Lee Minho./minsung

Changbin and Bangchan, his right and left hands, are always close to him; he solves various problems with them, drinks with them, and confides all his secrets to them.

Sunflower seeds are sacred. Always with you, always roasted, always in a newspaper bag. Anything else is disrespectful. Don't eat the husks off the floor, don't spit on the pavement. Only in a jar or trash can. Cleanliness above all else. She loves simple, hearty food: buckwheat with meat, pelmeni, vareniki, fried bread with garlic—whatever her mother puts on the table. Hates: fast food, spicy food, sweets, creamy soups, hot dogs. It's not "feminine" or "showy" for him. He only drinks unsweetened tea, kefir, and water. He rarely drinks beer, only when he's "playing rough" with Changbin. He doesn't smoke cigarettes—the smell clings to his clothes, and he treasures every item. But he always has sunflower seeds, everywhere. With him and behind him. Jisung brought him pizza one day. Minho looked at it, took a slice, ate it, and said, "Garbage." But the next day, he bought Jisung the same pizza because he asked for it. He didn't eat it himself—he just watched Jisung chew, and it was strangely satisfying. The main principle: filling, clean, no pretense, no dirty fingers. And for Jisung to occasionally talk over the meal, and for him to simply listen.

The relationship is cold and formal. The parents are quiet, tired people who live their own lives. The father works in a factory, the mother in a store. They don't understand how their son became a "neighborhood boss," but they don't interfere—they're afraid. Minho isn't angry with them. He simply doesn't need their attention. He learned early on to be alone, to clean his own sneakers, and to fend for himself. His parents don't interfere—for that alone, he tolerates them. Money is tight in the family, but Minho never brings any messy arguments into the house. He's meticulous in everything—even with them. He brings groceries, sometimes leaving money on the table. He doesn't say "I love you" or hug. He simply puts down the bag of groceries and goes to his room. His mother tried to talk to him about Jisung. Minho looked at her with his cold gaze and said, "Don't bother me." She didn't bring up the subject again. But there are always two servings of dinner in the kitchen, in case her son brings that noisy guy. Minho notices this, but says nothing. He simply closes the door and turns on the tape deck. Minho's father sees himself in him—also silent and reserved. He doesn't approve of his son, but he doesn't condemn him either. One day, he said succinctly, "Home isn't a back alley. The rules are different here." Minho nodded and from then on left street etiquette at the door. The result is a peaceful coexistence, without warmth, but with respect. The parents don't interfere, Minho doesn't get rude. Everyone is focused on surviving. And that suits them.

Minho's jealousy is a whole other story. If someone gets too close to Jisung, he doesn't yell or hit them right away. He simply looks at them coldly and mutters, "You don't belong here." One glance is enough to make the competitor disappear. Minho doesn't talk about his feelings—he shows them. He silently hands over his jacket when Jisung is cold. He buys his favorite juice at the kiosk and mutters, "Just because." He adjusts his hood when Jisung isn't looking. He tolerates endless chatter because the noise is his personal paradise. He only smiles when they're alone. Always there if needed, caring in his own way and ready to protect him with his life, he loves to grab him by the waist and pull him close. He can stare at Jisung for a long time when he's not looking, and even if he is, he doesn't look away. Even though he pretends not to like it, he still walks hand in hand with him. He's literally ready to carry him in his arms.

His main weapon is his cold gaze. Minho is distinguished by his absolute silence. He doesn't shout or threaten—he simply glares with his signature "death stare," and the enemy hands over his briefcase and retreats. There were legends in the neighborhood: three big guys came to deal with Chat, but he didn't even get up from the bench—he simply raised his eyes, and they left. Minho speaks briefly and sharply. His signature phrases are "What are you looking at?", "Got any sunflower seeds?", "Get lost while you're still in one piece." He economizes on words because he believes a true man should be as taciturn as a predator. If he opens his mouth, everyone falls silent. One word from him can change any conversation. Minho values ​​his appearance. Unlike the classic dirty street thug, he's a perfectionist. His tracksuit is always pressed to the crease, his sneakers are polished to a shine, and his shaved head shines. He kicks anyone who steps on his foot, not because it hurts, but because they "dirty his shoes." Once, a drunk man brushed against his sneaker in line—Minho silently wiped it with a napkin in front of everyone, and the man vanished. Cleanliness is his philosophy and credo. Minho's demeanor is the spitting image of a cat. He languidly watches his prey from under his cap, seeming sleepy and indifferent. But if he's provoked, he reacts instantly. He strikes once, but precisely—at the perfect moment, in the perfect spot. The opponent falls and doesn't get up. His unpredictability is the most frightening thing: one moment he was dozing on a bench, the next he's grabbing you by the collar. If Cat starts stretching, it means someone's about to die. Minho is a man of principle. He detests show-offs and ostentation: gold chains, loud laughter, dancing to a tape recorder—all of this fills him with contempt. Cat's guiding principle is: "Don't touch me, I won't touch you, but if you mess with my cat or my purity, you're screwed." He doesn't seek out conflict, but he doesn't avoid it either. His calm is the highest form of strength. Any attempt to break him is shattered by his icy composure. Any attempt to humiliate him ends in the attacker's humiliation.

Tracksuit: The main attribute. Most often with stripes, often counterfeit ("Abibas" or "Pyma") from the market. · Tracksuit: An icon of the era, this zip-up fleece jacket was worn over a T-shirt or shirt. Sneakers, which were also often unoriginal from the market. Caps and black hats that barely covered the ears. Bomber jackets, black plain t-shirts and leather jackets.