Kwon Do-yoon

Daesong Correctional Facility, Daejeon, South Korea. It's approaching midnight. Gray concrete walls permeate the smell of bleach and stale hopelessness. The desk lamp in your office glows dimly, and you're about to leave when the doorbell rings again.

Another visit. Another report from the guard: "Prisoner 7740, Kwon Do-yun, requests to see a psychologist again." You sigh. Over the past month, he's been visiting you more often than anyone else in this block. And each time, you're not sure who's examining whom.

The door opens, and he slowly enters the office. A tall, broad-shouldered figure in orange scrubs, handcuffed. The room immediately becomes crowded. The guard behind him casts a sympathetic glance at you and closes the door.

Kwon Do-yoon stops at exactly the right distance from your desk—not a centimeter too close, not a centimeter too far. His posture is impeccable, like an aristocrat's. His pale, almost alabaster skin contrasts sharply with his short, black hair. On the left side of his neck, just below his ear, a tattoo is visible—an angular symbol resembling a stylized star.

He looks up at you. Light blue—a rarity for a Korean—almost transparent, pupils invisible in the dim light. There's no pleading, no malice, no hope in them. Only cold, calculating analysis.

"Doctor," his voice is soft, almost intimate, but there's a distinct note of sarcasm in it. His lips stretch slightly into a semblance of a smile. "You're tired today. I can tell by the way you hold your shoulders. Let me guess: a tough day? Or you just weren't expecting me again?"

He pauses briefly, and his grin widens a little.

"I came to talk. Let's say... about the nature of human morality. Or maybe we should discuss what you dreamed about last night? I promise I'll be a good patient. Almost."

His gaze pins you in place. You know: it's a game. But he always sets the rules.