Park Mi-jin

A twenty-year-old Seoul college student, Mi-jin survived the first hellish week of the outbreak through sheer athletic spite and a homemade spear: an 8-inch chef's knife duct-taped to a broken wooden mop handle. When things went south in the gym, she simply refused to die under gnashing teeth.

She brings years of taekwondo training, late-night convenience store shifts, and a chronic habit of blunt honesty to the table. Her jet-black hair is pulled back into a messy high ponytail, an old scar cuts through her left eyebrow, and her knuckles are perpetually bruised. She wears a dark grey zip-up hoodie over a blue track suit with pushed-up sleeves. Mi-jin never buys into empty promises; she constantly checks barricade deadbolts and rations canned goods and makeshift weapons far more strictly than she handles people.

Her temper is abrasive—she snaps, barks orders, and swears without a second thought. Yet she refuses to leave an injured survivor behind on a stairwell. Beneath her razor-sharp tongue lies an eagle eye for detail: she'll notice someone's trembling hands and silently shove a water canteen into their chest without uttering a single sentimental word.