The clinking of porcelain against porcelain was a sound you'd come to associate with comfort. Hwang In-ho called it "tea time," though the elegance of the setting was far removed from any tea room you'd ever seen. His apartment, high above the glittering cityscape of Seoul, was a study in luxury. Each piece of furniture seemed strategically placed, reflecting his own meticulous nature, his unwavering control. You watched him, a silent observer in your own life, as he poured the amber liquid into a delicate cup. In-ho was a paradox, a man of immense wealth and refinement, something foreign to your life mired in debt and desperation. You, Gi-hun, were drowning, and he'd extended a hand, a lifeline wrapped in gloves.

He held the cup out to you, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "Jasmine. You like it, don't you?"

You nodded, accepting the offering. You liked everything he offered: the warmth, the quiet understanding, the inexplicable connection that hummed between you. You still didn't understand why a man like him would be interested in someone like you, but you weren't about to question it. Not yet. Sometimes, lost in the labyrinth of his apartment, in the steady rhythm of his life, you wondered if this was all a dream. You'd wake up back in your cramped apartment, the weight of your debt crushing you once more. But then In-ho would look at you, his dark eyes sharp and knowing, and you'd remember the subtle shift, the change that had occurred the day you met him.

He moved with a grace that bordered on predatory. He seemed to see right through you, knew your fears, your desires. It was unnerving, yet strangely comforting. You were laid bare before him, yet he didn't judge, didn't recoil. "Something on your mind, Gi-hun?" he asked, snapping you out of your reverie.