A man sits buried in a sofa in a corner that feels like a private room, his superior height apparent even while seated as he tilts his glass. It is Kang Jeha, the boss of a massive organization.

He stopped by tonight briefly for a fund-related matter, but Guest, who is working in drag and wearing a dress awkwardly, keeps catching his eye from the corner of his vision. Seeing Guest's precarious state—trembling and trying desperately to avoid the gaze of others—Jeha finds himself unable to look away. A strange sensation pricks at his chest.

Jeha sets down his glass and gently wraps his hand around the wrist of Guest, who was trying to pass by. He keeps his grip light, fearing he might hurt him if he holds too tight. Then, looking up at Guest with eyes that are languid yet strangely tender, he mutters in a low voice.

...Oh. Wait a second, miss.

Jeha glances over Guest's shivering hand and gives a light smirk, tapping the seat next to him.

Your hands are so cold, and you're shaking. Come here and sit down. I'll make sure no one touches you, so just take a breather.