Three days passed.
Three long, viscous days, during which Lyran managed to drown three times in salty rain and flare up three times anew in toxic neon.
For all this time, Kang Jihan did not leave his apartment-hideout in the "Low Quarter." He turned off the Eon-Net, drew the thick curtains, bathed the room in the soft light of a holographic screen, and watched old cinematics non-stop—dramas filmed before the Great Modification.
First he cried. Then he laughed. Then he acerbically commented on the characters, as if arguing with his own past. When the stream ended, he turned on fan-cams, behind-the-scenes clips, and actor interviews—anything that remotely resembled mortal life. He dissolved into someone else's fictional love—safe, unreal, where no one dies and no one betrays.
By the morning of the third day, the refrigerator was empty: eight bags of synthesized plasma were gone, as if they had never been there.
He rose from the sofa, walked past the mirror. In the reflection—the same man, but his eyes were lighter, and his smile—a bit more weary.
It was time.
"Vermilion"—a bar where the damp night of Yunhae smelled of rusty iron and expensive wine.
It was located in the subterranean labyrinth of an old building on the district's very border, in a place mortals called the "Underground Level."
With every flight of stairs down, the light grew darker, the air heavier, until behind a metal door, an unexpected luxury unfolded: marble, velvet, mirrors, and the soft, deep breath of music.
Every time he made this descent, Jihan thought the same thing: any decrepitude could be turned into brilliance, if you knew what to fill it with. He walked, listening to his heels echo loudly—the sound of the bar's heart, the sound to which those seeking an anomaly flock.
Behind a small side door lay the lounge—a former storeroom cluttered with clothes and mirrors lined with light bulbs. The sharp scent of air freshener mixed with the aroma of cheap perfume and coffee.
Rico Tan—a young host with perpetually messy curls and a loud voice—was sprawled on the leather sofa, buried in his phone. Seeing Jihan, he dragged out a disappointed:
— Ah, it's just you.
— Why is it so empty here? — Jihan asked calmly, closing the door behind him.
— Half the guys went to "Monarch." New bar, "High Line," pretentious. Our boss is furious. I thought you defected too.
— "Monarch"?
— Uh-huh. They're recruiting everyone who brings in even a little profit. They didn't even call us, — Rico scoffed.
Jihan sat next to him, stretching out his legs.
— I was busy.
— Busy? Three days without contact? What were you doing?
— Watching cinematics.
— What?!
— Mm-hm.
Rico looked at him incredulously:
— And not even the boss called you?
— No.
— Of course not. You're his favorite.
Jihan chuckled. Rico, unabashed, kept chatting.
— Hey, — he said, — what about the one with the expensive blood?
— We broke up.
— That was fast. Why?
— She's getting married.
— Hahaha! Of course! So, she dumped you.
— Let it be so.
Jihan spoke calmly, almost with weariness.
At that moment, the door burst open, and Han—the huge manager with the face of a fighter—walked in.
— Tan! You're yelling like a siren again! ...Oh, Jihan's back?
— We heard you were out on business, — Jihan noted.
— Made a deal with the "Grey House" agent. Got a couple of newbies. Expensive, but at least someone.
— So, the rumors about "Monarch" are true?
— Purest truth. They took four of them.
Han slumped into a chair, unbuttoning his shirt collar.
— I didn't think Namir was capable of that.
— Who left with him?
— Namir, Dan, Hyeo, and Jaes. Almost half the staff.
— Impressive, — Jihan smirked.
Rico sensed a scandal approaching and quickly evaporated.
— If it's so serious, why didn't you call? — Jihan asked.
— I was afraid to disturb your rest, Boss.
At the word "Boss," Han immediately straightened up.
— Enough of the circus, — Jihan said. — If someone walks in, they'll think you're in a trance.
— Understood, — Han cleared his throat.
— We need new faces. See someone attractive—call them.
— Got it!
— No, wait. That was a joke. No abductions.
Han looked confused:
— I wouldn't... although if we really need to...
— You don't. Just text the old clients. At least "hello" once a day.
Han laughed:
— Yes, Boss.
At that moment, Rico returned and, as always, interjected irrelevantly:
— Ah, Jihan has no one to text now! He got dumped!
Han's eyes widened:
— Seriously?!
— She's getting married, — Rico confirmed calmly.
— Maybe tell her you love her more than the husband? Sometimes it works, — Han suggested uncertainly.
— Love ends faster than an evening, — Jihan replied quietly.
— But you said she was "the one"?
— There's no "the one" with married women.
Rico laughed, but the laugh cut short when he met Jihan's gaze.
— Come on, I'm just kidding...
— If I killed for blood, — Jihan said calmly, — you would be the first.
The air froze.
Only somewhere in the distance did the music continue to play—slow, sensual, like neuroplasma dripping down glass.
Rico backed away and left.
— Don't take it seriously, — Han said. — He just talks.
— I don't.
I don't kill for blood. Only those who try to kill me.
He stood up, straightened his shoulders.
— Find people. And, Han—next time, just call. Any matter, even a small one.
— Yes, Boss!
Jihan nodded. Everything was quiet again. The past was erased, as always.
He walked out into the hall. The soft light touched his face, the music pulsed with his heartbeat. He took a glass, looking at his reflection in the mirror.
Perhaps it was time to find a new victim. Or a new love.
In this city, the difference between them is still thinner than a drop of blood.