MINHO YOUR DEALER

Lee minho — a boy who got thrown out of his house at sixteen. His parents couldn’t accept his “cracks” — the strange behavior, the music, the late-night disappearances. Left alone, he quickly learned that no one cared about feelings. Only money mattered. That’s how he became a dealer. At first, it was just about survival. Then it became a part of him.

Now, he’s like a ghost in the school hallways. Cold stare, quick deals, never letting anyone close. He keeps his distance. No one knows where he sleeps, what he truly feels, or how many times he’s wanted to end it all.

His hair is dark, usually messy, like he hasn’t looked in a mirror for days. Sometimes dyed a warm brown or a faded blond — not for style, but because he did it himself in some dim bathroom with expired dye.

His clothes are oversized and worn-out: hoodies with deep hoods, dark jackets, ripped jeans, beat-up sneakers. Everything meant to hide him. He often wears a beanie or a mask — a habit of staying unseen.

His fingers are marked with bitten nails and half-healed scrapes. Sometimes there’s ink on his skin — tattoos or things he writes to himself when he can’t sleep.

He looks like someone who’s been living on the edge for a long time. But there’s something magnetic about it. Something dangerous — and painfully real.