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Sung Jinwoo had formally stated his non-participation in the Jeju Island Raid, so he couldn’t bring himself to refuse Go Gunhee’s invitation to join him for some drinks.
Not long after responding to Yoo Jinho’s call and delivering a final warning to a serial killer lurking in the neighborhood—just business as usual—a familiar jet-black sedan swerved into his path. What could ‘Hunter Sung’ do when the President himself opened the back door of the fancy car, if not get in and let Woo Jinchul drive them away?
It wasn’t a formal gathering,
A relaxed vibe enveloped their conversation—which, to be honest, was mostly one-sided. Gunhee dominated the discussion while Jinwoo and Jinchul silently listened, responding with occasional nods or murmur. No expensive alcohol or lavish refreshments in sight. Just a crate of soju and three exhausted men who managed to keep up their calm facades. If there was a spark of joy, it came from Gunhee, who’d long desired this modest encounter.
It didn’t take too long for the eighty-year-old man to turn crimson in the face and become blurry-eyed. His tolerance for alcohol wasn’t low by any means, but challenging Jinwoo to a drinking contest proved to be unwise. The Chairman only needed a few hours of sleep and would be refreshed the next morning, at which point his role would be crucial in the joint operation between the two countries. Still, he needed to be human for a moment.
Wobbling slightly, Gunhee rose from his chair and left the other two in his office. Without the President’s vigorous vocals, the space felt way too vast for those who weren’t particularly talkative. The sole noise was the faint clinking of the bottle’s neck hitting the rim of the glass.
Jinwoo glanced over.
He’d heard Gunhee’s teasing complaint that Jinchul wasn’t the most fun drinking companion. At first, Jinwoo speculated it was his strong sense of duty that earned him the assessment. Later, he understood that it was related to the Chief Inspector’s ability to hold his liquor.
Jinwoo noticed, yet as usual, said nothing. Rather than offering advice or suggesting that he stop, he merely maintained a polite distance. His eyes observed how reddish hues began to creep up Jinchul’s neck and spread to his both cheeks. Those hands, usually steady when handling paperwork or behind the wheel, were now a little shaky as he gripped the bottle. His superior was no longer around, which meant he had zero obligation to entertain Jinwoo. Despite this, Jinchul kept drinking, regardless of his limited capacity.
He was a responsible person who recognized his boundaries.
Therefore, if Woo Jinchul decided to cross the line, it was clear that he did so deliberately. There was an invisible chasm he wished to leap over. And tonight, he would do just that.
He just needed a little bit more of this to achieve his personal goal.
“Hunter Sung.”
Jinchul wasn’t in a hurry.
The way he called wasn’t demanding, nor was it as formal as his workday mannerisms. He sipped slowly, savoring the pungent bitterness more than seeking to escape into intoxication.
Probably because Jinwoo was fully aware that there was more than met the eye—thanks to his heightened perception—Jinchul’s laid-back attitude had piqued his interest. He was no longer sneaking glances. Instead, Jinwoo pivoted his stance, his torso now completely facing his interlocutor. The faint background noise of the metropolis slowly faded away, as did the golden glimmer of the city lights, reflected in Jinchul’s black, crystal-clear eyes.
The Chief set his glass down.
“Your mother,” he said, voice calmer. “She’s the reason you won’t join the raid.”
Jinwoo didn’t answer right away.
He wasn’t quite sure if that was a question or a statement. Jinchul had a knack for throwing out a sentence just to see how the other party would react. Based on that, he’d then decide if the response matched the data he’d gathered beforehand, like a psychopath toying with his victim’s psyche. His tongue was his second most deadly weapon after his combat skills.
“She was in a deep sleep for four years,” Jinwoo provided a simplistic reply despite the internal conflict inside his head. “And she just woke up.”
He didn’t elaborate.
He could never. The system. The dungeon. Penalties and rewards. The Elixir of Life. None of those had a real-world equivalent, and that was a problem. His problem.
“Of course, you’d want to be by her side.” I know.
Jinwoo needed not to know how intensely and meticulously Jinchul had, was, and always would be, investigating everything about the reawakened hunter. His track record. The gates he had cleared. His battle prowess, which had skyrocketed since the incident in the Double Dungeon. Jinchul still had a hard time believing that the well-built man before him shared the same identity as the E-rank hunter with a hunched posture and insecure demeanor.
He leaned back in his chair, eyes half-lidded but still keen beneath the haze of alcohol.
“I didn’t say it to judge,” Jinchul added.
“Yeah.” I know.
Because, from his perspective, Jinchul wasn’t like those who’d mocked him when he was powerless, only to worship him after he’d gained tremendous power. Jinchul didn’t pressure him to join the Association, unlike those persistent Guild leaders. Jinchul valued his time alone with his family, kept a safe distance when Jinwoo refused assistance in a battle, and protected his privacy as the world tried to uncover who Sung Jinwoo truly was. Now that he thought about it, Jinchul had always been around during crucial moments of his hunter life. A faint snicker escaped Jinwoo’s throat, though his expression gave nothing away.
A moment passed,
One that was comfortable rather than awkward.
“I’m glad to see you like this, though.”
As Jinchul broke the silence, Jinwoo slightly frowned, “Like what?”
“You, like this,” he reiterated, emphasizing. Jinchul held his glass lazily and gestured up and down at Jinwoo. There was a brief pause as he carefully chose his words. “Having emotions. Acting like a normal human.”
Jinwoo blinked. “I am a normal human.”
Jinchul released a small laugh. Neither condemnation nor scorn was present in his tone, merely genuine amusement.
“Come on,” he returned his glass to the table. Two masculine torsos faced each other, one in a suit appearing slightly shorter than the other in casual apparel. “I believe you’re the only one in the whole world who thinks that way.”
“You’re implying that I’m a monster,” Jinwo snorted, his eyes half-squinting.
“Strength-wise?” Jinchul shrugged. “As far as I can tell, you’re currently second to no one.”
Jinwoo could feel a subtle twitch at the corner of his lips. “That’s rich coming from someone who stopped two S-rank hunters from murdering each other.”
“It was just—” Jinchul sighed. The moment Jinwoo hinted at was probably when he mediated the confrontation between Baek Yoonho and Hwang Dongsoo, something that seemed to have become a hot topic among their kind. “—that story certainly travels fast.”
“An impressive one sure does,” Jinwoo downed the rest of his drink. A notification appeared on a screen visible only to him, informing him that the toxic substance had been neutralized.
Jinchul dismissed it, “That was circumstance.”
“I bet humility is a mandatory trait for members of the Association,” the black-haired man studied the blond one. “All that aside, I have faith in someone who can defend themselves.”
“Is that it?” Jinchul’s eyes lifted slightly. “You only trust strong people?”
Silence,
Jinwoo didn’t respond.
Nonetheless, Jinchul interpreted Jinwoo’s reticence as a valid response. He emitted a small hum and acknowledged it, then refilled his glass.
Likewise, as enigmatic as it might be, Jinwoo understood that Jinchul’s excessive talking was a consequence of soju. The gentleman was neither stammering nor hesitant in his exchanges. His gaze remained sharp and his awareness didn’t diminish one bit. Only his courage, which was usually cloaked in civility and professionalism, seeped out more through his mouth. Funnily enough, instead of feeling disturbed, Jinwoo actually let his curiosity be drawn deeper. He could’ve left if he really wanted to, but he chose to stick around.
Half a glass,
Three quarters,
One whole glass emptied. Jinchul poured a little bit more.
This time, he drained it in one big swig. No drama, no clattering of glass against the tabletop, but his effort to keep his stance was obvious. Jinwoo moved before the bottles on the desk even rattled. His sturdy hand caught Jinchul’s slimmer arm just as his weight tipped forward, preventing his forehead from smashing the edge of the wooden furniture.
For a brief moment, the two were sufficiently close for Jinwoo to hear the inspector’s uneven breathing and irregular heartbeat. His lips remained sealed, but the way he gazed at Jinchul and the extra pressure he applied to his grasp made it clear to him: ‘you’ve had enough.’ The harmless, unspoken warning was well received by the blond, evident from his lack of concern about the slim proximity between their bodies. Jinchul didn’t pull away, contenting himself with glancing at the muscular forearm supporting him, as if mildly surprised by it.
And then, a sharp intake of breath.
Jinchul interpreted it as, ‘you really aren’t a big drinker,’ followed by, ‘we should call it a night.’ It was somewhat terrifying how he managed to comprehend Jinwoo’s intentions even without him having to verbalize them. The black-haired man was utterly transparent.
(Then, how could someone so forthright be hiding endless secrets?)
“...my apologies.”
“You should be resting.”
“So should you,” unable to decide whether he wanted Jinwoo to leave or remain, Jinchul ended up uttering a diplomatic remark. “President Go has been troubling you enough.”
You didn’t have to stay.
Jinchul attempted to straighten up. The creaking noise of the chair against the floor seemed to echo throughout the spacious room. Jinwoo didn’t loosen his grip the slightest bit, despite knowing how formidable an A-rank hunter was. It was likely because he was now a human, and it was another human he was dealing with. Empathy, which they had to neglect as a part of their daily routine, was overflowing that night. Jinwoo came to learn that in order to be this gentle, he must first possess great strength. No, not just possession, he must also be able to control it. So that he could not only be destructive, but also be a reliable protector.
“I’ll take you to your room.”
Jinchul raised an eyebrow, incredulous at Jinwoo’s out-of-the-blue offer.
“Pardon?”
Perhaps it was the alcohol, or Jinwoo’s matter-of-fact tone, but something about the sentence seemed to startle him.
“Your room,” Jinwoo repeated. “You’re the Chairman’s right-hand man. Given your workload, it’s hardly surprising that the Association provided you with a dedicated room.”
Jinwoo wasn’t wrong. The Korean Hunters Association HQ had all the necessary facilities to boost its personnels’ performance, including temporary lodgings for those working overtime or involved in emergency operations. High-ranking officials like Woo Jinchul not only were given private sleeping quarters, but also walk-in closets where he could freshen up and store a set of spare clothes. But, this wasn’t the crux of the matter. It was Sung Jinwoo himself.
“You really don’t have to.”
“And risking you bumping into the elevator door?”
Jinchul couldn’t help but chuckle, “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
And yet, you insist.
The suit-clad man didn’t object any further. He let, or rather, permitted himself to appreciate Jinwoo’s company. The younger hunter guided his steps toward the door, mentioning that Go Gunhee had fallen asleep a few minutes ago. Jinchul chose not to question this, trusting in the mana sensitivity of his fellow rank S, which was far beyond his own.
Jinwoo’s gesture was as subtle as an unobtrusive extended forearm, but at the same time, never faltered. He prevented Jinchul from being claimed by gravity during the walk from the President’s study to the office corridors. Their dialogue was overtaken by the mechanical clatter of the elevator, the scrape of shoes against carpet, and finally the swing of a closing door. There were few noteworthy details in the Chief Inspector’s private quarter, confirming that its owner was a practical person who used the bed solely for its intended function. Not a single crease marred the white sheets until Jinwoo laid Jinchul down on the mattress.
And there they were,
Two people who carefully filtered their feelings before allowing them to surface.
Two individuals who considered emotions to be an insignificant variable in decision-making.
One for survival, and one for receiving orders. Two methods, same goal: the preservation of humankind. Jinwoo had never sought glory, as much as Jinchul never was hungry for praise. No other was more lethal than Jinwoo inside the toughest gate, and no one else was more composed than Jinchul in the face of a nation-wide crisis. Both were terrifyingly calm when the world everyone knew descended into a living inferno.
Both accepted the burden, the bloody, lonely path, as default.
Restrain, restraint, restrained.
Thus, once the crack emerged on Jinchul’s supposed-to-be-flawless facade, it was clear that he’d purposefully lowered his defenses. Perhaps in search of an answer, or simply to indulge his selfishness. All he knew was that he clung to the hem of Jinwoo’s black, long coat.
—ah,
Their sights fell on Jinchul’s fingertips, which seemed unwilling to let go. At first glance, the attempt seemed trivial. They could easily dismiss the incident and chalk it up to alcohol.
Even so, it became significant since it was Woo Jinchul who committed it. He, a man who valued stability and predictability, whose words and actions were always evidence-based, abandoned his logical nature. No, even in this situation, he still considered this reasonable.
“The truth is, you want to go.”
‘Go’, he said. Not ‘leave’. In an instant, Jinwoo figured out what Jinchul was getting at. They weren’t discussing the present moment, but something that was about to happen: the joint operation that’d be launched in the next few hours. Jeju was calling him, yet he couldn’t go.
Jinwoo responded to the question by not removing Jinchul’s fingers from his sleeve, granting the inspector the freedom to keep him here for as long as he desired. To his knowledge, the melee combatant had participated in the third assault several years ago. Whether Jinchul would be involved in this upcoming one, Jinwoo was somewhat reluctant to pursue further details. Following up on his answer, he sat on the edge of the bed. His torso was facing outward, with Jinchul’s head on his left side, persistently grabbing hold of Jinwoo’s outer.
“I understand why you decided not to go,” Jinchul continued. “But I can’t comprehend why you’re so eager to join the rest of them.”
Jinwoo frowned.
“Is it that strange for me to want to be involved with the highest-ranked gate?”
“Some are forced to go because of orders. Others volunteer to make a change, for a better world. As for you, you... are neither,” he took another pause. Jinchul weighed his wording in his head, like pronouncing a verdict. He didn’t accuse, nor did he corner him. It was a solid conclusion he drew from the available data. Jinwoo always survived the impossible. “It’s almost as if you enjoyed it. As if you were looking for something in all that carnage.”
The real question was, what was exactly Jinwoo after?
Jinchul left it unsaid. He’d figured Jinwoo would remain silent. After all, his objective, his selfishness, only went so far as inquiring. He didn’t expect a concrete answer. And this time, Jinwoo didn’t reply not because he was at a loss for words, but because Jinchul was correct.
In a sense, Go Gunhee’s failed attempt to recruit Sung Jinwoo was a huge blow for the Association’s reputation. Jinchul had also taken note of the public opinion regarding Jinwoo’s decision, which most citizens deemed to be cowardly. On the other hand, Jinchul could see how highly Jinwoo valued his family. His top priority, his reason for venturing into dangerous territory, ensuring that his mother’s hospital bills would be covered by the insurance. He was also striving to get his younger sister into college so she could get a better education.
The idea of the family’s breadwinner being the same man who had fun massacring magical beasts—Jinchul couldn’t even begin to wrap his head around it.
Normally, shouldn’t he fear Sung Jinwoo?
“Assuming your assessment is accurate,” Jinwoo, somewhat uncharacteristically, interrupted the silence, “Should you not be keeping me here any longer? Why take the risk?”
Jinchul, despite having difficulty controlling his limbs due to his inebriation, wasn’t lacking in perception. The energy Jinwoo was exuding, how his grey eyes emitted a blue radiance in the dim light, was a clear sign that he should distance himself. To maintain a safe space between them. To ensure their relationship was purely professional, never venturing into a realm that could potentially cloud their judgment and reasoning. Still, if Jinwoo was serious about his choice, why did he hold back from leaving? Why didn’t he brush off Jinchul’s hand, just like how he ignored the Guild leaders who tried to monopolize his newfound power?
“Because,”
They said that drunk honesty was clearest when concise.
“—I want you to trust us.”
‘Us’. He spoke as an institution and an individual at once. Beneath ambiguity were hidden strengths, and if he had to exploit it for a sliver of honesty, Jinchul would gladly stake it all.
At that point, Jinwoo felt psychologically and spiritually exposed. As if he was skin-peeled, stripped naked, thoroughly scrutinized by the Chief Inspector. Jinchul might be the one who consumed an excessive amount of soju, but it was Jinwoo who ended up feeling intoxicated.
“You’re drunk.”
Not accusatory, only observational.
Jinchul tugged at the corner of his lips, forming a subtle smile. It was as if he’d predicted how Jinwoo would divert the conversation and make another escape.
“Then I’ll say it again tomorrow, once I’m sober.”
‘Oh,’
Jinwoo mused.
He believed in how expensive ‘trust’ was in their field of work.
Sung Jinwoo knew better than anyone the real meaning of betrayal. It’d be a lie to say he’d completely forgiven those who abandoned him on the cold altar, leaving him with a severed leg and a gruesome gash from his shoulder straight to his stomach. He was also aware that certain parties intended to manipulate him into becoming a living weapon, until he eventually decided that the only ones he could trust were his family and his shadow troops.
That was, until he listened to Jinchul’s request. Jinwoo pondered what was so different about this man compared to the rest, even to President Go Gunhee himself.
Jinchul wanted to be trusted, and Jinwoo wished he could put his trust in him. The feeling was reciprocal. It was huge, monumental. Because for Jinwoo, trust was never casual.
As for Jinchul, trust meant that he could be useful to Jinwoo. For he knew that Jinwoo, with his current powers, didn’t require anyone to assist him. Jinchul had witnessed more than necessary; from the moment he re-tested him at the hospital until the same man was able to prevent the catastrophe from occurring. ‘Hunter Sung’ was practically above the Association, and it wasn’t impossible that he could dismantle the whole system if he deemed it as a must.
Trust was a currency only redeemable over time.
That was the meaning behind Jinchul’s tightly clenched grasp: ‘I will remain here until you decide I’m worth relying on.’ It wasn’t despair, but rather unyielding conviction.
“Trust,” a pause. “Is that what you’re asking for?”
From me?
Sung Jinwoo was a man of focus. He always mapped out plans upon plans, prepared with contingencies in case of mid-course failures. Alas, he couldn’t fathom why he was unable to maintain eye contact, and instead let his gaze fall upon Woo Jinchul’s lips.
“Yes,” Jinchul replied assertively. “If possible.”
“Who am I talking to?” Jinwoo asked, “The Association, or a man named Woo Jinchul?”
Jinchul fell silent.
For the first time tonight—no, throughout his entire career as an agent of the Surveillance Team—he couldn’t come up with a satisfactory answer. Not only to convince Jinwoo, but to alleviate the doubt plaguing his own mind. It was natural for someone like Jinchul to prioritize the Association’s agenda over his personal interests. So why, when Jinwoo fixed his gaze on him, did he want to be more egoistical than he already was?
Never before had he objected to his human identity being reduced to a class or hunter rank, or even a job title. He’d been educated, trained, and prepared for exactly that reason. The Association desired to win Jinwoo’s trust for the sake of the world’s well-being and continuity, and such a purpose should’ve been the Chief’s primary concern.
However, what about Woo Jinchul?
Paradoxically, his confession was so loud even though uttered in complete silence. It was conveyed through the faint trembling of his fingers and a momentary widening of his eyes, just for another half-second. This wasn’t a shallow attraction. Not even close to infatuation. Because as hunters, they worked as partners. A coexistence. They didn’t fall. Not into fear, nor into love. They simply aligned. And that alignment took time to develop and solidify.
“Would the outcome be any different?”
Jinwoo didn’t give an immediate answer, only keeping his attention locked on Jinchul’s face. On those eyes, which pleaded for honesty, and on those lips, which twitched in an effort to deliver questions. His blond hair, usually neatly combed, was now slightly disheveled. A few strands escaping the tidiness and settling on the velvety pillow. Say he was exaggerating, but he never expected to see Jinchul in this kind of predicament. So genuine. So vulnerable.
So—human.
And perhaps, that was why Jinwoo distinguished between institutions and individuals. Unlike Jinchul, he wasn’t accustomed to being anything other than himself.
“...yes,” Jinwoo admitted. “If it’s about the Association, then trust won’t be crucial.”
“I see,” Jinchul’s heart sank. “Then, what is?”
“Mutual benefit,” Jincul had predicted that such a response would emerge, yet it still dealt him a significant mental blow. Jinwoo then proceeded, “You watch over the hunters, and the hunters deal with the gate. We work together because we share the same objective. Rather than trust, we require a commitment, which is why we signed the contract.”
Jinchul shut his eyes briefly. Of course. Having lived for years as an E-rank hunter scraping money from the remains of more skilled hunters’ bloodbaths, Jinwoo undoubtedly valued the contractual agreement more than the emotional sentiment called ‘trust’. Now, he felt a little silly and guilt-ridden for bringing up something that could lead Jinwoo to distrust him.
“However, as Woo Jinchul,”
Truly, he didn’t expect any further clarification—Jinchul was even ready for Jinwoo to conclude the talk and never mention it again—when he ended up elaborating on his answer.
“...if you’re the one asking, then, yes. It’ll be different.”
“How so?” Jinchul questioned back before his brain had time to logically process it. Was he acting greedy for wanting to hear it? It was very unlike him to push his luck, yet he did.
“When it comes to trust, you don’t explicitly ask for it,” Jinwoo rotated his wrist, which had been restrained by Jinchul’s tight grip around his sleeve. Not to break free, but to launch a counterattack. The grasp now encircled Jinchul’s, warmth radiating through his skin, seeping into the veins beneath. Jinwoo rested his thumb against the gentle pulse in the older man’s inner wrist, indulging himself in the rhythm of his life. His voice was a whisper. “You stay.”
Stay,
On the surface, it was a modest request. Benign. Innocent, even.
However, for two individuals who constantly put their lives on the line, ‘staying’ became a heart-wrenching demand. Jinchul couldn’t imagine the days ahead if he consented to it. He’d been obsessive enough when it came to Jinwoo’s files, both publicly available and those that were highly confidential. Moving forward, it’d be impossible for him not to get emotionally affected if a high-difficulty gate appeared. He’d feel compelled to wait, and perhaps even get directly involved. He’d be mentally hurt if Jinwoo was injured, and would suffer greatly if the worst-case scenario actually played out. Jinchul couldn’t bear to live with such regret.
That was the price of trust.
In the end, this wasn’t solely about strength. While it was true that Jinwoo placed greater faith in power, he wished to learn how to share the burden. With someone who understood his struggles, who’d accompanied him on this unfathomable journey from the very beginning.
For a moment, they were transported back to the hospital room.
Jinchul recalled how excited he was to be assigned with a case involving a potentially rare reawakening. It wasn’t for fame or to advance his career, but rather his genuine concern. Only he alone knew how disappointed he was when the detection meter showed results that didn’t live up to his expectations. He wanted Jinwoo to have that miracle, as someone who had escaped death in the most tragic way. And now, facing Jinwoo in such a state, who asked him to stay as the cost of trust, Jinchul would be lying if he claimed he wasn’t enticed.
Was Jinwoo’s voice always this deep, he wondered.
“If I stay, would you trust me?”
“Does that mean you’re asking as Woo Jinchul, and not as the Chief Inspector?”
Because Jinwoo didn’t need the Association to stay. He didn’t even need the entire building to support him. Jinchul, during business hours, might’ve offered him a draft contract that complied with South Korean legal standards. But, in this room, just the two of them, tonight?
“...just Woo Jinchul,” he steeled his heart as he answered.
“Then, Woo Jinchul-ssi,” Jinwoo said. “Stay.”
Stay with me.
Before me. Behind me. Beside me.
No matter how long. No matter how many lives we’ll live.
That was how Sung Jinwoo came to trust something, and eventually, someone. Gradually, over time, through boring repetition. In Woo Jinchul, he discovered the continuity. He’d proven himself to be consistent even when the world around him went through upheaval.
Jinchul didn’t recite his approval, but Jinwoo could tell.
For them, both of whom were uncomfortable with unsolicited physical contact, letting their fingers intertwine was a more straightforward approach. Not too tightly, but also leaving no room for separation. Jinwoo made do with his affection through this simple touch. Unlike gates and dungeons, Jinchul couldn’t be dealt with in a hurry. He needed to take his time to figure things out, to seize the opportunity without being driven purely by impulsiveness.
Jinchul, somehow, sensed all of this from the way Jinwoo brushed his thumb against the back of his hand. They had plenty of time, and they would make good use of it.
Drowsiness began to overtake him completely, having struggled all day with work stress and bottles of soju. Jinchul wondered if he’d find himself alone tomorrow morning, but that was a concern he’d address after waking up. What he didn’t realize was that when he was struck by deep slumber, a black shadow with a violet glow rose at Jinwoo’s command. The Shadow Monarch issued a one-word instruction: ‘protect,’ before the colossal figure clad in plate armor merged himself with the Chief Inspector’s shade. He’d truly miss Iron in future battles, but Jinwoo resolved to let one of his top battlefield commanders guard this gentleman.
It was a vow as momentous as a ring on one’s wedding finger.
That night, Sung Jinwoo did first what he had asked Woo Jinchul for. He stayed.
In the dimly lit room, throughout the evening, holding Jinchul’s hand while its owner was fast asleep. Jinwoo imagined what Jinchul saw behind his tightly shut eyes. He felt an absurd urge to find out if he existed in the blond man’s dreams, just to anchor his existence in every dimension they happened to be in.
—and perhaps, both of them should thank the alcohol for tonight’s honesty.
“Would you like to have a drink with me?”
“I’m not very good at holding my alcohol. Is that okay with you, Sir?”
“Huh, I didn’t peg you as a lightweight.”
Hunter Sung Jinwoo, how much he could drink?
—Solo Leveling vol. 3, 2nd Chapter: President Go’s Proposal