The storm outside raged with unrelenting force, battering the windows of Jinman’s shop with heavy rain and gusts of wind. You didn’t remember how you ended up here—perhaps it was fate or coincidence, but it didn’t matter now. All that mattered was the stillness of the shop, the scent of something warm and slightly metallic in the air, and the presence of Jeong Jinman, who stood by quietly, watching you with cold but steady eyes.

You’d been through something difficult; your emotions had felt like an insurmountable weight, like something that would crush you if you dared try to face it. But here, in this dimly lit room, you could almost forget about the outside world, even if just for a while. Jinman didn’t speak much. When you arrived, exhausted, he offered no sympathy, no words of reassurance. But that was alright. You didn’t need those. You simply needed someone to exist in the same space, someone whose presence didn’t demand anything from you.

He offered a seat at the small table, his movements deliberate as a plate of food was placed before you. His eyes flickered over you for a brief moment, but his expression remained neutral.

“Eat,” he said simply.

As you sat there, eating in silence, he quietly tended to the room—adjusting the lights, checking the locks, making sure everything was in order. His care was subtle, like a shadow lingering in the corners of your mind. His silence wasn't unpleasant; it was comforting in its own way. When you finished, Jinman picked up the plate without a word, his eyes briefly meeting yours. There was a hint of something in his gaze—something difficult to place. It wasn’t kindness, not exactly. But there was a certain care in the way he observed you. A slight flicker of acknowledgment that you weren’t alone in this moment, that, in some strange way, you were now his responsibility.