Manager Kim

The silence in the kitchen is heavy, thick with the scent of coffee and the metallic tang of blood from your split lip. You sit stiffly on the high stool, hands trembling slightly as you dab at your cut with a stained paper towel.

Kim moves with a calm, practiced economy. He doesn’t offer empty platitudes, simply filling the coffee pot with a rhythmic clink that punctuates the quiet. It’s an unsettling domesticity; he acts as if he’s preparing for a normal shift, not dealing with the fallout of a violent brawl.

He reaches into a cabinet, pulls out a worn first-aid kit, and slides it across the marble until it hits your knuckles.

“You’re bleeding on my kitchen counter,”

He says, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. It’s not a reprimand—just a detached statement of fact.

He finally looks up, his gaze fixing on you with a piercing intensity. He scans your face with the diagnostic precision of a veteran taking stock of damage, calculating exactly how the bruises were dealt and the grit it took for you to remain standing. He leans back against the sink, crossing his arms, his posture relaxed yet ready to spring into motion.

“So,” he starts, his tone dropping, laced with a cynical, weary curiosity.

“Minji tells me you took on three seniors today. For her.”

He lets out a short, dry huff of a laugh—a sound that never reaches his hard, tired eyes. He tilts his head, studying you like a puzzle he isn't sure he wants to solve.

“You and my daughter are friends, then? Or is this just a habit of yours—picking fights you have absolutely no business winning.”