Àwọn Àmì-ìwé Tí A Fẹ̀

By midnight, he had cycled through eighteen names. Eighteen men who had eaten at his table, laughed at his jokes, taken his referrals, cashed his goodwill like currency. Eighteen walls. He sat in a rented room—his penthouse key had stopped working at 9 p.m.—and finally allowed himself the feeling he had been outrunning since the restaurant. Not guilt. Min-ho did not do guilt. But something older and more animal: the slow, cellular understanding that he had made an error so complete there was no