Chapter Text
He stubbed out his cigarette directly on the red upholstery of the soft couch. The faux leather hissed, and a scorched circle formed on it. Exhaling the remnants of the intoxicating smoke, he looked straight ahead.
A young guy, clearly younger than him, was nervously apologizing to the guests for an order that arrived slightly later than promised. The tipsy, balding men seemed eager to pick a fight with someone today. Moonjo watched them arguing with the security guards at the entrance, and now they were harassing the waiter in this strange establishment. The young man clutched a round tray tightly to his chest, mumbled something hastily, and bowed. Smirking, Moonjo lowered his gaze. An almost full bottle of soju and a half-finished drink at the bottom of a cut-crystal glass adorned the expensive white table.
He leaned over to press a button in the center of the table. The waiter flinched and looked at his own hand. The bracelet, which delivered small electric shocks, was beginning to cause him pain because Moonjo still hadn’t removed his finger from the button. The waiter brightened up a bit, as this sudden order became his salvation. He bowed one last time, apologized to the guests, and left. "3" glowed on the bracelet's small screen. Table three.
Dusting himself off, he walked toward the order from memory, his head lowered, clearly thinking about the recent altercation with the men. Moonjo tilted his head slightly, observing the waiter. The lighting changed colors from time to time, making his white shirt take on different hues.
When the waiter was just a few meters away from Moonjo, he looked up. His funny, flustered face turned toward the customer. His black eyes looked at him curiously, as if, among all the wealthy alcoholic perverts and spoiled rich kids, he had seen someone for the first time who was different from the usual local crowd. He resembled neither those potbellied men nor the arrogant, spoiled brats.
The waiter smiled a rehearsed smile and bowed.
"Good evening, how may I help you?" — he continued to study Moonjo.
Smirking back, the man took out another cigarette. He silently flicked his lighter and lit it. The waiter stood there, trying not to wince at the unpleasant smell of the smoke. After all, this man was a guest, and he was just some lowly waiter — he had to keep a straight face.
"What's your name?" — Moonjo's gaze swept over him appraisingly. Black trousers with creases that had apparently been carefully ironed, an immaculately white shirt with the top two buttons undone, revealing his neck and a hint of collarbone, and a cute dark blue apron tied tightly around his slender waist — all of it looked good on the young man.
"Jongwoo," — he said, almost on an exhale. — "My name is Yu Jongwoo, Sir."
Moonjo smiled, hearing that form of address again. They were all trained the same way here, apparently, like puppies for sale.
"What alcohol would you recommend, Yu Jongwoo?"
He hesitated for a moment, clutching the tray to his chest, but then he remembered how he was supposed to behave with the guests.
"Many people like to order…"
He was interrupted.
"No. I'm not interested in 'many people.' I'm asking you. What do you like to drink here?"
Jongwoo swallowed nervously. Was he supposed to admit that everything here was so expensive that he hadn't even been able to try the leftover dregs at the bottom of the bottles?
"Well… Makgeolli, out of our whole selection, caught my eye the most," — Jongwoo smiled awkwardly. He only liked the bottles themselves; he had no idea what the contents tasted like.
"Great. Will you bring it?"
"Yes, Sir, of course."
Jongwoo had already turned around when he was called back.
"And bring two glasses. Will you drink with me?"
"I'm sorry, but we're not allowed… We can't sit at the same table with you. I'd get fired."
Moonjo inhaled the smoke one last time and stubbed it out on the couch again. He leaned slightly toward him, narrowing his eyes as if Jongwoo had just insulted him.
"Fine. I'll personally fire anyone who fires you. Deal? And if they check the cameras, tell them I ordered you to do it. You're supposed to obey the guests, right?"
The waiter glanced at the black eye of the camera. His palms were starting to sweat from the tension. He was afraid, though he didn't know of what. All the service staff here were living on a powder keg, since they weren't even considered human.
One tiny mistake – and you're fired, best-case scenario. Worst-case: no one will ever, ever find you again. And sitting at the same table as a guest was one of the gravest violations. Was it worth trusting this strange man?
Jongwoo bowed and scurried toward the bar. Moonjo watched him go, his gaze inevitably falling on the other waiters and waitresses as well. Girls and boys: they were all identical, clearly handpicked. All slim, fit, roughly the same height, every single one with perfectly regular, beautiful features. The girls had neat buns at the nape of their necks, and the boys' hair was styled as if they were about to walk a red carpet. And every single one looked at the guests with fear in their eyes, all afraid of doing something wrong. Moonjo counted seven of them; the eighth was Jongwoo.
The only ones here who weren't too afraid of the guests were the strippers. Apparently, unlike the waitstaff, they were allowed a bit more. They flirted freely with everyone, sat at tables, drank with the men, smiling as they tucked another bill into their lingerie. This whole establishment was a cage for them, where the guests were tigers, and they were meat. Absolutely everyone here, except the security guards, had been selected for the perverse desires of wealthy perverts. What was Moonjo doing here? Simple: he was one of them.
The experienced waiters acted like robots with the guests, staring blankly at their foreheads, answering mechanically, and writing orders in a silver notepad. They knew who could take them home tonight, and one of those people was Moonjo. The job of these young people was to serve guests, not to be sex toys, so whenever possible, Table Three was always avoided on Tuesdays and Fridays, because those were the days Moonjo came by. And Jongwoo had been hired on a Saturday. No one had told him about this customer.
Finishing the last of the alcohol in his glass, Moonjo finally saw the young guy awkwardly emerge from behind the black curtain, carefully watching to make sure he didn't drop the bottle, glass, and meat platter. Reaching the table with the men, he politely apologized, smiled, and placed the platter in the center of the table. They smirked after him, reveling in their power, knowing that any conflict here would be resolved in their favor.
Reassured that the guests were no longer angry, Jongwoo quickly made his way to Table Three.
"Your order, Sir," – he placed a cut-glass bottle with a white liquid inside on the table. Next, he lightly picked up a glass and set it next to the alcohol.
"That's not my order. My order had two glasses. And you," – he looked at him defiantly, as if Jongwoo were already bought, included as a gift with that bottle.
"Sir... That's forbidden."
"I don't care," – he stood up, grabbed Jongwoo by the arm, painfully squeezing the bracelet against his skin, and yanked him onto the couch. The waiter landed on the soft surface. – "I'll pay for any inconvenience. That's what your boss wants, isn't it? Money? And you, like obedient dogs, are obliged to bring him profit with your bodies. So," – he leaned a little closer, causing the lost Jongwoo to press back into the upholstery in fright, staring into eyes where actual devils seemed to dance, – "be a good boy and please your owner," – he was already breathing hotly against his skin. Pulling a card from his pocket, Moonjo lightly tapped the waiter's lips with it. – "And I'm sure he'll be absolutely delighted. You might even get a promotion. To a stripper, for example," – he smiled, slipping the card into his mouth. Jongwoo parted his lips in fright and clamped his teeth down on the plastic just a little. At that moment, Moonjo leaned back against the couch, laughing softly. The waiter, whose heart felt ready to leap out of his chest, remained pressed into the upholstery for several more seconds after Moonjo stopped looming over him.
The black card between his teeth was tasteless, but somehow Jongwoo suddenly felt bitterness on his tongue.
"Did the payment go through?" – Moonjo looked at him lazily, waiting for an answer.
Jongwoo swallowed, pulling the plastic from his mouth. A lump suddenly formed in his throat. He had no protection; moreover, he had no right to defend himself. He was cornered, a rabbit that had willingly crawled into a wolf's den.
"Alright, fine. I'll talk to the manager and pay double your rate so you can spend the evening with me."
Jongwoo nervously fumbled with the card in his trembling hands, trying to hide the fact that his entire body was shaking.
"He's... The administration isn't working today, Sir. Today we... today we only have the manager on duty, and he doesn't make any real decisions."
"But I make all the decisions. My money does, too."
"Sir, I know you're rich, please stop saying that. Sorry," – hastily getting up from the couch while glancing at the camera, he nervously tried to increase the distance between them, – "I need to work," – and as if to confirm this, his bracelet lit up and shocked him.
He placed the card on the edge of the table, trying not to look him in the eyes, and ran off. His red ears looked amusing in the blue light.
Moonjo snorted, pouring soju into the glass. He hadn't yet figured out who would have the last word. This one was just meat, and meat doesn't know the word "no."
Jongwoo, after taking an order, was nervously talking with a coworker off to the side. His Adam's apple was trembling, and his movements were jittery. He was scared. Only now did he understand why they paid him such exorbitant sums. What a fool he had to be to think that he was getting paid 10 million won a month just for being disciplined and serving spoiled rich kids. His services extended far beyond mere guest service — only he hadn't realized it.
These people had no protection whatsoever. You could do anything you wanted to them. There had been cases where a beautiful girl or a pretty young guy was "bought," then raped and killed. Lucky if they killed you right away. Moonjo still remembered the face of a poor, poor, very young waitress whom an acquaintance of his had bought, then kept for six months as a personal prostitute — not just for himself, but for his friends too — abused her, and finally took pity on her and killed her, forcing her to swallow the barrel of a gun before pulling the trigger. Her poor body, beaten and mutilated below the waist, was later burned, and the remaining parts were ground up and scattered to the wind.
Almost no one would come looking for the people who worked here. They were mostly poor students, orphans, and people from rural villages who had moved to the big city of Seoul for a better life. Sometimes their only relatives were a sick mother or an elderly father. Besides their parents, who would search for them? No one. They were cannon fodder, feed for people like Moonjo. But he would swear that no one had suffered at his hands. At least, not too badly. He'd always pay for the treatment afterward anyway.
Watching the boy scurrying back and forth intently, Moonjo lit his third cigarette of the day. His blood boiled in his veins when he saw that this foolish young man had already charmed all his coworkers and also some of the guests, who glanced at him and smirked at his face, on which all his thoughts seemed to be written. He was so naive. This place was clearly not for him. His friend, who was hiding bruises on her arms, had long since understood the nature of this establishment and her role in it, but this ridiculous Jongwoo, inept at hiding his emotions, refused to accept the obvious.
A familiar woman in a red semi-transparent dress, beneath which lace lingerie was visible, suddenly bounded over and flopped onto the couch, sprawling across it. Moonjo looked at her, smirked, and poured alcohol into an empty glass for her. She happily helped herself, greedily drinking down the bitter liquid.
"Long time no see, Soo-young. Been on vacation?"
The girl snorted, pulling a cigarette from the pack that was barely peeking out of the pocket of his dark gray trousers.
"Prometheus, give me fire," – catching the flame from the lighter with the tip of the cigarette already clamped between her plump lips, she threw her head back. – "What vacation? What are you talking about? I went to the hospital, got checked out. Thank God no one gave me a bouquet [of STDs].
And I had to stop by my mom's — she worries that I'm in some kind of slavery here," – she smiled, exhaling smoke.
"And she's right to worry. She's not wrong."
"Well, I'm raking in money by the shovel. It's dirty work," – she agreed. For a second, her eyes took on a black tint, as if they had lost all life and joy.
"Do you know that one?" – Moonjo nodded toward Jongwoo, who was anxiously running around the hall, checking if everything was alright.
Soo-young took a drag, her gaze fixed on the young man.
"Ah, that one... He's funny. Jongwoo, I think his name is. He just started working here recently. Poor kid, he's clearly stupid — came here for easy money. In the end, he signed a contract with the devil himself, just like all of us. Listen, should I warn him? Or let it be a surprise?"
She finished her cigarette, tossing the butt with her lipstick print on it onto the floor, and stubbed it out with her heel.
"Don't scare him. He's amusing. I want to buy him from your boss. He gives off a special... aura."
The girl smirked, finishing her drink.
"So that's how you're talking now? He's strange, but amusing, yeah. Don't break him too badly. Guys like him are rare around here," – she clinked her glass down on the shiny white table, which now looked blue under the colored lights, and draped her arms over the back of the couch.
"Don't worry, I won't. I'll play with him, then give him back — my scheme is as old as time. Make sure no one steals my little cookie. Tell them I've already reserved him. And here," – he stuffed several bills into her hand, – "this is for your trouble."
The girl smiled, tucking the money into her lingerie.
"You're generous. It's because of people like you that we'll never go out of business. Stupid men! Ready to pay for the chance to gawk at prime meat!" – she laughed, and Moonjo joined in her amusement.
"Send me his number tonight. I want to do something. See you," – he got up, grabbing the card that was lying on the edge of the table, brushed himself off, fixed his hair, – "I'll pay generously for photos of him, keep that in mind!" – he said as if jokingly, but Soo-young immediately understood he was dead serious.
"What, your teeth business is thriving? You're throwing money around like crazy, it's terrible."
"My business isn't in teeth, but in the people who fix them. The clinics bring in a decent amount, but you know, sweetheart, that's far from my main source of income," – he pulled out another bill, – "and this is for the time of mine I wasted — time you could have spent on... well, him, for example," – he nodded toward a potbellied man in a jacket, – "be a good girl, that's what they teach you, right?" – he snorted, gave her an encouraging pat on the shoulder, and left.
The girl sighed, but then put her hot-and-coquettish mask back on, obediently heading toward the man. The show would start soon, and the empty poles would finally be occupied by the dancers.