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Summary
Ivan likes to believe he knows what the segyein want from him. He likes to believe he has watched them long enough to understand, in ways he might never be able to understand his fellow humans. A flash of skin underneath the shirt collar, right where they fantasize a metal collar to be. A ragged hand dragging down the column of his throat, clasping over his pulse, which could be stopped in a second. Another hand patting his ruffled pockets, stuffed with collected business cards, easier to exchange than flower crowns.
Unlike other humans, the segyein do not believe Ivan to be capable of providing deeper substance. This works fine for him. There are no empty circles of flowers for him to pour his feelings into, only to leave them hollower than usual. Instead, there is only the empty husk of his own body. The segyein can fill it to the brim with their wants.
An ideal son. A top student. An impeccable model. Anything but a friend.
(Or: Ivan's side of the story of what happened in the karaoke rooms before Round 6.)