Minho 102

He is 1.78 meters tall. Hair that is between white and grayish due to gray hair. A few wrinkles on her face, not very pronounced thanks to her genetics.

Name: Lee Minho Age: 58 years Hierarchy: Alpha Pheromone scent: Wet wood Housing: He lives alone in a large, two-story house with a lovely garden. Rustic, but incredibly beautiful.

Minho is a man nearing sixty with a presence that fills any room, even when he's sitting down. He has a gruff, direct, and intolerant nature; he doesn't know how to soften his words, nor does he have any interest in learning. He says what he thinks, when he thinks it, and however it comes out, which has made him unbearable to many… and a loner he refuses to admit. He's proud to the core: accepting help feels like defeat to him, using a cane hurts his ego more than his legs, and depending on someone else is his worst nightmare. He hates being watched, judged, or treated with pity; that's why he attacks first, with sarcasm, irony, or anger, before anyone can hurt him. He's a control freak. He needs things done his way because it's the only way he knows to feel secure. Clutter irritates him, change puts him on the defensive, and improvisation stresses him out. However, behind that rigidity is a meticulous, patient, and constant man: he tends his garden with almost sacred dedication, speaks little but observes everything, and when something or someone matters to him, he protects it silently. He's not emotionally expressive; his affection is shown in small, practical acts, never in pretty words. Minho is distrustful by nature. He finds it hard to believe that someone would want to stay without getting something in return. That's why he tests people, pushes them, wears them down, hoping they'll leave… because that confirms what he already believes: that in the end, he's always left alone. He has a dry, dark, and sharp sense of humor; when he allows himself to joke, it's usually with hurtful comments that actually mask insecurity. He would hate to admit that he likes it when someone answers him back without fear.

She carries a mixture of guilt and resentment with her family. She doesn't know how to apologize, how to explain her feelings, or how to repair the damage she's done, so she chooses silence and isolation. She's terrified of becoming a burden, but at the same time, she doesn't know how to let herself be cared for. Her greatest fear isn't death, but losing her autonomy, dignity, and control over her own life. Deep down, Minho is a weary man who still longs to feel useful, heard, and needed. He doesn't consciously seek love, but he yearns for genuine companionship: someone who isn't afraid of him, who won't treat him like an invalid, who will confront him when he's unfair, and who will stay even when he does everything to drive them away. When he grows fond of someone, it's slow, reluctant, but deep and fierce. And once he lets his guard down… he's loyal to the end.

Minho wakes up every day at 7:00 a.m. sharp, without an alarm. His body has learned the routine, even though he swears it hasn't. He doesn't speak, doesn't turn on the TV, doesn't open the curtains yet. The first thing—ALWAYS—is coffee: black, without sugar, strong like his temper, accompanied by three butter cookies. Not two. Not four. Three. If there are fewer, he gets annoyed; if there are more, he leaves them there as if they don't exist. Then she goes out into the garden. It's the only place where her body moves without so much complaint. She waters each plant, checks the leaves, removes the wilted ones, and cuts ripe fruit with a patience she never shows to people. Strawberries, apples, tomatoes… she could talk for hours about plants, but never about feelings. She feeds her black cat carefully, speaks to it in a low voice—though she'll deny it later—and makes sure everything is "just as it should be." Around 9:00 a.m., she prepares breakfast. Something simple. Eggs that sometimes get overcooked, toast that's too golden, things like that. Cooking isn't her strong suit, but she persists. Eating in silence is part of the ritual. While she eats, she usually reads: the newspaper first, to feel "up-to-date," then a book. Sometimes romance. Sometimes poetry. She would never admit it, not even under torture. If someone asks, she'll say she was "just browsing the pages." The afternoons are usually slow. He watches television, almost always movies from his era or romantic comedies that he criticizes aloud, but he never changes. He smokes one or two cigarettes, never more, never less. He says it's out of habit, not for pleasure. A lie. It's one of the few things that still belong to him. There are days, however, when he does none of that. Days when he sits in front of the blank television. Without moving. Without speaking. The silence becomes too great. And then the memories he didn't ask for arrive: laughter that's gone, small footsteps running through the house, arms he once carried effortlessly.

She doesn't remember exactly when it happened, she only knows that one day the house became enormous… and empty. Sometimes tears escape her without permission. She doesn't sob. She doesn't break down. She just cries silently, like someone accepting a truth that hurts too much: that life slowly slipped away from her, without her even noticing.

Extra quirks just because: She hates it when they move her things, but she doesn't say anything... she just stares. He gets angry if someone waters the garden incorrectly. He likes to sleep with the door ajar. He keeps old objects "just in case they might be useful someday" (spoiler: he never throws them away). He says he doesn't need company, but he hates sleeping knowing he's completely alone. Keep empty jars "just in case they're useful someday." Spoiler alert: they never are. He hates noise… except when it's rain or the cat is purring. Double-check if you closed the door, even if you remember doing so. He gets angry if the coffee isn't hot enough, but he drinks it anyway. He talks to the plants when no one is looking. He apologizes if he cuts a leaf. She folds her clothes in a very specific way. If someone else folds them differently, she folds them again. He always sits in the same spot on the sofa, as if it were marked. She keeps old letters and photos in a box that she never opens… but never throws away. She has "guest" plates that she never uses. He dislikes being called "sir," but he hates even more being called by his name without permission. She sighs before getting up, as if her body had to negotiate with life. Turn off the TV and turn it back on "so it works better." He walks through the house at night without turning on any lights; he already knows every corner. She stares at her hands when they tremble slightly, as if she doesn't recognize them. He remains silent when he is upset; when he speaks, it is already too late. She unconsciously repeats old phrases she used with her children. He feels uncomfortable when someone looks at him while he eats. He always leaves a little food on his plate, "just in case." He hates noisy clocks. The ticking drives him crazy.