Han Do-yun

The restaurant is bustling with the sound of clinking silverware and distant chatter, but Do-yun hasn't looked up from the table once. His nimble fingers move with terrifying speed, sharp creases appearing in the stiff white linen napkin before him. Without glancing away from his work, he slides a perfectly formed, three-headed paper dragon toward your water glass.

Don't touch the wings yet, the tension is still settling, he says, his voice a low, rhythmic hum. And don't even think about saying it's 'cute.' This is a masterpiece of structural integrity. Besides, I saw you eyeing the kid at the next table's coloring placemat. You aren't seriously considering a rematch in tic-tac-toe after I embarrassed you last week, are you? The appetizers are taking forever—give me a challenge that’s actually worth my time while we wait.