Chanyeol was a dancer, a stripper, a e, a hired companion. His job was to make people happy and earn money doing it. He is who his clients want him to be. 

 

As a hired companion, Chanyeol never worked one job for more than four weeks; anything longer meant that the person was becoming attached, and unless they showed signs of detachment, that was when the young male collected his money and left. It was always a shock to the client, a big slap to the face that knocked them back into reality. But Chanyeol never cared, couldn't care, didn't know how to care; he took his money and walked out, leaving everything from that job behind. 

 

Not that there was ever anything to leave. Everything was fake. 

 

Chanyeol might have looked happy, but everything on the inside couldn't have been more void of.... anything. Everything. That's how it was supposed to be. He had no personality, no real emotions; he is who his clients want him to be, but it's never real. If Chanyeol had no emotions, he couldn't feel anything; if he couldn't feel anything, he couldn't get attached; if he didn't get attached, then he was allowed to live. The moment he -- or anyone else in the business -- became attached, they were done, gone, never seen again. 

 

There were theories of what happened to those people. Some said that they were shipped off overseas, dumped in a foreign country to try to make it one their own. Others were adamant on the idea that the company ran an underground-underground slaughter house, specifically for those who became Human, and anyone sent they was killed. But they were only theories; no one cared what happened. 

 

It was all a game and they were the pieces, the pawns, easily disposed, easily replaced.

 

As Chanyeol prepared for work that evening, laying the eyeliner and makeup on a little thicker than normal, he ran through his acting techniques -- smiling, laughing, and being happy; sadness, crying, and the looks of understanding -- and how to make them look genuine. It was as he was working on being fierce that one of the female dancers, Yoona, approached him and offered to help with his makeup; he nodded and sat still while she got to work. It didn't take her long, and before Chanyeol knew it, he was staring into the mirror at someone he barely recognized. 

 

"Knock 'em dead, Yeollie." Yoona said quietly as he leaned down, fixing several locks of his hair as she stared at his reflections. Chanyeol flinched at the nickname, carefully looking around to see if anyone had heard; no one, all too busy with their own preparations. Her boldness at using such terms out in the open always surprised Chanyeol, but he never ratted her out, because she.... she.... he couldn't put a name to it, but he didn't want her to get kicked out. 

 

"I always do, noona." 

 

After one more check of his attire -- laces tied, jeans tight, tank top snug, dress shirt ed at the top and the sleeves rolled up -- Chanyeol stood and left the room, making his way through the halls and to the lobby desk, which was, as usual, surrounded by a large handful of people, all coming from a range of places in society: upper class business men and women, middle class workers, ually frustrated singles, and even a college kid or two. Chanyeol ignored them all and made his way to the front desk where he'd receive his assignment for the night. 

 

Companion. Room 411. So he'd be above the streets tonight, out of the basement and where he could see the city from the window of whatever room he was in. It had been a while since he'd been able to work in one of the higher floors, but he was thankful that the room was open and spacious, and that the window was wide enough to get a decent, panoramic view of the city.

 

Now all he had to do was wait and find out how long this job would last: a night? A day? A week? It would all depend on how desperate this person was for company and what exactly they wanted him for. Most only wanted , a relief from frustrations; some wanted him just long enough to make some one jealous; and others, though very rare, wanted something more. It was those people that would get him in trouble, those people who could cost him his job.

---

This was a bad idea, Kris thought as he lay back on the bed, hands tucked back behind his head with the nonchalance of a person who belonged there. This was a terrible, awful, horrible, bad idea. And that, in a way, was exactly why he was here in this room.

 

Kris -- that wasn’t his real name, but it had been his name for so long that, for all intents and purposes, had become his name -- wasn’t really the sort of person who spent a lot of time on his own. In fact, nights like this, lying on a bed in a fancy schmancy hotel-esque building, wasn’t really the sort of thing that happened. Ever. At least, not alone. In his line of work, Kris was rarely as alone as he was in this moment.

 

As a child, Kris had wanted the same things that every child wanted -- to be a doctor, an astronaut, a pilot, a lawyer, a librarian. His parents had indulged him in that manner, allowing him to believe that his dreams would one day become reality. At age six, when he joked about how he wanted to be an underground rapper, his father laughed and handed him his mother’s hairbrush, saying that he’d better get started on his pronunciation, because his consonants, the basis of every good rap, were weak.

 

Kris took his father’s approval to heart and, with all the enthusiasm that a young child could muster, began to rap to his heart’s content, figuring out the best way to divide up the syllables in order to sneak breaths, working on pronunciation of not just the consonants, but of vowels, working his speed, delivery, accuracy. And his father was there by his side for every step of his journey, offering encouragement and the approval that every child craved. A little over a year later, Kris’ father was killed in a robbery by a man so high on and addicted to illegal drugs, that he’d thought ten dollars was worth killing someone over. 

 

After that, Kris’ life was never the same. His mother decided that living in China was no longer an option. They moved, flying across the ocean to live in North America for a year or two so she could train new employees for the company she worked at, and Kris.... Well, Kris survived. Losing a parent at any age was difficult, but Kris’ father had been the biggest support as the boy pursued his dreams. With that man gone, he felt as if there was nothing there to hold him. And what was even worse was that the man who shot his father had been reported as being released just a week or two after they’d left China.

 

At age eight, Kris had all but given up on his childhood and dreams, choosing instead to focus on something that he knew would make a difference. With his mother’s approval, Kris switched to online schooling and dove into his studies. In his free time, the boy poured over psychology and law enforcement texts, studying each and every book until he could recite entire passages from memory. 

 

For almost seven years years, Kris and his mother lived in North America, traveling every six to nine months to a new location. By the time Kris was fifteen, not only had he lived in nearly a dozen different cities, but Kris had mastered the English language, but he gotten a firm handle on French and had graduated early from high school, and with nothing but with top honors.

 

That year they moved to South Korea, and even though Kris was much younger than most, he enrolled himself in a college that specialized in law enforcement. By the time he had turned eighteen, he had graduated, double majoring in psychology and criminal justice, minoring in sociology. And once again with nothing but honors.

 

At age eighteen, Kris was fluent in half a dozen languages, knew enough to get by in a conversation in half a dozen more, was skilled in hand-to-hand combat, and he was ready to be released upon the world.

 

He trained for several months in an academy before they allowed him out onto the streets. A year later, he paid his due to the memory of his father by busting an illegal drug ring. And if there had ever been any doubt in the boy’s mind that this was a mistake, that arrest solidified his belief. What he was doing was right, and his father would have been proud of him.

 

Several months later found Kris enjoying a night alone before he slipped back under the radar. Rather, a night on his own that wouldn’t end up being so alone. It was a night to de-stress, to rest and relax, a night to be human again with company that wasn’t a bunch of his cop friends -- even though it had been one of said friends that recommended this place to him.

 

Tomorrow he would go out and find himself a partner for his next stint undercover as he attempted to expose an underground trafficking ring. But for now though.... For now Kris would allow himself to be human, if only for a little while.

---

Being above ground was different, especially since he hadn't been out of the lower floors for at least three months; this night, for some reason Chanyeol couldn't explain, felt different. It wasn't just that he didn't have to dance until he dropped or have until he couldn't move -- unless that's what this client wanted, but usually those in higher rooms didn't, because those in higher rooms are usually the people who took their companions home with them. There was just something odd, and maybe he'd find out soon; if not, it didn't matter. 

 

After spending a few minutes at the window, Chanyeol noticed that something was missing, something important, something crucial to this assignment. Of course, his client. Were they not here yet? No, he would not have been sent to the room if it had not been occupied, which meant that there was someone else here with him. Perhaps in one of the back rooms? 

 

Chanyeol turned, scanning the room for a brief moment before wandering in the direction of the hall where he knew he'd find the room his client was occupying. The apartment was small -- sitting room, kitchen, one bedroom, and a full bath -- but it was more than enough for two people who were just meeting for the first time, two people who likely wouldn't see each other again after this job was done. 

 

He found his client sprawled out across the mattress in the bedroom, and before introducing himself, Chanyeol watched him for a moment, taking in his features and trying to guess what he was dealing with. The male was tall, no doubt about that, but Chanyeol was tall so the height didn't bother him; not even the muscles that he could see under the sleeves of the shirt that the male wore taunted him. He couldn't be afraid, didn't know how to be afraid, because being afraid meant that he was human, and being human meant terrible things would happen.

 

"Hello." Chanyeol tested out his acting skills and tried adding a bit of a smile as he spoke. "You must be... Krees." Kris? That name sounded odd as it rolled off his tongue, the western pronunciation getting caught and garbled in his thick Korean accent. He quickly shrugged it off and went in with his introduction. "I'm Park Chanyeol and I'll be your companion." Once he was finished, he gave a polite bow and waited for the odd look; after giving his introduction, he always received an odd look. He wasn't sure why, but he never asked, was never allowed to ask. 

---

 

Kris heard the person that had entered the apartment long before he saw anyone, and he wondered, if only for a brief moment, whether it would have been more polite to get up and go into the other room to greet them. But the silence that the bedroom offered seemed a bit to much to give up so soon, especially with how comfortable the bed itself was. Besides, the companion would come looking for him eventually.

 

Again, long before anyone actually entered the bedroom that he’d taken over, Kris heard his companion before actually seeing him. Of course actually seeing the boy -- and he was a boy, despite Kris not having specified that being his preferred gender -- was a different story altogether.

 

Make up covered his face, not enough to paint his as someone that he wasn’t, and certainly not enough to mark him as one of the cheap that Kris had often seen teeming the streets in the downtown area at night, but just enough to highlight and accentuate the male’s face. His cheek bones, his eyes, his lips. Just enough without going over the top.

 

He was pretty, Kris thought absently. Tall, thin, pale-skinned, and with the slightest slant to a pair of pretty eyes. He was very pretty, and although it might have been the sort of underrated beauty that most people wouldn’t notice, Kris could he it, and he liked it. This was the sort of person he wanted to work with, someone who was captivating enough to steal the attention of a room.

 

God, he could only be so lucky.

 

Kris chuckled softly, the sound low and in the back of his throat as he pushed himself upright, a slight smile curving the corners of his lips. “Kris,” he corrected. “But that’s closer that most people get on their first try.”

 

The male slid of the bed, stretching his arms languidly above his head before turning to fix the boy -- Chanyeol, he had said? -- with a level expression. “It’s nice to meet you, Chanyeol. Thanks for being my companion this evening.” Kris relaxed after a moment, offering Chanyeol his hand. “If you haven’t already eaten I’d like to me us dinner. This is the last choice of company I’ll have for a while so I’d like to make the most of it.”