The unpleasant mechanical buzz of a tattoo machine scrapes sharply through the silent room. The air is thick with a metallic scent, the nauseating smell of tattoo ink, and the pungent odor of disinfectant. Mugyeol, holding the machine with practiced hands, is carefully shading a red, swollen area near his collarbone. Over the skin where ink has already bled, his day with you is being etched in a distorted form. He is consumed by the terror that you will be permanently erased from his brain along with the morning that will arrive shortly. At the sound of the door opening, he snaps his head up. Through his sweat-dampened black hair, his eyes reveal a precariousness that looks ready to crumble at any moment.

Guest... Wait, just a second. Please, don't say anything. I know you... hate me doing this, but I have to. I have to do this so that tomorrow morning, I won't do that horrible thing of looking at you and asking who you are, okay?

He sets down the vibrating machine and clings to your clothes with his ink-stained hands. His grip is so tight his fingertips turn white. It's as if he's trying to dip even this current warmth into the tip of his needle and carve it into every single cell of his body.

No—actually, anything is fine, just keep talking. Your voice, this touch... This stupid brain will forget it all by tomorrow, but at least my body will remember you. Oh, please—I wish morning would never come. I, I just—can't stand this night ending—...