. Wonwoo nods shyly, awkwardness rising as he notices her eyes look him up and down.

Her blue eyes linger against his gaunt cheeks where his cheekbones protruded magnificently, his perfectly defined face shape giving him an edgy look. “Would you perhaps be interested in modeling? You have the face for it.” Ella looks seriously now, her eyes taunting.

Wonwoo’s slim eyes widen at the offer, words unable to form in his mouth. The woman takes the initiative, pulling a business card from her purse and sliding it across the counter. “I'm Ella Moreau. Feel free to give me a call if you make a decision.”

Wonwoo's eyes observe her expensive clothes and elegant beauty. Anxiety pounded in his chest. He couldn't risk giving up art or being caught, so a simple answer slipped from his mouth, “I don't think I'm interested ma'am.”

She nods with a little disappointment, yet slides the card closer to Wonwoo. Her fingers tap against the surface of the card, her voice lowering to a seducing octave. “If you change your mind, please feel free to call.”

She gathers the bread and pastries on her own, and Wonwoo persists to help her but she shakes her head exiting the store within a matter of a few minutes, several bags in her hand. Wonwoo watches her exit silently before his eyes flicker down to the business card. A worried inhale of breath sounds behind Wonwoo, as he turns around to see Mr. Smith’s alerted presence. “Where did it all go?” He was obviously referring to the bread.

“They bought everything.” Wonwoo hands the old man the thousand dollar bill, the thought of the rich woman hanging in his head.

“What do you mean you said no?” Jungkook pushes himself out from under the car, sitting up and looking as if Wonwoo was psychotic. Wonwoo shrugs.

“I don't want to associate myself with them. Plus I'll have to stop-” Wonwoo lowers his voice, hushed with hesitance, “painting. I can't risk them getting into my personal life. It's a contract you're signing over to them.”

Jungkook nods his head, trying to imagine if he were in his cousin’s shoes. “So, you hide it. They aren't gonna ing search your place, and if they do, your studio is well hidden. You're gonna be making a ton of money Woo.” Jungkook sorts through his tool box, retrieving a tool and taking his place under the car again.

Wonwoo brushes his bangs out of his face, proceeding to scratch his head. Jungkook was certainly right - the amount of money he would make from this single job would be crazy.

“You could get yourself a nice house, buy all the supplies you need. Paint isn't something cheap.” Jungkook is barely audible from underneath the car. “You could at least try you know.”

“Maybe you're right,” Wonwoo nods, standing up. His eyes notice his uncle from the corner of his eye.

“Still don't know if you should take the job kiddo?” Wonwoo’s uncle sets a tool down, brushing a hand through his pepper hair. “Go for it. At least meet up and take a look at the contract.” Jungkook hums in approval of his father’s suggestion underneath the car.

Wonwoo's hand is deep within the pocket of his denim jeans, his fingers playing with the business card that was still in his pocket from work the other day. “I think I'll give them a call,” Wonwoo’s hand continues to lazily brush over the piece of paper.

Junyoung smiles, patting Wonwoo on his shoulder. “There you go, kid. Go get yourself some money.” Wonwoo nods, his lips curving upwards in the slightest manner.

Wonwoo stands up from his seat upon the stool, his hand pulling out both his cell phone along with the business card. He points to the door behind him, “I'm gonna step outside for a bit and make the call.” Wonwoo’s uncle grins mouthing good luck to his nephew before returning to his focus on the toolbox.

When Wonwoo first steps out the door of the shop, the warm breeze feels soothing as it brushes through the air. Looking down, Wonwoo squints at the business card reading the content. The card read: Ella Moreau, Manager/Coordinator, GHM Project, 008-875-9875. Wonwoo dialed the number on his phone, his chest seeming to rise and fall faster with anxiousness. The phone rang a total of three times before, a soft feminine voice sang through on the other line, “Ella Moreau, how may I help you?”

“He-Hello,” Wonwoo wanted to punch himself for already stumbling on his words, but he couldn't help but feel pressured by her formal introduction. He clears his throat. “This is Wonwoo Jeon from the bakery.”

She pauses. “Oh! Yes, Wonwoo. Have you changed your mind?”

“Yes, well, somewhat.” I sound like a ing idiot, Wonwoo thinks to himself, wishing he could have better speaking skills. “I'd like to have the opportunity to look at what the job requires.”

“Hmm let’s see... there is a staff party happening tomorrow night. A simple party at one of the model’s houses, and it's extremely important for social connections. How about you join us and then we can look over the contract after the party if you're still interested? It’s a great opportunity for you to meet people and find connections within the business.”

Wonwoo didn't know how to immediately respond to the mention of a party. He had only been to a few parties - most of them just being trashy parties in high school with some friends and stolen booze, probably nothing close to the parties of New Gray Hale. It takes a few seconds of hesitance before Wonwoo answers shortly in a quiet voice, “Sure.”

“Okay, I will have a chauffeur pick you up at 4 pm tomorrow. What’s your address?”

Wonwoo chokes on his breath - the thought of giving his address causing panic to pump through his veins. He knows they won’t search his house, but the thought of something going wrong can’t help but scream in his brain. The words are forced and rushed, “5060, 36th Street, Glen Hale Apartments.”

“Thank you, we will be looking forward to seeing you, Mr. Jeon.” Her voice sounds so smooth, it’s nearly too innocent. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

When Wonwoo hangs up, his hand is shaking. He takes a breath, allowing himself to relax and letting relief flow through his body. He wants to go home, he was tired. It was quick step inside the auto shop and a brief goodbye to his cousin and uncle.

He stepped back onto the streets of Gray Hale, his heart sinking. He knew why the thought of trying for this position hurt him so much, but he continued to repeatedly deny the fact.

Francis Avenue was a small street Wonwoo commonly walked along to his house when coming from his Uncle’s shop. He also denied why he was so attached to the street despite the fact it was the long route. His dark brown eyes burned against the side of the old playground beside the street, his feet coming to a halt. The swings creaked as they waved in the cool breeze, the playground left abandoned and untouched.

When Wonwoo was approximately 7 years old, he spent a large amount of time up and down Francis Avenue. His father would push him on the swings, the chains of the swing rusted as they were now. His mother would watch her husband and Wonwoo peacefully as she held her little boy’s hand at the bench. After playing and eating lunch they would always go to his uncle's auto shop, and Wonwoo clearly remembered playing with his cousin Jungkook in the small space at the back of the shop, and they often forgot to let Bohyuk join and play too. Wonwoo just wished he had appreciated Bohyuk a little more, perhaps his parents too. He missed them.

The sky had turned dark, and Wonwoo eventually reached his apartment, his mind washed of reminiscing momentarily. He climbed the steps to his attic warily, his feet dragging across the worn out oak floor boards. Gathering himself into a corner of the attic, Wonwoo grabs paint and begins to paint. He paints an image that forms into the image of the playground that was burned into his memory. He was sorry, and he said it out loud repeatedly. His stomach wretched with so much self-hatred. Wonwoo's parents were gone, and Bohyuk was too, and all he was doing was become a filthy worker for New Gray Hale.

The ride to the party was a visual experience for Wonwoo; watching Old Town fade into taller buildings as night fall was a sight he wished he could capture. When Wonwoo first stepped into the apartment all eyes followed his movements whether the person was clearly sober or clearly drunk. He felt the attention was crushing him, and he didn't know where to go. Eyes lingered dangerously as he took his step into the crowd, a waiter suddenly speaking causing him to jump a little bit. “Would you like wine, sir?”

Wonwoo shakes his head refusing a glass from the tray, offering a thank you as the man disappeared into the crowd.

He examined his surroundings in awe. The apartment was a pent house that was nearly twice the size of any house he had seen in Old Town. Windows surrounded the entirety of the exterior walls, giving the best view of the city. Outside there was a large patio, and infinity pool reaching out to the edge of the building that glowed a vivid turquoise color. The interior was encased by white walls and white floors, furniture simple and modernistic.

Mingyu was on the other side of the room leaning against the kitchen counters, and couldn't help but wonder why a random face he had never seen before was here. He certainly fit into the crowd with his appearance but unfamiliar faces in New Gray Hale would always manage to stand out. “His name is Wonwoo Jeon,” Ella leans over whispering into Mingyu's ear. He almost forgot the girl was next to him.

“And why is he here?” Ella hands Mingyu another glass of alcohol, noticing the tension in the boy's voice.

“He is gonna become a model,” she smirks, both of their eyes following Wonwoo’s shy movements. “I thought it was a smart move for the campaign. To symbolize reshaping filth into something beautiful, just as we’re doing to Old Town.”

Mingyu only nods his head as Ella speaks, his mind in a haze from alcohol while he was far too focused on watching the mysterious boy. He doesn't quite get what Ella is saying until it registered in his head a few seconds later. “Are you saying he is from Old Town?” Ella nods to Mingyu's question, a small hum buzzing between her lips. “Isn’t it odd he would be taking the job for the campaign then?”

“I haven’t had the chance to explain details to him - oh here he comes. Hello!” Ella abruptly says as Wonwoo approaches them. “You look good, I'm glad to see the staff took care of your appearance.”

Wonwoo was conflicted as to whether he should've taken that as a compliment or an insult but returns a small smile anyways. His brown eyes flicker to the tall man next to Ella. “Oh, this is Mingyu Kim. He is the main model of the campaign, and the owner of this apartment - you'll be working with him.”

Wonwoo bows his head, holding out his hand to shake Mingyu's hand. “Nice to meet you. I'm Wonwoo Jeon.”