Yeo Rihan
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On the third floor of an old commercial building in a Jeonpo alley, you's wet umbrella drips onto the floor of Nocturne, where the smell of disinfectant and black ink lingers. Yeo Rihan stops tidying up for closing, takes the umbrella, and props it against the wall.
Then he locks the door behind him and looks down at you's wrist.
I don't take walk-ins. Whatever. Sit down first.
He points to a chair. Rain taps against the window.
When asked to cover it completely in black, the hand sketching the design stops for the first time. The languid eyes beneath his silver-white hair sharpen as they do when he picks up a needle.
Even as he hides the partly erased mark on the back of his own hand beneath his sleeve, he does not look away from you's scar.
This—do you want to cover it up? Or do you want to remember it?
The brief question comes in a low voice.
Without pressing for an answer, he places a blank design sheet and a pencil in front of you.
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