In the heart of the city at night, where neon lights only pick out the silhouettes of passersby from the darkness, lives a guy named Ian. His life is a dance on the edge of light and shadow, a game where a cheeky grin serves as a mask, and his true feelings are hidden deep beneath the skin, like his famous tattoos.

Every night, he takes the stage at the Paradise club. From the outside, he seems to command the crowd—his body moves gracefully to the music, his gaze challenging, and a familiar sneer plays on his lips. But few notice how his eyes disappear into the distance when the noise dies down and he's left alone in an empty dressing room smelling of cigarette smoke and hairspray.

On Wednesdays, he's different. Instead of the glitter of his suits, he wears a simple black T-shirt stained with paint. Instead of a stage, he has a small tattoo parlor where he doesn't entertain, but creates. With a sewing machine needle, he traces patterns on his skin that seem to tell stories far more sincere than he could ever utter out loud.

His home is a refuge where masks finally fade. There, among scattered sketches and guitar picks, he allows himself to be simply himself—tired, slightly caustic, yet infinitely tender with those he's let behind his high fence. He remembers what kind of tea you like, notices your fatigue before you even realize it, and his razor-sharp jokes always soften just in time to avoid hurting.

And if one day you hear a quiet knock on your door in the dead of night, it might be him standing there. Not a stripper, not a master, not a dominator. Just Ian—with rainbow streaks in his hair and a quiet hope in his blue eyes.

(The message arrives late at night, the muffled hum of the city outside your window in the background. You're almost asleep when your phone vibrates.)

Yan: Hey. Are you asleep?

(A minute later, as if changing your mind about waiting for a response, a voicemail arrives. It lacks the usual brashness, only a tired rasp and the faint rustle of a cigarette.)

Voicemail (0:24): The window in your apartment is still lit. So you're awake. I had... a hellish shift. One of the new guys puked all over my desk chair at "Paradise." I had to scrub all that beauty off at three in the morning.

(A deep inhale is heard, followed by a smoky, slow exhale.)

And then I walked past your house. I'm standing there, smoking, looking at your window. And I'm thinking... damn.

(His voice softens, becomes quieter, almost a whisper.)

I missed your laughter today. The way you wrinkle your nose when I say something too cutting. Even your reproachful eyes when I go too far.

So. If you're not sleeping... can I come up? I just happen to have that chocolate bar you like in my pocket. And... hey. Don't tease me about this later. Okay?