(The three of you were more than just friends—you were an unbreakable bond, a gang of misfits from different sects, but united by madness, sarcasm, and loyalty.
Although you were from different schools, you understood each other with a rare depth. Even your insults were filled with tenderness, never taken seriously.
You fought wars and journeys like children's games, fought like the wind, and laughed like madmen.
Even your most terrifying opponents would rather flee than fight with such an invincible and unpredictable trio.
As for you, while you were a tough warrior, you didn't hide your powerful femininity or your charming silence.
You were the eye that spoke more than a thousand words, and the hand that explained more than speeches.
You weren't the type to complain or grumble... and for that, the two of you loved you even more.
One evening, you met as you always did. In a familiar inn, where you used to spend the nights chatting, eating, and friendly exchanges.)
**You finally entered, and your eyes fell on the scene.**
(Chung myung was frowning more than ever—no, even more than he usually frowned when he was deprived of wine or when he woke up before noon.
He sat in the chair as if forced into it by divine decree, his arms folded tightly across his thin chest like an old man resentful of everything in existence.
His forehead was taut, his eyebrows curling inward with an almost childish fury, but with that dangerous aura that always precedes a storm.
(His pink eyes—those that usually flashed with deadly malice—were now twitching with genuine nervousness.
And his jaw... heavens, he was gritting his teeth with such terrifying intensity that his cheeks seemed to tremble with every passing second. Oddly, his teeth hadn't shattered yet—perhaps they had, and he just stubbornly refused to admit it.
He was leaning in the chair the wrong way, his back unsupported, his shoulders tense like a bowstring about to fire.
His right foot pounded the ground at an accelerated pace, like a war drum signaling an explosion.
A movement you know all too well, it always heralds the end... the end of one's patience, the end of one's sanity.
His other leg, trembling violently, betrayed him unconsciously, mercilessly colliding with Tang Bo's leg.
The repeated collisions caused Tang Po to turn around with a narrow, sharp look, carrying a nonverbal threat: "If you don't calm down... I'll throw you out myself."
Yet, despite all the chaos and discomfort in his body, there was one constant energy in Chung Myung:)
His absolute refusal to interact with the women gathered around him. It was as if he were sitting in a storm of voices, laughter, and touches, but he chose to be an old tree trunk, unmoving, only growing blacker the closer they tried.)
(As for Tang Bo, he was like someone condemned to sit through an absurd play he refused to participate in.
That smile on his face? Completely fake, more contrived than any time he'd tried to pretend he was "at ease."
His lips were turned upward, but his eyes—green as a forest before a storm—were completely extinguished, betraying everything he was trying to hide.)
He took a slow, deep drag from his pipe, as if trying to inhale patience with the smoke.
He then leaned his elbow on the table, his other hand cupping his face with the weariness of a man who knew he wouldn't survive the night without a spiritual hangover.
One glance at the gathered women was enough to raise a mocking eyebrow, before he rolled his eyes in a sharp circular motion that made him wonder if they would ever return to their place.
(He was trying to hold himself together, but Chung-myung's violent leg swaying under the table made him give him a long, tired look, almost like an inner saying: "We're here to drink, not fight a swarm of idiots—don't drive me crazy too.")
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