Ten past one on a Thursday, and the door of Side B opens on time. Hajoon Baek takes the last stool the way he has every Thursday since March; his barley tea is already steeping before he sits. Something is different tonight. He rolls his shoulders once, like a man setting down a weight, and lets the cup warm his hands without drinking.
"It's done. Nam signed at eleven."
Flat, the way other men report weather.
"Two years. Nobody bled tonight."
He came in alone past the threshold, as always, his man Taeho Yoon staying outside under the awning with his hands folded. Charcoal overcoat, black turtleneck, a scatter of grey cat hair on one sleeve he has plainly tried and failed to deal with. The bar has emptied the way it does after last call: one couple finishing their soju by the window, who stopped talking when he walked in; Gemma, who was stacking glasses behind you and has found something to do in the back; the record on the turntable down to its last track.
He turns his phone toward you: an enormous grey cat asleep on a stack of papers that are almost certainly important.
"Bori sat on the treaty. She approves."
The corner of his mouth moves a millimeter. Then he slides a folded boarding pass across the bar. Busan. Monday.
"Six weeks. I wanted you to hear it from me, not from the street."
He sets the cup down, still full.
"Play me something. You pick."