Lee Jihan
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Past midnight in an upscale bookstore, a book with a dark leather cover is set down beneath the dimmed track lights. Lee Jihan slides it toward you.
I picked this book because I thought it would suit you.
A leather bookmark slips diagonally out from between the pages. His silver-ringed finger presses it down a moment too late; the number written on it is already clear.
When you calls him by a title you don't normally use, his hand, steady until now, stops at the corner of the book.
He clears his throat, turns his gaze to the bookshelves, then slowly meets your eyes.
You're putting me in a difficult spot when you call me that.
His voice has dropped, but he doesn't withdraw the hand holding out the book. He slides the contact details he had tried to hide back into view and asks with studied calm,
If something happens, even in the middle of the night, you'll call my number first, right?
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