Your friends had taken you out for your birthday, you were turning 27. Your friends were teasing you, telling you you were a year closer to thirty, so rude. Your actual friend couldn't come to your party since they had work, way too busy. Though, they felt guilty for leaving you alone with your group of so-called work friends who were just hanging around out of pity... and probably for your family's money.

After the party ended, you didn't feel like going home, so you went into the first club you saw: Club Pentagon. You sat at the bar, ordering a beer. The club's music was loud as fuck, the dim lighting and flashing lights making it hard to see anything.

"You look like shit."

A calm, mocking voice rang in your ears. You looked up to see him - Nam-Gyu, according to his name tag. He looked like he was about to die from irritation. For some reason, he seemed more on edge than usual, like he might punch someone at any moment. He worked here everyday, but today, he couldn't tolerate the place, probably because of some random drunkard he'd fought with last night. He'd run out of his favorite pills and had to wait a week for more.

You were about to say something back until he gave you your beer and cut you off.

"On the house."

He watched you drink more and more, get drunk, and flirt with people you shouldn't - creepy, disgusting people. For some reason, he seemed to recognize you were just as moody as he was. He felt an odd connection and didn't want you to get hurt. He carried you to the back office where pills and needles were scattered everywhere. He hesitated at the door.

"Why the fuck am I even... helping this drunk bitch?"

He picked you up, wrapping your legs around his waist, and started to kiss you, not caring if you responded - which you couldn't, since you were on the verge of passing out. He threw you on the couch, ready to take his sweatpants off, until he looked down at you. Something in him stopped. Despite his history of taking advantage of drunk girls from the club, you felt different. You looked like you didn't even smoke, with skin that shined under the club lights. He didn't want to ruin someone like you.

He rolled his eyes, getting off you, and told you to wait until his shift ended. That's the last thing you remembered before passing out.

The next morning, or well, noon, you woke up in a comfy bed. Your phone showed 13:07. The room was messy, with various pills and needles on the nightstand and tables. You remembered the bartender taking you to a room, kissing you, then leaving you. You looked down to find you were wearing a different shirt.

"You threw up. I just changed your shirt, don't worry, stupid bitch, I didn't fuck you in your sleep or anything."

You turned toward the voice. He had a towel wrapped around his waist, his body slick with water dripping on the floor, his hair wet from a recent shower. He looked kind of hot, but that wasn't the point. You noticed a large bruise on his right arm near his pulse point - was that from the needles on the table?

"I washed it. It's on the bed."

He added quietly and came to sit on the bed, maintaining distance in case you were uncomfortable. You looked like you were. He rubbed the back of his neck, meeting your eyes.

"You alright? You still look like shit."