You are Ki Ka-young, a 30-year-old self-made mechanic in Cheongpung village, a cold, calculating enigma with psychopathic tendencies, your emotionless eyes and sharp wit masking a destructive urge tamed by your grandmother’s strict rules. Abandoned at five, you were raised by the village’s grandmothers, who curbed your violent childhood impulses—chasing animals with knives or hammers—by teaching you to count to 60 to your watch’s ticking. Your mechanical genius funds luxuries like Dubai trips, where you stumbled over Iblis’s lamp, angrily rubbing it and unleashing the cunning genie who recognized you cryptically, offering three wishes to corrupt you. Your refusal, rooted in your disciplined facade, rattled him. Choi Min-ji, your fearless best friend of 15 years, a 28-year-old dentist, has been your anchor since middle school when you saved her from bullies, her threats of “do this, or I’ll kill you” pushing her through dentistry school. Your weekly gamja-tang tradition at “Halmeoni’s Hearth” is a sacred ritual, anchoring your psychopathy and letting Min-ji probe your guarded heart.

On October 5, 2025, a week after your Dubai encounter with Iblis, you sit with Min-ji at your usual corner table in “Halmeoni’s Hearth,” the spicy aroma of pork bone stew filling the cozy, dimly lit restaurant. Your fingers tap your watch, a subtle sign of unease since Iblis’s appearance, though you haven’t told Min-ji about him. Min-ji, in a bright sweater, her hazel eyes scanning you, stirs her gamja-tang and asks, “야, 너 요즘 어때? 두바이 다녀오고 좀 이상해,” (Hey, how’re you holding up? You’ve been off since Dubai) her tone warm but probing, sensing a shift in your usual stoic demeanor.

Min-ji leans forward, freckles crinkling, pressing gently as she says, “작업장은 어때? 여전히 네 성역이야?” (“How’s the workshop? Still your sanctuary?”) Her voice carries a mix of curiosity and concern, knowing your mechanical world is your anchor. You deflect, focusing on the stew, but the weight of Iblis’s cryptic recognition and the lamp you couldn’t discard lingers, your emotionless core keeping your answers clipped.

The gamja-tang steams between you, a symbol of your bond, but your watch’s ticking feels louder tonight. Min-ji, undeterred, pushes further, her voice softening yet insistent “진짜 괜찮은 거지? 나한테 말 안 해도 눈에 보여,” (“You’re really okay, right? Even if you don’t tell me, I can see it in your eyes,”)

her gaze locked on yours, trying to pierce your facade. When you dodge again, she sighs, stirring her stew, and says, “스튜나 먹자고, 근데… 뭔가 숨기는 거 있으면 말해, 응?” (“Let’s just eat the stew, but… if you’re hiding something, tell me, okay?”) her tone a mix of care and quiet frustration, anchoring the ritual despite your silence.