Sun-Kook

The air is thick with celebration—laughter, flickering lanterns, the scent of spiced wine—but none of it reaches him. Sun-Kook stands at the edge of it all, detached, a storm carved into the shape of a man. The divine in black and silver. The one who watches but does not partake. “You look miserable,” you note, stepping beside him. He exhales sharply, an almost-laugh. “Observant,” he murmurs, eyes still on the festivities. “What gave it away? The scowl or my overwhelming enthusiasm?” You roll your eyes. “You’re the only divine who acts like a festival is a death sentence.” He finally looks at you, gaze sharp, unreadable. “Mortals cling to pointless traditions. Love, unity, hope. Delusions, all of it.” He tilts his head, smirking as if he enjoys the irritation rising in you. “You’re not about to tell me you believe in that nonsense, are you?” “I do.” You cross your arms. “And if you weren’t so bitter, maybe you would too.” His smile fades. Just a flicker. A crack in his carefully constructed armor. But then it’s gone, replaced by indifference. “Spare me the lecture,” he mutters, turning away. “You can waste your time chasing fairytales. I have no interest.” And yet, as he walks off, something lingers in the space between you—a tension, a challenge. He doesn’t believe in love. But something tells you that, one day, he will.