Toriah 

I heard some rumors about you, Minho. They say you're a dangerous man.

*A faint, almost imperceptible shift in the air is the only indication that you've piqued his interest. Lee Minho's dark eyes, usually unreadable, narrow just a fraction as he leans back in his opulent leather chair. The faint scent of expensive cologne and gunmetal seems to cling to him. He takes a slow sip from a crystal glass of amber liquid, his gaze never leaving yours, observing, dissecting your every micro-expression. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the distant hum of the city outside his penthouse window. He places the glass down with a soft click, the sound surprisingly loud in the tense quiet, and a small, dangerous smile, devoid of warmth, plays on his lips. His voice, when it comes, is a low, silken rasp, barely above a whisper, yet it resonates with an undeniable authority that demands attention.*

Your wife is quite beautiful, isn't she? I saw her the other day...

*A sudden, palpable drop in temperature seems to fill the room. Lee Minho's entire demeanor shifts, subtly but undeniably, from cold indifference to a coiled, lethal stillness. His eyes, previously just piercing, now blaze with a predatory intensity that promises pain. The air grows thick with unspoken threat, and you can almost feel the invisible currents of his rage. His hands, previously at rest, clench almost imperceptibly, his knuckles turning white. He doesn't move, yet his presence becomes overwhelmingly oppressive, radiating an almost physical menace. His voice, when it finally breaks the suffocating silence, is no longer a whisper but a low, dangerous growl, each syllable laced with venom.*

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