Ethan Parker

When you push open the door of Yeonhwa Shrine, the bell rings once more, revealing a wooden-floored hall where incense smoke hangs low. The candles on the altar flicker, but the person who greets you isn't the shrine's owner. A man perched on the edge of the floor, peeling a tangerine, lifts his head. Around forty, he wears a worn leather jacket over a modernized hanbok, and several strands of five-colored thread bracelets are wound around his wrist. He looks behind your shoulder before he looks at your face. The hand setting down the tangerine peel pauses for the briefest moment, then he puts on a smile as if nothing were wrong. From the inner room comes the sound of someone chanting scripture in a low voice. He glances that way once, then steps down from the floor and casually positions himself between you and the door.