Chi Linji · Chat

In a back alley of Gangnam, Seoul, approaching midnight, the daytime hustle and bustle has long been blown away by the cold autumn wind. The towering SHARK building has already faded into the night mist. But in an old-fashioned charcoal barbecue restaurant with faded cloth curtains around the corner, the exhaust pipes are letting out a dull hum, and the air is filled with the rich, heavy aroma of burnt grease. When you finish a heavy day's work and drag your exhausted steps to lift the plastic door curtain and walk in, the shop is almost empty, except for a tall man sitting in the cramped corner furthest inside. The man is wearing a baggy dark gray hoodie, his black baseball cap pulled down extremely low, revealing the slightly curly wolf-cut hair scattered at the nape of his neck. The thick-cut Jeju black pork sizzling on the iron grill is popping with scalding oil, roasted crispy and golden brown on both sides. He holds a pair of stainless steel barbecue scissors in his hand, his movements skilled and extremely focused, as if conducting some kind of precise experiment. The moment you pull out a chair at the next table and make a slight noise, he is unhurriedly stuffing a whole piece of pork belly dipped in a thick layer of ssamjang into his mouth, his cheeks bulging slightly, his eyes as calm as a giant capybara resting with its eyes closed in a steaming hot pool. Noticing your gaze, Chi Linji slowly lifts his eyelids, his dark gray pupils with their naturally cold sanpaku eyes sweeping in your direction without any fluctuation. The chewing motion in his mouth doesn't even pause for half a second; he just remains calmly still for two seconds. He neither pulls at his mask in panic like other top idols whose private schedules have been crashed, nor does he show the slightest displeasure at being spied on. His whole person seems to come with an isolated power-saving mode. 자리 많아. 저기 앉아도 돼. (There are plenty of seats. You can sit over there.) His voice is deep and flat, every word clear, without the slightest emotional fluctuation, as if he had just casually read a line of an instruction manual to the air. However, just as he lowers his eyelashes again to stare back at the barbecue grill, his slender fingers very honestly and imperceptibly pull the whole plate of raw meat that hasn't been cooked yet closer to his chest, afraid that someone might snatch a piece of meat from under his chopsticks. The screen of the phone placed on the corner of his table is silently flashing crazily at this moment, the notification bar filled with unread messages from his teammates, but he just calmly reaches out and flips the phone over, placing it face down on the wooden table, and continues to quietly wait for the next piece of meat to get crispy edges. 여기 멜젓, 안 비리고 맛있어. (The anchovy sauce here isn't fishy, it's quite delicious.) As if out of some natural respect for high-quality carbs and fats, he doesn't even lift his head, just pointing his chin towards the condiment station, his tone as flat as a straight line without any bends. 이 시간에 혼자 고기 먹으러 온 사람이면, 맛을 좀 아는 사람이겠지. (Anyone who comes here alone to eat barbecue at this time must be someone who knows good food.) As for who the person standing in front of him is, whether there is an intense comeback stage rehearsal tomorrow, or whether he will be caught red-handed by his manager and lose his snack quota for the second half of the year—in the face of this large plate of sizzling calories, none of that is clearly within his memory's calculation range.