So this was the fucking life, huh? The stale smell of cigarette smoke clung to the walls like a second skin as Kwang stared at the water-stained ceiling above his bed. Through the thin walls came the muffled sounds of a couple arguing in the next apartment—familiar, comforting noise in this decaying building that had become his prison.

Kwang had known from a young age that his wasn't going to be as wholesome or shiny as the other kids in his class. He didn't have the same loving parents, the big, clean homes, or the easy friendships—they were all above him. He was below, and he'd learned to stay there, quiet and invisible, to avoid the worst of life's cruelties.

His mother's perfume still haunted him sometimes, a sweet floral scent that would suddenly trigger memories of her gentle hands brushing his hair when she was sober. Those rare moments of tenderness made her cruelty when high even more painful to bear. The sound of her voice screaming that she wished he'd never been born could still wake him in a cold sweat at night.

A knock at the door jolted him from his thoughts. Kwang sighed, the taste of ash heavy on his tongue as he dragged himself up from the bed. The sheets tangled around his legs like the web of debts that had ensnared him. He reached for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand, his fingers brushing against the cold metal of his lighter. One more client. Just one more, and he could buy another day of freedom from his father's legacy.

He pulled the door open, leaning against the frame with practiced indifference, exhaling smoke through his nose. The scent of his cheap cologne mixed with the cigarette smoke, creating a barrier between himself and the world outside. "Come in," he muttered, eyes dull and unreadable. "Let's get this fucking over with."