The noon sun was ruthless, blazing as if it wanted to melt the entire city.
Steel and concrete trapped the heat, turning every street into a giant oven wrapped in sticky, invisible webs of humidity.
Evan Chen walked straight down the sidewalk under the scorching sun, dressed in a white shirt, black trousers, and a proud pair of handcrafted Italian leather shoes—sleek black dragonfly-patterned ones he'd saved for months to buy.
He felt light on his feet, almost graceful, and was convinced every girl and grandmother on the street was secretly admiring him.
Behind him, a young woman suddenly called out, "Hey, handsome—something fell off!"
A pickup line.
It had to be a pickup line.
He'd seen this scenario a thousand times in movies.
Corny. Predictable. Cheap!
Evan turned around slowly, trying to look noble and detached.
"What is it?" he asked in his deepest voice.
The girl held up something black.
"Handsome, is this… your shoe heel?"
Evan froze.
"…You can keep it," he blurted, and fled the scene.
He would never forget that moment—
their first encounter—
her holding up his shoe heel
like a spotlight aimed directly at his dignity.
"HEY—your heel—!" her voice echoed behind him.
---
There are many things a person never notices until someone else points them out.
Like "You've gained weight,"
"Your friend talks behind your back,"
and apparently… "Your shoe heel fell off."
He soon realized that walking with one heel missing was basically a sport injury waiting to happen.
He briefly considered doing what TV heroines did—
kick off both shoes and run barefoot down the street with cute, porcelain-white toes.
But then he remembered his socks.
One was black.
One was blue.
And the black one had a giant hole with two rebellious toes peeking out like spies.
He abandoned the idea immediately.
By the time he limped back to his tiny rented apartment, half his wardrobe was gone.
Drawers half-empty.
Cosmetics missing.
A letter on the dining table.
He didn't open it.
He tossed it straight into the trash.
The ending had been predictable for months.
Even the sadness felt out of place.
Evan kicked off his doomed shoes, peeled off his mismatched socks, stepped out of his clothes, and went straight into the shower.
Afterward, clean and refreshed in a T-shirt and shorts, he sat down at the table to enjoy a bowl of stir-fried pepper rice he'd just bought.
One big bite—
egg aroma, pepper heat, and a sudden sense of fullness filled his mouth.
Moments ago, he had felt hollow, like his soul was drifting somewhere between planets.
He shoveled spoon after spoon into his mouth.
And then—
"PFFT—!"
Rice shot out from his nose.
A coughing fit attacked him, violent and miserable, like his lungs wanted to escape.
When he finally stopped coughing, his eyes were wet, tears streaming down his face.
"Spicy…" he gasped upward, not wanting the tears to fall.
"So spicy…"
---
Rice grains dotted his plate. Appetite gone, he cleaned the table, poured himself a warm glass of water, and sat down at his "desk"—the same table he ate on.
When it held food, it was a dining table.
When it held paper, it magically became a writing desk.
The wisdom of the working poor was limitless.
He opened his notebook, trying to continue the story he had been writing for months.
But after a long silence, the pen wouldn't move.
His mind kept flashing back to all the small, intimate memories—
the ones that had carved themselves into his bones.
"Evan, I like you."
"Your nose is so big and round—like a piggy snout! I'm calling you Pighead from now on!"
"Evan, for our honeymoon, should we go to Paris?
Or Florence?"
His eyes grew red.
Looking at the empty room, he whispered:
"How can someone just stop loving another person?
Just like that?"
He washed his face, forced himself calm, sat down again, and wrote:
Day 791 in River City.
Day 1,817 of dating Lauren.
Today, I lost my shoe heel.
Today… I had my first breakup.
---
Half-asleep later that night, his phone rang beside the pillow.
Evan groaned, grabbed it, and answered softly, "Hello…"
"EVAN—" boomed Tom Ocean, his best friend.
"Can you NOT whisper like a ghost? You scared the life out of me!"
"Say it fast or hang up," Evan muttered.
A brokenhearted man had many special privileges in front of his best friend—
including being rude, unreasonable, and dramatic.
"Where are you? Come to karaoke. Lauren's here. Room 317!"
He hung up before Evan could respond.
Evan stared at his phone.
Go?
I'm heartbroken… I'm in bed… I don't want to move… I don't want to see anyone…
Don't go?
Tom already booked the room… Lauren's waiting… I want to drink… I want to scream songs… I want to curse that heartless woman with my buddies…
Go?
Not go?
The ancient question.
SLAP!
He smacked himself.
The problem wasn't the decision.
The problem was his zodiac sign.
Damn Libra.
River City's Mingzhu Karaoke Lounge was one of the more upscale KTVs around—
the kind of place Evan could normally only afford if he skipped dinner for three days.
But in the mouth of Tom Ocean—third-generation rich kid and the most popular emotional-advice radio host in town—
it became merely: "a bit lacking in cultural depth."
When the server pushed open the door to Room 317, Tom was crooning a dramatic duet with a pale-skinned, long-haired girl.
The lights shimmered off her hair; Tom had always had a thing for the "porcelain doll" type.
Across the room, Liam Yu—another friend—lifted his beer bottle at Evan in greeting.
Liam never used glasses; he drank directly from the bottle, claiming it "saved time."
Evan was about to sit next to him when the music cut abruptly at the line:
"…drifting through the crowd of dreams—"
Tom, dressed in a loud plaid shirt, waved Evan over.
"Finally! Come here—let me introduce—"
"I know her," Evan said, eyeing the girl. "She's… Kiki."
Tom froze. "…Not Kiki."
"Oh… right, Roro. We had skewers under the bridge that one time—"
"Not Roro either—" Tom looked like he was about to faint.
Evan stared at the girl a bit longer and then gave up.
"Fine. You introduce her. Your version's probably correct."
The girl stood up with a bright smile and extended a hand.
"I'm Grace. Nice to meet you, Evan. Tom always talks about you—says you're his best brother."
Evan shook her hand.
"He only says bad things about me."
"Actually he said lots of good things. That you're talented, that you wrote amazing articles back in college.
That Liam could totally be the next Tom Cruise.
And that he—well—has no looks, no talent, just money."
Grace giggled.
Evan and Liam exchanged a long, murderous look toward Tom.
They wanted Batman's skill set.
Specifically, the part where he could punch people legally.
Tom hurried to pour Evan a beer.
"I know you're upset. Look, Lauren called me earlier— I didn't know you two broke up. I still had to call her 'sister-in-law.'
But why'd you sabotage my relationship? I like Grace! And then you drop two ex-girlfriends' names in front of her?
She'll think I'm trash!"
"Think?" Evan snorted. "Isn't that accurate?"
Tom winced. "Okay okay! Forget my love life— let's talk about yours. What happened with Lauren?"
Evan downed the whole glass. "What did she tell you?"
"That you broke up. She's worried about you. Thought you might… do something foolish alone. Asked me to keep an eye on you."
Tom smiled awkwardly.
"See? Even though she left you, she still cares. She's afraid you'll be depressed."
Evan gave him a cold look.
"Whose side are you on?"
"But—BUT— this doesn't erase the fact she dumped you for money!
Seven years! I watched you two since college!
In what way are you not good enough for her? Huh?"
"In every way." Evan murmured.
Tom froze.
"Hey— you're just being dramatic. You just started your career. She did too—"
"But she's pretty."
Tom blinked. "…Okay, that part is true."
He sighed.
"Listen, she dumped you. You can stop defending her now. It's weird."
Evan fell silent.
He knew Tom was right.
"Look," Tom continued, "pick a side. I need to know whether I'm supposed to hate her with you or not."
"No need." Evan raised his glass again.
"We're done. Clean cut. Dead to each other. Cheers."
"Fine! Tonight we drink until we can't feel feelings!"
Evan stood suddenly.
"I'm singing."
Tom lunged. "NO— how about more drinking—?"
"I'm dedicating a song to Lauren," Evan announced.
"'You're So Toxic.'"
Grace obediently cued the song.
Evan grabbed the mic and howled into it with the passion of a dying wolf.
Liam whispered, horrified, "What do we do?"
"Get him drunk," Tom said.
"If he's drinking, he can't sing."
---
They drank.
They sang.
They drank more.
Evan screamed through every breakup song in the machine—
"A Thousand Reasons to Cry,"
"If This Isn't Love,"
"Walk with You Forever,"
"One Life, One Love"—
By the time Tom stepped out and returned, he leaned close and whispered in Evan's ear:
"I saw a superstar outside— the actress Kora Keene.
She's in the room next door. Want me to take you to meet her?
Didn't you say you're writing a pilot script about a fighter pilot?
Show her your work! Who knows, maybe heartbreak means career breakthrough!"
"Who said that?"
Tom scratched his head. "…Who cares? The point is— I know the manager next door.
Come on, let's go do some artistic networking."
"Watch your wording," Evan corrected.
"Artists don't 'network.' We… 'exchange creative insight.'"
"Fine! Let's go exchange insight!"
"No." Evan grabbed the mic again.
Tom nearly cried.
---
Feeling suffocated, Evan stumbled out to the restroom and threw up for a good minute.
When he staggered back, he pushed open the room door—
—and froze.
He didn't recognize a single face inside.
He blinked hard.
Still all strangers.
He glanced at the door number.
371. Not 317.
Wrong room.
The entire room stared at him.
"I—uh—sorry, wrong—"
"You're finally here!"
A beautiful girl in the center jumped up, rushed over, and wrapped herself around his arm.
She whispered sweetly, "You must've gotten drunk in the room next door. Come on, I'll take you home."
Someone inside called, "Hey, Kora—"
"Next time!" she waved without looking back.
She half-dragged Evan out of the building.
A gust of cool air cleared his head.
"I… don't think I know you," he said.
"But I know you."
She smiled, bright as moonlight.
"Mr. Heel."