Chapter Text
The club was quiet in the hours before opening.
The lights were dim, the thump of bass replaced by the hum of the air system, and the smell — stale alcohol, sweat, and the faint bite of bleach — clung to every corner. It was almost peaceful, if Kenta ignored the locked doors and the cameras blinking red in the corners like watchful eyes.
He sat on the edge of the main stage, dressed down in his usual clothes wear of black — black shirt, black slacks, black shoes — a shadow in a place built for neon and noise. His fingers toyed absently with the band of his wristwatch, a cheap thing Tony had given him years ago, back when he was nineteen and thought Tony’s attention meant safety.
It didn’t.
The sharp snap of a cane on tile broke the quiet.
“Kenta.”
He didn’t look up. He never did, not until he had to. Tony didn’t like hesitation; it read as disrespect, and disrespect earned consequences.
When the second crack of the cane came, closer this time, Kenta lifted his head, eyes dull but obedient.
“Yes.”
Tony stepped into the spill of muted light, his tailored suit crisp against the club’s worn edges. He leaned on his cane like he needed it, Kenta had never been sure if he actually did, and tilted his head, studying him like a man inspecting a prize horse.
“You think you can come in late and I won’t notice?” Tony’s voice was a low purr, soft enough that anyone watching the cameras later might think it was a conversation.
Kenta’s throat worked. “I wasn’t late. Just—”
The cane struck first, quick and sharp across his cheek. The crack echoed, bright and vicious, and Kenta bit down hard, refusing to flinch, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a sound.
“You don’t get to just anything, sweetheart,” Tony said, smiling now, the kind of smile that never reached his eyes. He stepped closer, close enough that Kenta could smell the cologne — sharp, expensive, suffocating. “You belong here. Don’t forget who found you when you had nothing.”
“I remember,” Kenta said quietly. Always quietly.
Tony’s gaze lingered for a moment longer, sharp and assessing, before he turned away, cane tapping a steady rhythm as he limped toward his office.
Kenta sat there for another minute, cheek throbbing, before he finally stood. He didn’t check the mirror. He didn’t need to.
The alley behind the club was choked with cigarette smoke and summer heat. Babe leaned against the brick wall, a tall, broad shadow in ripped jeans and an oversized hoodie, his jet black hair catching the fading light. He was halfway through a cigarette when Kenta stepped out, lighting his own with a practiced flick of his lighter.
For a few moments, they smoked in silence, the muted city noise filling the gaps.
Then Babe turned his head, sharp eyes catching on the angry bloom of red swelling along Kenta’s cheek. His expression darkened.
“Again?” Babe’s voice was rough, edged with frustration. “The fuck did you do this time?”
Kenta exhaled a thin ribbon of smoke, gaze fixed on the ground. “Nothing. You know how he is.”
“That’s the problem,” Babe snapped, stepping closer, voice low but biting. “You let him do this. You don’t fight back, you don’t even try to get out. You just—” He gestured sharply, the cigarette trembling between his fingers. “You just take it.”
Kenta’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look at him. “And go where, Babe? You think there’s anywhere else for someone like me? I stay, I keep my head down, everyone else gets out clean when they’re ready. That’s how it works.”
Babe swore under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “That’s bullshit and you know it. Charlie and I — we’ve been saving. One more year, maybe less, and we’re gone. Out of this hellhole for good.” His eyes softened, but his tone didn’t. “You could do the same. You should do the same.”
Kenta finally looked at him then, his amber eyes sharp but tired. “It’s different for me.”
“Different how?”
Kenta didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The silence said everything: the debt Tony held over him, the invisible chains that bound him tighter than the club walls ever could.
Babe cursed again, softer this time, and ground his cigarette out against the wall. “One of these days, Kenta. One of these days, you’re gonna wake up and realise you deserve better than this.”
Kenta didn’t respond.
Because deep down, he wasn’t sure he did.
The dressing room was quiet after hours, the kind of quiet that made Kenta’s skin crawl.
The mirror in front of him was cracked along the corner, a jagged vein of glass that split his reflection into sharp, uneven pieces. He stared at himself through it, at the man looking back. His dark clothes clung to the sharp lines. Bruise swollen dark against his cheek. Eyes so still they almost looked hollow.
A ghost wearing his own skin.
The club had emptied out a while ago, the floors still sticky with spilled liquor, the air still heavy with perfume and sweat and the metallic tang of money. Somewhere, Babe and Charlie were probably laughing together in their shared flat, their voices soft and private, the sound of two people daring to hope.
Kenta couldn’t remember what hope tasted like.
He leaned forward, resting his palms flat on the vanity, feeling the cool edge of the countertop bite into his hands. The lights above him hummed, dim and flickering, like they were exhausted too.
Tony’s voice still clung to him soft, poisonous, sweet as honey. Don’t forget who found you when you had nothing.
The words sank deep, like anchors.
He thought about leaving sometimes. Everyone did. But wanting something and believing you deserved it were two different things, and Tony had made sure he understood that. The debt was real — not just the money, though there was plenty of that — but the way Tony had built his whole world around control. Around convincing him that the cage wasn’t a cage at all, but a home.
Kenta sat down, the chair creaking beneath him, and tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling.
He imagined what it would feel like to walk out, just once, without Tony’s shadow following. To breathe air that didn’t taste like smoke and cheap perfume. To look in the mirror and not feel like a commodity wrapped in muscle and silk.
But the thought was just that — an illusion, a trick of light in a dark room.
The truth was simpler, sharper.
He was a bird with its wings clipped, staring out through steel bars at a sky he’d never touch.
The knock on the door jolted him out of the thought, sharp and sudden. “Ten minutes, Kenta,” someone called — one of the other dancers, their voice casual, unbothered.
Kenta exhaled slowly and looked back at the mirror, meeting his own fractured gaze.
By the time he stood, by the time he pulled on his uniform — the low-slung black thong, the practiced smile — the ghost in the glass was gone, tucked neatly away where no one could reach it.
Only the performer remained.
Kenta’s apartment was quiet in a way that felt almost unnatural, like the walls themselves held their breath the moment he walked in.
The door shut with a soft click behind him, sealing him off from the noise and neon of the club, from Tony’s voice still clawing at the edges of his mind. Here, in the tiny one-bedroom on the third floor of a building that always smelled faintly of mildew and fried food, the world went still.
The hum of the old fridge filled the kitchen, steady and low, blending with the rhythmic tick of the clock nailed crookedly to the wall. A faint crack ran along the plaster by the window, spidering toward the ceiling like a warning no one had ever cared to fix.
It wasn’t much, but it was his.
Tony hadn’t liked it when he moved out of the rooms above the club. The first time Kenta mentioned it, Tony’s eyes had narrowed, sharp as a knife’s edge, and he’d said something about loyalty, about gratitude. But then, almost casually, Tony had allowed it — “As long as you’re close,” he’d murmured. So Kenta stayed close. Close enough that Tony could summon him with a single call, close enough that the cage door never really opened, even here.
He toed off his boots, leaving them by the door, then stripped out of his black clothes as he padded into the bathroom. The tiles were chipped, the mirror cracked at one corner, but the water steamed hot when he stepped under the spray. It washed away the scent of the club, the sweat, the liquor, the clinging perfume, but not the hollow ache in his chest.
By the time he collapsed onto his couch in an old T-shirt and sweats, the apartment felt softer, warmer. A small lamp glowed near the kitchen, throwing dim gold across the room. His jacket was tossed over the back of a chair. A pile of unread mail sat on the counter. It was messy, but it was real.
Dinner was quick: leftover rice reheated in the microwave, an egg fried in too much oil, a splash of soy sauce. He ate standing by the sink, staring out the window at the city street below — quiet at this hour, the occasional car humming past, headlights cutting through the dark.
By the time he washed the plate and set it in the drying rack, exhaustion was pulling at his limbs. He crawled into bed without bothering to set an alarm, the hum of the fridge still filling the space, steady and constant.
But sleep didn’t come easy.
Babe’s words from earlier hung in the air like smoke. You should leave, Ken. Start over. There’s more than this.
Kenta stared up at the ceiling, at the hairline crack that ran along the plaster like a roadmap to nowhere. He wanted to believe it. That there was a life somewhere beyond the neon lights, the bruises hidden under makeup, the endless cycle of pretending.
But wanting and believing were two different things.
Eventually, exhaustion won. His eyes slipped shut, and the city outside faded to nothing but muffled noise. The clock ticked steady on the wall, counting the hours until he’d wake up and do it all over again.
Near closing, the club always changed.
The lights dimmed a little, the music pulsed slower, heavier, like the heartbeat of a beast finally winding down.
Kenta moved through the crowd with the same easy smile, the one that didn’t reach his eyes but fooled almost everyone. His steps were smooth, fluid, his body language warm in a way that looked real enough to earn him bills tucked into the waistband of his thin black briefs. He leaned into a patron’s side, letting their hand skim along his arm, laughter soft and sweet, rehearsed.
Another night. Another endless cycle of wanting hands and empty promises.
At the bar, Babe and Charlie were shoulder to shoulder, talking low over drinks. Kenta’s eyes lingered, sharp, knowing. Tony didn’t like it when the dancers lingered too long together — too much talk made men think of escape, of solidarity. But Babe knew the rules as well as Kenta did, and Charlie wasn’t stupid either.
Kenta let it go, sweeping the room with a practiced glance.
On stage, Way was a vision — tall, built, his skin glittering under the rotating lights. There was a sweetness to his performance, sensual but delicate, the kind that drew in men who liked their fantasies soft. Kenta didn’t know Way well, he didn’t want to know most of them. Distance was safer. Cleaner. But if it ever came down to it, he’d have their backs.
The regular in front of him spoke again, something sickly-sweet murmured near his ear, and Kenta forced a smile, leaning just close enough to keep the money flowing. He didn’t flinch, didn’t react, didn’t do anything but play the part he’d been taught to play.
And then — he froze.
Across the room, through the haze of lights and smoke and the hum of closing-hour chatter, there he was.
The man from last week.
Kenta’s breath hitched, just for a moment, before his mask slipped back into place. Kim sat at the far end of the bar, glass in hand, his gaze steady and unflinching — not predatory, not eager, just… watching. Always watching.
Kenta’s pulse spiked, sharp and unwanted. He turned back to his regular, gave them another empty smile, and tried to ignore it. The way his skin prickled under that gaze, the way his own curiosity sparked despite every instinct screaming at him to keep away.
But eventually, he moved.
When the regular had been coaxed into tipping one of the newer dancers instead, Kenta slid across the room with practiced grace, each step quiet and sure until he was standing right in front of Kim.
“You again,” Kenta said, voice low, cool as the ice in the man’s drink. His arms folded lightly over his chest, his expression sharp but unreadable. “Didn’t I tell you to stay away?”
Kim’s mouth curved, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world. “You did,” he admitted, setting his glass down. “But I couldn’t stop thinking about you. About that cigarette we promised.”
The words — smooth, too smooth — made something in Kenta tighten. His smile came out sharp, a little incredulous, though not enough to hide the flicker of heat low in his stomach.
“This isn’t that kind of place,” he murmured, even though they both knew it was exactly that kind of place.
But Kim wasn’t leaning in, wasn’t pressing. He just looked at him, gaze steady, voice quieter now. “Then maybe we take a walk. Somewhere you can actually breathe.”
It was dangerous. Reckless.
Kenta’s eyes flicked around the club, sharp and quick — toward the office upstairs, where he knew the cameras fed straight into Tony’s watchful gaze. His heartbeat stuttered once, then steadied. He could feel the risk coiling like smoke in his chest, but for reasons he didn’t want to name, he didn’t walk away.
Kim’s hand brushed his lightly, a touch so subtle it could’ve been nothing, and Kenta let him. It was part of the game, after all.
“You’re not like the others,” Kenta said finally, his voice barely above the music, not sure if it was an accusation or an observation.
Kim’s smile deepened, though there was something quieter behind it. “Maybe I’m not.”
And maybe that was what had Kenta holding his gaze longer than he should have, his pulse steady and sharp in his throat.
“When do you get off?” Kim asked, casual, as if the weight of the question wasn’t heavy between them.
Kenta hesitated — just a beat, just enough — then tilted his head, closing the distance by half a step, enough to catch the faint, clean scent of him beneath the alcohol and the smoke. His eyes flicked briefly to the watch at Kim’s wrist, sleek and expensive, before settling back on his face.
“Not long,” he murmured, quiet enough that only Kim could hear.
Kim nodded, unbothered. “Then I’ll wait.”
For a moment, Kenta let himself wonder — absurdly, stupidly — if maybe this man was here for him, and not just for whatever game he was playing. The thought warmed something inside him that he didn’t want to name, something small and almost dangerous.
And then he remembered where he was, who might be watching, and the thought burned out as quickly as it came.
Still, when he turned away, heading toward the staff-only hallway, he could feel Kim’s eyes on his back the whole way — lingering, heavy, steady — and it left him wondering what exactly he was getting himself into.
The streets were quiet at this hour. That soft, eerie calm that only came before dawn. The city still smelled like last night: cigarette smoke, cheap perfume, rain clinging to the cracked pavement.
Kenta tugged the hood of his black sweatshirt over his damp hair, the hem brushing the curve of his cheek where the bruise from Tony’s last “reminder” had just begun to yellow. He lit a cigarette and inhaled, the sharp burn grounding him.
Beside him, Kim walked at an easy pace, his hands tucked in the pockets of his jacket. The man didn’t look like someone who belonged at The Tom Cat. Not with the clean lines of his coat, the quiet confidence that clung to him. He looked like he’d stepped out of a different world and had somehow wandered into Kenta’s.
Kenta hated how aware he was of him.
“You don’t talk much,” Kim said, his voice steady but soft as their footsteps echoed along the empty street.
“Not much to say,” Kenta replied, blowing smoke toward the paling horizon.
“Mm.” Kim took the cigarette when Kenta offered it, fingers brushing his, brief but enough to make Kenta’s pulse stumble. He exhaled slow, practiced, then passed it back. “That’s fine. I can talk enough for both of us.”
Kenta almost smiled. Almost. “You strike me as the type.”
Kim’s laugh was quiet, genuine, and it did something strange to Kenta’s chest. “Guilty. But if I’m being honest, I’m better at listening.”
They walked in silence for a few minutes, the quiet between them oddly comfortable. Kim filled it gently after a while, his words casual, measured.
He talked about late nights at work, how he’d gotten hooked on black coffee in his twenties and never looked back, how he hated the quiet of his apartment but hadn’t done anything to fix it. Small pieces of himself, tossed like breadcrumbs. Never anything too deep, but enough to paint the outline of a man who lived, who breathed, who existed outside the smoke and lights of the club.
Kenta didn’t answer much, didn’t know how to, but he listened.
By the time they turned the corner onto a street lined with shuttered storefronts, dawn was breaking, the sky blushing pale pink and gold. A small café at the corner was just opening, its neon sign flickering to life, and Kim nodded toward it.
“Coffee?” he asked, like it was the simplest thing in the world.
Kenta hesitated, instinct telling him to make an excuse, to leave now before this crossed into dangerous territory. But the thought of going back to his empty apartment, of sitting in silence with his thoughts until exhaustion won out — that felt heavier.
“…Sure,” he said finally, voice soft.
Inside, the café smelled of fresh bread and warm espresso. The light was soft, almost forgiving, and for the first time in hours, Kenta felt like he could breathe.
Kim ordered for both of them without asking, his voice easy as he handed over a bill and told the barista to keep the change. Gentlemanly. Effortless.
Kenta sat at the table by the window, hood pushed back now, hair still damp from his post-shift shower. He didn’t think about the bruise. Didn’t think about the way the sickly yellow tint was settling into his skin, the edge of it still dark enough to be noticeable under the soft glow of the café lights.
When Kim slid the coffee across the table toward him, their fingers brushed again. Something in Kenta tightened.
“Thanks,” he muttered, and took a sip. It was good. Too good.
They sat there for a while, quiet, the world outside slowly waking up.
Then, Kim broke the silence.
He set his own cup down, the faint clink of porcelain against wood catching Kenta’s attention, and then — quietly, almost too softly — said, “What happened to your face?”
Kenta blinked, startled for half a second before his usual mask slid back into place. His fingers curled around his coffee cup, nails tapping lightly against the ceramic. “Part of the job,” he muttered, voice flat, dismissive. “Occupational hazard.”
Kim didn’t buy it. Kenta could see it in the way his jaw tightened, in the way those dark, sharp eyes stayed locked on him, unflinching.
“You deserve better than that,” Kim said, steady but with an edge that scraped just slightly against the quiet.
Kenta almost laughed. Almost. “Better?” His mouth curved, but it wasn’t a smile. It was sharp, humourless. “This is my life. You don’t like it, don’t watch.”
For a moment, something in Kim’s gaze softened. Then his hand shifted. Barely a movement, just the brush of his finger against Kenta’s knuckles where they rested on the table.
It was so slight, but it felt deliberate.
Kenta froze, coffee halfway to his lips. He didn’t pull away. He didn’t know why.
Kim tilted his head slightly, voice dropping, quiet but cutting through the noise of the early morning café. “Who did that to you?”
The question hung there, heavy, and for the first time since they’d sat down, Kenta looked at him — really looked.
There was something in Kim’s eyes, something sharp and dangerous that hadn’t been there before. Protective. Lethal, even, like a blade honed and waiting. It sent a ripple through Kenta, something that was equal parts fear and heat curling low in his gut.
He should’ve lied. Should’ve brushed it off again, made some joke, thrown up another wall. But the words slipped out anyway, quiet and sharp-edged.
“My boss,” he said, eyes dropping to his coffee. “I wasn’t careful, and… that’s his way of reminding me how it works.”
Kim didn’t respond right away. He sat there, still as stone, his hand still brushing Kenta’s like an anchor.
When he did speak, his voice was quiet — too quiet. “That’s not how it should work.”
Kenta almost scoffed, almost rolled his eyes at the sentiment. But the way Kim said it. Low, certain, like it wasn’t just an observation but a promise — kept the words stuck in his throat.
Maybe this was just a game to Kim. Maybe he liked broken boys, liked the challenge. Kenta had seen that type before.
But when he looked up, when he met Kim’s gaze again, he didn’t see hunger. He saw something else. Something careful. Something steady.
It made him feel seen in a way that was unfamiliar and dangerous.
And, worse, it made him want to stay.