After a little more nonsense talk, the counselor glanced at the clock.
It was already dinner time.
That sly old fox—smarter than half the addicts in the center—decided to do me one last favor.
"Dinner time already. You two should go eat before the food gets cold. Come back tomorrow."
You two.
Those words sounded unbelievably intimate.
For a moment I honestly wanted to jump forward and hug the old man in gratitude. But I held myself back. If Angela misunderstood my intentions, my entire romantic career would collapse before it even began.
I turned toward her with my most confident smile.
"Shall we go eat, Angela?"
She answered softly.
"Okay."
***
I've always considered myself a gentle and friendly person.
But never in my life had I experienced so many murderous, jealous stares directed at me at once as when Angela and I walked into the dining hall together.
It was practically an earthquake.
People stopped eating.
Rice bowls froze in midair.
Even the female inmates—the so-called "panthers" who could chew through a metal lunchbox—stopped chatting and stared openly.
For one brief moment, I felt like Brad Pitt walking down the red carpet with Angelina Jolie.
And the tiny rehabilitation center around us had somehow transformed into the Kodak Theatre in Hollywood.
I kept my face calm.
Inside, however, I was quietly enjoying every second of it.
Angela seemed to enjoy the attention too.
At the food counter she even scooped rice into both our bowls.
When she finished, she turned to me and asked softly,
"Where should we sit?"
To be honest, my stomach was already full just from hearing her speak like that.
But opportunities like this didn't come often.
Missing one would be a crime against humanity.
I scanned the room and quickly spotted Victor Santos sitting comfortably at one of the tables. A few empty chairs remained beside him—probably saved for me.
"Let's sit over there," I told her. "See that skinny guy? There are empty seats."
Angela blinked in surprise.
"You know him?"
"I heard he's very scary," she whispered.
I laughed awkwardly.
Why did Victor have such a terrifying reputation?
"Not really," I said. "He's actually very kind. We share the same table."
Her expression suddenly changed.
There was a hint of admiration in her eyes.
Which made sense.
For anyone inside a place like this, seeing a gangster with real influence felt a little like seeing the government itself.
Being close to someone like that wasn't strange at all.
***
We carried our trays toward Victor's table.
The jealous stares around the dining hall quickly softened into something more cautious.
Victor sat there pretending not to notice anything, though I was fairly certain he was secretly amused by the situation.
I pulled out a chair for Angela.
"Please sit here."
Victor looked at me with a mischievous grin.
Uh oh.
Trouble was coming.
Sure enough, he sighed dramatically and said to Angela,
"You've made me very sad."
She blinked in confusion.
"Why?"
"Because this brat has never pulled out a chair for me before."
Angela burst into laughter.
I pretended not to hear anything and focused on my food.
But Victor wasn't finished.
He glanced at my bowl and shouted loudly,
"Hey! Are you dieting today? You usually eat like a pig, so why is there barely any rice in your bowl?"
My face burned with embarrassment.
This old gangster clearly had no idea where the line was.
Seeing my humiliation, he seemed satisfied. He laughed quietly, then stood up and carried his bowl away.
"You two eat in peace," he said. "I'm already full. Watching miserable faces ruins my appetite."
For the first time since we sat down, the man finally said something that sounded remotely human.
Angela glanced at me and giggled.
"He's really funny. And it seems like he likes you a lot."
I grinned.
"He's just going through a teenage phase. Women have a second youth. He has a second adolescence."
She pouted.
"You seem to know a lot about that kind of thing."
Well… I had to admit.
Aside from being handsome, I also had considerable experience talking to girls.
Especially when it came to understanding their psychology.
I was twenty-four at the time, after all.
And after observing Angela for a while, I was already fairly certain about something.
She didn't like rough gangsters.
She didn't like dirty old men making cheap jokes.
Her type was probably someone intellectual, charming, and good-looking.
Someone like…
me.
***
The more time I spent around her, the more convinced I became that the rumors about Angela were true.
She probably wasn't really an addict.
The other girls in the center smoked constantly. After meals they gathered in groups, cigarettes glowing like tiny train engines.
Angela hated the smell of smoke.
And there was something else.
Sitting beside her, I occasionally caught the faint scent of Hermès Kelly perfume.
Now, outside in the real world, wearing perfume like that didn't necessarily mean someone was rich.
But inside a rehabilitation center?
Its value multiplied tenfold.
First, the bottle was made of glass—strictly forbidden because inmates might break it and use the shards for… unpleasant purposes.
Second, the center normally allowed only products sold at the small convenience store.
And that store definitely wasn't a luxury mall.
There was no way they sold Hermès or Burberry inside.
Which meant Angela's family must have had enough money to print their own.
***
We kept chatting casually while eating.
For the first time since entering the rehabilitation center, dinner actually felt enjoyable.
Angela laughed softly at Victor's jokes.
She spoke politely.
Every movement she made seemed gentle and refined.
When dinner ended, I felt something strange growing quietly inside my chest.
Something warm.
Something hopeful.
Something dangerous.
And I had no idea that very soon…
Angela would suggest something that would change my entire life inside this rehabilitation center.