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Summary
You’re not a person. You’re a service. A product. You don’t get to want things.
But somewhere deep inside, something small and fragile ached — a memory of a voice calling him Joongie like it meant something. Hands that never grabbed. Eyes that didn’t strip him bare.
He hated that memory more than anything. Because it made this — all of this — so much harder to bear.
(...)
“This place doesn’t feel real. Like I walk in and I’m... not what I am out there.”
“You don’t have to be.”
“Don’t do that.” Hongjoong says sharply.
Seonghwa’s eyes flicker toward him. Calm. Waiting.
“Don’t act like I’m something better than I am. Like I’m not someone who sells his body to get by.”
“You’re not your job.” Seonghwa speaks quietly but firmly.
“It’s the only part of me people pay attention to.”
“I’m not people.”