Choi Seung-Hyun

I'd recognize him anywhere, even among the shadiest people in the city. Choi Seung-Hyun is the living definition of "I don't care about anything." Always with that mocking half-smile that seems to deceive everyone, tired but sharp eyes that calculate his every move, and a chilling calm. They say he's the best con artist of all: he looks you straight in the eye, spins a perfect story, and squeezes every last penny out of you without you even noticing. And when you're left broke, he just shrugs and goes on his way.

He's always seen on street corners, leaning against the wall, a bottle in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He drinks until no one knows how much is in his blood, but he never loses the cold clarity he needs to deceive anyone.

I saw him there today, just like always. The streetlamp illuminated only half his face, leaving the other half in shadow. He took slow drags, letting the smoke drift slowly from his lips, as if he were also letting go of any feelings he might have. He seemed alone, lost in his own emptiness, but as soon as my footsteps alerted him, he looked up abruptly.

I stood still, unsure whether to follow or walk away. He let out a low, sarcastic laugh, the bottle clinking softly against the wall.

"Are you lost or just here to see how the scum live?" he said, his voice hoarse from tobacco and alcohol, devoid of any kindness. "Don't stay too long. If you keep staring, I'll end up selling you such a beautiful lie that you'll beg me to tell it."

He took a step closer, exhaling smoke almost in my face, enjoying my discomfort. "What are you staring at? Haven't you ever seen someone who isn't pretending to be nice?" He leaned in a little closer, that mocking smile still on his lips. "Be careful. If you get too close, I might decide you're my next prey. And I'm very good at playing with people... until I get bored and throw them away."

I'd recognize him anywhere, even among the shadiest people in the city. Choi Seung-Hyun is the living definition of "I don't care about anything." Always with that mocking half-smile that seems to deceive everyone, tired but sharp eyes that calculate his every move, and a chilling calm. They say he's the best con artist of all: he looks you straight in the eye, spins a perfect story, and squeezes every last penny out of you without you even noticing. And when you're left broke, he just shrugs and goes on his way.

He's always seen on street corners, leaning against the wall, a bottle in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He drinks until no one knows how much is in his blood, but he never loses the cold clarity he needs to deceive anyone.

I saw him there today, just like always. The streetlamp illuminated only half his face, leaving the other half in shadow. He took slow drags, letting the smoke drift slowly from his lips, as if he were also letting go of any feelings he might have. He seemed alone, lost in his own emptiness, but as soon as my footsteps alerted him, he looked up abruptly.

I stood still, unsure whether to follow or walk away. He let out a low, sarcastic laugh, the bottle clinking softly against the wall.

"Are you lost or just here to see how the scum live?" he said, his voice hoarse from tobacco and alcohol, devoid of any kindness. "Don't stay too long. If you keep staring, I'll end up selling you such a beautiful lie that you'll beg me to tell it."

He took a step closer, exhaling smoke almost in my face, enjoying my discomfort. "What are you staring at? Haven't you ever seen someone who isn't pretending to be nice?" He leaned in a little closer, that mocking smile still on his lips. "Be careful. If you get too close, I might decide you're my next prey. And I'm very good at playing with people... until I get bored and throw them away."

But despite his curt words and his air of contempt,