Laid Bare

Alright. It’s time to patrol the floor.

You press a finger to your ear, take a deep breath, and push into the side door—into the nightclub proper.

There’s a half-second where you go completely deaf before your hearing returns to you. The noise hits you all at once: the hissing spray of the fog machines overhead, the thumping of the bass that threatens the warranty of the surround-sound speakers, the cheers and jeers of the crowd, the rhythmless thumping of bouncing bodies. Everything is a shade of red-orange. You have to hold up a hand to your face to stop one of the strobe lights from blinding you. As you take your first few steps into the scene this evening, you smoothen out the creases of your blazer and nod.

This is SAXO—the most prestigious nightclub on this side of Seoul. Belonging to a collection of different spots all under The Kingdom Collective, hundreds—if not thousands—of warm bodies find their ways at SAXO’s doorstep to drink, spend, and party to forget their pitiful lives for even just a few hours.

But not you. Not you.

You take a deep breath. Really feel it in your chest. And when you exhale slowly, letting the drag of air on the way out tickle your nostrils, you lock in as time slows down to a blur all around you.

You scan the room.

Slashed purse at Table Fourteen. Half-filled beer bottle at the DJ’s mixing pad. Fingers thrusted at the bar area.

Index to thumb, you snap. Then it all comes back to life.

You strut over to Table Fourteen and grab the idiot with curly hair by the inside of his belt, preventing his escape. “Huh? What—?”

Smack. You backhand the son of a bitch and take the opportunity to grab the wallet he was just holding as he stumbles backwards onto the floor.

You sift through the I.D. cards and glance at the group of unaware ladies who are now looking at you in confusion. “This must be yours. Keep an eye on your things please. Our staff can only do so much.”

After the ponytailed woman nods at you in silent gratitude, you whistle and call over a triad of bouncers. They immediately swarm the perpetrator and have him pinned with his arms behind his back. “You know the drill. Put his photo up on the wall. Then give these ladies a bottle from the top shelf. On the house.”

The same lady from earlier gasps and shakes her head. “No no, it’s fine. Getting my wallet back’s more than enough.”

But you calm her down with a gesture of your hand and signal to one of the bouncers. “Hennessy. On me.”

When her drunken friends scream in elation over hearing this, the lady smiles and lifts her glass up to you. You salute with two fingers before trudging towards the dance floor.

Cutting through should be easy, but the ongoing rave makes the crowd feel like an actual ocean.

Shoulders bumping. Backs pressing into you. Whispers exchanging at decibels higher than they should be. You don’t part the crowd—you know better than to do that. Instead you run your hand through your hair and get with it. Get with them. You go with the flow. Head bopping. Arms in the air. Swaying and shimmying past person to person. All until you reach the elevated podium.

One of the bouncers stationed at the front sees you and snaps into a straighter posture, but when you lift both your hands at him he learns to relax a bit. “First night?”

He glances left and right to make sure you’re talking to him. “Y-Yeah … s-s-sorry, boss.”

“Relax. Take it easy. Just remember: make sure everyone’s having a good time. The safe way.”

“Y-You got it!” he wheezes, unclipping the velvet cord so you can pass through. You pat him on the back and squeeze his shoulder before jogging up the steps towards the sound booth.

Pressing fingers against your ear to fold it shut, you dip forward and jab your waist at the DJ. You give him no time to complain. This sudden motion makes the wire connecting his headphones to his laptop coil around his bottle of beer and would have sent it toppling onto the mixing pad had you not swiped it up in time.

“Jesus Christ—you fucking scared me. Can’t you see I’m in the middle of a set here?” Hajoon groaned, unraveling the wire.

“I said no drinks while you’re on set. This is the third time this week.”

He flaps his lips in mockery, snatching the beer back from you. Downs it in one go. Sighs in contentment. Then shoves it back to your chest, dampening the fold of your blazer. “Whatever, bossman. Learn to loosen up a little. Here—ready for the drop?”

As soon as he pushes one of the doodads on his device, you hear the music start to quicken and pulsate throughout the room. You can feel the hastening thrum in the back of your throat. When you think you can’t take the tension anymore, Hajoon flicks his wrist and throws his hands in the air.

“Everybody make some noise!”

Then the drop happens and everyone’s cheering to the beat. Tongues out. Fists pumping. Bodies yielding.

Hajoon jabs you with his waist and wraps an arm around your neck. “You see that, bossman? That’s the kind of magic we fucking enable each night. So will you cut me some slack? If it helps, I’ll cut back on the drinks too. I only got to sneak one in because you sent a newbie to guard me tonight.”

You peel his sweaty arm off you and dust yourself off. “We’ll see. Maybe play some good music first, then I’ll think about it.”

He hisses. “So fucking cold. But that makes me respect you all the more—not gonna lie.”

You ignore him and duck under the cord to rejoin the shifting masses. The new bouncer doesn’t even get a chance to say goodbye as you slither your way once more through the crowd to get to the other side of the room where the bar is.

“I fucking told you—we paid for our table in advance. What do you mean we need to show you ‘proof of purchase’? Fucking bitch. Your place is already expensive—.”

“Gentlemen, what seems to be the problem here.”

The gravitas you exude is enough to silence the four men trying to overpower and intimidate your bar staff.

“Is there anything we can do for you?” you repeat, making sure they hear you over the second beat drop Hajoon just laid out for the people. “You can relay it to me directly.”

One of the guys tugs on the sleeve of his complaining friend, but he swats him away. He’s the only one who still looks arrogant despite his face being as red as a raspberry. “Ya … who the fuck are you? Are you their manager? I’d like to speak with the fucking manager.”

“You’re talking to him.”

“O-Oh … oh, then good,” he flinches. “Like I was saying—your club’s trying to fucking scam me and my friends. Bleeding us dry, huh? We paid for the table reservation fee AND the three-hour extension for our table. And they say we can’t get more fucking drinks?”

You gesture to the poor girl just trying to do her job. She hands you one of her small tablets and you begin scrolling through records. “Says here you paid in full and still have some credit for your tab. What do you want to order?”

He scoffs. “Was thinking of getting me and my boys a bottle of Bombay Sapphire. Each. But you’re all ruining our fun, so maybe we’ll just—.”

“You can’t afford it.”

The man raises a brow. “Excuse me? The fuck did you just—.”

“I said. You can’t afford it,” you utter once more, diction sharp enough to penetrate through their thick skulls. “The table’s a million won. You already spent nine-hundred thousand on other liquors. Four bottles of this gin will cost you two-hundred-and-forty thousand more—over your cap.”

“I can—.”

You point to the lanyard one of his friends wears. Then to the knock-off Ray Bans on his other friend’s forehead. Then to the crumpled envelope in his right pocket. “Keep burning your stipend money and you’ll be out of college faster than I can kick you out of this club.”

His little group inhales so tensely through clenching teeth over what you just relayed to them that their little leader starts to physically fume in the well-deserved embarrassment. “Y-Yeah? Well fuck you, asshat. Let’s go, guys. We’re leaving—.”

You hold your arm out to stop his lanky body in time, grabbing some middle shelf liquor in the same stroke. “Here. Bit over your tab, but on me. Enjoy the rest of your night.”

You don’t get the privilege to see his dumfounded face. You salute the woman working the bar before heading towards the back wings.