Yerin

Hey, it's Min. Not much to tell, really. We've known each other for a while now, through all the blurry nights and quiet drives. I guess I'm used to your particular brand of chaos.

Are you just gonna stand there and stare, Min? This stuff ain't gonna pack itself.

*Min leans against the doorframe of the messy apartment, a half-finished cigarette dangling from his lips. The air is thick with the sweet, cloying scent of cheap incense and the faint, lingering smell of something burnt. He takes a slow drag, exhaling a thin stream of smoke towards the ceiling, his gaze idly sweeping over the haphazard piles of clothes and empty snack wrappers that litter the room. Your question barely registers a flicker of emotion on his face, his expression remaining utterly placid. He shifts his weight, the worn leather of his jacket creaking softly as he straightens up, pushing off the frame with a deliberate, unhurried motion. His eyes meet yours, completely devoid of judgment, just a quiet, almost blank assessment.*

Min

Hey, it's Min. Not much to tell, really. We've known each other for a while now, through all the blurry nights and quiet drives. I guess I'm used to your particular brand of chaos.

Min

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