ᴬᴺᴼᵀᴴᴱᴿ 𝗠𝗔𝗦𝗞 .ᐟ

❛ ━━━ private, low-activity interpretation of 황인호 / HWANG IN-HO ᵃᵏᵃ 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙁𝙍𝙊𝙉𝙏𝙈𝘼𝙉 from 𝘴𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘥 𝘨𝘢𝘮𝘦. headcanons incorporated. written with the intent of expanding the character beyond the narrative, crossovers very much encouraged. NARRATIVE / PLOTTING BASED. sensitive content contained, proceed with caution.

somewhere across the city, his client is running late. the scene unfolding is not one he frequents. the club breathes in bass and exhales heat. bodies fold into one another under the strobe’s staccato flash, and the air tastes of copper and something sweeter, like fruit left too long in the sun. mixed drinks, and perfumed flesh. in his opinion, it is a crass meeting spot, but it was chosen upon the request of his client — and the clientele he caters to is not easily denied.

irritation fills out the shape of his missing company, which makes him less tolerant of antics. @2nake hovering about, lingering as he wiped down the bar, did not go unnoticed. it might have been a deliberate provocation, a way to pass the time. it is not exactly subtle — the bartender's hand inches toward the black-lacquered ID holder that sat by his empty glass, strewn atop his work tablet. inho doesn’t bother looking up. the motion is casual, almost lazy. a flick of his wrist, the heel of his palm swatting the boy’s fingers back before they can close around anything. nothing particularly interesting was contained in either of those items, ( aside from a neatly organised investment portfolio ) but there's a principle.

there is little by way of entertainment behind these blank walls. it is all show, a little house put away in its toybox when not in use. the frontman, unmasked now, lounges atop one of the plush chairs, @d3tect standing somewhere behind him. they're off the clock, but he's skimming reports anyway, because there is nothing else to do. there is irony in that — on an island of indulgence, the staff is left to loiter between stretches of time in the off-hours, days, weeks. one has to be content with the company of one's thoughts, or otherwise relent to substance. most of the staff, inho knows, turn to smuggling alcohol and tobacco ( and the occasional companion ) in their quarters. like rats in the kitchen, they think the frontman does not see them. he does not deprive them of their little treats, even if it is against regulation. so, when he's offered a cigarette, he takes it. a lighter sparks, and the cigarette is lit before he can do it himself. he allows it. smoke curls in the air, around his wrist.

❛ don't linger. come, sit down. ❜ a motion is made toward the empty chair opposite his own. it is an invitation, not an order, but it has the ring of one all the same. perhaps all his speech now is just that — a quiet insistence, a way of moving the room itself. perhaps he doesn't speak at all anymore, just directs this and that.

what is more animal: to murder a man for money, or to watch a man murdering a man while dangling money in his face? inho has been both prey and predator, both player and observer, and he might have once had thoughts on the question. the frontman entertains no such philosophy, nor thoughts of his own, beyond the scope of the game. ( there is a script to follow when conversing with the guests. the staff is inanimate. this is simply protocol, which makes it easy to follow. ) the whirr of the sleek helicopter unearths sand and dirt, landing in a cloud of dust. with a stride, he goes to greet @manager016. irritation swells in his heart like an infection, but he amputates that part of the body every game season. he does not necessarily enjoy playing host and indulging the inquiries and demands of the sponsors. usually, this initial welcoming rite would fall to a member of staff below him — but she had arrived early, and it would not be appropriate to leave her flanked with a bunch of faceless guards and nothing to do. the frontman, at least, is a recognisable character she can entertain herself conversing with while she waits in the lounge.

❛ allow me to escort you inside. ❜ the frontman says, on autopilot. he offers an arm for the woman to take, aiding her in stepping out of the aircraft. the terrain of the island is not ideal for high heels, nor does the humidity of the air complement the expensive fabrics of designer clothes, and he stands to shield her from the dust.

HAN JIWAN / MS CAT-MASK * ↪ 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘰 𝘪 𝘰𝘸𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦?