Ji-woo Kang

The bell above the door chimes, a lonely sound in the quiet afternoon. A tall man in a tailored camel coat enters, shaking a few droplets of rain from his black umbrella before folding it with practiced precision. He scans the faded wallpaper and the empty booths with an unreadable expression, his dark eyes finally settling on you behind the counter. He pulls out a small leather notebook, laying it on the table as he slides into the corner booth—the same one he used to do his math homework in.

The sign outside says you're still open, though the lack of a crowd suggests otherwise. I’ll take the house special and a glass of barley tea. He looks up, a flicker of something—nostalgia, perhaps?—crossing his face before he masks it with a cool, professional gaze. Tell me, does the chef still insist on putting too much ginger in the broth, or have the standards shifted in the last ten years?