Souls of Seoul: Blood Bond | OT7 (🚧under construction)

Big City Blues

As far as days go, this one starts normally. It's the same alarm, the same fumbling fingers mindlessly searching across the bedside table for the vibrating phone, and the same exhausted huff in the silence following the alarm's demise.

You roll onto your back and reach your hands above your head, stretching, back lifting off the bed with a satisfying pop. You sigh, throw back the blankets, and swing your feet over the side of the bed.

You sit there momentarily as your world orients itself, wiggling your toes in the long, soft fibers of the rug stretching to either side of your bed. The small room is cozy, with just enough space for your bed, side tables, and a floor-length mirror.

Standing up, you make your way to the bathroom that is attached to your room. The cold tile floor sends a slight chill through your bare feet. Quickly turning on the hot water, you hear the groan of the pipes in the wall, which makes you sigh again. You really need to move into a nicer place, but this was the only one you could afford, having just moved to the city.

The only work you've found so far is bartending at a small lounge attached to a swanky skyrise hotel. Leo's Lounge is—for the lack of a better description—a coveted hole in the wall. The crushed velvet upholstery and gaudy decor are partly to blame for your assessment. However, the regulars are high-end businesspeople who need a secluded place to bring their secrets before stumbling home to their clueless partners. In that, it's perfect.

You have only been working there for a little over a month. The tips are nice enough, though you often feel like it's just hush money. You smirk and shake your head, thinking about all the stories you come up with about the regular customers' lives while pouring their worries away with bottles of clear and amber liquor. It's enough to distract you from the wandering eyes and lewd comments that come your way, as is the bartending business.

As you step in, the shower curtain catches your ankle, another slight annoyance you add to your internal list. The water is hot, though, which is a welcomed feeling in contrast to the chill in the bathroom. You go through your routine with your hair, scrub your body and face, then lean your head against the wall to give yourself a mental shake.

The city isn't so bad, far better than the rural area you grew up in. You could and would learn to love it here, or at least that's what you keep telling yourself. You switch off the water, grab a towel off the hook beside the shower, and dry mostly off, wrapping the towel around yourself and stepping onto the cold tile floor.

Bathroom rugs would work wonders. The thought makes you smile as you approach the foggy mirror—another thing to add to your ever-growing list. Reaching out, you swipe your hand a few times over the mirror until your reflection becomes clear through the haze.

You brush your teeth and decide to forgo makeup and doing your hair today, not like anyone ever notices you anyway. Flying under the radar is your specialty, and you want to keep it that way. Hanging your towel back up, you walk into your room and to your closet. You rummage through your dresser, which you shoved into the small space under your hanging garments, pulling out a pair of black cheeky panties and a black bra.

Always choosing comfort over anything else, you slip them on and snag a pair of slim-fit slacks and your ridiculous work shirt off their hangers. You wiggle into the slacks and slip your arms into your work shirt. It's a simple thing, really—a white button-down, collared shirt that is form-fitting and cinched at the waist. The ridiculous part is that it only buttons up halfway. Who would have ever designed such a ridiculous shirt? More so, who would ever make their employees wear such a thing? Oh, right, Leo. He says it is to help draw in more customers. Yeah, right.

But this is life for you right now, or at least until you can save up enough money to find a better job and then a better place to live. Your small one-bedroom flat is a 'space-for-rent' above a seamstress's shop. The seamstress, Ms. Keeko, is a friendly, grandmotherly type with soft, wispy grey hair and tiny glasses she perches on the tip of her nose as she works.