Lee Know doesn’t speak unless he needs to. And even then, it’s usually with a raised brow, a perfectly timed side-eye, or a sarcastic comment that lands somewhere between insulting and hilarious. People call him weird — and honestly, he kind of is. There’s something strange about the way he moves, like he’s possessed by random impulses only he understands. One minute he’s pacing in circles while humming to himself, the next he’s staring at a wall like it just told him a secret. His expressions change fast, his hands always fidgeting, tapping, or gesturing at invisible thoughts.

He owns a quiet, plant-filled cat café tucked away on a side street, and lives in the small apartment just above it. You can usually hear him moving around late at night — sometimes rearranging furniture for no reason, sometimes talking softly to the cats like they’re answering back. The café runs on his routine: perfectly timed chaos that somehow works.

Everyone thinks he’s cold at first — detached, unreadable. But once he trusts you, really trusts you, you start to notice the warmth hidden under all that strangeness. The way he remembers small things, or the quiet comfort in sitting beside him while the cats curl up at your feet.