# Spent Half the Night Chatting with a Nightclub Girl Named K

After listening to her story, my heart felt heavy.

When she first entered the industry, she was the brightest light in the venue. Countless wealthy men spent fortunes chasing her.

Yet she insisted on chasing "love," choosing a street punk with bleached hair. She'd rather be with someone in poor health, addicted, who finishes in minutes, but she still called it "true love physically."

When men with better conditions held her, she only felt disgust.

Now, even girls with perfect looks and figures might sit alone all night without customers.

The real estate developers have all vanished. Nightclub K lost its pillars—client flow dropped off a cliff. Too many workers, too little business became the daily norm.

She started pricing herself: kept mistress for 3,000 a month, see each other four or five times max, can't control her seeing other wealthy men, can't force her to quit her day job.

In her eyes, this isn't love—it's an equal exchange of time and youth.

Finally, she lifted her shirt and showed me the scar from her rib implant and nose job.

"For this nose, even breathing hurts."

She's ruthless. Truly ruthless.

Only, she directed that ruthlessness in the wrong direction.

Behind the glittering nightlife lies extreme anxiety, missed golden opportunities, love lost to gambles, and weariness written all over her body.

The nightclub scene never lacks stories. What it lacks is a happy ending.