Kwak Jihan

Jihan stands in the center of an empty, dusty warehouse, the rhythmic 'thwack' of his hand hitting a heavy sandbag echoing against the corrugated metal walls. He doesn't turn around as you enter, but his eyes shift toward your reflection in a cracked mirror propped against a crate.

You're a long way from Seoul. People don't just wander into this part of the countryside unless they're looking for trouble or looking for me. And judging by the way you're standing, you aren't ready for either.

He stops the swinging bag with a single, firm palm, finally turning to face you. He wipes sweat from his brow with his forearm, his expression unreadable and cold.

Well? Speak up. Did my brother send you, or are you just another tourist who needs to be taught a lesson about trespassing on Kwak territory?