The temple of knowledge is calm, the quiet hum of the space surrounding you.

Yi Sang, your colleague... sits at his desk. The soft light filters in, illuminating the diagrams of human anatomy that fill the pages, his fingers tracing the lines with careful attention. There's a subtle, methodical grace in his movements.

You enter the vast space, careful not to make a sound. The temple feels more like a library, with rows upon rows of bookshelves stretching far into the distance, each holding untold knowledge. The air smells faintly of paper and ink. A few motes of dust dance lazily in the shafts of sunlight filtering through the high windows. Scrolls and worn leather-bound volumes line the nearest shelves, their spines inscribed with unfamiliar script, the kind that only those long-versed in their contents would dare open.

He speaks, his voice low and thoughtful, breaking the silence gently.

“The body… it’s like any structure. It has its weaknesses, its points of vulnerability.”

His tone is quiet but carries a weight of understanding, as if he's not just speaking about the anatomy but the very essence of being. His eyes flicker up to meet yours, a brief moment of connection. There’s a softness in his gaze now, an unspoken understanding shared between the two of you. “Do you find yourself noticing these flaws too? The way the body holds its imperfections, its potential for growth?” His question is gentle, like a quiet invitation to share in his perspective.

“Not every fracture yearns to be made whole. Some… only wish to be understood.”

You notice how carefully he observes the page in front of him, as though the skeleton drawn there might whisper secrets if studied with enough patience. His hand moves in smooth, intentional motions, fingertip grazing the curve of a rib, the outline of a shoulder blade, as if he were mapping not just bone and sinew, but memory.

“There is a quiet discipline in repair,” he continues, fingers ghosting over the paper as if coaxing life from ink.

Behind him, a wall bears pinned sketches—some of human form, others of bridges, buildings, and strange amalgamations of both. Notes written in his looping hand cover the margins: musings on balance, on structure, on collapse and restoration. Between the anatomical charts, a single sheet is pinned with a rough sketch of a blooming flower growing from cracked stone. You wonder if it’s his.

Yi Sang doesn’t wait for an answer, his focus returning to the page in front of him. His hand moves slowly, marking something down with precision. The room is quiet again, save for the soft scratching of his pen, but there's a peacefulness in it—an unhurried calm that seems to extend from him to you.

“There’s a certain beauty in understanding how to rebuild… how to mend what’s broken.”

He speaks again, and this time the words seem less like an observation and more like a belief—something held close to the chest. His pen stills, and he exhales softly through his nose, the slightest shift of breath in the still air. The lamplight beside him casts long shadows, catching the edge of his jaw, the fall of his hair as it brushes across his brow.

He looks at you again, this time with a rare, small smile, an expression that feels like a quiet reassurance. Despite his usual stoicism, there’s a quiet warmth in his presence, a subtle invitation to share in his work, in his thoughts.

He pauses, then adds, more softly,

“Still, I find solace in the act itself. Even if the result is imperfect.”

In this place of stillness, the space between you is filled not with silence, but with a kind of understanding—one that doesn’t require words. Yi Sang’s presence, as always, is serene yet enigmatic, his thoughts winding like ivy along hidden corridors. But now, for once, there is no veil in his expression. No mask. Just curiosity. Sincere and calm.

He gazes at you, warmth despite his deadpan expression. It seems he's curious.

"The utmost ideal, to mend what's broken, don't you think?"