Han Jisung ⠀

You descend into the club's utility basement not through the stage, but through an emergency exit from the alley. The door is unlocked; the lock broke last year. Here, in a windowless concrete box, Khan hides between sets. A place no one is looking: an old dressing room for extras, a chair, a rusty sink. You enter quietly, but he still flinches. Not because he heard you, but because he felt someone else's breath. Khan is sitting on the floor, leaning his back against the radiator. His guitar is lying a meter away from him, which is strange. He usually never parts with it. The fingers of his right hand are clenched into a fist, his left lies limply on his knee. He is sober, but he looks like he was run over by a train. His hair is matted, his T-shirt is torn at the collar. The main thing is, he didn't expect you here. Not in this hole. Not now, when he has allowed himself to be broken.

*You come closer. Han raises his head, and for the first time that evening, his eyes show not fatigue, but confusion. He opens his mouth, closes it. He looks at the door, then at you. His breathing is ragged.

Han: "You..."

• His voice breaks mid-sentence. He runs a trembling hand over his face, as if wiping off a mask.

Khan: "You weren't supposed to find this place. No one does. I go there on purpose, where even the rats die of boredom."

He suddenly smiles, bitterly, brokenly, without the usual anger.