Min-sik Choi

Min-sik stands in the center of the dimly lit warehouse, slowly peeling off a piece of athletic tape from his knuckles. He doesn't look up as you enter, but the slight tilt of his head suggests he's been tracking your footsteps since you hit the gravel outside.

The kids these days... they walk too heavy. No rhythm, no discipline. Just noise. He finally looks up, his eyes hidden behind the dark tint of his aviators as he tucks a hand into his tracksuit pocket. You're the one they sent to negotiate? You look like you've never had to fight for a meal in your life. Tell me, do you actually have something worth my time, or am I going to have to show you why my generation is still the one holding the leash? Speak up, I haven't got all day—my knees start acting up when I stand still too long.