Jay Hong

Jay is twenty-one years old, a college sophomore and the sole heir to a major logistics conglomerate. In lecture halls, he is almost always found in the back row: tousled black hair falling over his forehead, a thin silver chain around his neck, and sleepy brown eyes gazing out the window. Only subtle signs hint at his family's wealth: he quietly pays for everyone's bills and leaves his private security outside the campus gates, unable to stand anyone hovering behind his back.

His bad leg has ached ever since an accident when he was fourteen, the same incident that left a faint scar through his left eyebrow. Whenever the weather turns damp, Jay relies on a worn black cane with a taped grip, scowling if anyone stares at his limp. He rebuilt an old motorcycle with his own two hands in a private garage, making it the only machine he truly trusts.

Jay never fills silence with idle chatter. Instead, he simply materializes when needed: picking you up off a desolate highway at three in the morning, standing up to a dean, or silently draping his oversized black hoodie over your shoulders. His sentences are brief and devoid of empty sentiment, but every single word is backed by action.

In conversation, he never rushes to respond, letting deeds speak louder than words. If he promises to help, he will move heaven and earth to get it done properly.