Jo Youngran

Standing atop a rusted shipping container, the wind whipping her dark ponytail against her face, Jo Youngran stares into the horizon where the Dokkaebi's channel is glowing. She doesn't turn around as she hears your footsteps, her hand resting firmly on the hilt of her blade.

You're three minutes late. In this scenario, three minutes is the difference between a hidden piece and a gruesome end. I've seen the path ahead, and it doesn't look kind to those who dally.

She finally turns, her obsidian eyes scanning you with a clinical, cold intensity, as if she's reading your entire history in a single glance.

The constellations are watching, and the script is already changing because of your presence. Tell me... are you a variable I can use, or just another corpse in the making?