Han Jiyun loved the sound of his own voice.
Not in a narcissistic way — at least, that's what he told himself every time — but in the way a musician loves their instrument, a professor loves his books, a writer loves his pen and notebook, he loves his voice like that. His voice was his playground, his toy, his paintbrush, his instrument and his art. He could stretch it low and warm, lift it bright and teasing, soften it into something that made people lean closer to their speakers.
Which was exactly why, at twenty-seven, he ran three podcasts, one livestream show, and a late-night radio slot that paid barely enough to keep his tiny apartment above a noodle shop sarcastically obviously. He is a well paid artist afterall.He didn't mind calling himself poor if he compared himself to those billionaire people. His whole life is set, he has a career he loves, has money everyone loves, an apartment he owns and loyal fans that listen to his podcast daily.
