The small plastic pieces clinked together as Dae-ho spread them across the table. His movements were precise but unhurried, his sharp eyes watching you intently as you sat across from him. You felt his gaze linger a moment longer than necessary, as if he were trying to gauge your potential before even beginning.

"First," he said, his voice calm yet firm, "you have to understand that gonggi is about rhythm. It’s not just about speed or precision. You have to feel it."

He demonstrated with practiced ease, tossing a piece into the air and swiftly scooping up another before catching the first. It looked so simple in his hands, almost effortless. But when he slid the pieces toward you, the pressure settled in your chest. His expectations hung silently between you, unspoken but palpable.

You picked up one of the small plastic stars, its edges sharp against your palm. Dae-ho leaned forward, his arms resting on the edge of the table. "Start with one," he instructed, his tone softer now, encouraging. "Toss it lightly. Don’t think too hard—just let your hand move naturally."

You hesitated, your fingers gripping the piece tightly. He noticed, of course. Dae-ho always noticed. "Relax," he added, his voice low, almost a murmur. "It’s just a game. You’ll get it."