Yixing doesn’t ask where Jongdae got the money to pay for his surgery. He doesn’t ask why Jongdae’s eyes glow brighter than they should; doesn’t try and question the smell of aftershave Jongdae does not wear, or the smudges of meta-paint he’s never used before on his cheekbones.

Pixel Perfect. He sees the brand name in their bathroom; it’s the war-paint of choice for robo-geisha and the like.

Robo-geisha, who shimmer in threadbare silk and thickly-painted makeup; their lips are perfect heart shapes, their eyes round jewels that most definitely aren’t human. They walk as if on lily pads, their faces perfectly impassive until they need to smile or raise an eyebrow. And they glitter – sparkle in the dim, fuzzy illumination of thousands of electric lights when the night comes and the robo-ists trawl the droid districts for their next conquest.

To be honest, they look more like anime characters than any geisha – but that’s not what the men and women who crave the unreal are here for. They want to cross the uncanny valley – to touch something that is not born, but instead – created.

And while Yixing keeps a certain amount of distance from such people when he dances, he knows that Jongdae does not. But who is he to ask when Jongdae disappears into the night? And who is he to complain when Jongdae presses the credits into his hands and tells him he’s sorry?

Jongdae’s kisses still burn brighter than the sun, after all.