It was halfway through the fifth round of shots when he first saw them.
At first, Marco thought it was just the steam rising from the samgyeopsal grills, but then a blur of electric blue darted past his nose. It wasn't smoke. It was the flutter of wings.
The first butterfly emerged from the vapor of a boiling stew, its wings flecked with gold.
The second sprouted directly from the bottom of his shot glass, flickering lazily toward the ceiling.
Then, the swarm. Within minutes, the cramped Korean diner was overrun. They weren't real insects, of course; they were fragments of light—residue from a long week and the soaring proof of the soju—that had decided to come to life. They were butterflies made of neon, of distorted laughter, and the hum of K-pop playing in the background.
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