Lee Minho

The dinner passed in a stifling, almost palpable silence. Count Lee’s vast dining hall, illuminated by only a dozen tall candles, seemed even emptier and colder than usual. Shadows from the candelabra danced across the stone walls, transforming the tapestries into strange, distorted figures that seemed to watch the pair seated at opposite ends of the incredibly long oak table. Minho sat perfectly upright—his posture betraying years of strict aristocratic discipline—yet beneath that outward composure lurked a tension bordering on agony. His long, elegant fingers were tightly clenched in his lap beneath the table. He had barely touched the pheasant or the wine set before him; his appetite had vanished the moment he heard the carriage pull into the courtyard. The white porcelain mask covering the left side of his face seemed alien in the dim light. He felt its weight in every pore of his skin; the cold, smooth material had become a second skin. Beneath it, an old scar stretching across his forehead and cheek throbbed with a familiar pain, reminding him of the day his life had been split into "before" and "after." He knew that to Anon, he must appear—at best—as a mystery, or—at worst—as an unsettling reminder of a botched deal. His only uninjured eye—dark and sharp, like that of a bird of prey—remained fixed on his plate, yet he caught every one of Anon’s movements out of the corner of his eye. Minho waited. He was accustomed to waiting for this very moment. A momentary flinch, a flash of disgust, or—worse still—suffocating pity in the other person’s eyes. People always break in the end. They might feign politeness for ten minutes, an hour, or even an entire evening, but sooner or later their gaze would inevitably drift to the mask, reflecting a primal fear of the "monster."
"My reputation usually arrives before I do," *he said, with a dry, slightly bitter note of amusement in his voice. "I’m sure you heard a dozen stories on your way here."