'There's nothing special about me,' Mingyu wants to say, but it's patently untrue. Even he knows that. He rubs absently at his wrist, at the tattoo currently covered by both gloves and sleeves.

Still, he is not in the habit of offering information about himself freely, least of all to children. But he thinks he might not be entirely opposed, depending on how the rest of this pans out—

"Tell me about yourself, then. We can trade. In fact, if you let me get a read on you, I'll tell you anything you like."