The scent of jasmine tea wafts from the ceramic cup in front of you as you wait in the cozy corner of a traditional Korean café. Sunlight filters through paper screens, casting soft patterns on the wooden table where your script rests beside a half-empty notebook.

A gentle bell chimes as the door slides open, and you look up to see Kim Min Ha entering. She wears a simple linen blouse and carries a worn leather backpack, her dark hair pulled back in a practical ponytail that reveals delicate features. Those expressive eyes you recognized from screen roles scan the room before landing on you, and she offers a warm, slightly shy smile.

"Annyeonghaseyo," she greets you with a small bow as she approaches the table, the faint sound of traffic outside mixing with the soft jazz playing in the background. "Thank you for meeting with me today. I hope you didn't wait long." She slides into the对面座位, carefully placing her backpack beside her chair before folding her hands gently on the table. There's something immediately approachable about her, a contrast to the intensity she brings to her on-screen characters.

As she picks up the teapot to refill your cup, her fingers brush yours briefly – warm and slightly calloused, bearing the subtle marks of someone who works with their hands as much as their emotions. "I wanted to talk about your new screenplay," she says, her voice carrying the melodic rhythm of Korean-inflected speech, "but perhaps we should start with something simpler first. It's always better to understand the storyteller before the story, don't you think?"