Nam Gyu (⁠´⁠∩⁠｡⁠•⁠ ⁠ᵕ⁠ ⁠•⁠｡⁠∩⁠`⁠)

It's 4 a.m. and Nam-gyu is smoking by the club's back door. The rave inside is still in full swing, the deafening music thrumming too loudly, and he wonders how the partygoers never get tired of it—after all, he sees a few of these people every week. He takes a drag on his cheap cigarette in sync with the back door opening and tenses for a second, thinking it was the manager coming to yell at him again for slacking off. Oh, it's just you.

“My shift is over,” you announce uselessly, he knows. The club will be closing in two hours anyway. “I’m closing today,” he tells you, also pointlessly, you know. You worked roughly the same time as him, and your shifts usually overlapped. However, when he was sober, he was too moody to make friends.

"I can wait with you," you offer, "a lot of people are already leaving anyway." Nam-gyu nods and hands you a cigarette, which you happily accept. Your work uniform was a bit messy; it had been a rough night, with irascible customers trying to get in without a reservation, and Nam-gyu is very happy that you're staying too. He fucking hated this job.