Min Jae softly smiled, nodding. “Until next time.”
For a full minute after 1222 closed the bathroom door, Min Jae didn’t move from where he stood. He listened to the sound of the shower coming on, drowning out the drone of the room’sAC, letting it wash over him and scrub away the memory of his own feigned sighs and moans.
Finally, Min Jae went back to work. His movements were methodical, a ritual of erasure he’d perfected over the last two years. He stripped the sheets from the bed, his motions brisk and impersonal, and bundled them with the used towels, leaving them in a neat pile by the door for housekeeping. Then he dressed in his simple black t-shirt and shorts, fitting the black cap over his damp hair as he allowed the person he’d been for the past two hours to dissolve away one last time. He was no longer the attentive, pliant boy the client had paid for. He was just Min Jae.
A moment later, Min Jae was out the door without a backward glance, backpack slung over his shoulder, heading for the elevator. He waited until the elevator doors closed before finally removing his mask and stuffing it into his bag. He grabbed his phone as the elevator car swiftly descended to the ground floor and checked his balance. A twenty-five percent tip? 1222 must’ve felt bad about asking Min Jae to show his face. But the fee was more than enough to cover his grandmother’s mortgage for the next two months and pay for the new caregiver service while he was away at the competition. The rest would go toward the debt he’d accrued from his last knee surgery.
Min Jae blocked 1222’s number before stuffing his phone back in his pocket. There would be no next time. Down in the Park Grand’s glittering lobby, he moved like a phantom, invisible to the wealthy patrons. Outside, the humid Seoul night air clung to his skin. He looked up, and there it was, stretched across the face of a building across the street—a massive, flashing, digital billboard. A dozen handsome, smiling boys danced in perfect sync under a dynamic logo. Dream Boy Project. The promise of a different life, a different kind of performance. A long shot. But it was the only one he had left.
Min Jae turned away from the billboard’s glowing promise,the phantom image of smiling boys burning in his mind. He pulled the brim of his black cap down, lowered his head, and melted into the bustling Gangnam nightlife. The oppressive late summer heat did little to deter the throngs of people spilling out of trendy bars and restaurants, their laughter and chatter a language from a world he’d just visited but didn’t belong to. There, he was only a pretender. Ignoring the rapidly growing stream of sweat running down his back, he kept his shoulders hunched and his hands in his pockets, just another anonymous shadow navigating the river of wealth and beauty.
Min Jae descended the steps into the nearby Samseong Metro station to catch the 2 line across the river, the wave of cool, recycled air an immediate, welcome relief. The outer circle line wasn’t very crowded, so he found a seat in the middle of the car, the plastic cool against the back of his legs. As the train lurched into motion, plunging into the darkness of the tunnel, he finally allowed himself to breathe, settling into the long ride. Down here, under the city, he wasn’t a product for sale to some lustful hedge fund manager or a phantom in a glittering hotel lobby. He was just a passenger. Anonymous. Safe.
His journey slowly transitioned him from one world to the next. When Min Jae changed trains at Seongsu, the ads inside the car shifted from luxury plastic surgeons and designer brands to deals on groceries and cram schools. The passengers changed as well, the well-dressed Gangnam professionals replaced by tired students and weary, working-class people heading home after long shifts. It was a welcome journey back to his own reality.
Once he changed trains for the final time, grabbing the Ui Line at Sinseoldong Station, Min Jae had plenty of room to find a seat. Since no one was seated nearby, he finally pulled out his phone and transferred his night’s earnings into the account he shared with his grandmother. With the night’s earnings, his balance totaled just under ?40 million. More than enough for a few months’ mortgage payments and bills, including somepocket money for his grandmother for her occasional trips to the market. He’d been lucky the past few months. Several of his higher-paying regulars had reached out, asking to see him. And he’d suffered through every minute of it. Playing coy, bashful, subservient, or, for one particular client–Hotel Mango Junior Suite, an overweight, foul-smelling man who enjoyed a little aggression–rough. It was high-paying work. It was a means to an end. It was survival. But the smiling faces from the billboard kept flashing in his mind. That was a different kind of performance, a different kind of prize. One that might finally let him stop these train rides for good.
The automated voice finally announced his stop, Bukhansan Station. Min Jae exited the train and the station, hitting the thick humidity outside like a wet wall as he wandered to the bus stop. He waited, absently staring at the Bukhansan peaks, shadows thrusting against the night sky. He could’ve hired a rideshare home, and it would’ve taken less than half the time. But the Metro and bus were cheap, and he had his priorities.
The slow bus ride through Suyu-dong gave Min Jae a final chance to cast off any mental remnants of his work before arriving home. He even sniffed his shirt to ensure that none of 1222’s smell had somehow transferred to him. Nothing. He got off at the stop next to the all-night neighborhood market, the bell above the door chiming as he entered. The elderly man behind the counter gave him a nod without looking away from the tiny, ancient black and white TV beside him. Min Jae went right to the refrigerated case to grab the block of soft tofu his grandmother had asked for. He paid at the counter with his phone, offering an apologetic bow after the old clerk, who smelled strongly of soju and cigarettes, glared at him for the interruption.
The short walk to Min Jae’s house was quiet, the air thick and still. He pushed open the small metal gate, the familiar creak a sound more like home than any smoothly-sliding hotelbathroom door. Inside, the lights were still on. He caught a glimpse of his grandmother as he slipped off his shoes, sitting at the small kitchen table, a steaming bowl of kimchi jjigae waiting for him.
“You’re late,” his grandmother gently scolded, although her tone suggested relief more than irritation. “The stew’s probably mushy.”
“It smells perfect, grandma.” Min Jae put the tofu in the refrigerator and washed his hands. He sat down and began to eat, savoring the familiar, comforting taste that was better than any of the expensive meals his clients ever bought for him.
Min Jae’s grandmother poured herself a tiny, thimble-sized glass of soju from an elegant ceramic bottle that once held an expensive, premium brand. He refilled it for her every week from a cheap green plastic bottle he kept in the back of his closet. She knew, of course. And he knew she knew. It was a small, kind lie they both maintained, a performance of luxury that cost him almost nothing.
“Did you have fun with your friends?” his grandmother asked before taking a delicate sip.
Min Jae swallowed a mouthful of rice. “I had the best time. We went to karaoke in Hongdae. Ye Jun sang a ballad so badly the screen almost cracked.” The lie came easily, a well-rehearsed script. He would never, ever let her know the truth. The thought of her knowing the reality of his nights was more unbearable than being with any client. He was doing this for her, so she’d never have to worry.
Another sip. “You should bring your friends by more often, Min Jae. I almost never get to meet them.”
Min Jae bowed his head in a silent apology. “I know. But you know how everyone hates to come all the way out here.”
His grandmother snorted, proud and indignant. “Those fancy friends of yours are too good to see how the real people live? Sounds like you need better friends.”
Min Jae looked at her, frail but resilient. The weight of hisjourney settled on him, longer than any Metro ride from Gangnam-gu. It had all started so differently. He’d been chosen, a high-ranked trainee at a good company, his future a bright, clear line. Then the fall during a dance evaluation, the tearing sound in his knee, and the doctor’s grim prognosis. The end of one dream. Then, his mother’s diagnosis, the cancer that consumed her and their savings with equal speed, leaving him as the sole provider for the only family he had left. No matter how hard he worked, how much talent he had, how high he rose, life always found a way to smack him back down.
“You know it’s not like that, grandma. They’re busy. Just like me. It’s easier for me to travel to them.”
His grandmother reluctantly nodded, her brief, fiery bluster extinguished. “You’re such a hard-working boy, Min Jae. Your mother would be so proud.” She wistfully sighed, pouring herself a second thimble of soju. “I’m going to miss you.”
Min Jae reached out, placing his hand atop hers. The skin was old paper, dry and slightly rough. And too cold. She must’ve forgotten to take her blood thinner again. Or, maybe it was the soju. Either way, he made a mental note to remind the caregiver about it. “I’ll miss you, too. I’m sorry to leave you like this.”
“Bah.” His grandmother slid her hand out from under his, patting it like he was still a small child. “I know what this means to you after all the work you’ve done. And you deserve it.” She snorted. “You’re better than half those boys I see on Chart Masters.”
Min Jae chuckled. As much as he’d been there for her over the past few years, she’d been there for him, too. Helping to nurse him back to health after his knee surgeries. Watching his dance practices. Listening to him sing. Making sure he always had a hot meal. Everything counted in their humble life. It all helped.
Once Min Jae put his grandmother to bed and cleaned the dishes, he retired to his tiny bedroom. He stared at the pair of suitcases that lay open on his bed, lit only by the single, lonelybulb that hung from the ceiling. He’d spent every day since getting the call from SCG agonizing over what to bring. Nothing he owned felt adequate, and he didn’t want to spend the money on new clothes. But, like everything else he’d done, he had to compromise on that, too. Winning Dream Boy Project would be about more than just singing and dancing well. It would be about visuals. About image. Because there was one thing he knew for certain. The more you walked in like an idol, the more likely you’d walk out as one.
The smiling boys from the billboard said as much, taunting Min Jae as he slipped away from his client’s hotel room. He was done with life smacking him down. Dream Boy Project could change all that, turning not just his fortunes around, but his grandmother’s too. It had to. It wasn’t just a long shot. It was his only shot. He was done being smacked down. This time, he would win.
3
Andy leanedhis forehead against the cool, vibrating glass of the bus window, the grit of four miserable hours of sleep scraping behind his eyes. His body was still convinced it was 5 PM yesterday back in Sacramento, a perfectly reasonable time for the nap he wasn't getting. Instead, it was 9 AM in Seoul, and he was being bussed from an anonymous airport hotel to a future that felt terrifyingly close.
