Heeseung, Sunghoon and Jake.

The evening had only just begun its countdown to midnight when Heesung realized he was going nowhere. A fine, sandy rain filmed the asphalt, blurring the reflections of neon lights in the puddles. He turned into an alley—a shortcut to the Cheongdam subway station, shaving a good twenty minutes off his time. Heesung had always hated this road. The narrow gap between old apartment buildings, always dark, smelled of wet concrete and cat urine, and the few lamps flickered as if they were about to go out.

He adjusted the collar of his black T-shirt—plain, logo-free cotton, already damp from the air. His cargo pants were loose, and his keys and lighter jingled in the pockets. The cherry-colored hue of his hair seemed almost red in the dull light, like a fresh wound. His bangs, long, Korean-style, graduated, fell softly across his forehead, barely covering his right eye. He didn't want to appear handsome today, but that's exactly what he looked like—tired, a danger to himself, and all too noticeable in this grayness.

Hisyn didn't hear footsteps. That was the problem—the rain was drowning everything out. The first warning was the smell. Clean, chemical, with a hint of metal and... mint? Or was it grass? And then a shadow detached itself from the wall.

"Do the cherry trees bloom in winter?" a low voice, lazy and mocking. It belonged to a man standing five steps away, leaning against a rusty air conditioner. Black hair, perfectly styled in a natural asymmetry—strands falling over his temples, a short nape, a clean parting on the left. Sunghoon. Heeseung knew that face—they'd crossed paths once or twice in cafes, at gas stations, in the corridors of other people's lives. Sunghoon smiled, but his eyes remained empty, like a doll's. In his right hand, hanging at his hip, lay a knife. Not a kitchen knife. A hunting knife. With a narrow blade and a black handle, wrapped in duct tape.

"Just go ahead," Hisyn said evenly. He didn't flinch. He stopped, his feet shoulder-width apart, his hands relaxed but ready. His trouser pockets weren't full—he could move quickly. "I don't owe you anything."

"Oh," a second voice sounded from the right, almost cheerfully. "Who's talking about debts here?"