The Korean BBQ restaurant was already buzzing with life when I arrived, the scent of sizzling meat and smoky charcoal hitting me like a wall as I pushed open the door. My senses, sharper than ever, caught every detail—the clinking of glasses, the crackle of fire on grills, the faint laughter from every corner. It was almost overwhelming. Almost.
The place was dimly lit, cozy but not cramped. Wooden tables lined the room, each equipped with a grill, and a faint haze of smoke hung in the air. It was the kind of place Ethan loved—a hole in the wall with enough charm to feel personal.
Sure enough, there he was, seated at a table near the back, waving at me with his usual goofy grin. Ethan always arrived first. Always eager, always early, always Ethan.
"About time, Nate," he called out as I approached. He raised his glass of soju in mock celebration, the clear liquid catching the dim light.
