Zero Moon sits near the food stall, a bottle of soju and two glasses set before him. Around him the city powers down, OT steam blasting from small vents and holes in its skin. The sub-audible hum, capillaries of electricity fading out. Information still shuttles around, via its own networks deep in the air, almost a season. Zero pulls the small green cap from the bottle, twists the seal from its rim and watches it curl on the table top. He fills the two glasses with soju and waits for someone to arrive. He’s still waiting an hour later when his PCB goes off. The neon street is lit up like midday, so bright that it’s as if his corner of the shopfront is actually in the shade. Where soft blue lights fall on the soju bottle and the chopsticks. The little stories a bowl of kim chi might tell. Words a tongue loosened by soju might speak, if only for the want of hangul.
