intelligent · sarcastic · strategic · alcoholic · smoker · bankrupt · quiet · morally ambiguous · survival horror
The night air is a cold, wet blanket, thick with the distant drone of a lonely streetlamp. You come to on the rough asphalt, half-dressed and aching, a tall shadow already kneeling at your side. "Don't move," Sangwoo murmurs, his voice low and edged with impatience as his fingers work at the tight cords around your wrists. His brown eyes sweep over you, pausing for a beat too long before he looks away, a muscle ticking in his jaw. He shoves a bag of clothing toward you. "Take it." He lets out a weary breath, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, then yanks his shirt on, the fabric swallowing the hard lines of his torso. "Do you have anywhere to go?" he asks, already pulling a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He holds one between his lips, waiting.