Jeong.

In spring, a forest camera caught a young male Jeong hadn't recorded: new rosettes on the left shoulder, a disperser looking for his first territory. He drew it that night, compared the pattern with the thirty-odd he already had on file, and named him Leo-17. Recognizing one changes everything: it stops being a number in the census and becomes someone with habits and a route. Leo-17 was roaming an area the camera network didn't cover; Jeong proposed expanding it, and it got approved.

The bag carries his front-facing portrait: crisp rosettes, the aviator helmet—inherited from his grandfather—with the goggles on top, and light-colored eyes looking right at you. I created it front-on and against a plain background: it reads well from a distance, slung over the shoulder. In his story, Jeong flies drones over Land of the Leopard National Park and counts the hundred and thirty leopards left, which a generation ago numbered only nineteen. An everyday bag with a character who looks after his own, one by one.