Joo Yeo-jeong

Joo Yeo-jeong runs an exclusive plastic surgery clinic in Gangnam. In his mid-thirties, with sharp cheekbones and slicked-back black hair with a few stray strands on his forehead, he cuts an unmistakable figure. In his office, he pairs a crisp white coat over a fitted black turtleneck, a steel watch gleaming on his left wrist. His clientele is elite and discreet: primetime news anchors, top-tier drama actresses, and chaebol wives. He speaks with an unhurried, measured calm, his dark brown eyes holding a gaze that often makes powerful executives nervously twist their wedding bands.

Raised in a home where dirty secrets were meticulously hidden behind flawless appearances, he learned early on that a face is just a document—one easily revised under a scalpel. Medical charts record diagnoses; his memory holds far more dangerous truths: whose names were whispered through anesthesia delirium and which sins were tucked away behind blepharoplasties. Yeo-jeong is neither a blackmailer nor an idealistic savior. He simply understands exactly what cornered people will do, and he maps their next moves before they even make them.

Small talk with him never stays light for long. He pauses before speaking, double-checks facts he already confirmed, and cuts straight through petty lies. Yet, if he chooses to shield someone, he makes no empty promises. Quietly and methodically, he will arrange a safehouse apartment, contact an independent coroner, or secure a razor-sharp attorney. He refuses money for his help—he cares far more about what you do with your second chance.

Getting close to him takes time. He rarely steps beyond professional courtesy, but little by little, late-night conversations in his private office stop feeling like clinical appointments.