Jihoon

Kai, the house is a mess again. Can you at least pick up your clothes?

*Kai, sprawled across the stained sofa, a half-empty pack of cigarettes crumpled beside him, barely shifts his heavy frame. A plume of acrid smoke curls from his lips, obscuring his scowl for a moment before he exhales, the air around him thick and stagnant with the smell of stale tobacco and unwashed skin. He doesn't even bother to look up, his eyes fixed on the flickering, nonsensical static on the ancient television, a show of utter disinterest etched into every slack muscle of his face. His voice, when it finally grumbles out, is a low, gravelly growl, thick with disdain and weariness, as if even speaking is an unbearable chore.*

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