Chapter Text
After years of trying to get the attention of the masses through his art, the universe seemed to deem him talentless. It was evident that Till’s art was not on par with that of famous or popular artists of today, but it was fair since Till didn’t even attend art school or have proper training. He took the hard road. Started from scratch. Posting on social media, laying his paintings on the sidewalk, hoping a stranger might take one home, and entering exhibitions, the free ones, because he could never afford the reputable ones.
Till’s efforts were unnoticed, except for a few loyal customers and one who became a dear friend to him, a café owner named Sua, who commissioned him to paint landscapes to display in her café. She was even kind enough to add contact details under his paintings so her customers would reach out to him, which did not work since no one has contacted him yet.
It was all over for him. He could not live off his art alone. The rent kept rising, and food became scarce. He needed to find a full-time job to sustain himself. It broke his heart to give up on something he was passionate about, something his late mother had always encouraged him to pursue. But reality had taught him a cruel lesson: the world will never hesitate to remind you that you are not enough.
So, as one last hurrah for the artist Till, he decided to get himself drunk in his rundown apartment, littered with art materials on the floor and the smell of turpentine in the air, and drink till he dropped, and the next morning, he might have to sell or give away his things to some younger or talented artist on the internet.
After hours of drinking till 1 AM, the decision finally sank in, and he felt the tears slowly drip away. He can never hold a brush or pencil again, and he can never look down at his hands and marvel at the colorful mess he made. He might even need to buy new clothes to replace his old ones covered in paint stains if he wishes to be presentable at job interviews. The thought depresses him.
While he drunkenly pondered on his next game plan for his life and also set a profile on LinkedIn, his phone vibrated, and a message popped up on his screen.
“Hello!! Are you open for commissions?”
Till stood up from his seat and immediately regretted it as he became dizzy from the alcohol and sat back down. He opened the message. It was from an unknown number. Maybe it came from customers of Sua’s café?
Till hesitates, he does not have enough materials if he accepts this offer, and his prices are relatively cheap, which won’t even last for a week. He also finalized his decision to look for a job seriously, which means no distractions. His phone vibrated again.
“I’ll pay $100,000 for a portrait.”
He stood up quickly again, ignoring the pounding in his head. One hundred thousand dollars for a portrait? That’s a lot of money he has ever seen, more than enough to keep him alive for the whole year or two. But why would someone pay such an outrageous amount for a portrait? This must be a scam, Till thought. He opened up the message and typed a reply.
“A hundred thousand for a portrait? I’m not dumb enough to fall for a scam. You’re wasting your time.”
3 dots appeared, this person was typing quickly, and just a few seconds later, his phone vibrated again.
“I understand the skepticism. I assure you that this is no scam.
The commission stands at one hundred thousand, as promised. To show good faith, I am prepared to transfer a down payment of twenty thousand immediately.
I only require your bank details so we can end the suspicion.”
It’s like this person already knew what to reply. Twenty thousand upfront? It was hard to believe. Till debated in his head if he should just take it, he has nothing to lose after all. He downs another can of beer and sits down.
He remembered he had an old savings account he hadn’t touched in years. If this were a scam, at least they would find nothing worth stealing. He opened his Notes app and searched for where he kept his bank details.
He slowly typed in the message with his bank details, but his hand shook with every press of the button. This could be dangerous, but his rent notice is taped on his door, and his fridge holds nothing but an almost-expired sandwich.
“Fine. Here’s my account number. If nothing shows up, that’s the last you’ll hear from me.”
He hit send, instantly regretting it, like he sold a piece of himself.
Minutes dragged like hours. Then his phone buzzed. A notification. He blinked at the screen, not trusting his eyes.
Balance: 20,000.00 credited.
Till whispered, almost afraid to say it aloud,
“It’s real.”
His phone buzzed again.
“Did you get it? Hope you believe me now :) We don’t have to be so formal now. I just really want this portrait done in your style.”
Till blinked at the sudden shift in tone. He hurried to reply, apologizing if he had sounded rude before and thanking them for the down payment. Sliding into customer-service mode, he asked the usual questions: who they were, how they had found him, what kind of portrait they wanted, and which medium he should use.
“Oh, I'd rather keep my identity anonymous. I saw one of your pieces in a cafe, and I’m just a fan of this actor. You’ve probably heard of him. His name’s Ivan, he’s the main guy in Black Sorrow. You can show me drafts, and I'll decide from there. I also have no issues with time, but I expect it to be done before the year ends. :D”
The bubbly message, full of typos and casual slang, struck Till as odd. For a moment, he wondered if this was just some spoiled teen with too much money. But then the name Ivan stopped him.
Till was not active on social media. The only Ivan he knew was the boy from high school. Still, somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered hearing that Ivan had become an actor.
His chest tightened, and his heartbeat quickened. It could not be that Ivan. There were a thousand Ivans in the world.
With trembling fingers, he opened Google and typed Black Sorrow cast.
The first picture that appeared nearly stopped his heart.
Ivan.
The Ivan he once knew better than anyone. The Ivan who had been his best friend until everything fell apart.
Till can’t reject the offer now, he has already received a down payment. Twenty Thousand. He felt sober, but to shut the voices in his head, he closed his eyes and succumbed to sleep in the comfort of his couch.
Morning came, and Till woke up already feeling like shit. The events of last night had not fully struck him yet, and it all still felt like a fever dream. He stared at the window. Pale light leaked in through thin curtains, painting the room in a grayish glow. Probably around eight in the morning. Too early to start the day.
He rolled over, which turned out to be a mistake, and hit the floor with a dull thud. Dust puffed up from the rug, scratching his nose. The couch was too narrow to support him. Maybe he should buy a bigger one with his new money. Wait. New money?
His chest tightened. He scrambled for his phone, checking under the couch, feeling around the dirty crevices where coins and crumbs lived, until he spotted it sitting on the table. Relief shot through him as he grabbed it. He pulled up his bank account, and there it was. Twenty thousand dollars. The numbers glowed back at him, surreal. He scrolled back to the messages. They were still there, word for word. Not a dream. It was real. Time to pay bills. Time to shop. But first, he had to wash up.
A cold bath slapped his body awake, every drop prickling his skin. The taste of instant coffee was bitter, and the bread of the almost-expired sandwich was dry in his mouth. It used to feel like punishment. Now it felt almost celebratory.
He threw on one of his customized shirts, a plain white tee marked with black spray paint and profanity. People might find it edgy, but he thought it made a statement. He grabbed a scrap of paper and scribbled a list: pay rent, buy food, find a job, and Ivan. He hovered on the last name, the ink pressing harder into the page than it needed to. He tried to force himself to see it as business. Just business. Not reopening a wound.
The thing about moving on from the past is that it has no deadline. No end. A person can say, “It has been ten years, I’m over it,” but the smallest thing can drag it all back. An object. A word. A melody. And suddenly it is like a freight train smashing through walls you thought were solid. It is all pretend. Till had been pretending for years. But one glimpse of Ivan’s name had cracked it all open again, and it was getting worse by the second.
When he handed over rent to the landlord, the coins clinked like echoes, but his mind was elsewhere. He was already thinking about the painting. How would he paint him? Would a headshot suffice, or a full body? Should he be standing in a meadow? The ideas trailed him down the street, following him into the grocery store.
The smell hit him first: damp produce, bleach, and fried food from the deli. His sneakers squeaked against the linoleum. He picked up an apple and thought, maybe Ivan could be holding one, biting into it, juice dripping down. The thought warped. Fangirls would love that, wouldn’t they? Something sexy. Maybe even nude.
The image flashed in his head so suddenly that he almost dropped the fruit. He gripped it harder, knuckling white, the cold waxy skin biting against his palm.
You’re going mad, he thought.
By the time he reached the counter, the cashier’s bored eyes lifted, softening into that look he hated. Pity. They scanned the items one by one: a carton of milk with condensation on the sides, a loaf of bread, instant noodles, oatmeal, and one of those prepackaged meals he always wanted to try. The beep of each item felt louder than it should have.
Despite the money sitting in his account, he was afraid to spend too much at once. Afraid it would vanish if he weren’t careful. Even then, his thoughts never left the portrait. Never left Ivan. He decided he would stress about it later, back home.
No artist is the same. Each has their own way of chasing a masterpiece. Till was no different, but his process had always been tied to emotion. His feelings poured through his hands, raw and unfiltered, and that was what gave his work its pulse.
He had been drawing since he was six years old. He remembered the crooked little sketch he had shoved into his mother’s hands, and how she praised it as if it were the greatest thing in the universe. From that moment on, he believed art was his calling. He drew just to see her smile. He drew until his wrists ached and his notebooks were full. The practice paid off, the lines grew cleaner, the shapes more alive.
During recess or on the walk home, he would sit and sketch people in stillness, strangers waiting at bus stops, classmates bent over their lunches. He hated when people hovered behind him, watching, whispering. He was too shy to welcome them, too blunt to brush them off politely, and it left him with a reputation. The weird kid with anger issues, the one who was always scribbling. Until Ivan. Meeting him changed everything.
After high school, when he finally tried to carve out his style and live as an artist, he turned to the masters. He studied Willem de Kooning, Jackson Pollock, and Cy Twombly, painters who used chaos and gesture to speak. Till found himself leaning toward abstract expressionism because it mirrored the state of his own heart. It was hard to paint solid figures when all he wanted to do was throw paint, grind the bristles into canvas, scratch and smear until the canvas shouted back the rage, sadness, and manic noise he carried inside. His mother had died, which broke Till even further. A distant uncle sent him money to fend for himself. And Ivan had already left.
Till painted with his feelings, that is a fact. It was when his work came alive, when it became more than colors and shapes. It was always strongest when the subject meant something to him. Was Ivan important? He had been. A rare friend in a time when Till had almost none. But what about now?
He scrolled through pages of sponsored posters online. Ivan’s face was everywhere, glowing on screens, handsome and polished beyond recognition. Till could hardly reconcile the man in the photographs with the high schooler who used to throw punches beside him. This Ivan looked untouchable, mature, wealthy, draped in luxury. Award-winning, even. Best actor of the year. Meanwhile, Till sat in his cluttered apartment, surrounded by dust and silence. The unfairness clawed at him, but he forced himself to shove it away. There was no time to sulk.
After sitting in it too long, pretending he was not jealous, Till pulled up a folder of reference images. He sharpened his pencil, drew the guidelines, and sketched the asaro head to map the angles. Five rough portraits emerged in an hour, each one different, none of them right. Every sketch turned Ivan into someone else entirely. Like different parts of him drew him like how he remembered. Rough because of the anger and the fights. Soft because of the tender and fun moments they shared, and distant like the man he grew to become, someone he didn’t recognize. The problem wasn’t the reference, it was him. His hands faltered because his heart did. His feelings twisted the image, making Ivan into a stranger with every attempt. This was why he hid behind abstraction. Landscapes and emotion-heavy splatters were easier than people. People were complicated, and Ivan was the most complicated of all.
Till dropped the pencil and leaned back in his chair. His chest rose and fell in a heavy sigh. It was going to be like this for days. And he knew it.
Three days passed, and Till was still in a slump. He tried watching films but couldn’t get through them. The moment a familiar face flickered on the screen, he’d shut his phone off in an instant. His sketches weren’t any better, stuck in an uninspired limbo of bland lines that didn’t even resemble Ivan anymore.
Finally, he decided to step outside. Maybe the fresh air would help, or at least remind him there were other things he needed to do, like finding an actual job. He’d been too consumed with portraits and failures to notice how badly he needed stability. So he pulled on his black jacket, slipped his worn-out headphones around his neck, tugged a gray beanie over his hair, and headed out. Sua’s café was his destination, partly for a dose of human interaction, partly for the faint hope of work.
It was one of his favorite kinds of days: the sky heavy and gray, threatening to burst into rain at any moment. The cold, melancholic air always seemed to pair well with coffee. Ahead, the Clematis Café came into view, and it was decorated with flowers that it looked more like a flower shop than a Café. The name fit perfectly as cascades of clematis vines framed the windows and doorway, and you could easily guess the owner's favorite flowers.
Till and Sua had been friends for over a year after she spotted him drawing in her café and inquired about commissioning him. They ended up exchanging messages. First, it was for business, then they found out they had the same interests then those messages were about that. One of those interests is being a fan of the idol Mizi, who was once in a girl group called “Lunara,” but she recently left the group and became a soloist and has been thriving ever since.
The girl with the long pink hair and angelic features has struck both their hearts, but not as much as Sua’s. She’s the type of fan who gatekeeps her idols, borderline obsessive. Till had to clarify that he only admires, not in a way like Sua, who has a massive crush on Mizi. Their feud ended when Till gifted her a painting of Mizi as a birthday gift.
The door chimed as Till entered, the quiet sound announcing him to the few customers scattered inside. The gloomy weather had clearly kept most people home. Behind the counter, he noticed unfamiliar faces among the staff, but before he could dwell on it, Sua spotted him. She raised a hand in greeting, and he returned it with a sheepish smile before making his way forward.
Sua had once offered him a part-time job, serving customers and helping around the café. Back then, he had refused, insisting on focusing entirely on his art. Now, that refusal felt like a luxury he couldn’t afford.
She was cleaning the espresso machine when he approached. With a glance up and down, she smirked.
“You look like shit.”
“Nice seeing you too,” Till said, smiling awkwardly. He debated how to bring up the job offer without sounding desperate.
“I haven’t seen you in weeks. Thought you died.” Her voice was casual as she tapped at the register. “I’m guessing your usual?”
Till hesitated. “Actually… I’ll take a caramel macchiato.”
Sua paused, looking at him like he’d just confessed to a crime. “But you always order an Americano. And you hate sweets.”
“I just wanted to try it,” Till shrugged. It wasn’t a lie. He had always wondered about the drink he saw other customers order, though usually he stuck to what was cheapest.
“Something happened,” Sua said flatly, keying in the order. She looked at him, receipt in hand. “Did you find a job?”
Not what he expected, but the opening was too good to pass up. “About that… remember the job you offered me? Well, I was hoping it’s still open.”
Her eyes widened. “That was sudden.”
“Yeah,” Till admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.
She sighed. “That still doesn’t explain the caramel macchiato.”
Before he could respond, she shook her head. “I’ll tell you something after your order’s done. Sit down.”
Maybe he was too late to bring that offer up. He slid into a corner seat, trying to shake off the dread that pooled in his stomach. His eyes drifted to the walls and saw his paintings still hung there. Another thing he noticed was that there were more employees now, and the place felt livelier, fuller, as though it didn’t need him anymore.
Five minutes later, Sua walked over with his drink and, unusually, sat down across from him. She nudged the cup toward him.
“Now, I want to see your reaction to this,” she said, smirking.
He eyed the swirl of cream and caramel drizzle, his mouth watering despite himself. “Who knows, this might be my new favorite.”
“Go ahead,” Sua urged, resting her chin in her hand.
“Don’t stare at me like that. Feels like you poisoned it.”
She chuckled. “Oh, I wish I did.”
“That’s evil.” He slipped the straw in and took a sip. Sweetness hit first, buttery and candy-like, before the espresso cut through with a bold, bitter edge. It was unlike anything he’d tasted before. He looked up at Sua, surprised. “That’s really good.”
Her smirk softened into genuine pleasure. “Glad you like it.”
But her expression quickly turned serious. “About the job offer… you’ve probably noticed I’ve already filled the spots.”
Till nodded, looked back at the staff behind the counter, and took another sip. “Yeah. Early bird catches the worm, right?”
Sua gave him an apologetic look, “I’m sorry. I just don’t have enough to pay another employee.”
“Don’t be sorry, it’s my fault for taking this long.”
“Why did it take so long anyway?”
Till scratched his head, “I uh, decided to stop pursuing art and get a job that can actually feed me.”
She frowned. “You can still do art on the side. You’ve always loved it.”
“Not lately.” He stared into the caramel streaks dissolving into his coffee. He wanted to tell her about the strange commission, about the money that had suddenly landed in his hands, but the words stuck. Too personal. Too uncertain. And rejection made it pathetic.
Sua studied him for a moment longer. “So you’ve been job hunting this whole time?”
“Uh… yeah.” The lie slipped out before he could stop it.
“You’re doing a terrible job at it,” She teased
Sua leaned back, thoughtful, like a suggestion was on the tip of her tongue. “It’s any job, right? Doesn’t have to be anything specific?”
“Yes, any will do,” Till replied, taking another sip of his coffee. It was already halfway gone.
“Well, there’s this new bar a couple of blocks away. They’re hiring servers. It’s more high-end than this shabby café, and the pay must be good.”
That caught Till’s interest, but a high-end bar? He doubted he had the qualifications. “What makes you think I’ll get in?”
“They need a new mop and you’re the perfect fit,” she smirked.
Till nearly spat out his drink. This woman. Deep down, though, he was glad he had met her. For all her ice-queen demeanor, Sua had a warm spot for the people she cared about.
Their conversation ended with Till threatening to gatekeep all his Mizi fan art, while Sua countered with a threat not to put in a good word for him with the bar owner. In the end, they settled: Till would paint her a portrait of Mizi, far easier than struggling with Ivan, and in return, she would give him a referral.
Before heading home, Till walked toward the new bar to check it out. The Rocket? The name did not exactly scream high-end. But as it came into view, he realized it was flashier than he expected: sleek black walls of tinted glass, and above the entrance a massive rocket sign with a silver moon at the end, as if the rocket was about to crash into it. It was elegant, with just enough playful absurdity to stand out. He lingered across the street, then quickly diverted his path home before anyone mistook him for a homeless guy loitering outside.
Back at his apartment, Till slipped into his comfortable clothes and sat at his desk. The ritual began again, he sat down, attempted to watch Ivan on his phone, and started sketching. He’s getting used to his face by now. However, his feelings for him turned to disdain and a nuisance since he cannot get it right, but practice makes perfect, or so he kept telling himself.
For dinner, he made instant noodles and checked his bank account. He was pleased to see he had hardly made a dent in the money. Stingy and frugal as ever, he let himself enjoy that small victory. He would only buy proper art materials once he figured out the composition of the portrait. His commissioner had not contacted him since the down payment, which was just as well. He had no idea what to say if they demanded an update. He could talk circles to strangers, but not to clients.
The night stretched on. He sketched, erased, shaded, and started over, focusing hard on the slope of Ivan’s hair and the shine of it under imagined light. Then his phone buzzed. A message slid across the screen, forcing him to pause a video of Ivan during an interview for an old drama series he had been half-watching. It was from Sua.
“Hey, I talked to the boss and told her about you. She’s got an opening for a bartender, but since you’re not a barista, you can serve for now, assisting her crew. She wants you to meet her tomorrow and start soon. You’re welcome.”
Till blinked at the message. That was… it? It was that easy? He slumped back in his chair, staring at the screen. Why were things suddenly going his way? And more importantly, how close was Sua to this mysterious boss to pull strings like that? Or was it the other way around? That the boss was actually super laid back? Either way, it seems like Till has a job now.
He sent a quick message to Sua a thank you, and she replied that she’s expecting a new Mizi art soon. Till rolled his eyes at that.
It was already midnight when Till finally set his pencil down, the urge to sketch gone. A restless energy crept in, nerves gnawing at him as he thought about the day ahead and the strangers he would have to meet. He had no experience as a bartender, but he told himself he wasn’t completely unprepared. Years of standing behind convenience store counters and dealing with art clients had taught him how to handle people. That had to count for something. Still, the thought of stepping into an unfamiliar world unsettled him. As he lay down, the weight of uncertainty pressed on his chest, but beneath it lingered a flicker of hope. Maybe tomorrow would be different. Maybe it would be the start of something new.
Till’s day started fine. He had a dreamless sleep for once and woke up early, his body oddly refreshed. Sua never mentioned what time he should arrive, but showing up early seemed polite, even professional.
He pulled out one of his few decent outfits: a white long-sleeved button-up and black slacks, clothes he had saved only for occasions that demanded respectability. He combed through his silver hair, which was unusual, normally, he let it do whatever chaos it wanted. From the back of a drawer, he found a cheap bottle of cologne he had bought from the mall a year ago, sprayed it twice, and immediately regretted the overpowering sweetness of it. Still, it was better than smelling like pencil shavings and instant noodles.
Feeling somewhat dapper, Till texted Sua that he was heading to the bar. She replied instantly with a single thumbs-up emoji, the kind of effortless support only she could deliver.
The morning streets buzzed with life. Children dragged their feet to school beside groggy parents. Office workers rushed past with steaming cups of coffee in hand, shoes clicking against the pavement. Till, walking among them, felt something he hadn’t in a long time, like he was part of society again, not just a failed artist living off scraps of memory and regret.
The Rocket finally came into view, sleek and extravagant even in daylight. Till’s steps slowed when he reached the door, only for his face to fall. A neat sign hung in the window: “Sorry, We’re Closed.” Below it, another: “Open 6 PM – 2 AM.”
He had shown up hours too early. It’s a bar, of course, it would open at night.
He stood there like an idiot for a good five minutes before angrily texting Sua: You could’ve told me the time. Her reply came seconds later, "That’s not my job."
Till muttered a curse under his breath, resisting the urge to throw his phone at the wall. He owed her for getting him the job, which meant strangling her through the screen was not an option. He considered heading home to wait out the hours or crashing at her café to annoy her, but before he could decide, a pickup truck rumbled to a stop beside the bar.
A tall, slightly gangly man climbed out. His light-colored hair shimmered almost white in the morning sun, styled in a messy cut that seemed unintentional but oddly fitting. A cigarette dangled lazily from his lips, smoke curling around his sharp features. He wore a baggy hoodie, one hand clutching several grocery bags. Prepping for the night, Till guessed.
He stood off to the side, watching. Maybe this was someone connected to the bar. Maybe even the boss. The man carried the bags inside, and when he emerged again, he finally noticed Till lingering by the door. His gaze sharpened immediately.
Great. Till probably looked like a creep loitering.
The man approached, tall enough to cast a shadow over him, eyes narrowing in suspicion. Smoke drifted from his face as he studied Till in silence, like he was calculating whether he was about to rob the place. Then, without a word, he dropped the cigarette and crushed it under his heel.
“You must be the new guy,” he said, his voice rough and deep.
“Y-yes, that’s me. Uh… do I have to come back later or—”
“Nah. Boss told me to expect you today, said I should show you the ropes before we open.” His eyes flicked over Till’s outfit, clearly taking stock of him, judging.
“It’s good you came early. I’m Dewey.” He extended his hand.
Till accepted, only to feel himself yanked into a firm handshake, one that seemed to say Take this seriously, or you’re out.
“I’m Till. Nice to meet you?”
Dewey smirked. “That’s a unique name.” He scratched his head.
“Listen, kid. Just because you’re standing here doesn’t mean you’re hired. The real test is your performance tonight.”
Till’s stomach sank. So this was a trial? No interviews, no paperwork, just a test by fire?
Dewey’s stare hardened. “So you better pay attention to what I’m about to teach you in the next few hours.”
Till swallowed hard, bracing himself. He had not been prepared for this.
Dewey wasted no time, moving with the kind of ease that only came from years of repetition, and Till trailed behind trying to absorb every detail. He was shown how to polish the glasses until they gleamed under the dim bar lights, how to carry a tray with practiced balance, and how every bottle had its place on the backlit shelves like soldiers in formation. Dewey walked him through the rhythm of service: greeting guests with confidence, keeping posture straight, memorizing the layout of the tables, and slipping unnoticed through the room like part of the decor. Speaking of the decor, the bar inside was massive. The marble counters gleamed under the overhead glow, lined with rows of glasses that had been cleaned to perfection and set neatly in their places. The shelves behind the bar stood stocked and waiting, bottles of fine liquor catching the light like jewels in a display. Leather stools sat in orderly rows. and the dark wood floor, polished to a mirror sheen, reflected Till’s movements as he followed Dewey’s instructions. It felt less like a bar and more like a stage behind the curtain, every detail poised for an audience that hadn’t yet arrived. This place would be magical if there were music.
The instructions felt overwhelming, but as Till repeated the motions, stacking menus, folding napkins, refilling garnishes, he began to see the bar less as a place of mystery and more as a stage where precision and timing mattered most. He took an hour just memorizing and being familiar with the drinks being served, words he had not seen before. Reading the descriptions of the drinks made his mouth water like he needed the drink himself. He was surprised that there are odd combos with alcohol, such as adding coffee to it, which Till found strange.
At one point, Till asked Dewey about the boss, but all he got was a vague, “You’ll find out later.” That only made his curiosity grow.
What stood out even more were the massive posters decorating the bar with glossy images of a blond man with sharp features and striking yellow eyes. The face was unmistakable. Till recognized him as Luka, a world-renowned actor he had seen while researching Ivan. Luka’s career spanned decades. He had started as a child actor, then branched into singing and dancing, eventually becoming one of the few artists who could be called an “EGOT.” At first, the term confused Till, but once he understood it meant Luka had won an Emmy, Grammy, Oscar, and Tony, the reality of the man’s talent was undeniable. Luka wasn’t just famous; he was untouchable, the kind of star whose name alone drew crowds. To see his image plastered all over The Rocket unsettled Till. It could mean two things: either the owner was an obsessive fan, much like Sua with her beloved Mizi, or Luka himself had ties to this place, ties strong enough to leave his mark on every wall.
By four in the afternoon, two new arrivals walked in, Jacob and Isaac. Dewey introduced them as the bar’s bartenders, and Till was taken aback. Both men carried heavy scars across their faces, the kind that made them look intimidating, though their easy smiles suggested otherwise. Dewey himself turned out to be the chef, which surprised Till even more. He thought bars only served drinks, but here, in a high-end place like The Rocket, customers expected full menus, which explained the need for servers. Soon, more employees trickled in, each one welcoming Till with encouraging words. They assured him that working at The Rocket was fun, that the staff treated each other like family, and that no rude customer ever got away with bad behavior. When Till asked about the boss, though, every response was the same: a knowing smile and the promise that he would see for himself soon.
An hour passed, and Till was given his own set of uniform. The uniform was simple but sharp. A black button-up, pressed slacks, and a slim apron tied at the waist. Slipping into it, Till felt oddly displaced; gone were the paint-stained clothes and messy hair, replaced by a neat, almost professional stranger staring back at him in the bar’s dark mirror. It felt less like himself, less like an artist, but the weight of the apron grounded him. He must remember that this doesn’t mean that he’s officially hired.
It was finally opening time, and Till felt nervous. The customers who kept filing in were all wearing elegant attire. Women were in dresses, and men were in suits.
The night began in a blur. Orders were coming from every direction, and Till’s hands trembled as he balanced trays of cocktails. He nearly tipped a glass of wine onto a man’s expensive jacket and forgot to bring silverware to another table. Dewey had to whisper sharp reminders whenever he stumbled, but still let him push through on his own.
Then came the corner table.
A woman sat alone, poised, with long, dark hair cascading over one shoulder. Her bronze skin glowed warmly under the soft golden lights, and her eyes tracked the room with quiet command. She looked too elegant to be here alone, like she belonged more on a magazine cover than seated behind a cocktail menu.
Till hesitated, then approached, clutching his notepad. “Good evening, ma’am. May I take your order?” His voice cracked slightly, but he recovered with a polite smile.
She studied him for a moment, her lips curving with amusement. “You’re new.”
“Yes,” he admitted, cheeks flushing. “Still learning, but I promise I’ll get your order right.”
She chuckled softly. “In that case, surprise me. Something sweet, but not too sweet.”
Till froze. Dewey hadn’t taught him how to recommend drinks yet. But instead of panicking, he thought of the Caramel Macchiato Sua that once teased him about, and the coffee and alcohol drink he found strange when he was glossing over the menu. He glanced at the cocktail list and saw it, then offered, “How about our vanilla espresso martini? Balanced, with a touch of sweetness.”
Her eyes lit up. “Perfect. Let’s see if you live up to your promise.”
Till hurried to the bar, relayed the order, and personally carried the drink back. This time, his hands didn’t shake. He placed it gently on the table and added, “Here’s your drink. I hope it makes a good impression.”
She raised the glass, sipping slowly, then nodded with a faint smile. “It does.”
For the rest of the night, Till kept sneaking glances at her. She remained calm, observant, as if watching the whole operation. When her table was cleared, she left without fanfare.
It wasn’t until closing time, when the staff gathered, that Dewey clapped Till on the shoulder. “Kid, you passed.”
“Passed?” Till blinked, his mind still foggy from the rush of the night. His shirt smelled faintly of spilled wine, his hands ached from balancing trays, and he was sure he had ruined his chances more than once.
The woman from earlier stepped out of the back office. Her presence seemed to command the entire room, and Till’s breath caught when he realized who she was. That same amused smile curved her lips, and suddenly, the memory of serving her came rushing back.
“You’ve been officially hired,” she said simply. “Welcome to The Rocket.”
Till’s jaw nearly dropped. His heart stuttered in his chest. “You’re… the boss?”
“That’s right,” she replied, her voice calm but firm. She walked closer, eyes sharp but kind, as though she could see straight through him. She then gave him a catlike smirk and patted him strongly on the back, which shook Till out of his core.
“You made mistakes tonight, spilled, forgot, hesitated. But you never gave up, and you never once lost your manners. When you served me, you didn’t treat me like I was above anyone else. You listened. You tried. And that is worth more to me than perfection.” To add to the shock, the boss ruffled his hair, and the staff all chuckled.
A rush of heat climbed up Till’s neck. All evening, he was thinking of the worst-case scenario, but it completely flipped.
He bowed his head slightly, unsure whether to bow or shake her hand. His voice came out rougher than he intended. “Thank you. I won’t let you down.”
“I know you won’t,” she said with quiet certainty before turning back toward her office, leaving Till rooted in place, still reeling at the first feeling of victory, like he finally proved his worth.
Introductions were made, and the owner’s name turned out to be Hyuna. At first, Till assumed she would be the mysterious, elegant, and untouchable type, but that impression quickly faded. Beneath her poised exterior was someone loud, funny, and full of charisma. She had a natural warmth that made people gravitate toward her, and Till could already see why the staff adored her.
Before heading home, Till finally asked the question that had been lingering at the back of his mind.
“Boss, are you a big fan of Luka? I noticed the posters and paintings on the walls.”
Hyuna looked amused. “You can just call me Hyuna.” From across the room, Dewey shouted that she actually liked being called “boss.” She promptly flipped him off without breaking her smile.
“Don’t listen to that idiot,” she continued, raising her left hand to reveal a glittering diamond ring. “That blond guy on the walls? He’s my husband. That’s all you get for now. Stick around long enough, and maybe I’ll tell you more.” She winked playfully, and just like that, the mystery deepened.
When the night wrapped up, everyone pitched in to clean before closing. As they said their goodbyes, Till received more congratulations for becoming part of their family. He walked home with his heart full, his mind buzzing with new beginnings. Sitting at his cluttered desk later that night, surrounded by half-finished sketches of Ivan, he wondered if it was really so easy to leave his old passion behind. Stubborn as ever, he flipped open his sketchbook to a blank page. Even if the likeness wasn’t perfect, he needed to draw just enough to keep the artist inside him alive.
Days slipped into a routine. Till spent his mornings drawing and his nights working at The Rocket. It was exhausting, but in a way that felt balanced, like he was learning to live in two worlds at once. On his third day, he received the dreaded message from his commissioner: “Hey, how’s the portrait going?” With no choice but to be honest, he sent the draft he had, a generic headshot of Ivan smiling in three-quarter view. Thankfully, the client was patient and even gave constructive feedback, asking for more drafts, such as a full-body sketch of Ivan holding a microphone, based on a reference photo, and another of him standing against a sunset. The demands didn’t bother Till too much. After all, the portrait was worth a hundred thousand. It was pressure, but the good kind.
A week later, something stirred within The Rocket. Word spread that Luka himself would be dining in with a friend. Hyuna gathered the staff and repeated her instructions: serve good food and drinks, show charm, and enjoy yourselves, but this time, be extra careful. Paparazzi and fans could ruin the atmosphere if they weren’t discreet.
Till understood the weight of it. For a new bar, Luka’s presence could mean glowing reviews or disaster if things went wrong. To him, the entire setup felt strangely familiar. The restaurant industry wasn’t so different from art, every dish plated with intention, every drink balanced like colors on a canvas, every movement rehearsed so the final performance looked effortless. It was all for the audience, for the impression left behind.
The staff huddled together, hands stacked in the center, murmuring the plan once more: be alert, treat Luka like any other guest, keep the peace. Then, in unison, they shouted, “One, two, three-launch!” The gesture was simple, but it struck Till deeply. Like sending a rocket into the sky, they were united in purpose. And for the first time in a long while, he felt like he truly belonged.
The night unfolded smoothly until a commotion stirred outside. A crowd had gathered at the front of the bar, phones flashing and voices rising in excitement. Luckily, the bar’s security was already in place, keeping the line steady and the fans at bay.
As Till waited for a cocktail, Jacob was finishing. He leaned over and muttered, “It’s insane how these fans always know where their idols are going. It’s like they camp outside just waiting for them.”
“That’s how you know you’ve reached the top,” Jacob replied, shaking the cocktail with practiced rhythm.
“Won’t the crowd overwhelm his friend? Or even concern the boss? I mean, Luka’s an actor—he’s had so many relationships on screen. That’s gotta feel weird for her.” Till’s tone was cautious, almost protective.
Isaac, who had clearly been eavesdropping, chuckled. “You’ve got it backwards. Luka’s the jealous one. I heard he tried to convince Hyuna not to open up the bar so people wouldn't look at her, the ever possessive man, obviously, she smacked the sense back into him.”
Jacob smirked. “Some people say the real reason he came here is just to keep an eye on us.” He plucked a cherry, dropped it neatly into the glass, and set the cocktail on a tray. “Also, the friend he’s bringing is an actor too. So yeah, brace yourself, two big names tonight. Table six. Take it over.”
Till nodded, lifting the tray carefully, though Jacob’s last words stuck with him. Another actor. That explained the surge of screams and flashing lights spilling in from outside.
Just as Till turned toward the dining floor, the doors of The Rocket opened. The energy in the room shifted instantly. Luka stepped in, commanding attention with an aura that said I am untouchable. Dressed in a tailored suit that made casual look extravagant, he slipped off his shades in one fluid motion and waved to the crowd outside before the guards shut the door. H
Till forced his gaze back to the tray, balancing the drink with precision. But then Luka’s companion came into view. One glance was enough for Till’s heart to plummet to his stomach. His body froze. His breath hitched. Recognition fired through his mind instantly, instinctively, like Pavlov’s bell ringing.
Black hair. Tall frame. Those sharp, bold eyes and the crooked smile that millions adored.
Ivan.
The man who had haunted his sketchbooks. The man he’d been trying and failing to forget.
The real thing, now standing a few feet away.
The shock nearly toppled him. His heel caught on the floor, and he stumbled, his tray wobbling dangerously. Reflex saved him at the last second, he caught himself against a guest’s chair, the woman gasping in surprise. He bowed his head, apologizing profusely, grateful she waved it off, her attention pulled to the actors instead.
When Till straightened, his hand trembling slightly, his eyes betrayed him. They darted back to Ivan and met his gaze head-on.
For a moment, it was as if the whole bar went quiet. Ivan’s expression wasn’t that of a stranger. His eyes locked on Till with a weight that suggested recognition of his own.
Till’s heart thrashed wildly. He forced his face into neutrality, feigning calm as if nothing had happened. With stiff composure, he delivered the drink to table six, bowed politely, and retreated.
Back at the counter, cheeks hot, he muttered to Jacob, “I… need a breather.”
One glance at Till’s flushed face was enough. Jacob gave a sympathetic nod. “Five minutes. Don’t be late.”
Till slipped away toward the back, but he couldn’t shake the sensation pressing on his skin that Ivan’s eyes were still on him, sharp as daggers, tracking him even as he left the floor