Two men walk into a bar. There's supposed to be a joke here somewhere, but they haven't got a clue where to look for it, or how. And so, they just continue to watch from the distance as the bar singer carries on with singing a stripped back version of Champagne Supernova by Oasis that gives the song a jazzier, Blues-y spin. The first man—a man with the broad and muscular body type, stands unperturbed like the sturdy stone walls of an ancient castle, wearing a cozy beige-colored, form-fitting bomber jacket, with his downturned lips remaining pursed expressing quiet interest, and his hands kept hidden in the pockets of his straight-cut jeans. He turns to the younger man from behind him, beholding the same performance, and muses, "Why would you make Champagne Supernova, soul?"

"Sorry, what?" the second man of lean and long-limbed physique asks. Despite being the younger of the two, the age difference between them is hardly noticeable. But the thing that gives him away is his stylish brown mullet and the black leather jacket, black jeans and combat boots that he had carefully picked that morning. He takes the upkeep of his appearance just as seriously as he takes his job. He is less superior but he can argue that his asset lies in the fact that he has the orientation to details, extreme focus and other necessary skills that should not be an issue of who is doing things for longer, but a matter of whether or not a person operates with it and applies the technique efficiently. He had almost forgotten to answer his colleague's question as he keeps his eyes keenly on the bar singer. He had already memorized that face that he had first seen on the profile information before they both had even gotten there. He does not have the luxury for mistakes. With the same sharp gaze, he scans the entirety of the empty bar. Two other employees, a bouncer—tall with olive tan skin and a massive stature, and a bartender—who had a prominent and perfectly sculpted high-pointed nose, study the two newcomers from behind the bar counter on the other side of the room. He diverts his scrutiny back to the singer and fact-checks with himself for a second time: the same pale skin, small rounded face, small eyes, and a mouth that is permanently curved into an unamused smirk.

The young brunet's piercing eyes observe patiently as the song's melody fades into its final ending notes. In that moment, a third man walks into the bar, emerging from the backrooms hidden behind a red velvet curtain hanging by the doorway, atop of which indicates a sign that reads: EMPLOYEES ONLY. He quickly notices the man's swept-up black hair with a little grayness at the temples. Clad in a brown suit without a necktie, he appears dressed down for a more leisurely early morning stroll on a random Tuesday, but the seriousness in his slanted eyes could easily camouflage him in a board-certified business meeting in that same outfit. The young brunet deduces his age, around his mid-thirties, perhaps, as the man proceeds to walk towards them. At this point the realization dawns on him that they are still standing in front of the door entrance, and have been so for the past few minutes since they have arrived, gawking at the place like a couple of loons.

"Gentlemen?" the newly arrived man raises in question. "It's still too early and we haven't properly opened the bar yet. I'm the owner, Lawrence Jeon. Is there anything I can help you with?" he adds before extending his hand to the man in the bomber jacket to offer him a handshake, which the other obligingly accepts.

"Yes, actually," the man in the bomber jacket replies. "We're looking for Dr. Isaac Lee. He is a pharmacist for Lee Pharmaceuticals in the Central District."

"Oh, I'm sorry but we don't know anyone called Dr. Isaac Lee around here," the man in all-brown admits apologetically. 

"No, sir. I'm afraid you do," the man in the bomber jacket pries further, dismissing what the owner had just said.

The young brunet looks at the back of the older man's head, his eyes visibly squinting in attentiveness. If worse comes to worst, there is going to be a confrontation. Depending on how the bar owner reacts, things could get nasty real fast. He has known his colleague well enough to know that he can get quite impatient and petulant when a certain situation does not want to go according to his plans; or when they try to nudge him towards the direction he does not want to go down in. Regardless, the young brunet keeps to himself for the time being as his colleague and the bar owner go on with exchanging a few more words with each other.

"I'm terribly sorry, gentlemen. I don't have any idea who this Dr. Lee is that you're looking for," the bar owner smiles in a humorless way. Possibly because he's nervous, the young brunet thinks to himself, or maybe he too is starting to sense the tension rising up like a thick fog around them.

"Can we at least talk to him first?" the man in the bomber jacket puts forth.

"Who?" the owner asks, and the young brunet anticipates his colleague's answer alongside him.

"The singer. That's Dr. Isaac Lee," the man in the bomber jacket points out, his big round eyes displaying an unimpressed and mildly inconvenienced look.

"Are you kidding me?" the owner laughs sardonically. "That's Santi, my waiter. Also part-time performer but that's beside the point. Anyway, he's no doctor, that's for sure."

For the entirety of the conversation, the waiter-slash-performer is just sat back keeping up with the whole thing as it unfolds, bored to death and unimpressed by the topic. The other two employees at the bar counter have been panning back and forth from whoever is currently speaking in between their boss and the broad man.

"We have a warrant for his arrest," the man in the bomber jacket finally divulges.

The young brunet expects protests from the bar owner, and he can complain as much as he would like, but they both know that a warrant means something else completely. He follows as the bar owner turns to the singer, flashing him a bemused glance. "What the hell have you been getting yourself into, Santi? First, you get mistaken for some pharmacist from the main, and now you have a warrant of arrest too?" he scoffs. He is too upbeat about this for the two guests' liking, which leads them to believe that he isn't taking anything they say seriously.

The young brunet starts to get more uncomfortable by the second, as Lawrence Jeon continues to keep playing them for fools. He knows his older colleague does not take too kindly to disrespect. 

"Sir, allow me," the young brunet utters, carefully stepping forward to place himself in between the man in the bomber jacket and the bar owner. He smiles the same smile that the owner had on his face and returns the same sarcastic energy, humoring him. "We're not asking you to let us talk to him, Mr. Jeon. We're legally allowed to take him back to the station with us."

"No need to sweat it," the singer suddenly interrupts. Everyone had been so preoccupied with the guests and the owner's interaction that they had almost completely forgotten about the subject of their argument. "I'll come with you."

With his back half-turned towards the two guests, and his face looking forward to where the singer had been busying himself with putting away his guitar in its designated case, the bar owner's mouth slightly hangs open as if in the middle of a laugh that won't come out. When the singer finally finishes, he wears the strap of the case on his right shoulder and just stands in place while he waits, as if signaling that he's good to go.

"Okay," the owner finally relents. He turns away from the singer and back to face the two men in front of him. "If he's willing to cooperate, then I guess there's no point in trying to dispute that. Have a nice day, gentlemen," and with that, he offers a final handshake to both of the guests before he bristles past the man in the bomber jacket, and continues to walk outside the bar and onto the street. The young brunet follows him through his gaze. The bar owner doesn't look back at them and just disappears into the blindsid