The streets are narrow, dark and crowded with drunken revellers. The heavy thump of bass is constant in the background, mingling with bursts of music and light as Donghae passes by the entrance of one club or another. Neon signs flash, advertising drinks, music, women. A doorman calls to Donghae, a lewd offer to come and partake of what his club has to offer. Donghae keeps his head down and walks faster.

It’s not like he’s never been in this part of the city before.

He’s a single, healthy guy in his prime.

But he’s never hired women for his own gratification.

He’s never needed to either. He knows he’s easy on the eyes and he likes socializing. He likes to chat and mingle and dance, and he’s fun and generous in bed, too. He’s always been good at finding some company for the evening and then moving on the next day.

Or at least he used to.

The thought of an alcohol-heavy, strobe-lit, cigarette-smokey dance club turns his stomach tonight. All he can think of is Hyukjae; of the solidness of his shoulder when they’d sat next to each other at the concert, of the warmth of his hand as they’d walked to the station. Of his frightened, shocked face, and the way he’d stumbled back to escape Donghae like he’d been some sort of monster.

Donghae takes a panicky breath.

He needs to find someone who can explain what happened on the night of Siwon’s party. He needs to prove to Hyukjae that it’s all a huge misunderstanding. Kyuhyun’s accusations are still ringing in his ears and Donghae rubs at his temples in distress.

Had someone hurt Hyukjae?

The thought of anyone laying their hands on the gentle, elegant man he has slowly been getting to know makes Donghae feel physically sick.

He checks his phone for directions, makes a turn down another narrow alley, and there it is in front of him.

Club Six.

A discrete, dark entrance. A velvet rope blocking a heavy, closed door.

The bouncer looks him over; running practiced eyes over his tight black jeans, his leather jacket. Donghae doesn’t look like he’s wealthy, and the club is very exclusive. Exclusive and discrete. Donghae guesses it’d have to be, if Siwon or his friends felt comfortable hiring women from it for parties.

‘I’m looking for someone,’ Donghae says.

‘So’s half of Seoul,’ the bouncer says, making no move to let him enter.

‘I met her at my friend’s party,’ Donghae says. ‘Her name was Ara.’

‘No Ara here,’ the bouncer says. He looks bored.

‘Maybe her name was Acha,’ Donghae says. ‘Anyway, I need to talk to her.’

The bouncer steps aside to let a group of drunken young men in overly elaborate designer clothing pass through, a brief glimpse of soft lights and red carpet revealed before the heavy door closes again.

‘Are you going to let me in?’ Donghae asks.

‘Members only,’ the bouncer says. ‘Get out of here.’

‘Just ask her,’ Donghae says, a little more desperately. He only has a blurry recollection of the woman he’d been with on the night of Siwon’s party. She’d been a sort of clichéd pretty, just the type he usually went for; curves in the right places, nice hair, contagious smile, a bubbly laugh. He hopes- he hopes- he made more of an impact on her than she did on him.

‘Please,’ he says again. ‘Just ask her, we’re friends.’

The bouncer gives him a long look.

Then he turns and makes a brief phone call. He waits and Donghae does too, trying to contain his nervous energy, trying to look patient and cool even though he feels anything but that.

The heavy door opens and the bouncer speaks to someone inside.

‘Some guy here for Aya,’ he says. There’s a long pause then an older woman looks out. She looks Donghae over, unimpressed.

‘What’s your name?’

Donghae tells her.

‘No personal visits,’ she says to him. ‘Members only.’

‘I just want to ask her something,’ Donghae says, and he’s really, really trying to stay calm. To look like he might have some money to spend on pretty girls and alcohol.

Not like someone who had spent the very last coins in his wallet on a donut and a train fare.

Not like someone whose date had recoiled from him in terror and fled from the train to escape him.

The older woman disappears and Donghae retreats across the narrow alley and leans against the wall under the watchful eye of the bouncer.

After what seems like an age, the door opens again.

‘Aya knows him,’ the woman says flatly. ‘Let him in.’

Without any change in expression the bouncer moves aside and Donghae finds himself following the woman down a steep narrow flight of carpeted stairs. The music swells, the stairs widen out into a grand entrance and Donghae blinks, disorientated. The place is huge, bewilderingly so, a maze of plush velvet booths, chandeliers and champagne bottles. A waitress in a dress made entirely of glass beads glides gracefully around him, tray balanced in hand, dress and heels clacking in time with the music. The club has a moody, 1930s feeling, with a haze of expensive cigar smoke, live jazz music, women with bobbed hair and tiny, red-painted lips. It’s early yet, by club standards, and not crowded; a few young men lean at the bar, laughing over martinis, and some of the corner booths are occupied too, by businessmen and their companions for the evening. There’s a polished dance floor under swirling lights, empty until later in the evening, Donghae guesses.

Nobody so much as glances at him.

‘This way,’ the older woman says, and he follows her through the main part of the club and into a thickly carpeted corridor.

This is more what Donghae expected from a place offering the type of services he suspects this club does. It’s even darker, with small floor-level lights providing anonymity.

‘Wait in here,’ the woman says, opening one of the side rooms and ushering Donghae inside.

The door closes noiselessly behind her, leaving him alone.

Donghae swallows hard, looking around.

Everything is carpeted.

The walls, the floor.

It’s completely soundproof too.

Ostensibly it’s set up as a noraebang with a curved booth, a big screen, some flashy lights and a microphone. Donghae sits down uneasily on the edge of the glittery sofa.

For the first time he wonders what Ara (Aya?) thinks he has come here for. He also wishes he could remember how… intimate they were the last time they met. What her expectations of this encounter might be.

The door opens with the softest swish and Donghae stands, palms a bit sweaty, smile plastered on his face.

The young woman who enters is as generically beautiful as in his vague drunken memories. She’s obviously on a break, pink hoodie and slippers over sparkling fishnet stockings and a tiny dance costume. Her hair and makeup are perfect, but there’s a slight scent of cigarette smoke, poorly concealed by heavily applied perfume.

‘Hi,’ Donghae says.

And that’s all he gets to say, because Aya steps forward and slaps him in the face.

Hyukjae is sitting on his bed, hands in his lap, phone in his hands.

Donghae’s number is on the screen, ready for Hyukjae to message him.

Hyukjae doesn’t know what to say though. His thoughts are a bit jumbled. Before he’d panicked on the train, he’d asked Donghae ‘what is this’ – because why had Donghae taken him to the concert, why had he held his hand, why had he offered his jacket?

They’d been interrupted before Donghae could answer, but Hyukjae had seen the pinkness in his cheeks, his soft delighted smile when he’d held Hyukjae’s hand. It’s messing with Hyukjae’s head a bit because Donghae looks such a typical bad boy with his slick