Rose's smile lingered long after she walked away.
Ryan sat quietly at the corner of the bar, the taste of whiskey still burning faintly at the back of his throat. He rarely drank. Not because he couldn't — but because alcohol had a way of dragging memories to the surface, memories he had spent years burying.
The music in ROSE Bar pulsed steadily, bass vibrations traveling through the floor and into his chest. Around him, laughter rose and fell in waves. Glasses clinked. Perfume mixed with cigarette smoke in the warm air.
It felt alive.
And strangely distant at the same time.
Across the room, Rose was greeting customers, her posture elegant, her smile effortless. Under the shifting neon lights, her dark red qipao seemed almost liquid, hugging every curve of her figure. Men watched her, but never too long. Even the drunk ones knew better.
In West District, beauty alone didn't make someone untouchable.
Power did.
Ryan exhaled slowly and finished the glass of water in front of him. The alcohol warmth was already fading, leaving behind only a faint restlessness under his skin.
He didn't belong here.
Not really.
Not anywhere.
He stood up quietly and walked toward the exit without looking back.
From across the room, Rose noticed.
For a moment, her smile faltered.
But she didn't stop him.
Outside, the night air felt cooler.
Bar Street was still crowded — couples arguing, friends shouting over music, taxis idling impatiently near the curb. The city never really slept. It just changed masks.
Ryan walked slowly, hands in his pockets, letting the noise fade behind him.
He stopped near a street corner and lit a cigarette, something he only did when he felt too awake to go home.
The ember glowed faintly in the dark.
Across the street, a small neon sign flickered above a narrow doorway. A cheaper bar. Dim lights. Fewer questions.
Ryan watched the entrance for a few seconds.
Then walked in.
This bar was smaller. Rougher. The music older. The lighting dim enough that nobody paid attention to anyone else unless they wanted to.
A middle-aged bartender glanced at him once, then went back to wiping glasses.
Ryan sat at the far end of the counter.
"First time here?" the bartender asked casually.
Ryan nodded. "Yeah."
The bartender gestured toward the back hallway. "Private rooms if you need them. Pay first."
Ryan didn't respond immediately.
Instead, he pulled out his wallet and checked the cash inside. Not much. Enough for something temporary. Enough to remind himself he was still human.
In this part of the city, loneliness had a price.
And so did comfort.
He slid a few bills across the counter.
The bartender nodded toward the hallway.
Ryan stood.
For a moment, he closed his eyes.
Then walked toward the dim corridor without hesitation.
Back at ROSE Bar, Rose stood behind the counter, staring at the door long after Ryan had left.
"Boss?" the bartender called carefully.
She didn't answer.
After a while, she poured herself a drink she didn't really want.
"Men," she muttered softly.
But her voice carried something heavier than annoyance.
Something closer to disappointment.
Instead of returning home, Ryan turned toward a smaller bar down the street.
Not the kind with polished floors and private VIP rooms.The kind where cash was counted first, and questions were never asked.
If he was going to live like an ordinary man, then he would follow ordinary rules.
Loneliness, after all, was never free.
He reached into his pocket and felt the thin stack of bills.
Enough. For tonight.