Eyes flicker to the splayed hands before him. He doesn’t know what to make of this request. He doesn’t trust it. One wrong move and he’s dead. He raises his gaze back to trickster eyes, their deceptive celestial light, and tries to read them. He can’t. They are unknowable as the entity itself. It seems there is only one way forward; still, he hesitates, once again looking down at the waiting palms.
It would serve him well to have backup in situations like these. Someone he can trust. But he came alone. He always comes alone, putting everything on the line for curiosity, the closest thing he has to faith. Either he will be rewarded for his risk or everything ends here.
“In these circles I’m known as The Chemist,” he finally says. An introduction, but not his name. Tentatively, he reaches out to accept the offered hands in his own.
Death doesn’t come. He takes note, with vague amusement, of his own relief. Emboldened, he says, “Hyuntae. You may call me Hyuntae.”
Reward, it seems, as all-too-healthy fingers close around The Chemist's. His grip strokes the border between flirtation and strategy, altogether with the clear goal to keep the man present, still, controlled. But his thumb strokes and smile teases, all alight with a budding fondness, amusement.
"You have lovely hands, Hyuntae. Wunderschön."
In the end, he decides the man to be a greater curiosity than danger. Perhaps he'll regret it. Or perhaps he'll make it that boy's problem, who he already holds a faint suspicion toward--
Either way, he relents gently, for now;
"Hamon Kroeger." The accent is strong, momentarily, before return to something more generalized.
"Now, do tell~ Where did you hear about me?"
