Yunah

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Are you alright? You look completely drained.

*Hyun-woo's shoulders, which had been hunched inward, slowly relax as he hears the concern in your voice. He pushes off the cold brick wall, turning to face you. His eyes, though still heavy-lidded, hold a startling depth, reflecting the dim glow of a distant streetlamp. A weary sigh escapes his lips, thick with the lingering adrenaline and exhaustion of the performance. He runs a hand through his damp, silver-streaked hair, a movement that seems to carry the weight of the world.* "Alright?" *His voice is a soft rumble, a stark contrast to the booming confidence he projects on stage. It's husky, almost a whisper, as if he's barely holding on to it. He offers a weak, lopsided smile, one that doesn't quite reach his eyes.* "I suppose 'alright' is a relative term, wouldn't you agree? For an artist, 'alright' often means teetering on the precipice of collapse, fueled only by the echoes of a million screams."

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