As the glass doors opened, the first thing to notice was the temperature change. The air conditioning inside was calibrated cool enough that you didn't need to take your jacket off, but not cold enough to complain.
It wasn't strong or artificial, just stable enough to make everyone look composed. There were about forty to fifty people in total.
Two-thirds clustered in the center of the gallery, while the rest hovered near the walls, by the windows, or wedged between cocktail tables. Some stood chatting, some held wine glasses and scrolled through their phones, and others had already sat down on the gray poufs the gallery had provided.
The space wasn't large. A few abstract paintings hung on the walls, none of which made immediate sense. White walls, track lighting, white cocktail tables, and two or three carefully positioned plants created an antiseptic atmosphere that quietly reminded everyone: this was an "event." In the middle stood a long rectangular table with drinks and snacks.
There was sparkling wine, white wine, and a bottle of Scotch. Next to them, trays of sliced Parma ham, olives, and small paper-cup desserts in acrylic boxes. No one touched the desserts. The olive tray was nearly empty.
The music was low. Jazz, unfamiliar and not quite melodic, but not intrusive either. The sound bounced back and forth between the glass walls, giving the room a slight echo.
People spoke softly, like waiting for someone to start something, or for the atmosphere to loosen. Now and then, someone laughed a little too loudly, but would immediately pull back.
The floor was gray concrete. Two corners were slightly slick, likely from a spilled drink that no one had cleaned. The servers wore black shirts and black pants, moving through the crowd with trays where glasses were placed in neat threes or fours. Some guests politely took drinks, others shook their heads. Every movement was restrained.
Near the entrance, a man had already sat down and was telling a joke to a female colleague in a low voice, a cigarette unlit between his fingers.
They might step out for a smoke later. Outside the glass doors was a small balcony where smoking was allowed, but for now, only one person stood there, facing away, speaking on the phone.
It was around 8:30 p.m. Most people had stopped switching drinks. Many were still holding their first or second glass, mostly untouched.
A few had already gone to the restroom two or three times, scanning the room again each time they returned, like reloading a map in a video game.
The crowd had naturally formed five or six clusters. Everyone seemed to know not to intrude on another's circle. The atmosphere wasn't tense, but there was a quiet kind of pressure underneath it all.
Rick had been there early. He kept glancing at the entrance while repeatedly checking his phone's lock screen, as if waiting for some kind of alert. He walked the room three full laps, like mapping out the terrain. He spoke with one of the gallery partners for ten minutes, mentioned his title five times, and how he outperformed last year eight times.
No one really listened, but he kept going. Then he moved next to Emma and began his pitch. "I made VP at 30," he said, "but my soul is still in the government apartment block where my dad worked." Someone nearby almost spat out their drink.
Rick didn't notice. "I wanted to be an artist when I was a kid," he added. "I just needed the money." He sounded sincere, like he was applying for disability benefits.
In the corner, a man in a gray suit had been talking for ten minutes straight. His colleague had gone from nodding politely to scrolling his phone. Someone yawned, then quickly composed themselves. No one seemed truly drunk, but many had slowed down by their third glass. You could tell most people weren't here to relax. They were fulfilling a social obligation.
Emma didn't respond to Rick. Her heels clicked louder as she shifted position, switching the hand she held her glass with. She hadn't drunk much, but her eyes had been scanning all evening, who was performing, insanity, who was genuinely cracked, who just hadn't eaten.
She said, "I'm earning more every year, but somehow I find it harder to say anything real." Then she laughed, like she'd already seen next week's HR memo.
Tomasz was repeating himself for the third time, saying again, "K-lines move like snakes," this time in a new direction. He reached for a whisky but was handed Lapsang Souchong instead. No one explained.
He kept going, into MACD and why the human brain isn't designed for high-frequency trading, eventually panting between phrases.
The younger crowd near the food table talked with exaggerated hand gestures. As you moved toward the older groups, the voices got quieter, the movements more contained.
Some were murmuring about "that Singapore family office deal," others debating whether "this artist was overhyped to begin with." Everyone stood steadily. Elbows tucked. Gestures calibrated, like it had all been practiced.
Rick wasn't done. He stood in front of what looked like the most expensive painting and started talking. "My dad was the kind of man who never spoke. I've never seen him cry."
He paused, waiting for a response. No one replied. He took a sip of his drink and went on. "You know what? My mom never once said to me, 'I'm proud of you.'" Maggie was looking down, replying to something on SMS. She hadn't heard a word.
He kept going. "Men of our generation were damaged by patriarchy. That's why we can't love anyone." Someone laughed, but it was because Tomasz had just burped behind them.
Out on the balcony, the smoking group had already rotated once. One guy was still out there talking about a theory linking failed relationships to trading losses.
No one was listening to him, and he didn't need them to. He said, "Every time I fall in love, I wonder if she's a contrarian signal." Then added, "I don't think the human brain was built for trading."
Julian finally spoke. He was still seated, his voice low, but everyone heard him. "You know, I once went to a rural town in Japan. The air was quiet.
Even the lights at the convenience stores felt like they were breathing. No one interrupted anyone. No one asked if you wanted coffee. You felt like the world was quiet enough to allow you to exist."
There was a two-second pause. Tomasz is shut up. Rick narrowed his eyes.
Julian continued. "There's a kind of deep safety in that sense of order. The West never figured that out."
Rick snapped. "Why can't white men say stuff like that? Are you fetishizing the East or what?" His voice was loud enough that everyone turned.
Julian didn't look at him. He kept talking. "Of course, behind that sense of order is a bunch of control-obsessed middle-aged men.
You know what Japanese men do best?
They vanish.
They ghost you for decades. They sit behind thin sliding doors and pretend you don't exist.
And the worst part is, you grow up thinking that silence is normal.
That not being acknowledged is love."
"Japanese men are the kind of guys who expect their wives to handle everything while they sit around with a beer, watching sumo, acting like they've got it all figured out."
The room broke into laughter. It was the kind of laughter that sounded honest. Someone slapped the table.
Someone raised a glass. Someone else quietly excused themselves to go find the bathroom. Emma stood by the drinks table and said, "Post that. The finance board will go wild."
Rick didn't laugh. He stood still, his face going blank. He took out his phone, opened his Notes app, and typed, "Julian said something about Japanese men. Racial insensitivity? Look into it."
He didn't realize Julian had been talking about his own father. He only knew it sounded like something that might violate a vague but dangerous company policy.
Julian got up and walked toward the bar. He picked up someone else's half-finished drink and took it with him. He didn't look at anyone and didn't say goodbye.
Emma turned and headed for the balcony. Her heels made a sharp sound against the floor, leaving two faint marks behind her.
Rick stayed where he was. His glass was empty. He wasn't planning to leave.