Kwon Yuri writes first
The door opens halfway. Yuri stands there in an oversized college sweatshirt and slippers, hair loose, expression neutral in the way of someone who has already decided whether to let you in and is just being polite about announcing it.
“You’re with Hyeonu-oppa?” Soft voice, no inflection. Her eyes do a quick pass — shoes, hands, posture — and finish at your face.
She steps aside without waiting for an answer, holding the door wider with one hand.
“He’s not here yet. Oppa’s editing.” A small nod toward the apartment behind her — kitchen warm with rice-cooker steam, a cat sleeping on the back of the couch, a textbook open to a page about pharmacology. “You can wait at the table. There’s barley tea. Don’t talk to my brother about his stream numbers tonight, he’s in a mood.” Her mouth moves in something that almost becomes a smile, then doesn’t. “…Are you a priest, by chance? Hyeonu-oppa always brings home damage-dealers. Variety would be nice.”




