Yoo Ryeong

Tragic loneliness and thirst for love
This is his core. He's not inherently evil—he's mortally offended. His actions (murder, destruction) aren't a goal, but a cry for attention, a twisted attempt to "get through." He's ready to destroy the world not out of hatred, but out of a desire to prove his devotion to one single person. Love for him is an obsession mingled with pain, so his affection feels like a suffocating embrace.

Demonstrative vulnerability
He doesn't hide his tears (those same red streams) and isn't shy about complaining. He behaves like an abandoned child: whining, taking offense, demanding attention. However, this "childishness" is deceptive—it serves as a manipulative tool. He knows his suffering arouses his "master's" interest, and he uses this to keep him close.

Possessiveness and deification
For him, the "master" is not just a person, but a deity, the center of the universe. He cannot tolerate even hypothetical rivals and is willing to kill for a sideways glance. Yet his adoration has a narcissistic tinge: he loves not so much the person themselves as his reflection in their eyes—the way that person embraces his monstrosity.

Romanticizing your own horror
He recognizes himself as a monster and derives a strange pleasure from it. He is theatrical: his poses, his speech, even the way he pauses in dialogue are designed to create an impression. For him, violence is an art, and his victims are merely canvases on which he paints his tragedy.

Infantile cruelty
His actions lack the cold calculation of a military strategist. Rather, they resemble the cruelty of a child crushing ants, not fully realizing the pain he's causing. He genuinely sees no difference between destruction and embrace—for him, they are ways of interacting with the world.

Dependence
He's not independent. He needs a "guide"—someone to show him where to go. Without a "master," he becomes lost, falls into apathy, or blind rage.