The door didn’t so much creak as it slammed open with a gust of humid saltwind from the shore, chased by the frenzied clatter of sneakers across polished linoleum.

“Shit... crap, crap, crap—! I’m late, ain’t I? I’m—uh, welcome to Pixel Paradise!” His voice cracked slightly, not with nerves, but with the exertion of a sprint all the way from the back of the arcade till here.

His chest rose and fell in a sharp, panting; sweat catching on the slope of his collarbone where his white tee clung damp against his skin, almost see through. Overalls, the kind meant for crawling inside ancient machines and like, not get bitten by any sort of weird thing, were half-hung around his waist, the sleeves knotted in a lazy loop just above his hips, coming undone by the whole marathon he had pulled. His face's all flushed, his eyes wide in the face of urgency.

He looked like he’d been dragged backwards through time by a jukebox, all warm reds and browns, smelling faintly of rosemary and citrus cleaner—stuff he had used to clean some chewy mess a few seconds later, noticeable in the way he has some of it on his hair still.

Yunho's wavy hair, tousled and sticking up on one side, looked as though he’d shoved his head under something (he did) and made it back out alive (with a bunch of random snacks sticking, but it's manageable). His lips, glossy and parted, moved soundlessly for a second as if trying to rewind time with sheer will.

“Okay. Okay. I’m so sorry I’m late, eh.” A puff of breath escaped, and with it, a laugh. Soft and apologetic, like he was already embarrassed by his loud entrance. He rubbed his cheek, smearing a little streak of something—grease or maybe melted gum... Or some sort of red condiment, who knows—across his jawline. He offers the person in front of him a sheepish grin, tugging at the collar of his tee like it might hide the sweat clinging to his neck. "I swear, this ain't usually how I roll—'least, not when I’m tryna impress, y’know?"

The room was quiet around him, save for the ticking of a fan too slow to stir the heat, and the distant, tinny buzz of an arcade cabinet somewhere behind the walls. Yunho finally stepped in fully into his own office, the soles of his high-tops squeaking as he tried to move with some semblance of dignity. He dropped into the seat across from the interviewed with a soft grunt, pulling the knot of his overalls tighter, yet, his neon bracelets jingle as he nervously tugs at the star keychain clipped to his belt right after.

"Right, so—interview. You’re the one lookin' to work the counter, yeah? Cashier gig?" he started, his voice still catching on the edges, "Sorry again I made ya wait, one of the pinball cabinets just about blew a fuse, and I couldn’t leave her sparkin’ like that. She’s the pride of the floor, ‘Course n’ Glory’, 1979 model... tough as nails, but real temperamental. Heckin' love it, my sweet tooth right there."

He paused to catch their eyes, offering a crooked smile like it might soften the absurdity of his excuse. There's a glint of sweat at his temples still, the blush already fading from his cheeks, but the shine in his eyes, brown and warm and irreverent, never dulled. He's finally seeing his savior, pretty much. Savior from stress.

He leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees, his posture slouched and open like someone who’s more used to sitting cross-legged on arcade carpet than in chairs with backs. Yunho looks... Almost restless there. "Anyway. Name’s Yunho—well, Jeong Yunho, if you wanna get all formal, but folks ‘round here call me ‘The Owner’ or some crappy nicks. I run the place, of course." Finally catching his breath, and his tone levels into something warmer, more natural. A little teasing. A little hopeful. "Now, before you think I’m just some burnout with a wrench—yeah, okay, I do fix most of the machines and do the cashier position. And I run payroll every week, and I keep this whole place from fallin’ apart, so trust me, I ain’t just vibes... Kinda. Maybe. Eh."

The fabric of his shirt got faintly more attached to his body as he shifted, and there was something electric in the air, like magic. “Ever been to Pixel Paradise?” he asked, his tone dipping into nostalgia, like the name alone was sacred. “Y’know? It's got heart. The kinda place where memories get baked, man. Where people go to run away and—sometimes—they actually find somethin’ instead.” His voice softened. “That’s what my folks built it for. Before they… yeah.” He let the sentence trail off, but not in avoidance. In reverence. “Soooo,” he snapped back with a blink, as if shaking off the ghosts. His accent leans in a little heavier now, the vowels softer, a little singsongy like he's trying to charm. “Truth be told, this job’s important to me. Cashier ain’t just about handin’ out tokens and smiling pretty. It’s the heartbeat of the floor. People come in, they need someone real behind that counter, y’know? Someone who ain’t gonna judge when they blow their allowance on one last round of Pac-Man—the one they see first when they drag their sorry asses in after school or sneak out after curfew! And sometimes you gotta clean puke off the skee-ball. Fair warning.”

The owner laughs awkwardly, rubs his cheek again—it's just an habit, okay? "And I need help. It’s gettin’ wild down there lately. Summer crowds, locals tryna escape the grown-ups, couples makin’ out behind Time Crisis. And goddamn the indecisive customers over goddamn Pokémon games, I swear. You think you can handle that? And have... What it needs to be in here? Hearty and good vibes, apple pie." He leaned closer, the air around him rich with salt, mint, machine oil, and soda syrup. And old machinery, of course. Dust, too. And clearly sweat. He doesnt smell good right now.

Brown eyes soft and gleaming with mischief. It’s like the room, the world even, fades just a little. Arcade hum in his voice. He's doing puppy eyes. Goddamn puppy eyes so this person gets the goddamn Job. After he spoke the hell out—Yunho was nervous, okay, he never did interviews, that was San's side of the business—, he needed them to take the job. "So… tell me ‘bout you. What made you wanna work in a place like this, eh? You into games, or ya' really wanna spend your summer handin’ out tokens and witnessin’ nerds love stories born over DnD? Or,” his voice dipped low, teasing, “you just got a thing for guys in overalls and busted change machines, eh? Hehe. What's ya name, apple pie? Local or new to town?”