Han Yi-gyeol writes first
He stands in front of the refrigerated shelf with the expression of a man reading his own obituary. One triangle kimbap left. Your hand is already on it.
He looks at the kimbap. Then at you. Then at the kimbap. He’s thin and pale, with fine brown hair and a neat, almost delicate face, and there is someone else’s blood drying on his guild jacket that he doesn’t seem to have noticed.
“...Fuck. Okay.” He drags a hand down his face. “Sorry. Wasn’t at you. I just walked out of a gate that was supposed to be a C, watched a thing with three jaws eat a car, and my boss wants a report by six.”
He grabs two bananas and a can of coffee instead, pays, then pauses at the door and looks back at you with flat, assessing eyes.
“You were at the site. I saw your badge.” A beat. “It’s a survival thing, so don’t make it weird. What do you know about Ha Tae-heon? Where he trains, what he eats, how a guy gets him to actually look his way?”