There's no smoke without fire, and there's no mirror without shards.

Jiho had a habit of reading the morning newspaper.

Everyday at 8 o'clock on the dot, he made himself comfortable on the balcony lounge chair and swallowed his pills. Next came several cups of tea, his usual blend of English Breakfast. Only after this did he allow himself to touch his neatly folded newspaper whose freshly printed pages he perused with all the scrutiny of a bird of prey.

He paid particular attention to the sensational front page passages. The flashier the headline, the better.

Today's news was his favourite kind. A gruesome murder not too far away from where he lived, eerily similar to one that had took place only a few days ago. No witnesses, no suspects, no concrete evidence left on site.

'You heard about this, Mino? What a mess.'

Jiho proceeded to elaborate the meagre details of the case and the absolute incompetence of the Manhattan police in dealing with violent homicide. His voice had a disparaging tone but his face was alight with ghoulish interest.

Minho listened to the account, not really interested. He took a sip of espresso and glanced at his watch. It was a quarter past eight, forty five minutes before he had to open the shop.

Minho owned a small clothing boutique on 32nd street, located between 5th and 6th Avenue in New York. The store had been founded by his father twenty years earlier and Minho had been extremely proud to take over the business seven years ago.

His shop was quite small, a small enterprise with a handful of people working under his direct supervision. The shop looked rather unassuming from the outside, a cosy little space with walls painted a pale blue. Mino usually stood by the till with a beautiful smile, greeting passers-by with a friendly nod and a wave. Some stopped to gaze at the delicate models displayed in the glass cabinets, only to turn away with a rueful sigh when they glimpsed the price tags.

His garments were expensive, but exquisitely made. His father had not sold such pricey goods in his time, but Minho had brought his own innovations when he'd taken over and adjusted the costs to his taste.

He prided over the quality and the make of his clothes, accepting only a few orders from customers who could afford his creations. Thanks to his eclectic taste and the originality of his designs, his shop had gained quite a reputation in elite circles. Nowadays, he received special requests from several socialites and celebrities.

Eight forty nine. Minho took one last sip of coffee before standing up, interrupting Jiho's news rant with a hurried goodbye. He didn't like anyone arriving late, a rule he applied to himself as well. He always made sure to arrive ten minutes early, just in time to see the shutters roll up.

His morning wasn't very enjoyable. He'd had to tell off a worker for flirting and getting handsy with a customer. A few strange gentlemen had dropped by to browse, entering out of curiosity and leaving as soon as they saw the price list. He'd also had to take measurements for a singer who had made an appointment the day before, but he'd been so caught up with some new sample orders that he'd forgotten to record his personal details on the sewing book. He made a note to call the boy's agency in the evening.

Minho bid goodbye to his last customer of the morning and walked out onto the street, crossing several blocks to the small restaurant he frequented during lunch hours. His steps were quick and brisk, he was going to see his lover after all.

Surprised? Don't be. In this hectic world of mirror shards and broken colour, everyone needs some comfort once in a while. Minho, so used to