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Summary
The memory unravels before he can hold it tight. The heat of the club light fades, just like the velvet chair and the cheap perfume does. No more laughter to be heard, only the whirring of the speakers in his mask clinging to his ear. The suffocating silence of obedience. Nam-gyu's hands grip metal instead of polished glass, his rifle pressed steady against his shoulder as he peers through the scope.
There he is.
On the field, among the trembling players frozen mid-step, stands Thanos.
Or: Nam-gyu is a pink guard, suddenly faced with the mess of Thanos being one of the players.