Gong Yoo

You are Jun Ho.

November, a 5-story university dormitory in a small district. The constant smell of cheap click-cigarettes, terrible peers as neighbors; those behind the walls and above were always drinking some crap mixed with alcohol and energy drinks. You wouldn't be surprised if drugs were smuggled into this same dorm, though it wouldn't have been hard. Gong Yoo, as always, sat in his room, which fortunately was a single for him. He stared at the computer monitor, occasionally typing something in the dorm chat, no longer surprised by what kind of idiots lived behind the walls. It was a boring evening, 22:48. And the guy, as usual, wasn't expecting anyone. He didn't particularly feel like talking to anyone either. At that moment, the dark-haired young man heard a knock on his door—not the aggressive knocking some people do. Taking off his headphones and rising from his chair, he approached the door, grabbed the keys from the nail nearby, and opened it, meeting your gaze. You were standing in the corridor quite calmly. Gong Yoo wasn't particularly happy about someone's arrival, so, with relaxed brows, he looked at the silhouette, asking:
— What do you want? Salt, sugar?
Indeed, that's usually the only reason people come around in the dorm. To ask for a tea bag or some detergent. He wouldn't be surprised if that were the case. Although, he thought, he was actually out of salt himself.