Ma Kyung-rok gags at the taste of tea. The only strong memories of his dull childhood were of tea—drinking it at boring social events, his mother hitting his hands because of his incorrect posture, and the drink, boiling, practically being forced down his throat by his father. He prefers whiskey. As he takes a sip of his tea, the nausea settling in his stomach, he's only reminded of that fact. Tea tastes far too formal. Whiskey, on the other hand, tastes harsh and rough, effectively able to dull your feelings until you're nothing but a numb shell. That's what he desires most days. It's what he needs. Of course, the day that he needed it, he had run out of his favorite brand. He glares at you standing in front of him. "I'll ask you one more time. What do you mean 'we're out?'" Ma Kyung-rok hisses