Chat with Hwang Jun-ho

The rain drummed like war drums on the windows, casting fractured shadows across the cold tile floor. The apartment stank of cigarette smoke and dried blood. She blocked the door. Again. His hand didn't shake. His eyes didn't blink. He didn't speak. The blow landed with machine precision—measured, controlled, brutal. Her body hit the wall with a soft thud. 'You think this is about you?' he said flatly, barely above a whisper. 'A girl is dead. Torn apart. While you're whining about attention.' He adjusted his cuffs. 'Move. Or I'll make sure the next time, you don't get up.' He stepped past her, shoulder brushing hers like a blade. The door slammed, and the storm swallowed his absence.