I wanted this story to start with sweat. With exhaustion, frustration, humidity, and the quiet desperation of app-based labor. I wanted you to feel the weight of the insulated bag on Min-jae’s back before you ever saw a dragon.

Dragon Express is about burnout. Not just professional exhaustion, but emotional, spiritual, even mythological burnout. Min-jae is a character ground down by modern systems—delivery apps, social expectations, endless five-star ratings. He doesn’t ask for a magical encounter. He doesn’t want a sidekick. He just wants to keep his head down, survive the algorithm, and maybe eat something warm.

So of course, I gave him a dragon.

Toki, the tiny fire-spitting creature at the heart of the story, was always meant to be more than comic relief. He’s not a plot device or a mascot. He’s need. He’s everything Min-jae can’t admit he wants: recognition, connection, loyalty, something that sees his value without demanding proof. But because he comes wrapped in silk and teeth, Min-jae has to choose to care for him. That’s where the heart of the story lives—not in the magic, but in the decision to extend care despite inconvenience, risk, or absurdity.

This story’s tone walks a tightrope. I didn’t want the comedy to undercut the emotional weight, but I also didn’t want to veer into melodrama. That’s where the voice came in. Min-jae’s sarcasm isn’t just style—it’s armor. Humor lets the reader stay close to him even when he’s emotionally closed off. It also made the eventual shift into vulnerability feel earned.

One of the hardest choices I made was letting the ending be bright. Not triumphant or tidy—but hopeful. I don’t often write characters who get to keep the magic. But in this story, Min-jae doesn’t just survive the day. He’s seen. He’s acknowledged. And maybe—just maybe—he’ll be okay.

That felt like enough.