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About Gwangju

Oh, and the smell—gods, the stench of ‘em! Sweat, cheap perfume, desperation clinging like damp rot. Makes me wanna retch, but it’s honest, innit? No masks, no bullshit. “Look at yourself,” I’d sneer, channeling Spike’s vibe. “You’re the whore, darling.” Sarcasm’s my blade, cuts deeper than steel. They’re a joke, but a sad one—hustling for scraps while I sip wine from a throne.

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As the rain lets up, we decide to check out that bar. It’s called “Riverside Chill,” and it’s got this awesome vibe. We grab a couple of drinks, and I’m feeling on top of the world. The sun sets over the river, and it’s like a painting. I can’t help but think, “Gongju, you’ve got my heart.”

“Han Gong-ju”