Page 76 of Damian & Jun: Episodes 1-4
Jun looked back at the internal room in which he was standing. The police officers were gone, but he wasn’t alone. One man, tall and wide, was still with him, dressed in all black. He pointed to a closed door and then to an outfit laid out on a low wood table to the side.
“Bath. Change.” The man did not offer his name.
Jun picked up the clothes. They felt expensive. He went into the bathroom. On the counter were things he wished he could unsee: razors, a box that said douche kit, balm, and lube. He only recognized the lube because of his nights with Damian. He picked up the douche kit box. Turning it over explained how it was meant to be used. His cheeks burned. He dropped it on the counter.
Those about to die salute you. The words of Roman gladiators rang through his head followed by static. His thighs hit the counter, and he braced himself with his palms against the surface, scattering bottles of makeup and face serum.
Sweet scents floated up to his nose from the covered bath off to the side. A shower was fitted alongside it. Everything was a beautiful, modern interpretation of ancient designs, all wood and stone, even the sink and shower.
He turned over the new clothes. The shirt was a modern hanbok style in gray with loose wide sleeves, the front open and meant to be wrapped and folded both directions across the chest and secured with soft silk ties. The pants were modern black slacks and cut from fine wool cloth. There was no underwear.
Those about to die salute you. How had those men and women marched into the arena, fight after fight, knowing what was coming?
There was a knock on the door. It was the same man in black. He had a tray. He placed it beside the bathroom sink. On the tray was a carafe of cold clear water and a teapot with an already poured cup of tea.
“Drink. You have time.”
“How long?” Jun whispered. How long did he have to wait? How long could he wait? How long had they been driving? It must have been hours.
“The chief has important business. A few hours. He ordered you luncheon in the garden pavilion.”
How romantic. How traditional and graceful. So proper. Jun swallowed, unable to speak. He reached for the water and drew back his hand.
The man huffed. He uncorked the water and poured some in the empty glass. Holding Jun’s gaze, he drank it, then sipped from the tea.
Was this kindness or cruelty?
“The chief is a sincere admirer, Mr. Gang. Please accept this meeting for what it is. Perhaps you have had unpleasant experiences in the past, but that is not what this is. The chief only wants good things for you.”
Jun forced himself to look up at the man’s face. Now would be a good time to pass out, to let this all be a fever dream.
The only thing to be seen in the large man’s eyes was dark opaque pupils. He felt like he was on one of those variety shows that made up such a large part of his early publicity, the ones where he knew for a fact the host hated him but was joking and playing up being friendly for the cameras, each word selected from crafted script, no one willing to speak the truth out loud, everyone bowing and smiling and agreeing with each other.
If they said what they meant, the play would fall apart. If they acknowledged the truth, the architecture of their lives would crumble.
Sadness spread out from the center of his chest like a misery wine poured into his heart and pumped into his veins. If one was the only sane man in an asylum, was one then sane or insane by nature of being the only one to disagree?
The keys of the madhouse were in this man’s hands. Should he join him, disappear into the stream of madness, or was he going to call it out for what it was and watch the waves of intentions tangle?
Jun lifted up the hanbok shirt. “It’s winter. This isn’t enough for a garden meal.”
“Outer robes are available at the doors. Mr. Gang, it is time to bathe. Allow me.”
The man extended his hand as if he were a servant from an ancient time period preparing to stripe a noble. All things Jun had done playing roles in TV dramas but never in real life.
The madness was going too far.
Jun stepped back, his hand gripping the front of his shirt. “I do not require assistance.”
“There are many benefits that may come from our chief. My service is one of them.”
And I’m certain that a police chief's salary pays for all of this? Just like Bak can afford to stress smoke that brand of cigars. What kind of game or larceny is the chief involved in?
“I wouldn’t consider undressing a service.”
“Are you body shy, Mr. Gang? I assure you this is entirely professional. Think of me like a doctor or a nurse in a hospital.”
Jun looked through the door of the bathroom toward the courtyard. A breath and then a second. He listened to his own pulse in his ears. “There are two ways this can go: one, you can leave this room and leave me to bathe and prepare in peace, or two, you can attempt to serve and deliver a broken and bruised idol for his entertainment this evening. Which would he prefer?”
