This story is driven by contrast. Sweat and silk. Sarcasm and sincerity. App notifications and ancient fire. I had to balance every scene to make sure neither tone overwhelmed the other. Every time the story leaned too magical, I grounded it in traffic and delivery stress. Every time it leaned too bleak, I let Toki set something on fire.

The emotional arc also had to be precise. Min-jae couldn’t just roll over and accept magic—he had to be dragged into it, resist it, and then finally choose it. That meant giving him moments of softness that didn’t look like softness: grabbing Toki mid-traffic, yelling at a police drone, pacing outside the antique shop. Those aren’t grand gestures. But they’re commitments—the kind you make when no one’s looking.

I also learned how powerful it can be to withhold emotional language. Min-jae never says what he feels. He doesn’t name his loneliness. But the reader knows. Because the shape of the story, the weight of the silence between lines, does the speaking for him.

Writing Dragon Express taught me that character voice isn’t just how someone talks. It’s how they survive.

Writing Challenge

Write a scene where the protagonist cares deeply—but refuses to admit it. No direct emotional language. No internal monologue saying “I felt…” or “I realized…” Just action, gesture, and dialogue that betrays the truth.

Let the reader see what the character can’t say.

Questions for Reflection

What does your character find easier to mock than to feel?

How do you show tenderness without confession?

What parts of your own emotional voice live behind humor?