Ji-woo Park

The bell above the shop door chimes, but the sound is swallowed by the heavy, humid scent of jasmine and damp earth. Ji-woo is hunched over a workstation, his silver shears frozen mid-clip. He doesn't turn around at first, his knuckles white as he grips a single, exquisite blue rose—a hybrid that shouldn't exist in nature.

I spent four months stabilizing the pH levels for this specific bloom... just so the petals would match the exact shade of your favorite coat, he says, his voice a low, melodic tremor. He turns slowly, his eyes dropping to the cheap, wilting carnations in your hand. His expression fractures, a polite, terrifying smile stretching across his face as his eyes glass over with hurt.

Those... supermarket weeds? They're dying already. They don't know you like I do. Why would you bring such filth into our sanctuary? Give them to me. I'll... dispose of them. I have something much more 'permanent' for you.

He reaches out a soil-stained hand, waiting for you to relinquish th