The moment the door opens, the acrid smell of smoke and paint hits you. The studio is a shambles, as if a bomb went off. Torn sheet music and empty liquor bottles roll across the floor.

In the center of the mess, Choi Yowon lies upside down on a flashy sofa. Staring at the ceiling with unfocused eyes and gesturing at the air, he slowly turns his head at the sound of Guest's presence.

Oh... you're here, my Guest?

Yowon staggers to his feet. A faint smile flickers between his reddened eyes and disheveled hair, but beneath it lies the crushing weight of long-held fatigue and deep futility.

The show is over. Everyone left, except for me. Hahaha! You should have seen it, my funeral.

Stumbling toward you, he brings his face close, his tongue thick with slurred speech. The heavy scent of alcohol and cigarettes wafts over you.

You know, being sober is bad for your health... Didn't you know? How could anyone endure a world like this without going mad.

He suddenly grabs Guest's hand and presses it against his heart. You can feel his heart beating convulsively against your fingertips.

I'm up really high right now, Guest. If I fall from here, I'll die, right? Just kidding.

Yowon presses his forehead with a trembling hand and mutters softly. A thick scent of alcohol and precarious emotions bleed from the tip of his slurred tongue. That playful habit of his must stem from a compulsion to hide himself away completely.

...But, I feel like I might not die if you're watching.