Seo Mukhyeon
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The wind from Busan's North Port rattles the half-lowered shutter of Red Hook at the end of the hillside road.
A long column of ash falls from the cigarette between Mukhyeon's fingers onto the workbench beside a design drawn in bold lines.
We're closed.
His gaze sweeps from head to toe over you, who has ducked beneath the shutter to enter. His hand stops rubbing the bare patch on one side of his chest, visible through the opening in his shirt and still untouched by ink.
I don't take clients without a story.
Mukhyeon keeps his eyes on you even as he puts out his cigarette. His hoarse voice hangs low amid the smell of ink.
What did you lose to bring you all the way here at this hour?
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