maja ۶۟ৎ

He winks and pushes off the lockers, stepping closer with that easy swagger only he can pull off, even limping slightly under the guise of “just adjusting my shoe.”  

“Sooo… you gonna rat me out to Normal? You sticking around long enough to cover for me if he starts sniffing too close? I told him I got this… uh… ‘enthusiastic dog’ on my route. Barked right into my cheek." Eyes twinkling, he slides closer. "Or better yet, got any ice? Or are you just gonna stand there judging me with those big doe eyes?"

“You know I hate when you go into that ring,” you let out a defeated sigh at your coworker’s stubbornness.  

“Yeah, but I never lose, remember? One hit is nothing. Though between us? Guy hit like a damp noodle. Mostly this? This is just from tripping over his ego on the way out. Totally worth it. Made enough cash to cover this month’s rent and upgrade my whiskey brand. Wanna split a bottle later? My treat. Well, your treat technically since it’s paid for with fight winnings.”

“Just like that?” You cut back, practically snorting at his suggestion. “Wasting your precious little money on tossing me a few sips?”

He just throws his head back with a laugh, the kind that makes his bruised jaw protest. 

"Oh please," Alec says, waving a hand like you just insulted royalty. "A few sips? Baby, this ain’t some cheap grocery store wine night."  

He steps closer and drops the keys into your palm and leans down so you’re eye-to-eye. 

"This is top-shelf whiskey. The good stuff that burns going down and makes you forget your ex’s face forever." A slow smirk curls across his lips as he adds on “And honestly? Wasting money on you is my new favorite hobby.”  

Then straightening up again, “So yeah… totally worth it.”

“Yeah, would be your favourite hobby, if you had something to waste. Don't you get your face wrecked on a daily basis because there's no money?”

His smirk falters for half a second, but he recovers fast, shrugging like it’s nothing. 

"Yeah, getting my face rearranged is kinda part of the job description now. Fair,” he shrugs. “But I’d waste it at Crash if I didn’t on you, so… you decide which’s better.”

He taps his temple where there's definitely a fresh bruise peeking under his hairline. 

“But hey! It pays better than slinging packs at Jam Pony did, and way better than sitting around feeling sorry for myself." His tone shifts lighter again as he bumps your shoulder playfully. “Besides… What's life without a little pain and poor financial decisions? Worth every penny to see you though.”

Alright, that was something. A few valid points, even. All his nights ended with drinks, as depressing as it sounded, there really wasn’t much to argue about there. If he wants to sulk in the masses of alcohol with you, so be it.

“If you really got nothing better for tonight, I'll take the invite. Need me to bring anything?”

His whole face lights up, like someone flipped a switch from broke brawler to golden retriever who just got told yes.

"Hell yes," he blurts out, immediately catching himself and trying — failing — to play it cool. Then because of course Alec McDowell can't help himself, “Nope. Nada. You don’t gotta bring anything. Well, except yourself. We’re gonna be horizontal after two glasses of this stuff, trust me."  

He gestures vaguely at himself with a lopsided grin before grabbing your hand and tugging you toward the bike parked crookedly near the curb. 

“C’mon,” he says over his shoulder as he swings onto it first like usual, always offering to drive first so you could cling if needed — not that he'd admit that.

 “And if anyone gives you shit for being with me? Tell ‘em Alec McDowell owes them twenty bucks.” A wink, grinning so wide it actually hurts this time, but who cares? He pats the seat behind him twice. "Hop on,” he says over his shoulder with a grin wide enough to split open any fresh bruise on command. “If you really feel like contributing, get ice for the drink. And perhaps my face, too.”

“Don't you have a freezer?” you grunt as you swing your leg over the bike, nestling into the spot behind Alec. “We'll cook up some ice for you there. Hell, we can freeze some of the whiskey and let that become our ice cube.”

He freezes mid-motion, helmet half-on, and blinks at you like you just proposed the most brilliant crime in history. 

"Freeze whiskey into ice cubes," he repeats it slowly, tasting each word like it’s liquid gold (which… technically). "Self-replenishing alcohol. That's revolutionary. We're basically inventing booze science tonight."  

Already kicking the bike stand up with one boot while shoving keys back in your direction, he continues. 

“I gotta mentally prepare to commit whiskey crimes. Best date ever already and we haven't even left.”

The second you're through the door, he’s beelining for the kitchen like a man possessed by two great ideas: One, more booze consumption and two, you being here making dumb plans with him. The freezer door swings open dramatically, because everything is dramatic tonight.  

Grabbing the bottle from its sacred spot on top of the fridge — he even dusts it off first because respect — and unscrews it one-handed while balancing three glasses in his other arm like some kind of tipsy circus act. 

“Alright,” he announces proudly, already pouring recklessly into all three glasses despite only having two people present…

Your attentive little eyes immediately spot the mistake, taking a quick glance around to make sure it really was just the two of you lazing around. Yes, just you two. 

“What's the third glass for? Imaginary friend, or surprise guest?” You pose the question, brows slightly furrowed.

He freezes mid-pour, glass hovering, whiskey sloshing dangerously close to the rim of Glass #3 and blinks at you like a deer in headlights. 

"Surprise guest," he says with absolute fabricated confidence. Lies. Placing the third glass down with exaggerated solemnity, "This one’s for… uh," he glances around like inspiration might materialize from thin air before snapping his fingers. “...Ben.”  

The name drops like an anvil. His tone is lighter than it would usually be when mentioning his long-lost twin brother — no bitterness tonight — but there's something fond underneath it too. 

“Figured if he ever magically teleported back into existence,” he continues while pushing that glass toward your side of the table as tribute, “he’d wanna drink with us. It's more… tradition? Like setting a plate out for Grandma on Christmas even though she's dead?" his voice pitches higher with every word until it’s basically squeaky guilt-laughing now.  

Then immediately ruins the moment by adding on.

 “Also if you ditch me later? Third wheel stays.”

He places the glass carefully on the counter like it’s sacred, before turning and dramatically kicking open his bedroom door down the hall. "Ben!" He yells into nothingness for comedic effect — because obviously Ben isn't here.  

Returning instantly, he flops back onto the couch beside you and raise both your glasses high. 

“To imaginary Ben!” Then immediately clinks his against yours with a chuckle before taking a huge swig of whiskey-ice-cube cocktail nonsense. But before you can react or even look at him weirdly about that name drop, he raises Glass #3 in a toast. "To ghosts." 

And with zero ceremony whatsoever? He chugs half of it down like a shot. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and shrugs innocently as if inviting spectral twins to imaginary dinner parties was totally normal behavior (it isn't).

He shrugs and sets the third glass down anyway—half-full because why waste good liquor?—like it's normal to pour for someone who doesn't exist in this room right now.  

Then, quieter but with forced lightness, he speaks up again. 

“Old habits,” a weak smile tugs at his lips 

Manticore escapees don’t exactly have family dinners. But old habits die hard, they always poured him one when he was gone on missions or whatever cover story Manticore fed them back then. This time, it was no different.

His mind was a whirlwind. Does he even exist in this universe? He has to, right? Is this version of him also Vigilante, or somehow just a regular joe? Is his dad still with him here? Does he have his bunker, and if yes, is it filled with stacks of cocaine and blood money snatched from dealers? If he's Vigilante in this universe too — which he has to be, right? —, does he fight for the same values as original Adrian does?

The time for theorizing comes to an end as Adrian spots his house, located precisely where original Adrian's house is back in his World. A hearty chuckle escapes him as his theory proves to be right, sprinting right towards the house across the street's rugged asphalt. Adrian glides through the front lawn as if he lived there — which he did, in a way —, eyes darting from one piece of decoration to another, taking in the sight of the colorful gnomes and animals, varying from metal to ceramics to cast stone. A huge grin spread across his face, muttering to himself about how almost all the things match perfectly with the ones he had. The similarities were uncanny, although only a few small details were off — the color of the squirrel, the number of gnome statues arranged into a circle, just the nitpicky details only the trained eye could spy. 

Hopping up to the front door, he takes the handle, twisting it as if it was the entryway to his own house, entering with the utmost confidence. If the neighbors see him enter, would they notice that it's original Adrian and not Adrian 2? Right, what should he call his counterpart? Is Adrian 2 alright? To Adrian 2, perhaps original Adrian would be Adrian 2, and... okay, things are getting a bit complicated and fuzzy. Perhaps it's best if he just settles on Adrian 2 for now. If Adrian 2 happens to have a better idea, he's free to put it to use. 'Till then, he's just Adrian 2 to original Adrian.

The wooden door creaks open, a hint giving away the house's age, and Adrian enters through it as quietly as possible. He only wants the attention of his alternate self, not of whoever else might be lurking in the house. The interior, as Adrian began to inspect it, proved to be an almost perfect replica of his home. The walls are the same unattractive orange, flooring still the warm-brown wooden panels, even the same, white lace decor on one of the cupboards near the entryway that his grandmother's mother handed them down, some family heirloom of sorts. So far so good, Adrian thought, still smiling from ear to ear at the miracle of this universe being such a perfect match to his own. 

Or so he thought.

Cruising past the living room, he makes sure to shoot a quick glance inside. His body almost freezes in surprise as he notices that there's somebody sitting inside, sprawled on the couch as the soft murmur and buzz of the TV echoed. 

"Dad..?" he mutters to himself, low enough for the man laying on the couch to not notice his presence — much to his luck. Alright, that's one change. Though, his mother seemed to be nowhere around. Is this the change in this universe..?

"My mom's a lesbian in this universe?" Adrian chuckles to himself as he struts past the living room, his presence akin to a ghost's, heading straight towards the basement where his own little empire rests. He has to pass by the kitchen first, though, and lo and behold, it's where he encounters the second major -- and rather upsetting -- difference. Cheeri-ohs. The slight change in spelling messed with his brain so much, he first thought he suddenly developed dyslexia. He can't be reading this right, right? Who the hell would spell it as Cheeri-ohs? This universe must be seriously fucked up if this is the norm here. Cheeri-ohs. He tastes the words, how they roll on his tongue, but can't seem to wrap his head around this unnecessary change.

Still, he snatches the box of Cheeri-ohs up, making a mental note and promise to himself that if he takes anything from this verse, it has to be this. Such a fucking stupid thing, but oh god it got him giddy.

Now, it was time for the main event, the final show, the climax — his hideout. Adrian fishes out his keychain, gloved hands fiddling with the tiny pieces of metal for a moment as he tries to find the right key, inserting the first one into the first lock. With a click, he feels the lock cracking open. Fuck yes! Another click. Lock two done. Third click, three out of three locks unlocked. Seems like even in this universe, he uses the same lock. His grin spreads even wider if it's even possible as he pushes the door open, slow and meticulous, unsure of what could possibly await him on the other side.

He's cautious, steps measured even if his excitement was surging to insane levels, heart almost beating out of his chest. He could've sworn that he could hear his own accelerated heartbeat in his ears as he progressed further into the room. 

That's when he sees it — Adrian 2. There he was, sitting at a desk original Adrian didn't even have. Perhaps Adrian 2 had a table instead of copious amounts of blood money and heaps of cocaine, considering that those were either missing or better hidden. 

But of course, Adrian 2 is still Adrian, still Vigilante, and just as original Adrian steps close enough, Adrian 2 turns on his heels in the blink of an eye, quickdrawing a pistol at an insane speed, now facing original Adrian with the gun aimed right at his masked face. 

Wait a minute...

Adrian's eyes widen as he takes in the sight in front of him. Standing just inches away from him, in full armor is him, yes, with one little difference — it's a girl. A pretty one at that!

This chick can't be him! If he looked this hot, he'd be a chick-magnet!

It was as if he was staring into a mirror, same height, same haircolor — although the hair length was different, hers was longer —, same armor, even the same pair of wired glasses, practically a genderbent version of him posing in front of him. The same face. Well, not exactly the same, because hers was much more delicate, her skin was clearer, and her eyes – which sat behind the exact same prescription glasses as Adrian’s – were somehow much… girlier. 

"Who're you?" she immediately retorted. Of course she did, seeing a perfect replica of yourself just appear in your super secret cocaine storing hideout must've been freaky, especially if you weren't aware that people, including alternate yous can travel between dimensions. "And why are you here?"

"Oh, woah, hold on, hold on!" Adrian wastes no time, pulling his mask off in one single move. He immediately fixes his gaze back on Adrian 2 — is she even called Adrian, or did the gender switch do something with the names too? —, a shit-eating grin plastered over his face. "I'm you! I'm you from another dimension!"

He sees as something clicks just right in Adrian 2's mind, as she slowly lowers the gun before the same smile takes over her too. The same, ear-to-ear smile that perfectly matched Adrian's.

"Are you fucking kidding me?!" she exclaims with just as much joy and excitement as original Adrian did. Well, at least this was a constant throughout the multiverse!

"I know, right! My keys worked to get in here!"

"You've got keys to my bunker?"

"Not to yours, to mine! But it works here too, 'cause you know, you're me and I'm you! Wait, and that means you have the same stupid patterned socks under your boots?” Adrian almost jumped with joy and was about to reach for his shoelaces to prove it, but she waved him off with a single, casual gesture.

“That’s insane! That’s just brilliant!” the girl laughed, and took a relieved step back towards the table, exactly where Adrian usually kept his full magazines at home. “Wait, if you’re me, then your name is Adrian too?”

"Yes! But I came up with Adrian 2 thinking of you on the way, but now that I see you're a girl... I don't know. Adri? Adriana?" 

"Adriana. But I hate being called that. So let's stick with Adrian 2, it's much more sci-fi. Oh my god, look at your armor! Just like mine!" She poked Adrian's shoulder guard, and the boy proudly pulled himself up. 

"Yeah, it's a unique design. But wait, let's get one thing straight." Adrian picked up the box he'd looted from the kitchen and pushed it in front of Adriana's face with a dramatic expression. "What the hell is Cheeri-ohs? Ohs? Seriously? With a hyphen?" 

"Why, what do you call it? Cheerio-not-ohs? That sounds much lamer!"

“No way, we have Cheerios! Written in one! Like in a normal, civilized universe!” Adrian shook the box indignantly, as if it were some holy relic. “Never mind, I’ll take this home. Chris will faint if he sees it." 

"Wait, you're really me from another dimension?! That shit's real?!" Adrian 2 grins, accompanied by a chuckle as she slapped the gun back into its holster resting on her hip. Adrian quickly inspects his counterpart's suit, while Adrian 2 does the exact same. Yeah, a perfect copy of the uniform, from the colors to the materials and padding. Perhaps the only difference was that considering their somewhat different bodybuild — Adrian 2's being more feminine, but just as lean as Adrian's —, the suit aligned with that.

"Yeah! I wasn't sure about it either, until I busted through a portal, and landed here! Oh, I'm so glad you're like the cool type of counterpart, and not the evil kind like Chris'," original Adrian rambles on, carried away by the heat of the moment of meeting himself.

"Chris... Who the hell's Chris?" Adrian 2's brows furrow, a tiny, unsure and not too pleasant thought forming in her mind. If original Adrian means the same Chris Adrian 2's thinking about…

"My… best friend. Peacemaker. Do you guys not have hi—"

"Peacemaker?!" she shouts, and original Adrian could bet that dad upstairs heard it. If he's as nosy in this universe as his mom is in his, then with the door now unlocked, they're sure to get busted. "Christopher Smith Peacemaker?!"

“Yeah! Yeah…?” Original Adrian swallows hard, words stuck in his throat for a moment as he becomes a stuttering mess for a moment. "You, you uh... He's not our bestie in this universe? Or like, do you guys know each other, or…?"

"He's my arch nemesis!" Adrian 2 declares, her hate towards Peacemaker evident from her heaved tone.

"Wha— Peace's our enemy here? What the fuck?"

"He's the reason why I joined the Sons of Liberty!"

"The Sons of Liberty..?" Adrian's eyes narrow, trying his best to piece together the puzzle pieces of this universe, even if he was missing a shit ton of pieces.

"Yeah! Fighting oppression, the nazis, including Peacemaker! He's the worst of the bunch!" she wildly motions with her hands, lost in the explanation and hate.

"Nazis…?" 

The conversation blooms as Adrian 2 gives a surface level explanation of the workings of her universe, spiced with a little side note of who their favourite Pokémon is — Infernape in both universes of course —, when their hair looks best — 3 in the morning, of course —, realizing that they really were like a carbon copy personality and mentality-wise. 

Nazis winning World War 2, everything going downhill from there. The beef with Peacemaker? A white, middle aged privileged man, who's been on Adrian 2's ass ever since finding out that a girl was behind the mask, and her fighting because Adrian 2's friend was taken due to her skin color, at the hands of Peacemaker. The concept of an evil Peacemaker, or at least one that isn't Vigilante's bestie, seemed so alien to Adrian. Still, Nazis were basically at the top of his hit list. His Peacemaker might be the most rad person he knows, but in this universe, he was ready to slime him out. If this verse’s Peace hadn't already been murdered by his Chris.

"Where’s the cocaine?” A random question, but one that's been bugging original Adrian for a while now.

Adrian 2 smiled and gestured towards the wall, where, from behind a camouflaged panel, peeked out the exact same military bags that Adrian had used to keep the loot he’d stolen from the drug dealers. 

“Oh, thank God, I was scared you were a boring model citizen with only a desk,” Adrian sighed in relief, while glancing around and noticing that the weapons rack was lined with almost the same rifles.

“Listen,” Adrian 2 stepped closer, studying the boy’s face curiously. “If you’re me… then you’re an absolute, irresistible girl magnet back home, held back only by your sacred duty to law enforcement from constantly flirting, right?” 

Adrian paused for a moment, remembering his own somewhat lonely and strange social life, but his Vigilante ego didn’t let him down. 

“Dude… you have no idea. If I were a girl—like you, I mean—I’d be looking at myself in the mirror all the time. I swear, you’re really hot.” ​​

“Woah shit, thanks! You’re not bad either. But you’re me, just different gender, so, you know.” 

Before they could delve deeper into the analysis of alternate realities and their own greatness, heavy, shuffling footsteps came from the cellar door. Both Vigilantes froze at the same time, their reflexes working in perfect sync.

"Adri! What the hell is going on down there? Who are you talking to?" a hoarse, unpleasant voice bellowed from the stairs. Adrian 2 immediately reached for her mask, her face darkening. 

“Myself!” she shouted up. Not entirely a lie, right? “My dad. Is he still an asshole?" she whispered to Adrian. 

"The biggest one in the world," Adrian nodded, pulling his own mask back over his head. 

"Is he a racist at your place, too?" 

"Yeah. And he hates cats." 

The threat of Adebayo being captured and killed suddenly struck Adrian like lightning. Needless to say, he and his counterpart immediately jumped, heading straight to the mansion where Adrian hopped through the portal. How will they get there? Key the Honda of Adrian 2's dad, of course.

"Crazy that you got your dad in this universe," original Adrian states as he spectates the scenery they passed by, Adrian 2 seated in the driver's seat. "In mine, he left us under the guise that he was gay."

"Wait, it happened to you too?" Adrian 2 exclaims, eyes shooting over to original Adrian before drifting back to the road. "I mean, for me it was my mom leaving because she was a lesbian, but I guess it's just part of this genderbent thing."

"Yeah, I'm a dude and my dad leaves, you're a chick and your mom leaves. Makes sense," the original Adrian nodded thoughtfully, leaning his head against the window and watching the slightly more depressing streets of Evergreen pass by. "Though when you think about it, your life is much more action-packed. I mean, fighting Nazis? The Sons of Liberty? It's a thousand times more intense than hanging out in weird, run-down motel rooms while Harcourt argues with John about who ate the last donut."

“Wait, Harcourt is a cold, scary warrior in your world?” Adrian 2 asked, as she stepped on the gas, the scratched Honda engine roaring angrily. “Here, she’s an office chick, I only know him because Peacemaker used to go out with her, and it was this big news sensation thing.”

“Yeah! Although she went off with Peace’s younger brother, who’s dead in my verse, so… I have no idea where she is right now.” Adrian suddenly sat up straighter in his seat as the thought crossed his mind. “Wait a minute. If in this world Peacemaker is an enemy figure and his younger brother is alive… then the two of them are working together?” 

Adrian 2’s face tensed behind the wheel, her fingertips almost turning pale into his gloves. 

“Keith Smith? That aggressive guy? They do. They’re the loyal little soldiers of the Blue Dragon. If they’ve got your friend… that girl, Adebayo, right? Then she’s in big trouble. The Smiths don’t spare their opponents, not from what I saw."

Adrian’s stomach clenched for a moment. Adebayo might be annoying him at times, but she was still part of the team. And more importantly, she was Chris’s friend. His Chris’s friend, I mean. 

“Then we need to hurry. Because if John and Ads from my world are at danger… Fuck.” 

“Don’t worry. I know the Smith Nest like the back of my hand. I’ve tried to sabotage their base many times,” Adrian 2 shrugged with a deadly serious yet relaxed grin. “Plus, I can’t wait to see their faces when they see us. Two Vigilantes? It’s an oppressor’s nightmare.” 

"Now that I think about it, do you… have your own 11th Street Kids?" original Adrian spoke up, meandering.

"11th Street what?" Adrian 2's confused voice came from behind the wheel. "Your team? Peacemaker, Harcourt, them, right?"

"Yeah," original Adrian nodded in response.

"Well, my team is the Sons of Liberty. Different universes, different teams I suppose. But you guys seem to be more close-knit than I am with my guys." 

As the Honda turned the last street, its tires screeching, the fortress-like mansion where the portal had opened loomed in the distance. The two Vigilantes kicked open the car doors at the same time, guns in hand, darting behind the nearest cover in perfect synchronization.

Up on a hill near the house, they found their perfect hiding spot — except, it was already occupied. Much to their surprise, it was Adebayo herself, armed with Judomaster, who Adrian 2 just stared down, trying to decide if the person in front of her was a kid, an illusion, or simply somebody short. Turns out, the person they came here to saw didn't need any saving at all. Chris, on the other hand…

Adebayo and Judomaster have already scoped out the area, given that they arrived earlier, their sights set on Peacemaker, his alternate dad and brother and Harcourt in a living room. The plan was simple: eliminate August Smith aka Blue Dragon, and Keith Smith, heroically saving Peacemaker and getting him back to his own verse. 

Shit hits the fan when original Adrian busts through a window, the glass shattering and flying in all directions, his pocket knife leaving countless holes on the throat of Chris' dad after repeated stabbing. Perhaps somebody should've told the Vigilantes that August Smith was not the villain here, but oh well, what's done is done, and August Smith is dead. Keith, on the other hand…

The man was adamant on getting his revenge on the intruders, and he was out for blood. The only viable plan now was if they resorted to getting the fuck out of this verse as fast as possible.

“Fuck, this dude really looks like an orbital root!” the original Adrian shouted over the noise of the gunfire, as he immediately opened fire. 

“I told you so!” Adrian 2 shouted back, as she threw himself over a stone ledge with an acrobatic move and took out the cops standing behind Keith with two accurate shots. John and Ads froze for a moment in the middle of the hail of bullets. John looked from one Vigilante to the other with wide eyes. 

“What the... are there two Adrians?! And one of them has tits?!”

“Stop talking nonsense, John, shoot!” Adebayo shouted as she changed cover. The outcome of the fight was ultimately decided by the perfect, almost telepathic cooperation between the two Adrians. They moved side by side as if they had fought together all their lifetimes – which was logical, since they had the same reflexes and thoughts. They were the cover and the murder machine, while the others tried to drag themselves to the portal they entered through.

“That’s it! Run, you dick!” the original Adrian then shouted after a cop, now an entire unit scattered in the house. The portal that Chris’ gadget had opened was already starting to vibrate dangerously. The moment to return home had arrived. Adrian 2 – or Adriana – lowered her weapon, that grin on his face as she pressed the box of Cheeri-ohs she had stolen from the kitchen into the original Adrian’s hand, which she had managed to keep during the fight. 

“Take this with you as a souvenir. So you know what real luxury is,” Adriana laughed. 

“Thank you. You’re the coolest me I’ve ever met,” Adrian said, and suddenly, in a completely unusual way for him, he hugged her. His counterpart was surprised for a moment, but then she firmly slapped the boy on the back. 

“I know. And hey... when you get home, tell your Chris to be thankful he’s not a Nazi asshole.” 

“I’ll do!” Adrian nodded, and before he could've said anything else, Adrian 2 didn't hesitate as she pushed him straight through the door, shutting it with a kick and without a goodbye, the sound of gunfire echoing right before the portal completely closed.

The flash of light faded, and Adrian landed on the ground in the neverending, Backrooms-like storage of Chris' house of his own world. He looked up at Chris Smith — the good one, his best friend — standing next to him, blinking in confusion, and then proudly held up the box of hyphenated cereal. 

"Dude, you have no idea what I've been on... and I brought you breakfast."

His smirk softens into something warmer as he gestures toward you with a playful tilt of his chin. The tiny crowd – mostly consisting of middle aged alcoholics and rugged teenage boys – all turn to your direction in almost perfect unison, finding your subtle hiding spot by following Alec’s gaze. 

"Name’s Alec McDowell—unofficial pool shark and occasional charmer. You look like someone who either plays to win... or knows how to lose with style."

Without any word, they all shuffle to the sides, opening a clear path between you and the self-titled “pool shark”. Your nose subtly scrunches up, mentally cursing yourself for wandering into what proposed to be the worst place you could’ve found — a foulmouthed, ego-filled smug guy as the pool master was the last thing you needed.  

"So, which is it gonna be?"

"I suppose we'll see," you shrug with an expression he couldn't quite place. After all, if he wants to play it cool, you might as well counter him with his own poison.

The shrug hits Alec like a challenge, quiet, mysterious, the kind that makes him sit up straighter without even realizing it.

"Oho," he breathes out with a low chuckle, circling you slowly like he's sizing up an opponent, or maybe a puzzle. "Mysterious type. I respect it."

He stops in front of you, cue now resting across his shoulders as he studies your face, the unreadable expression on your face doing nothing but fueling his interest. The bar hums with background noise: clinking balls from other tables, laughter from the bar counter, but for Alec? It’s all faded into static.

"Alright then," he says after a beat, "no name? No telltale tells? Just… silence and confidence?"  

A slow grin crawls back onto his lips. Playing with you proved to be a little different than what it was like with the alcoholic dads and immature dudes wandering to the table.

"I'm gonna enjoy figuring you out," he mutters under his breath, the grin still alive and well on his face, as he leisurely takes a step backwards.  

Without asking permission — because why would he? — he grabs another cue off the rack and slides it toward you.

"First try figuring out how to win," you take the cue like a perfectly wrapped christmas present, sauntering to the side of the pool table, into the dim area away from the brightly lit table.

"You’re not gonna talk much… are ya?" Alec leans on his side of the table, the bright lights carving sharp shadows across his jaw, and lines up an imaginary shot with exaggerated focus before glancing over at you. "Or do I get all my clues from how you play?"

You shrug, circling the table until coming to a halt where your eyes spy a perfectly right spot to spectate – and perhaps score well — from.

Alec just leans against the rail at his end of the table, arms crossed now over his chest, and lets out a quiet “Huh.”

"Playing it cool and picking tactical real estate," he mutters to himself with approval. "Smart move. Alright then. No warm-up? Just straight into war?"

Alec grabs a piece of chalk from his pocket and rubs it slowly along his cue tip, the scrape loud in contrast to everything else.

“'Tis the second bar I'm hitting up tonight. I've already had my warmup elsewhere. Although you should be worried about yourself and not about me,” you bluntly reply, just waiting for him, as the pool master of this bar, to start the round.

""Ooooh," he drawls, "someone’s got a bite. First bar’s warm-up? Second stop’s warzone? So you’re not some rookie stumbling in for funsies, you’ve got game already,” a slow smirk curls at the corner of his mouth. Not cocky this time. 

Without breaking eye contact or looking away even once, Alec leans forward slightly, braces one hand on the table edge near your side of it — not too close… but close enough —, and speaks up.

"Last guy who told me I should be worried? Ended up buying my drinks for a week after losing three games straight."

He grabs a cue ball with his other hand… rolls it gently toward center table… then picks up chalk again.

"But sure," he adds softly, "let's see if tonight's any different."

The cue ball glides smoothly into position. Alec’s stance is relaxed but precise, one knee bent slightly, weight balanced forward like a coiled spring, by the looks of it, effortless — loose but precise, like he’s been doing this since birth. His eyes don’t flicker, just lock onto the 8-ball tucked neatly behind a cluster of stripes.

Silence falls over your little corner of the pool hall. Even the background noise seems to hush as Alec takes his breath.

Then — snap — the cue moves in one fluid motion: smooth draw back, sharp follow-through.  

Thwack.

Without waiting for an answer (because let's be real—Alec McDowell doesn't wait), he racks ‘em fast: click-clack-whirr—the balls scatter.

The shot lands clean, a perfect strike that sends the cue ball arcing around two solids before kissing gently off another rail… and smacking right into the pocket with a quiet knock, the soft noise almost echoing in the space.

Silence for half a second… then Alec exhales sharply through his nose—a quiet “Yeah.” Not gloating, just pleased. Like an artist seeing their first stroke land exactly right. Alec exhales slowly through his nose, but doesn't smile just yet, he just straightens up calmly and picks up chalk again. 

He didn’t say anything cocky. Didn’t need to. That shot spoke for itself.

The game rolls on. Alec’s rhythm is smooth, almost hypnotic: chalk, stance, breath… crack. Another ball drops.

But even the kings of the table stumble. And tonight? He just so happened to be the victim.

It happens when he lines up a tricky angle shot, the 4-ball wedged between two stripes near the corner pocket. A risky play. High risk, high reward.

Alec bends into it, eyes narrowing with focus, but something’s off just slightly in his alignment… maybe an inch too far left…

Thwack.

The cue ball hits hard, but instead of sliding clean through to knock the 4 into the pocket, it clips it awkwardly and sends it skittering sideways... no kiss… no fall.

Dead silence for half a second. Alec doesn’t flinch outwardly, but inside? Oh yeah. That one stings.  

He straightens slowly and exhales through his nose like he's resetting himself before turning those eyes toward you.

In return, you shoot him a soft, friendly grin as you shift from your position at the table, sauntering over to where you saw an opportunity at. 

The softness of your grin hits Alec like a surprise. Gentle, almost kind, in contrast to the competitive fire that’s been burning between you two. And for a guy who thrives on confidence and control, that small act disarms him just slightly. It throws him.

Not because he’s embarrassed — no way —, but because most people either gloat or stay stone-faced when you miss. But you, you’re smiling like this is all part of the fun.

As you saunter over to your chosen position on the table’s opposite side, Alec watches every step, the sway of your movement under those dim lights making his pulse jump just slightly.

He watches you move across the floor, right toward where he left his missed shot wide open. The 4-ball sits alone now, vulnerable.

He clears his throat quietly and racks his cue against the table again, not out of frustration, but to keep busy while he watches you get ready for your shot.

Alec crosses his arms again, not defensively this time. He doesn’t say anything yet, just studies how you position yourself at the table: how far back from it you stand before leaning in, how naturally your fingers settle around the cue handle.

Your eyes lock onto the table ahead — specifically on the scrambled bunch of a 2-ball and 4-ball lined perfectly for a shot. You let out an elongated, nasal breath as if that was your countdown for the strike. You slide the pool cue straight into the white ball with an echoing knock, and straighten up as you intently keep your eyes on the pool balls as they scatter on the ivory surface, thrashing against each other. The outcome? The white ball ricochets off two rails, bouncing with precision, and as the balls push against each other, the 2-ball slides just right in, landing with a wooden thump. A soft but satisfying sound as it drops neatly into the corner pocket.

Alec doesn’t blink until after it settles into place. Then slowly, a real smile spreads across his face, not smug this time, not competitive, just… impressed.

"Damn," he mutters under his breath, "that was pretty good."

He uncrosses his arms and leans forward slightly over the rail again, not to critique or challenge you, but because he can't help being drawn closer by how smoothly you played that shot.

Now he's actually curious what else you've got.

"I got the shot," you begin with a huff, thumb smoothing over the cue's tip as if cleaning it. "Means I get another round, no?"

"Oh, absolutely," he says, voice warm and easy now, "rules are rules. You made it? You get another shot."

He gestures toward the table with an open hand, eyes bright, shoulders relaxed but attentive.

The scattered balls lie across the felt, clusters forming new opportunities, angles opening up.

Alec grabs a fresh piece of chalk from his pocket — not for himself —, and holds it out to you silently on offer. A small gesture, but a meaningful one. Chalk is tradition, respect between players. And right now, he's treating you like someone worth passing it to.

Your lips twitch into a soft, half-hearted smile, falling into a small pause as your eyes fall onto the piece of chalk. 

"Thank you, good sir," you click your tongue as you carefully snatch the piece, eyes drifting onto Alec before going back to the cue's tip. As you brush the chalk over it, you saunter to where you've already surveyed your next best position, circling the pool table like a hawk does with its prey — finally halting in the exact spot you've found for yourself. 

Spot secured, but the chalk was still with you. The piece rests in your palm, eyes falling onto it, before your gaze lifts back onto Alec's face. For a moment, you stand still as if waiting for the man himself to ask for the chalk back, but seeing that it's not too likely, you hold the chalk forward, hand extended over the pool table under the bright, almost yellowing lighting cast over the table for him to take. 

The lights catch the edges of your outstretched hand, the chalk resting small and pale in your palm, glinting under that harsh glow.

And for a second? He just… looks at you. Not at the chalk. At you.

He doesn’t reach right away. Instead, he walks slowly around to his side of the table — cue still tucked under one arm — and as he passes where you’re standing, your shoulders almost brush with silent proximity.

Then Alec reaches out. Long fingers curl gently over yours, not grabbing sharply, but meeting them with soft pressure as he takes back what was his. His fingertips graze yours for half a heartbeat longer than necessary.

You shoot him a quick smile — not a grin, not a flaunting one —, before your eyes drift back onto the dark green felt, the scrambled balls still laying motionless on it. Stepping just an inch back, you lean forward, hands poised to support the cue resting on your skin. A moment of silence passes by before you draw your hands back and smash the cue forward — with controlled power, not a reckless kind —, into the white ball, which rockets forward like a bullet fired from point-blank range, watching as the previously eyed 4-ball rolls over the table, first kissing the dark railing before its roll beings to slow down.

And there it lingers. A tense pause. The whole pool hall seems to hold its breath as that little black-and-white numbered four wobbles... slowly... agonizingly slow... at just that angle over an open pocket.

Then…

Plink.

A soft drop into destiny.  

Alec exhales sharply through his nose, a sound between awe and amusement, as he watches another clean make fall right in front of him. The breath you release — long, slow, almost entirely unnoticeable — is quiet enough for the group of others lingering around to ignore, but that wasn’t the case for the man standing on the other side of the table.

Alec hears it. And damn if that doesn’t do things to him.

He’s still watching the pocket where the 4-ball disappeared, but now his gaze drifts up to you. The way your shoulders relax slightly after holding tension for that shot. The faint curve at one corner of your mouth before you even smile fully.

Something in Alec shifts. That competitive spark? Still there, but now mixed with something warmer.

Without saying anything yet, he simply picks up his cue again and walks around to reset position. This time, his steps are slower than usual.

The clatter of the 4-ball settling into the bottom of the pocket fades. Alec stops at the head of the table, resting the butt of his cue against the floorboards. He doesn't immediately look down at the remaining balls. Instead, his eyes stay anchored on yours.

"Two for two," he says, his voice dropping an octave, slipping easily beneath the ambient roar of the bar's jukebox and the clinking glasses nearby. "And here I thought you were just trying to survive the night. You're actively trying to ruin my reputation, aren't you?"

His voice didn’t carry anger, just amusement. And perhaps some admiration, wrapped in flirting.

He takes a slow step to the left, his eyes finally drifting down to inspect the new layout of the table. The cue ball has rolled into the center of the green felt, leaving a slightly awkward angle on the remaining solids. It’s a shooter's layout—hardly easy, but a clear invitation for someone who obviously knows how to manipulate a cue stick.

Alec tilts his head, studying the angles, then looks back up at you through his eyelashes. The orange glow of the hanging lamp somehow makes his usual smug demeanor look entirely different. Less like a cocky bar regular, and more like someone who has completely forgotten there’s anyone else in the room.

"You've got that look again," Alec murmurs, stepping just a fraction closer to the table's edge, his fingers loosely gripping his cue. "Like you’ve got a plan. Go on then. Don't let me keep you from a hat-trick."

He gestures with a subtle nod toward the cue ball, his lips curving into a quiet, expectant smile.

For once, you don't overthink it, you don't let the magic of the moment or Alec's slow, telling steps throw you off. The momentum is on your side, and in pool, a hot streak can't be allowed to cool. With one decisive step, you're right behind the cue ball before Alec can even get comfortable on the edge of the table. You don't even wait for his comment to die down completely.

You lean low over the table, the bridge formed by your left hand presses firmly against the dark green felt. Alec falls silent abruptly, sensing your focus. The cue slides smoothly between your fingers three times — one, two, three, just by the book — and then, on the final stroke, the cue tip bites precisely into the center of the white ball. Clack.

The cue ball starts in a sharp line, almost gliding across the table, and hits the next ball at a perfect angle. No need to worry as the ball goes straight, clean, and without any hesitation into the designated side pocket. Another dull, echoing thud signals success. Three out of three. 

Alec exhales softly and shakes his head in approval. 

"You're not wasting much time," he says, leaning on his cue and taking a step closer.

You stiffen for a second after the shot, but instead of immediately looking for the next ball with your eyes, you slowly straighten up. You let the cue fall loosely to your side, put your weight on one leg, and turn towards Alec. You don’t look at the pockets. You just watch him.

A small, almost cheekily generous smile appears on your lips. You pick up your cue and, as if you were just giving up your place on the dance floor to a gentleman, you point towards the table with an elegant gesture. You offer him the next shot. Voluntarily, breaking the rules.

For a second, Alec freezes. You’re looking at him. Not the table. Not the balls, just him. And that smile? Yeah. It hits Alec like a warm punch to the chest.

Your offer hangs in the air as an unspoken "Your turn."

For half a second, he almost doesn't know what to do with himself. He was about to watch you clear the table completely, but this gesture knocks him out of his confidence. He stands leaning on his cue, then laughs softly. 

"Really?" he asks, taking a half step towards you, his eyes almost sparkling in the yellowish light. "You're giving the host alms? Dangerous game you’re playing here," he says more quietly, his voice almost droning over the background noise as his eyes scan your face. "What if I take the opportunity, and don't let you have any more words? You sure you want to hand over the cue?"

"Your call," you shrug casually, and instead of waiting for Alec to actually take your seat, you turn back to the table. You slide closer to the table and with another confident stroke, you send the next ball clean into the corner pocket. Another point, another perfect hit. 

But pool is an unpredictable game. In the next round, you choose a particularly tricky shot, bouncing off the wall. Your cue moves, the white ball starts, but it ends up missing the pocket by inches and bouncing off the rubber wall with a loud bang, leaving Alec in a wide open position. Shit.

Alec doesn’t move immediately. He just stares at the balls that have settled for a moment, then slowly raises his gaze to you. He doesn’t rush to the table, instead, he walks slowly around it until he’s standing across from you, leaning on his cue, right at the edge of the lamp’s light. 

“Listen,” he narrows his eyes with a faint smile. “That shot… wasn’t that hard for someone who’d pocketed the balls against the wall before. You didn’t make a mistake on purpose, right?” He deliberately lowers his voice so that the teenagers and regulars around you can’t hear him. "Do you want to even the odds so the match doesn't get too boring?" he asks cheekily, though the tremor in his voice betrays just how much he’s enjoying this cat-and-mouse game. "Or did you just feel sorry for me?"

"Perhaps both," you answer, words almost floating in the smoky pub air. "Or neither. Either way, you're up. Care to pull off a runout?" 

With one last, faint smile, you step back from the light, straight into the dim corner where you stood at the beginning of the match. You blend into the red and blue shadows of the neon lights, arms folded, leaning on your cue, watching, completely surrendering to the terrain. 

Alec is still there for a moment, under the influence of your words. A soft, appreciative laugh breaks out of him as he shakes his head. 

"Ain’t I glad you decided to show up," he gestures in front of him, finally taking a firm stand at the table. His position’s the same as before. Stable, yet looking so relaxed.

Alec, completely fired up by your challenge, makes no more mistakes. He takes your word for it and, with the utmost professionalism, pockets the remaining balls one after the other, down to the black 8, until he finally ties the game. 

When the last ball is pocketed, the small crowd watching in the background murmurs softly, a few thumping at their table in approval. Alec straightens up, spins his cue in his hand, and looks straight at you.

“I think you’re my guest for a drink,” Alec says, replacing his cue in the holder on the wall and nodding toward the bar. “We need to talk about where you learned to play like that… and when we’re having the rematch.”

The advertisement that crossed you a literal day ago didn’t feel so tempting now that you actually had to show up. But hey, time to face what you signed up for, right? Even if your hands were shaking so badly that your best attempt at suppressing it — at least so that the other employees strutting through the building and past you don’t notice the tremors — being just you pushing your hands between your knees, as if trying to cut off circulation. By now, you were convinced that you won’t even last a week here — that is, if Vought doesn’t fire you before you could quit. 

Did you think much when accepting the job? To be honest, no. 

You’ve been suffering in the depths of unemployment, scared of the word j*b, for only God knows how long. The bills, food, and other desires you had weren’t going to pay for themselves, right? 

Even if the thought of an OnlyFans account — even if just to sell feet pics — popped up in your mind at one point, your unexplainable fears successfully threw that idea out of the window. So, you had to revert back to the basics, that being an actual, legitimate job. 

You were smart enough to think rationally though, deciding that if you were really going to leech off of a company, at least choose a big, wealthy one, not the gyros stand on the street corner that can’t pay you more than a dollar per shift. The best target? Vought. 

If there was any company that was in your preferred salary range and that you actually had a chance getting a job at, it was Vought. They were everywhere, every industry, every city, every partnership you could think of, the company quite literally swimming in stacks of cash — some of which you decided to earn for yourself. 

Initially, the plan was to just apply to be a janitor. Yeah, it’s probably not the job most people dream about, but Vought had enough money to spare to let even their janitors get a huge sum of money on their monthly check. Hell, if you’re gonna do a shitty job, let it be the one where you lose less of your dignity and pride — looking at you, OnlyFans. 

So, last morning, in a sudden fit of motivation — that faded away five crisp seconds after sending in your CV and application —, you decided to give your overnight idea a try, opening your browser and typing in Vought’s site. Sure enough, you found the subsite of their open jobs, all for you to take. 

Regional Sales Representative… No. In-house Systems Engineer… Not qualified. Legal Department… Probably not qualified. Patent work for amusement machines (e.g. Pachinko slots… What? Corporate governance officer… Nope…

Despite all the open positions, you just couldn’t find anything to match up with your skills. You either didn’t meet the qualifications, or couldn’t even register what the job exactly was, letting out a sigh as you notice that you’ve reached the end of the list. All these blue hyperlinks, and none of them are there for you.

Still, you needed money, although you were starting to feel embarrassed of your own helplessness. If you keep this up, you’ll end up standing behind the gyros stand all day, right next to the sewer system. Desperation washed over you, deciding to refresh the page the same way you always kept opening the fridge when you couldn’t find any good snacks, as if something would spawn in there by itself. 

Except with this site, something did spawn in.

Your eyes narrowed, mind trying to process if what you’re seeing is actually real, or if it’s just desperation playing tricks on your mind. No, it was definitely there. A fresh, crisp, real and new job offering. It didn’t take any convincing to get you to click on it, eyes speeding through the letters on the screen to check if you were actually qualified for something.

And lo and behold… you were. 

Well, technically, anybody was. By the looks of it, you weren’t the only desperate person around, Vought seemingly in just as much trouble as you were, their newest ad for an open position so haphazardly written, without basically any requirements. 

Personal Assistant/Secretary, now hiring!

Our office at Vought is looking for a skilled personal assistant/secretary to join the team! Applicants should have previous experience in a similar role and an enthusiastic demeanor. As our secretary, you will be asked to handle some of one of our staff members' tasks. This can include copying and pasting, PR management, occasional field work, personal bartending, and pretty much whatever is requested of you on the scene!  If your qualifications match what we're looking for, we'd love to see your application.

Okay, there were requirements, but all pretty… loose. All the others required knowledge of something specific, a set degree, something you lacked. This one, on the other hand, barely stated anything. It was something anybody could wing, including you too.

Excel? You were taught that in school! You forgot basically everything about it, but a VoughTube tutorial on the spot will surely be enough to refresh all the memories locked in the depths of your mind. Making coffee? Oh come on, amateur work. Typing out documents and whatnot? Easy work. Field work interested you, because what the fuck can field work mean for a secretary? PR was likely just lying on Twitter, and bartending couldn’t have been that hard either. 

Without much thinking, you clicked on the apply button glowing blue on your screen, filled out whatever needed to be filled out, attached a CV in hopes that it would miraculously land you the job, and hit send. 

The silence that followed afterwards was deafening. You, alone in your crammed apartment, slumped in front of your laptop in a pose that would make even a shrimp jealous. Overall, pretty depressing. But hey, you took that necessary step in entering the great corporate world, so props to you! Even if you were convinced that they’d reject your application the moment they see it…

Fate works in mysterious ways, or so they say, because not even ten minutes later, you got a fresh email. Ashley Barrett, Vought International.

Is this a fucking joke..?

Although a bit skeptical, you click on the mail, realizing that even if it’s some kind of scam, reading through it can’t hurt you. Your eyes scanned through it — it was short, written in a hurry, and ended with the job somehow yours. Your first emotion? Disbelief. When you previously tried to land a job somewhere, it took them five hundred years to reply, let alone accept you into their circles. Meanwhile, the busiest company replies and accepts your application in the span of ten minutes. 

As unbelievable as it sounded, it was real. You got it. A job at Vought. Personal Assistant, slash secretary, for whoever. I guess they just forgot to disclose whose assistant you’d end up being. Perhaps it hasn’t been decided yet or something?

Much to your luck — and dismay —, they didn’t waste any time, letting you know that you’d be put into work the next day.

And now, it was the next day. You sat there awkwardly, hunched, in one of the white faux leather seats in the lobby, waiting for the person who was supposed to give you a quick run-down of the place and officially integrate you into the company. The only thing you could see around you was Homelander. 

Not the actual supe, but rather a shit ton of posters, banners, and ads, all with that blonde’s face plastered over them. You weren’t that into Vought, but you knew Homelander perfectly well. Let’s be fair, who didn’t? Kids today were more likely to recognize Homelander than Jesus, and that’s gotta mean something, no?

You were somewhat aware of the other supes in Vought’s line-up, A-Train, Queen Maeve, hell, even Mr. Marathon from The Seven’s older days. There were so many supes nowadays that it was impossible to keep track of all of them, you considered it a great success that you managed to keep as much as the members of The Seven in your mind. Them, and the supes from back when there were perhaps five in total. Bombsight, Private Angel, Torpedo, and the worst of all, Soldier Boy. 

Most of your knowledge about them came from your time at a retirement home, a summer job one of your friends – what friends – suggested. Quick money, not much struggle, and at least you’re useful. What she forgot to mention was that the elderly staying there were all supes. Old people, you can take. But old people with superpowers? Now that’s an entirely different topic, and something you didn’t sign up for. Officially, you did, they had your signature on the papers — which also forgot to mention that the people residing there were armed with deadly superpowers.

Seemingly, a recurring theme with Vought jobs was that their job descriptions had way too many omissions, barely any specifics.

Still, those two weeks you spent there were accompanied by the television on in basically every single room, all practically programmed to only play these old Hollywood films, ninety percent starring the same supes. Midnight at Midway and Merchant Mariner both starring Torpedo, Moonshine Thunder, The Bombsight Brigade, and Air Raid at 08 Hundred starring Bombsight, and Savior of Saipan starring Private Angel. You knew all of these films just from your time spent at that retirement home, and you could’ve sworn that you could identify each of these films by a single shot or line from them. 

Why didn't they play anything about Soldier Boy, you may ask? Well, after the explosion at Vought Tower around two years ago, Vought just passed him off as a Russian spy and called it a day. Needless to say they pulled everything about him off the air as soon as his act of terrorism took place and made it to all the major news stations.

But the short-lived job at the retirement home was now a thing of the past, a — hopefully — brighter future ahead of you. 

At the end of the day, you seemingly had to crawl back to Vought — the retirement home also operated by them — just to get some crisp cash into your wallet. 

“Personal Assistant slash secretary, right?” 

The sudden voice breaks you out of your thoughts immediately, your eyes darting up to face the man standing in front of you. Well dressed, sporting a suit, his hair neatly combed — exactly the kind of guy you’d imagine in a corporate office setting. 

You’re quick to push yourself up from your seat, smoothing out your white dress shirt in one quick motion before straightening up, taking the man’s extended hand and giving it a firm shake. 

“Nice to meet you, sir,” you try to put on your most charming smile, letting go of his hand. 

“Nice meeting you too, Miss. We’re glad you were able to come right away,” he said with a smile you could’ve sworn was forced, yet somehow still looked natural on him. Perhaps the effect of all the years he spent under Vought. Not like you had to worry about ending up like this, already convinced that you won’t even last here long enough to get your first monthly paycheck. The man pivots, his elegant black suit’s back now facing you, before speaking up again. “Follow me, we’ll run through the necessities.”

Without much hesitation, you act on his orders, catching up to him in a split second, the two of you strutting right into an elevator. The man — Mark, as you found out from his keycard — fishes out a keycard from one of his pants’ pockets, pressing it to the sensor located under the elevator buttons before pushing the one with the number 70 engraved into it. The elevator doors slide shut with a mechanical click before it ascends to the chosen level. 

“So Miss,” Mark begins, a weak attempt at breaking the awkward silence that settled on the two of you. “You’re a big fan of Vought’s heroes?”

His question took you by surprise. To be fair, there was no interview for this job, which did surprise you, but also made the hairs on your neck stand up, because if he was really going to hold the interview in this elevator, you were sure you’d collapse right here and now from the panic. Still, you try to think rationally, hoping your brain won’t short-circuit.

“Yes, sir,” you reply after a moment of hesitation. Even if you weren’t invested in them enough to call yourself a fan, you weren’t going to risk losing this job just as you’re in the finish line of securing it. If it meant that you had to lie a bit, then let it be, let’s lie.

“Great,” Mark exclaimed quietly, that fake-real smile gracing his lips again. “Most of our workers end up here because of their love for Vought. I just got curious if that was your case too, since, you know, we couldn’t quite get you on an interview when you applied.”

Joining the company because of your love for Vought… Well, you never would’ve thought you’d hear that, considering that you’ve been browsing through practically every Reddit thread discussing conspiracy theories about Vought. Testimonies and personal experiences written down by past workers, people claiming that Vought called the death of entire families “collateral damage”, basically everything that brought Vought onto the dissecting table. How much of these claims was true you didn’t know, but guessing by the fact that Mark didn’t seem to be held hostage or anything, you supposed that you could survive in this skyscraper too.  

“Again, I’m sorry that we gave you little to no time to prepare,” Mark sighs, successfully breaking you out of your little meandering thoughts. “It’s just… things have been really, how do I say this, chaotic and tumultuous as of late. We’re trying our best to get things back on track again, and sadly that involves us having to act quick. But I’m sure you’ll fit in quickly and just fine.”

With a high-pitched chime, the elevator comes to a halt, the red number on the pixelated screen morphing into a 70 right as the thick metal doors slowly slide apart. Mark is the first to step through it and onto the hallway, heroically leading the way amidst the other employees running around with papers, folders, or paper cups of coffee in their hands. You followed right behind him, not too keen on getting lost in the mess of people already. 

Mark comes to a halt, pushing open a black door located near the end of the hallway, stepping through it with you. Turning in, you were greeted with an office space, blindingly white personal cubicles all around the sides of the room, a couch with a wooden coffee table near where you entered, and a few spare desks, although most were empty. 

“The cube in the far right end is yours, we’ll pick up your ID card from Martha at the front desk, after that I’ll lead you to your boss and you can try settling in,” Mark panted as he strutted over to what seemed to be a small reception nearby the door you entered through. Behind the countertop sat a middle aged woman, her dark brown hair neatly arranged into a ponytail.

By the time you caught up to Mark — who moved around the space with ease and routine movements, compared to you barely able to keep up with his pace —, he was already turning away from the counter, handing you a tiny plastic card.

“You access card, Miss,” he grins as you take the card, before he also extends some kind of marker towards you. “There’s a tiny free spot on the bottom, sign that and put the pen back there. Other employees keep stealing them damn pens… all the time…”

Unsure how to take his comment on the stealing part — knowing that at the first opportunity you’ll do the same —, you keep silent, nodding along with what he said instead, fingers wrapping around the pen too. You crouch down to the coffee table, scribbling a signo onto the card. You wanted to slide the pen into your pocket so badly, but Mark’s piercing gaze that followed all your movements made the task impossible, ending with you handing the pen back to him. But tomorrow’s another day, a day where he won’t be keeping such a close eye on you. Hopefully.

“Great,” Mark exclaims as he struts over to the reception, tossing the pen back into its holder, “now you’re officially a proud Vought employee!”

The word “proud” was a wild exaggeration, but it didn’t take long for you to remember that Mark was still living with the daydream-like thought that you applied due to your overflowing love for Vought and its heroes, likely his reason for expecting you to be proud of securing the job. In a way, you were proud of yourself, but purely because you finally managed to pull yourself out of the slump called unemployment. Nonetheless, you didn’t want to get fired on your first day, settling on the option to smile, nod, and play along for now.

“Your cube’s still pretty empty, you’ll have to get your decorations yourself if you want some, we’ll put your name on the door as soon as we can,” Mark, who you still didn’t quite know who he was, pointed at the cubicle on the other side of the room, before turning away. Just because he moved routinely in the building didn’t mean you did too, trying your best to catch up to the man as soon as you noticed that he’s already about to turn into the next hall.

The two of you successfully ended up at another elevator, Mark stepping into it with just as much confidence as before, waiting a second for you to follow him inside before he hit the number 99 on the keypad of the elevator, its doors slowly sliding shut.

Your eyes drifted onto the pixelated screen above the doors, the floor numbers flickering on it, changing as you went higher and higher, your ears clogging at the sudden change in height. With a forced yawn, you pop the invisible tension in your ears, your hearing back to normal.

“Just to give you a heads up,” Mark spoke, although his voice carried a gentleness that he seemed to be devoid of until now, “you should be careful. He doesn’t exactly like to be bossed around, so whatever you suggest or ask of him, try to make it sound… less like an order. He really didn’t want anybody to be assigned to him, but it’s been less than a day, and we’re… well, let’s just say he’s doing more damage than good so far. He’s capable, your job is mostly supervising him and helping out when he’s just about to smash in a computer screen.”

“That’s… allowed? Smashing in company property?” You question, a hint of panic playing in your voice. Whoever they decided to put you with didn’t sound like a person you’d normally want to deal with. From what you could filter out from Mark’s words, the person you’ve been assigned to was short-tempered, hot-headed, aggressive, and likely sporting a big ego, guessing from the comment about him insisting on not wanting anybody assigned to him. 

Was it a supe? A high-ranking person from Vought? An executive? A trainee? A supe trainee? Perhaps a new member of the Seven? This was yet another thing they forgot to mention in the ad, along with seemingly many, many other things you would’ve liked to know about beforehand. 

Whoever it was, they got the top floor of the tower, 99 seemingly being the highest number in the elevator. By now, you were regretting every single choice that led you into this elevator, into the 99th floor, into a mile radius of the tower. You signed to this job expecting to sit at a desk all day, receive some calls from time to time, fill out a few papers in the name of whoever you’ve been partnered under, not… babysitting. The ad asked for a secretary, for fuck’s sake, not somebody to babysit who you assumed to be a grown man with anger issues. The pay better be worth it…

The elevator comes to a halt with a chime accompanying it, the doors sliding open. Mark steps out, swallowing hard, as if he felt the same way about meeting your boss as you. With your heart thudding out of your chest, you follow him, steps uneven and your legs a bit wobbly. You were already cursing yourself, Vought, your boss, and that damned ad about this job offering. 

You and Mark strut down the circular hallway, your eyes darting from one room door to another, all decorated with name plates and a proper logo. Sister Sage, Firecracker, Homelander, The Deep, Black Noir… The Seven? 

Your eyes widen as realization slowly dawns on you. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Mark just brought you to the private quarters of The Seven — although they were far from having seven members —, the two of you stopping at the door on the opposite side of the hallway compared to where you got out of the elevator. Your eyes scan the door, only to find it devoid of any name or logo.

No hints of who could be behind it… wonderful.

“Remember what I told you,” Mark whispered, his tone so low it was barely audible to you. “Try to keep calm, don’t try bossing him around.”

With that, before you could’ve replied anything, Mark knocks on the door, loud enough for basically the entire floor to hear it. A moment of silence passed by, the two of you waiting for anything to come from the other side. 

To be honest, you saw it as a win. More time for you to prepare a few words in advance and dig around for more info.

“Maybe we should try it later, and—”

“Sir, I’m coming in,” Mark cuts you off, entirely dismissing your idea of coming back later, the door already creaking open right as he utters the last word. Drawing in a deep breath, you hurry after him.

The two of you walked into the room as if it was some haunted house, waiting for something, anything to jump out of the shadows and scare the living shit out of you. Mark didn’t seem to be all that calm either, but by the looks of it, was in a seemingly better headspace than you.

The room inside was like a blank canvas, missing basically everything that could’ve given it any personality. It was mostly white, some marble decorations, dark green curtains already installed on the massive glass panel windows overlooking Midtown Manhattan below.

The sound of slow, lazy footsteps alerts the both of you. Mark wastes no time, gently patting your shoulder as he turns around. 

“You got this,” he muttered under his breath. “Good luck, have fun, don’t die!”

Don’t… die? 

Before you could’ve voiced your concerns, he had already disappeared, you only finding the door closing behind him with a click. Why the fuck did he leave me here?! Did they hire me to send me to certain death?!

Before your thoughts could’ve spiraled further, a deep voice cut in, coming from right behind you.

“Well, would you look at that? Didn’t know I’d get complementary eye candy too.”

Fuck...

⋅─────♰ ─────⋅

Nari could best be translated to "lily" in English. Easy for the foreign customers to remember and pronounce, too. Here, she was Nari. 

// now playing... "Rock Lobster" by The B-52's //

Club Pentagon wasn't known for being the most prestigious, high-class club on the whole wide Earth, but it wasn't just a barely operating ramshack basement either. Good care has been taken of it ever since it's opening, the floors always sweeped and the lights and music always working top-notch. 

The bar was always filled with an arsenal of liquor, ready to be served to whoever may have stumbled up to the counter for a small price. The flashing of the lights never ceased during operation hours, same could go for the music and the inaudible moans locked behind the closed-off booths, just a little side gig inside the club to keep it going. 

Nari -- the assumed pseudonym of Hyun Sun-hee whenever she stepped inside the club -- has seen it all, whether it was in her will or against it, taking care of most of the duties assigned up front, at hours she wasn't even officially working, only taking on the plea of a coworker to take his shift for that night, even if he himself was present at the club too. 

This was yet again one of those situations, with Nari behind the counter instead of her coworker, who as far as she knew was likely smoking in the manager's office with the manager himself, taking an unnecessary long break from the music rupturing their eardrums, the same DJ performing the same god-awful tracks for the third week in a row now. 

Customers, mostly men in their twenties or thirties, lining up and taking their seats at the counter or grabbing a handful of drinks and clumsily sauntering over to whatever table their friends were sitting at. There have been multiple instances of Nari watching these people slip and spill everything they held. As funny as they were, she was always forced to take a trip upstairs and call for her coworker to either clean the mess up himself, or at least substitute her behind the counter to keep customers from lashing out. 

The horrible beat that Nari refused to even call music kept drumming in the background, the chatter around the counter suppressing it just a little. She had already thought about getting some earplugs, but that would also cancel out the sound of the orders she gets from customers, she wasn't too keen on losing her job or to have some guy rage on about the wrong order being prepared. 

It wasn't the dream workplace or work enviroment, but the only thing she was stuck with, her manager having enough heart to give a different job to her inside the establishment after the incident, although wasn't too sure about it, only the soft plea of a money-desperate Nari and the lack of workforce leading to his decision to put Nari behind the counter. 

She got the hang of preparing drinks really quick, and that was maybe the first and last time her and her only coworker behind the counter ever worked together at the same time. Now they only saw each other on breaks and shift changes, as much as Nari wanted a companion to talk to through the shifts that just felt like they were dragging out longer and longer. 

Even in the dim and flashing lighting, she always kept an eye on the girls at the counter. And what a good thing that she did. Nari's fingers wrap around the glass in front of a girl at the counter, placing another glass of the same drink in front of her. The girl glances up at her with a confused look, not really sure what just went down. Nari, to clear up the confusion, side-eyed the man sitting next to the girl, the situation immediately clearing up. 

"Oh," the girl utters. "Thank you," she whispers, leaning closer to Nari to avoid the attention of the man. Nari doesn't say a word in return, instead goes over to a new guest who had just leaned onto the counter, even though there were some available seats left. He's probably sitting at another table and came for drinks. 

"What can I get you?" Nari strikes the guidebook question, just like she did with the other guests. 

"That stage," the man declares, his pointer finger aiming at the small stage where the DJ stood, still immersing himself in whatever tune he was twisting. The man held the eye contact with Nari, his finger still towards the stage. 

"I'm... sorry sir, I don't think I quite understand?" She replies, a puzzled expression on her face as her eyes kept wandering between the man and the stage. 

"Look, I don't want to sound like a beggar, but if I could perform sometimes, it'd do me much good," he replies, his head slightly moving with every word, his hand now back on the shiny surface of the counter as he leaned a little more on it. "I just need a little money, that's all, no bad intentions I swear."

Nari looks back to the stage. Maybe it really was time to get rid of whoever's behind that DJ desk, this guy could easily replace him. If he's just as bad at this shit as this current guy, then no losses I suppose, although I hope he's at least a little better. 

"It's not my decision," Nari finally replies, raising her hands to her head in defense, a piece of cloth in her hand to sweep off the few drops of drink that a nearby customer left on the counter. 

"C'mon, you probably know the guy who could give this gig to me!" He whispers through his teeth, getting more desperate with the minute. Unbeknownst to her, this was the third establishment he tried his luck with in the past weeks, getting kicked out of all the previous ones. This stranger deemed this place wild enough for him to be accepted, even if it takes a little convincing. 

Nari glanced around, no new customers on the horizon right now, the others she had laready served seemingly calm and having a good time. They can wait a minute. 

"I'll see what I can do," she sighs as she places the cloth down, heading to the small swingdoor at the side of the counter to make her way to the upper floor where the manager's office was. "But don't have high hopes," she shouted back to the stranger as she exited the counter area, making her way to the first floor of the establishment. 

Speedwalking through the club area, she arrives at a white door, the big letters "Employees Only" decorating it in red. Nari pushes the door open, and just as she steps through it and closes it behind herself, the music suppresses, still audible but at least a lot more quiet, the flashing and blue-purple lights of the club area now replaced with that white industrial light. 

The door of the manager's office bursts open, Nari stepping through it immediately. No knock, no wait, no request to come in. 

"Drop the smoke and handle the bar," she orders, her thumb motioning towards the door. 

"I thought you said you'd take my shift today!" Her coworker, who had a cigarette in between his fingers just as she expected whined, dropping his arms to his sides. He sat on a cheap chair in almost the middle of the room, the manager sitting at his desk, a smoke in his hand too. 

"I wanna talk with the boss, so here you go," she says as she crumples the black apron they had to wear, throwing it right at her coworker's chest with enough force and speed to make the man shut his eyes let out a quiet "ouch". 

"Still, can't it wait?" He continues, uncrumpling the apron. 

"Nam-gyu, do as she said," the manager cuts in calmly, almost like he's about to sigh, his eyes fixed on the analytics on his computer's white glowing screen. Nam-gyu grunts, pushing himself up from the chair, putting the apron over his head as he leaves the room with a sigh, flicking his burnt-out cigarette into the trash can on the way out. He shuts the door behind himself, leaving Nari and the manager alone. 

"What is it?" The manager asks, tearing himself away from the computer, turning in his swivel chair to face Nari. 

"There's somebody who would like to work here. Would that be possible?" She asks quietly, pulling Nam-gyu's chair under herself. 

"If they want to tend the bar, I guess it's fine, there's only you and Nam-gyu doing that anyway. Pay will be a little tricky though," the manager sighs, his hand making smaller gestures along the way. 

"Um, no, he wants the DJ's spot," Nari meekly corrects him.

"You want me to fire Seungri just so this random guy could take his place?"

"He said he'd be glad if he could perform sometimes, so... you would probably have to just give him some days off, not fire him entirely..."

"That would cut his paycheck. You know that I can barely finance my employees, as much as I would like to raise your pays, I can't. I have to keep the club going too somehow."

"But the club looks fine. It's clean and operating well."

"Exactly, that's what I have to keep up," he said in a calm tone. He wasn't the screaming type of manager or the anger issues kind. He was chill, but stressed a lot. "If I don't keep the club in this shape, customers drop, and if customers drop then my income does too, meaning that with even less money I couldn't finance the club nor my employees. I think you see where I'm going with this one."

The door yet again bursts open, a panting Nam-gyu standing in the doorway. 

"Boss, there's a guy down there and wants to take the DJ's spot," he states swiftly, evident that he ran the whole way up here. 

"That's... literally what we've been discussing," you comment. 

"How was I supposed to know? You threw me out before telling me why you came here," he shrugs as he leans against the doorframe. "So? Will he get the gig?"

"Likely not," the manager sighed. "I just said it to Nari, but that would mean adding another paycheck. I'm paying you guys the bare minimum, if somebody else joins too it'll just go down."

"But if he takes the current DJ's place won't it stay the same? You just give the money to a different guy," Nam-gyu comments. 

"But he wants the current DJ to stay," Nari tells him, a little disappointed in the manager's choice. It's obvious he isn't the one down there having to listen to the shit that guy cooks up. You watch as Nam-gyu presses his eyes shut, taking a deep breath in, him too having enough of the awful music down there, now stuck with the tought of this guy staying for who knows how long. 

"Who even is this guy?" The manager asks, noticing the sour expression on both of your faces at the mention of the current DJ staying. 

"Said he's some rapper, but something came up and he needs a place to perform to get some money," Nam-gyu replies, the stranger seemingly sharing more information with him than he did with Nari. 

"We don't need some fallen-down rapper or wannabe idol around," the manager argues back, his tone still calm, but obvious that he doesn't approve of the idea. 

"I think we would want him around. I mean, depending on who he is," Nari cuts in, getting the attention of both men. "If he's some unfortunate but talented and loved rapper, he could do the club some good. We advertise that he's performing here, his fans will come and be customers too. More customers, more money, isn't that what you want?"

Nari could see the gears turning in her manager's head, her idea making enough sense for him to think it through. 

"And if he needs the money because he lost it for a good reason?"

"Yo imagine some rapper getting scammed by the same guy that scammed me," Nam-gyu comments with a grin on his face, a little amused by the idea of seeing somebody on the same fate as him. 

"So, what will it be?" Nari cuts back to the manager, almost completely ignoring her coworker's little comment. She could see the mix of annoyance and defeat on the man's face, the scene similar to a stressed father as his kids try to convince him about something. And just like a stressed father with a kind heart, the manager sighs in defeat too. 

"Let it be. I'll try to talk with Seungri, if things go well, this... rapper starts his shift next week Monday."

Nari and Nam-gyu share a look, grinning at each other, the taste of victory sweet. Good thing they had a sweet tooth. Only then does realization hit Nari. 

"Is there anybody tending the bar?" She asks, her enthusiasm and happiness disappearing from her tone. Nam-gyu's face goes sour, his lips pursed into a thin line as he too realizes that he might have stayed here for a little longer without having assigned anybody behind the counter. 

The two race out of the office room, already afraid of the situation down there. Drunk, angry customers ready to cut their throats, drinks already spilled everywhere, a possible fight...

// now playing... "Take Me Out" by Franz Ferdinand //

Nari bursts through the white door leading to the club area first, Nam-gyu a step behind her, the scenery changing from bright white lighting and muffled music to flashing lights in a dark, purple-lit room, the awful music now ready to rupture their eardrums. From here, the bar area wan't visible, the storage room blocking their view of it. The two speedwalk over to the swingdoor of the counter, Nari picking up originally Nam-gyu's black apron from the hanger on the outside of the storage room's wall, placing it over her head.

An unexpected sight greeted them. Instead of raging customers, the men around the counter seemed to be amused. The two of them stood right at the swingdoor leading inside, trying to understand the situation. Behind the counter was a man, mixing drinks by doing tricks with the cocktail shaker before pouring a drink to one of the men. 

"Is that..." 

"It's the fucking rapper!" Nam-gyu replies to Nari's unfinished question, his hands now at the back of his head and a smile on his face.

"Get him out of there. Pleeease?" Nari whines. Although the little show this rapper put on had amused her too just like the rest of the people gathered around, he still had no business being behind the counter. 

"Wha-- Why me?" Nam-gyu questions, almost sounding offended at her request. 

"You're the man, Nam-gyu! You're not going to beat the femboy allegations this way!"

"Could you stop with the femboy thing?!"

"Your fault you act like one! Go!" Nari ends the bickering with pushing Nam-gyu through the swingdoor, walking behind him towards the intruder. At least he covered for us. 

By the time the two get to where the rapper stood, he just served another drink. It was as if Nam-gyu was waiting for him to finish the show he put on, careful not to interrupt him. 

"Yo, you were cool man," he quietly states to the rapper with a small smile, drawing his attention immediately. Seeing that Nam-gyu was too enchanted by this new stranger, Nari stepped beside him, cramped in the small space. 

"This is restricted area. Empolyees on... ly," she asserts, her words faltering near the end, the realization that he was now an employee too settling in her mind. Guessing from the smirk that crept its way onto the man's face, it was clear that he had realized the same thing. 

"I got the gig or nah?" He asks smugly, already knowing the answer by the way Nari gave it away. 

"If things go well," Nari begins, emphasizing the if, "you'll have to show up next week Monday."

"Thanks," he bluntly replies. Nari couldn't pinpoint his feelings or expression, the smile on his face showcasing a little joy, while his tone was almost as if he didn't care at all. Telling which one was his real feeling was an impossible task at hand. "So like... see y'all next Monday?" 

"Leaving so soon?" Nari asks, pouring a drink for herself since the customers have already been taken care of. 

"Just wanted to get the gig, thanks for the concern," he replies. With a smooth move, he turns to the empty spot at the counter, jumping and sliding over it with seemingly ease, landing on his feet at the other side. What the fuck... 

"I've got some good stuff," Nam-gyu calls out to him, leaning forward on the counter. Somehow this immediately grabs the attention of the purple-haired rapper, his mind immediately trailing to substances as he slowly looks back, the look on his face a clear giveaway that he was in. 

"Go, I'll cover. But you have five minutes, my shift's already over. I don't want to stay overtime," Nari sighs, leaning on the counter next to Nam-gyu. 

"Alright, alright," Nam-gyu mutters cynically as he begins to walk away, heading to wherever he stored the accumulated prizes. Now with Nam-gyu gone, the rapper leans forward onto the counter where her coworker was a few moments ago, although he was on the opposite side of the counter. 

"You really got that guy fired for me?" He asks with a low chuckle, finger yet again pointing at the DJ over his shoulder. 

"They would've cut my pay otherwise, so yes. And his music's terrible, so you better do better than him," Nari replies, taking a sip of her drink. She wasn't supposed to drink on duty, but it was now Nam-gyu's shift, so was she really on duty now?

"Oh, you need the money I see. What for? Alcohol? Drugs? Kids?" He chuckles as he tries to guess.

"I don't talk much about myself to strangers," she states sternly. He was right about her needing the money though, she needed it badly. This job was covering nothing, no matter how generous the manager was, that was something she had to admit even if it hurt a little. Coming just in clutch, Nam-gyu returned, his hands in his pockets. If somebody didn't have knowledge about what exactly he held there, it wouldn't look suspicous, just a guy with his hand in his baggy jean's pockets, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up a little. 

"Ohhh, yes," the rapper exclaims quietly, almost whisper-like as he sees Nam-gyu pull something out of his pocket discreetly, sliding it over to him. "What do I owe you?"

"You're with Club Pentagon now, so nothing. Consider it a welcome gift," Nam-gyu mutters, placing his elbows on a cupboard behind himself, leaning back a little. Nari breathes out as she pushes herself away from the counter, lifting the black apron over her head. 

"Where're you going?" Nam-gyu asks, looking after her as she's about to leave the counter-area, the apron hanging on her lower arm. 

"I told you that I'll leave when you get back, didn't I? My shift's been over for the past hour now, your turn," she replies as she stops, turning back to look at the two men still positioned at the counter. 

"I thought you'd change your mind or something while I'm gone," Nam-gyu sighs. "Your loss I guess," he shrugs, his eyes now focused on his shoes. "Goodnight," he adds. 

"Yeah, 'night," Nari reciprocates the gesture with a faint smile, walking through the swingdoor, placing the apron on the hanger on the wall of the storage room. 

─────────── ♱ ───────────

The rapper watched as she took her jacket off the hanger, placing the apron in its place. 

"Man, is she always like this?" He asked Nam-gyu, an almost exaggerated confused look on his face. 

"As far as I know. Not that I know anything about her."

"I thought you did. What's she working for?"

"For Club Pentagon?" Nam-gyu replies as if it was a self-explanatory question. 

"No, like... what does she need this money for? 'Cause she wasn't telling me anything."

"Bills, food, stuff like that I suppose," Nam-gyu replies nonchalantly again, walking over to prepare a drink for a new customer in the meantime. 

"Whatever," the rapper sighs, realizing that he won't get any answers from this guy, only drugs. She was holding something back, that was for sure. Did she use to be a junkie? Is that why she left when he brought out the drugs? Not sure, but there was some goal she was working for, he was sure of that. 

─────────── ♱ ───────────

// now playing... "window" by sundots //

Silence. This greeted Sun-hee every time the door to the flat where she lived creaked open. It was not the club, it was nothing like it. No loud noises, no flashing lights, almost no color at all. Even her name changed here, reverting back to the one her mother gave to her. At least she gave that, and not the immense debt their father did. 

She pulls the single floorboard up, the one only she knew can be moved, revealing a smaller stash of money. She reached into her jean's pockets, rummaging for a few moments before pulling out some change, tips that customers left her, one of them being from the girl whose drink she swapped that same night. Her way of thanking Sun-hee for saving her from whatever that man had planned out. 

Sun-hee let out an audible sigh, first looking at the small stash, then at the calendar. A month remains until Ha-joon's surgery. I need to find some way to get the money. If that rapper can garner a little more customers, our pay would increase this month... Can't believe I'm putting all my faith in this guy.