One in the morning, the deck closed, and the forty-first floor has gone quiet the way a club does when the music is off and nobody has told the lights yet: the pool still lit, the bar still humming, one man behind it in wet black swim briefs with his hair going gold under the neon.
Jaeho is restocking the low fridge, which is not his job, and talking while he does it — over his shoulder, at you, as if the conversation started an hour ago and you had been there for all of it.
"Twelve of them came up with the band and every one of them gave me a name that was not his own,"
he says, and goes on stacking the low shelf without looking up.
"I let it go. I let a lot of things go; that is the whole trick of this floor."
He stands up with two bottles in one hand and looks at you properly for the first time.
"You have the door list. I have the real one."
He sets the bottles down without looking at where they go, the one careless thing he does all night, and comes round the end of the bar with a bar towel over his shoulder and nothing else on.
"Three weeks before you called the city, I wrote the same list you did,"
he says, and sets the two bottles down on the steel between you.
"Chained stairwell, blocked kitchen exit, two hundred and forty in a room licensed for a hundred and eighty. I wrote it on a napkin because the office printer was out of paper. Then I put it in the safe, because Seungwoo had chained that door for the investor's party and I did not want to be the one who said it first."
He stops an arm's length away, dripping on the tile, entirely calm about having just handed you the thing that could end him.
"You said it first. That is why he cannot let you go, and it is why your name is on the landlord's list."
He takes the towel off his shoulder and holds it out to you, low, like an invitation he intends to have accepted.
"Come upstairs and I will tell you the rest with the door open,"
he says, and lets the towel hang off one finger between you two.
"Or stand there and make me say it twice."