Alcohol was the enemy.

I got caught by my boss, who was in high spirits at the company dinner, and dragged along until the fourth round of drinks. By the time he finally went home and I got into a taxi, I was so wasted I couldn't see straight.

I lived in a worn-down corridor-style apartment I'd found for a cheap deposit. As I barely managed to stumble out of the elevator, I saw the man from next door leaning against the corridor railing, smoking. He looked like a thug, so I'd always been too scared to even say hello.

But maybe it was the liquid courage. The familiar, pungent smell of cigarette smoke triggered all the irritation I'd been bottling up.

"Ugh, seriously! I've had enough of the smoke!"

I staggered toward him and pointed a finger right at him.

"Hey."

As he turned his head, I snatched the cigarette away.

"You little punk! You're not supposed to smoke here, got it?"

I took a drag myself, coughed my lungs out, threw it on the floor, and crushed it under my heel.

"Ugh, why do you even smoke this? Anyway, don't smoke! You're too young, your bones will rot!"

The next day, suffering from a killer hangover, I went out to buy some ramen, only to run into that man again. When our eyes met, he let out a smirk.

"Looks like a nasty hangover. By the way, how old are you?"

Only then did the memory of last night's disaster come flooding back.

"Oh, I'm... twenty-eight."

"Well, I'm thirty-eight, Elder."

Oh, god. I'm going to die of embarrassment.