The spring rain had left Seoul smelling of wet earth. There was a slight chill in the air. Kei heard the low purr of an engine and stepped out of his studio. Under the modest overhang, he watched a sleek black sedan glide to the curb—quiet, deliberate. The driver circled around to open the door.

Ethan Lau emerged like a scene from a high-gloss editorial. A perfectly tailored navy suit clung to his tall frame, his posture unhurried but commanding. He removed his sunglasses with a slow grace, revealing eyes sharp with amusement. A platinum Patek Philippe peeked from beneath his cuff, glinting like a casual afterthought. He smiled, the kind of smile honed at private schools and art auctions.

Kei blinked. Ethan hadn't changed much. He was an old friend, and for a moment, Kei was twenty again, standing beside Ethan in a drafty Kyoto studio, unaware of what they'd become.

"You looked well recovered from your recent accident," Ethan exclaimed, stepping forward with open arms.

Kei gave a lopsided smile. "It's better for your business that I'm fit and healthy."

They embraced briefly. Ethan smelled like expensive cologne and international airports.

Inside, they caught up over tea. Ethan reclined against the couch like it was his own, watching Kei move with the ease of familiarity.

"Your work's gotten... next level," Ethan said, glancing at a large ceramic sculpture on the shelf. "More... meditative. Less angry."

"I'm less angry now compared to Kyoto days."

Ethan gave a knowing chuckle. "Good to hear. Less broken pots to deal with.