I hadn't expected the number of visitors to keep increasing right up until the final day of the fair. If anything, it seemed like the largest crowd came flooding in on that last day.

Until then, I'd barely needed to help with customer service, but on the final day I had to assist with basic guidance—and sales were highest that day, too. Since the prices of the artworks weren't trivial, many general visitors seemed to have spent the whole fair carefully comparing pieces before finally making up their minds on the last day.

Phantom's performance at the fair was excellent.

We hadn't quite hit the target, but only because the other members were such ambitious people that they'd set the bar high to begin with; the results were still more than impressive. Even the members who were ideally a little disappointed seemed realistically satisfied.

With five or six hours left until closing, out of roughly 120 pieces, all but about ten had been sold—excluding the works by Shushu, who had an exhibition contract with a Chicago gallery.

"Are you tired?"

Yuni nuna slipped over and tapped my shoulder as I kept checking my old sports watch. I must have looked like I was counting down until it was over, so I gave an embarrassed smile and scratched the back of my neck.

"No. I'm waiting for someone…."

Nuna gave me a curious look but didn't press for details. A visitor showed interest in one of the ten remaining pieces, and she quickly put on her professional smile and moved toward them.

The person I was waiting for was the family that had visited our booth on the second day of the fair.

The father appeared to be of Northeast Asian descent, the mother Western with a hint of Latin heritage—a fairly large family with four children. The eldest son looked about my age, and the youngest seemed around ten. Despite their casual clothes, they had visited our booth with the serious faces of critics, their children spanning a wide range of ages and personalities.

Their expressions while examining the artwork were so grave that at first I wasn't certain they were even a family. But if they weren't, that unique combination—transcending race and age—couldn't be explained any other way.

"We're looking for a new painting to hang in our living room."

It was the youngest of the family who turned and spoke to me as I waited behind them. The child had lovely curly hair like the mother and rosy cheeks, with dark eyes like the father.

I was worried about my clumsy English, but with Yuni nuna and Juhan hyung both busy attending to other customers, I had no choice. My smile was probably stiff and awkward, but I forced myself to smile and stepped closer.

"This fall I'm turning eleven. I want to change the painting in the living room to celebrate."

"Oh, really? That's wonderful. Happy early birthday."

Even just the birthday wish made the child beam as if they'd received a splendid gift.

"This painting is a candidate too."

The small finger pointed directly at Inwu hyung's work. It was the only piece of his we had brought to this fair.

"So far, this one is in first place."

Inwu hyung's work had a simple, clear form at first glance—almost cartoon-like—but its colors were dark and heavy, and parts rendered through techniques of separation and disassembly gave it a grotesque quality. It wasn't the sort of painting you'd expect a young child to choose.

"May I ask what you like about this painting?"

"I have secrets too. When I don't want to talk about something but my family keeps prying and it stresses me out—it felt like my heart in those moments. So we connected."

The child's clear answer made me look at hyung's work again. The cartoonish figure in the painting certainly appeared to be suffering from unwanted attention and coercion. The suffering was just caricatured as if it were no big deal.

Exposing the raw face of pain by digging all the way to the end could be art—but so could an honest confession of one's own weakness, the admission that one lacked the courage to do so. That was why I didn't dislike Inwu hyung's work.

As the child put it, we'd connected—and I felt it too, through this piece, and smiled in understanding.

"Even at ten years old, I have secrets, you know."

The child said it emphatically, glancing around at the family as if making sure they heard, and the family laughed heartily, utterly endeared.

"I think I understand what you mean. I relate to that, too. I really hope this piece gets chosen."

Children past their early teens have their own plans for their free time, so it wasn't easy for a family of six to coordinate schedules and visit an event like this together on the same day.

The mere fact that they had all gathered and were seriously discussing which painting to choose for their shared living room was a mild shock.

No—more than a shock, it became an opportunity to reflect on a dimension of art I had never considered before: the perspective of the people who look at paintings, who buy them and live with them.

I had never been an artist, and I'd stopped painting long before I even concretely dreamed of becoming one, so I had never really thought about the concept of someone else owning my work. For the past version of me, painting was an act focused entirely on self-expression: I paint.

But that day, through that family, I could finally envision what it would actually mean if I accepted his offer and became an artist under Phantom: my paintings could become someone else's property. I might meet people who would assign their own meaning to my work, bring it into their everyday spaces, and weave it into their lives.

Suddenly, that felt like the only way a painting could stay alive instead of dying.

"What if someone had signed a contract in the meantime?"

"It didn't sell, so we're fine. I really did leave right on time."

I turned toward the sound—the kind of ordinary bickering that could pass between any family members. It was the guests I'd been waiting for.

Amidst the squabbling of what appeared to be the eldest and second eldest, the family returned to Phantom and ultimately purchased Inwu hyung's work. Rather than arranging delivery, they took the painting with them on the spot.

Watching their backs disappear into the bustling crowd, the artwork tucked carefully under one arm, I felt envious of Inwu hyung.

While honor or financial success might take priority for some artists, wouldn't it be the greatest happiness for most artists to have their work chosen by someone who truly understood it? That presumptuous guess kept knocking at the shell of my dull, neglected heart.

And it wasn't just them.

Teenagers with backpacks who came laughing and attached their own strange interpretations to the works; couples strolling through the venue on a casual date; affectionate-looking parents and children; even an elderly couple conversing about the artwork with considerable insight and knowledge...

Throughout the entire fair, I was deeply struck by the atmosphere itself—one where not only art industry professionals, but a wide variety of general visitors could freely enjoy and comfortably embrace art.

If I could paint works that would share in people's ordinary days and special occasions—resting on their sofas, placed in their entryways, beside their beds—becoming a part of their lives rather than being solemnly appreciated as objects of admiration and awe... couldn't a new era open up, different from what painting had meant to me before?

If that was too grand a sentiment, perhaps I could still discover a new meaning, different from before.

I couldn't be sure whether the power to speak through painting still remained in me.

But the thought of a painting's potential—to be reborn not merely as a painting I made but as someone else's painting, by becoming part of someone's life—felt like a chisel and hammer grinding and striking against my numbed heart. It was undeniable excitement.

I don't know whether this was the strategy he had planned and intended.

But even for Golden Alpha Liu Weikun, he couldn't have anticipated the exact situation where such a family would visit our booth and create an episode like this.

However, if he had been aiming for the shock and stimulation I would receive through people who freely enjoy and love art in their own ways... then I would have to acknowledge the effectiveness of his strategy in bringing me along on this trip.

· · · · ·

"That happened? Something clicked. That kid is no ordinary kid—they'll be something great no matter what they become."

Inwu hyung set down his beer glass and nodded vigorously with a bright expression.

Not just hyung—everyone seemed to be hearing this story for the first time, because contrary to my intentions, they all stopped eating and focused on me.

"The siblings had such a big age gap, so I thought it was cute. I didn't know there was a story like that behind it. Knowing now, it's even cuter, isn't it?"

Yuni nuna, who had handled that family's payment, also smiled warmly, saying she remembered what kind of family they were.

"It won't help much with your career since it wasn't sold to a famous collector or gallery, but it's a heartwarming story."

He said that while picking up a piece of lamb with his long chopsticks, dipping it into the spicy broth, and swirling it around. Inwu hyung immediately narrowed his eyes.

Noticing the look, he shrugged his shoulders.

"What. What is it? It is a heartwarming story. Who says it isn't?"

"Ah, yes. From a dealer's perspective, compared to an artist like Shushu who secured an exhibition contract with a major Chicago gallery, I'd naturally be the 'not very useful' trash, right?"

"Don't put yourself down unnecessarily when you don't even think that way."

I'd brought it up with the simple thought that Inwu hyung would be happy to hear the story of his piece being sold, but the atmosphere was growing increasingly strange. I put the chopsticks I'd been reaching toward a clam with in my mouth for a moment, glanced back and forth between the two of them, then quietly set them down.

"Why are you two fighting over something trivial again? We were eating so well."

Manager Han stepped in to mediate when she noticed me anxiously gauging their moods, but the back-and-forth continued.

"How do you know what I think or don't think?"

"From the very beginning, the weight you and Shushu place on your work is fundamentally different. You know that precisely, and you only expect results proportional to the effort and passion you invest. You have no intention of putting down your own work compared to Shushu or anyone else, nor do you intend to dive in more seriously. Moderate effort, moderate results—you're satisfied with that, so what's all this?"

He stirred another piece of lamb in the spicy broth to cook, speaking leisurely and without hesitation.

"Hmm. As expected, you can't fool the eyes of someone who makes a living selling paintings."

At Inwu hyung's response—delivered as a half-sincere joke—he shook his head as if giving up, dipped the fully cooked meat in the sauce, and ate it.

If Yuni nuna hadn't told me early on that the two of them were always like Tom and Jerry and I should just leave them be, I might have taken it as a genuine, emotionally charged confrontation—and regretted bringing up the subject.

This was the first Friday after the Hong Kong trip, and we were finally having a late wrap-up dinner to catch up on the work that had piled up in the meantime.

When he told us to reserve wherever we wanted to eat, nuna chose a Chinese restaurant specializing in hot pot and dim sum. I'd tried dim sum in Hong Kong, but this was my first time having hot pot.

As soon as the pot—divided in half between a milky white mushroom broth like bone soup and a fiery red broth resembling the flames of hell—was placed on the table, Inwu hyung had burst through the door of the private room, claiming he'd heard the news from Juhan hyung. From that moment on, I felt uneasy; his mood seemed low for some reason.

"If you're going to Chicago, a joint exhibition in the second half of the year will be difficult, won't it?"

Inwu hyung finally changed the subject as he picked up his chopsticks for the first time. His interest, however, wasn't in the meat or seafood that could fill his stomach, but in the soft, thoroughly cooked cabbage floating in the broth.

"We'll proceed as planned."

This time he put down his chopsticks, wiped the corners of his mouth with a paper napkin, and spoke.

"How? With you and Manager Han both away—is that even possible?"

At Inwu hyung's words, as he fished out a fish ball drifting in the vigorously boiling broth, Juhan hyung and Yuni nuna simultaneously stopped their chopsticks and fixed him with sharp glares.

"Hey, babies, why are you looking at me like that? I'm not looking down on you—it's just that even excellent people like you would be overwhelmed without someone in charge, right? And we've never operated that way before, have we? That's all I'm saying."

Inwu hyung's uncharacteristically earnest defense brought a quiet smile to my face.

"Manager Han will stay behind."

"..."

The room fell silent at his unexpected declaration. The only sounds were the halved hot pot bubbling and the low murmur of noise seeping in from outside the private room.

Everyone's puzzled gazes turned toward Manager Han, but she herself was cheerfully rolling enoki mushrooms in slices of lamb. It seemed the two of them had already talked it through and reached a conclusion.

As if finishing his meal, he took a sip of water, set down his glass, and added:

"I'm going to Chicago with Yuni Baek."

Aaaargh!

With a shriek that was almost a scream, nuna shot up from her seat. The chair teetered precariously, and I quickly grabbed the backrest beside me. Throwing her chopsticks onto the table, nuna practically lunged to hug his shoulder from the adjacent seat, shaking him.

"Really? Director Liu, really, really?"

Even though she was only two years older than me, nuna always felt five or six years my senior—she was so composed, flawless, and sure of herself. Everyone in the room knew that her current outburst was by no means a forced overreaction.

The pure joy she expressed so openly—as if everything else had momentarily vanished from her sight and mind—was infectious enough to move everyone watching. The satisfaction, excitement, and thrill she was feeling, so intense it bordered on euphoria, came through intact.

"Yeah, really. I think Yuni Baek can handle that much now."

He laughed, deliberately shaking his body even more exaggeratedly than the force of her shaking.

"But... will it be okay with just the two of us, without Manager Han?"

Once the initial excitement subsided somewhat and practical concerns began to surface, nuna cautiously glanced over at Manager Han and spoke in a small voice.

"Actually, Manager Han suggested it. You practically commanded this entire art fair and were responsible for the venue—she thought you were ready to take on something bigger."

"......"

Nuna fell silent.

The eyes that had been filled with nothing but pure excitement moments before now held a more complex mixture of emotions.

Joy, gratitude, deep feeling. And then, after all of those passed, a large, solid, ineffable mass came pushing its way in.

Surrounded by people who acknowledged her and supported her forward, perhaps nuna was thinking of her family. Didn't she want to receive this kind of belief and support from them first, more than anyone else? I could only vaguely surmise as much.

"Since you're going as main staff, not support staff, you'll have to accompany Director Liu for every schedule and learn everything from A to Z—it's going to be incredibly demanding. You'll do great, right, Yuni Baek?"

Manager Han spoke, looking up at nuna sitting some distance away across the table. Instead of letting her emotions burst out, nuna composed herself, pulled it all together, and managed a smile.

"Of course. I've been waiting for this moment for three years—I've learned everything just by being around, like the saying goes."

"Who called you that?"

Manager Han widened her eyes and put on a deliberately offended expression. He crossed his arms and nodded in agreement.

"Right, absolutely not. A real village school dog would just be stuffing its face even in a situation like this."

He gestured with his chin toward Juhan, making a joke. As the atmosphere loosened, Juhan hyung—who had been busily working his chopsticks again—dropped three or four pieces of meat into the broth and said flatly:

"What, knowing my place and staying quiet is a problem too? I don't have that kind of ambition in the art world. You know that."

Then he dipped a piece of lamb that still had patches of pink into the sauce and began chewing it contentedly.

"Show a little more drive. I'll recognize your efforts as your skills improve."

"Well... if the Director kneels down and begs because she needs me, I'll think about it."

Although the proposal seemed serious, hyung deliberately brushed it off as a joke with a slightly cocky tone.

"Ah... Chicago in the fall. That sounds nice. Quiet, atmospheric—perfect for a romantic date."

Stretching his arms out long and bracing on the table as if waking from a nap, Inwu hyung murmured enviously toward the empty air.

"You can go whenever you want if you set your mind to it. And we're not going there to play, you know?"

As nuna scolded him and sat back down, Inwu hyung pretended not to hear, turning his head so far that his chin nearly sank into his shoulder to look at me. His characteristic mischievous smile played on his lips.

"Then, during the Chicago business trip... Ihyeon will be all alone, won't you?"

"..."

"Why would Ihyeon be alone? Manager Han is here, and so am I."

By now Juhan hyung seemed to have eaten his fill; he was leaning back in his chair, drinking cola. Inwu hyung looked over at him and shook his head.

"Kwon Juhan only pretends to be seasoned and street-smart, but sometimes he's just clueless."

While Inwu hyung and Juhan hyung bickered about who had more dating experience, an employee knocked and entered. The uniformed staff member placed two paper bags of pre-ordered takeout on an empty chair.

Yuni nuna asked for the bill, and as we waited for the employee to return with the corporate card, everyone began preparing to leave the restaurant.

"We're going for a second round—why did we bother with takeout?"

Inwu hyung asked, peering into one of the paper bags.

"Seo Ihyeon is going to sleep over at his hyung and nuna's tonight. The Director packed that for him."

At Juhan hyung's answer, everyone looked at me and laughed.

It was moments like this when I was reminded that I was Phantom's youngest. I was the stoic maknae with no talent whatsoever for making people laugh with cute expressions or actions, but Yuni nuna, Juhan hyung, and Manager Han would sometimes look at me fondly just because I was younger.

And he was like that too.

Right now he was pretending not to hear Juhan hyung's jokes or the sound of everyone laughing, eyes focused intently on his phone screen as if expecting an important call. But I remembered him asking his former colleagues to look after me, saying I was still too young and needed looking after. I also remembered the smile he gave me when I tried clumsily to console him, when he asked whether I was just trying to cheer him up. That was unmistakably the indulgent smile of an older person toward someone younger.

So in moments like this, I wouldn't let myself get discouraged just because he didn't look at me with that same fond expression he gave the others.

Expecting him to respond to my feelings the way others did would lead nowhere. Steadily suppressing expectations and learning to let go of hope was the best way to keep things from getting any worse. Probably.

"Huh? Then Ihyeon isn't coming to the second round?"

Even after everyone else had gotten up, Inwu hyung remained seated, grabbing my wrist and shaking it with a mournful expression, the corners of his eyes pulled down.

"Well... we were supposed to meet right after I got back, but I kept being busy and couldn't find the time. So it was a bit..."

"Ah... right. Ihyeon came back a day late because he was sick again."

Hyung said that with a subtle emphasis, and glanced sidelong at the man sitting across from him. It was probably an overthought, but sometimes hyung seemed like someone who knew things he hadn't been told, which was unsettling.

"Aish, what's this. No fun. After all, you came here because of someone."

With that, Inwu hyung lightly bit the inside of my wrist before releasing it and letting go.

"You were acting all pitiful, saying you were just organizing files at the hospital on a Friday night with no plans, so I called you over. What's the big deal?"

Juhan hyung—who had put his lip piercing back in after eating, having declared he'd have four servings of lamb—pressed down on Inwu hyung's shoulder with his elbow from his seat and threatened him. Inwu hyung shrieked and surrendered.

As Yuni nuna packed her belongings into her bag, I felt his gaze over her shoulder and looked up—but perhaps I'd imagined it; he was simply raising his wrist to check his watch.

Stepping out through the main entrance of the restaurant, located on the second floor of a building that housed a business hotel above, the sound of rain grew much closer. It was still pouring heavily.

Juhan hyung walked right up to the window that covered one wall of the elevator hall, pressed his nose to the glass, and peered outside.

The joy he'd expressed in Hong Kong about escaping the rainy season for a few days had amounted to nothing—Seoul was still deep in the monsoon. The rain that had kept everyone worrying about the humidity in the underground storage and exhibition hall all week was peaking today.

"Inwu hyung and Manager Han will need to call their drivers... Director Liu, you didn't drink, right? Could you drop Ihyeon-ah off on your way? It's raining so hard."

He had slipped his arms into a deep navy summer jacket and turned toward me at nuna's words.

"No, it's fine. I can take the bus."

I shut my mouth immediately, realizing I'd refused too quickly and too stiffly—but I regretted it, worried I'd come across as oddly self-conscious.

"You have a lot of stuff too. Just ask him for a ride. It's not a big deal—he'd just have to drop you off nearby. Right, Director Liu?"

In the past, he might have shown reluctance at Manager Han's suggestion to give me a ride. Now, it seemed like he'd readily agree to a slight detour to drop me off.

But I wanted to avoid being alone with him in a cramped space like a car interior for the time being. Or rather, it seemed wiser to avoid it.

The elevator, which had been taking its time in the underground parking lot, finally arrived at the second floor. After everyone boarded, he got on last and pressed the close button. He stood beside me near the corner, about one step away, leaning against the handrail.

The proximity in the elevator inevitably brought to mind the elevator at the Hong Kong hotel. I couldn't tell whether he was thinking the same thing, but his gaze, directed down at his feet, appeared completely composed.

The tightness of the arms that had held my waist from behind and the heat of the breath that had poured into my ear were still vivid. It wasn't a good sign.

Yet even while wishing everything would fade, I found myself drifting back through the memories of that day several times a day, almost involuntarily—like someone afraid that even a small detail might get exaggerated or lost.

"Go down to the parking garage and take the Director's car, okay?"

Nuna nudged me with her elbow and whispered.

"Then I'll take a taxi. It's not that far... you really don't need to give me a ride..."

"On a Friday night with rain pouring down like this—do you really think a taxi is going to stop for you?"

Nuna tapped my shoulder, telling me not to say things that showed I didn't understand the situation.

"I'll ride with him. It's not that far—dropping him off is nothing."

He, who had been silently watching nuna and me talk until then, turned to look at me while gripping the handrail behind him. Unable to hold his gaze, I ended up awkwardly looking away first, again.

Since we'd returned to Seoul, I was the only one who had been feeling awkward around him. I'd never been completely at ease with him to begin with, but now that I knew what I wanted from him, the discomfort—which had once felt like a vague impulse accompanied by a slight flutter—had transformed into a dull ache and a sense of constriction.

All this time, it wasn't that I was uncomfortable around him. It was that I wanted him.

Whether it was interest, affection... or desire.

And then, anxious because I sensed I couldn't get what I wanted, I had mistaken that anxiety and the persistent ache in my chest for simple discomfort.

That was my guess, at least. What did I really know, in my current state?

It seemed best to avoid narrowing the distance between us. But the unfamiliar version of me—who hadn't turned him away when he'd climbed onto the bed, even before I'd understood my own feelings—was shattering that resolution with a disheartening ease.

It seemed better not to be alone with him. And yet I wanted to be alone with him.

Looking down at the toe of my worn sneakers, so close they almost brushed his dress shoes, I repeatedly bit and released my lower lip.

"And, I happen to have a few things I'd like to talk about."

I looked up at the slow cadence of his voice. He wasn't looking at me; he was looking at Inwu hyung. Following his gaze, I turned to look at hyung without much thought. Hyung was simply smiling at him with an unreadable expression from across the table.

· · · · ·

"Feels more like a typhoon than the rainy season."

As soon as we pulled out of the underground parking lot, he muttered while glancing out the window at the rain hammering the car.

"Even if we'd caught a taxi, we'd have gotten soaked just getting in."

As he said, it was the kind of rain that would drench you in the brief moment it took to fold an umbrella. I thanked him again for the ride, and he chuckled, saying it wasn't anything worth thanking him for more than once.

"I noticed in Hong Kong that you seemed to handle English fairly well."

He brought up an unexpected topic as we stopped at the first traffic light after leaving the garage. He'd never mentioned it back in Hong Kong, so the realization that he had been quietly observing me made my face flush belatedly.

"No, it's just... basic level. About what I learned in school..."

"You must have studied quite diligently. With a foreign language, even if you know it intellectually and can hear it with your ears, it only comes out of your mouth once it's been absorbed into your body."

"I don't think I was negligent about my studies. There wasn't much else... to do."

I'd lost the will to throw myself into anything, but for the first year or so I felt like I'd go crazy if I didn't do something. I simply didn't know what else to do. School classes and studying felt like an obligation I had to fulfill, and just getting through them kept my days moving. After that, it became habit.

"If you want to study English more properly, Ihyeon, I can arrange a tutor for you. You could even join the classes Yuni Baek and Kwon Juhan are taking."

"I probably wouldn't be able to keep up with the classes nuna and hyung are taking."

As part of employee benefits, nuna and hyung were receiving weekly private English lessons from a native speaker—support in preparation for overseas projects like the Hong Kong trip. I envied how naturally they could converse with people of various nationalities without hesitation, but ultimately it wasn't just a matter of English proficiency.

The moment the wipers pushed the rain away, it came crashing back, creating relentless ripples as it streamed down. Every car on the street was moving slowly and cautiously. Even so, for a Friday night, the traffic volume was noticeably light.

Inside the car, with the radio and music both off, there was nothing but the ferocious sound of rain—as if the storm wanted to swallow us whole and pull us right out of that car.

"Or... should I teach you?"

"......"

I turned to look at his face, which was tinged with a smile.

Was his tone sounding meaningful just a mistaken interpretation, my own feelings projecting onto his words?

The hints he gave someone as clumsy as me were always vague and insufficient. I couldn't rule out the possibility that they weren't hints at all, and I was simply assigning meaning to them on my own.

I considered whether responding with something like, Yes, please. I'd like to learn from you, Director, would be a mature and alluring challenge in a moment like this—but even imagining myself saying it made me feel like I'd let out a deflated laugh. That was definitely not it.

"Just kidding. I don't know why, but I'm terrible at teaching."

He shrugged and chuckled to himself again. It sounded closer to self-deprecating mockery. Perhaps he felt pathetic, rambling on while I remained an unmoving stone.

"How long did you stay at that place before moving to Manager Han's house?"

Finally, he changed the subject. The car began to move slowly as the light turned green.

"Only about a month."

Hmm. He made a low sound, almost a groan, watching the car behind him attempt a reckless pass in the rain.

"It really is quite close to my place."

I hadn't known where his house was before, but thinking about it now, it was indeed a very short distance, just as Manager Han had said.

Using the intersection with the large convenience store and the big Italian restaurant specializing in wood-fired pizza as a landmark: the northwest side was the so-called moon village, where Morae nuna and Yeehan hyung's rooftop apartment were. Although housing prices had reportedly been rising sharply lately, the narrow, old houses without renovations were still cheap. In contrast, the eastern hill where his house stood was a traditional wealthy neighborhood, famous as the residence of conglomerate chairmen, Hallyu actors, and foreign ambassadors.

The structure reminded me of my grandfather's village, divided into a prosperous area and a poorer one centered around the harbor.

I'd never actually timed it, but walking at a brisk pace from the rooftop apartment to his house probably took about twenty minutes. Now that I was staying at Manager Han's place, even if I had occasion to visit his house again, I probably wouldn't walk that route.

"Have you ever been to that Italian restaurant by the intersection?"

"No."

"Ah, don't ever go. The food isn't good and it's overpriced."

He looked genuinely disappointed, his expression serious and tone firm—but that only made me burst out laughing. I just couldn't picture him making a statement like that with full sincerity. Since I still didn't know much about him, trying to guess his "true nature" from an image was nothing more than prejudice.

When I laughed, he let out a small chuckle in response.

As we drove into the tunnel, the sound of the rain cut off abruptly, like a switch being flipped. With the tension eased a little from our laughter, I found my thoughts drifting to the cigarettes I'd been carrying in my backpack all this time.

I dug into my pocket and held out a green pack of cigarettes, and he looked back and forth between the pack and me with an expression that seemed to ask, What is this?

"Well... at the hotel, I smoked one."

"......"

His eyes widened slightly. A mischievous smile spread slowly across his face, as if he'd just witnessed a child's brazen little prank. Even though he'd said that as an adult, the decision to smoke had been mine to make.

"I kept this pack to give to you when we got back to Seoul, but I couldn't find the right moment..."

When I apologized for taking them without asking, he joked that it was just one cigarette—what was the fuss?—and that he'd welcome such "interest" anytime. He said it with the same straight face he'd had a moment before.

He took the pack but didn't set it down anywhere, instead rolling it back and forth in the hand resting on the steering wheel. His sharp profile—neat, yet seemingly not one to grant easy access—looked deeply engrossed in thought.

In the meantime, we exited the tunnel and were thrown back into the rain.

The silence inside the car was more unsettling than the angry downpour outside. The emptiness that had settled over us in this solitary moment brought back the past three days since returning from Hong Kong—every time we'd been face to face at the Phantom office.

He had returned a day after me, on Tuesday, and only came back to work properly on Wednesday morning.

When he occasionally gave me direct work instructions, he had seemed emotionless. At least, that's how it appeared. There were no instances where he looked at me with any extra significance, no moments when his gaze lingered on me longer than necessary.

There were occasional moments—when I'd shift my posture in the middle of deep work and look up without thinking—where our eyes would briefly meet. But that was all.

While contacting shipping agents for the pieces sold at the fair and producing promotional pamphlets for our existing Seoul clients about the successful results of the art fair, he and I had simply worked in our respective places. Just like before.

"You smoked my cigarettes... what else did you get up to for fun?"

"......"

So I hadn't expected him to bring up that day's events, even obliquely. This time, my eyes widened. There was a hint of laughter in his voice.

"They said you couldn't even finish a bowl of wonton soup, didn't get a massage, and didn't move an inch from your room."

I wanted to breathe the outside air, but I knew that if I cracked the window even slightly, the rain would rush in over my lap as if it had been waiting for the chance.

I fumbled with the seatbelt crossing my chest as if trying to tear it off, my lips parting as if to say something—and in the end, I let out a short sigh and just closed my mouth.

In these ordinary moments, when sexual tension wasn't pulled taut between us, I had no preparation or resolve for how to talk about that day.

Before I realized it, the intersection he'd mentioned was drawing near.

Perhaps giving up on hearing my answer, he brought up something else.

"The second round... don't you want to come along?"

He asked as he slowed to wait at the intersection light.

"I have two more days off, and I figured we'd have plenty of time to spend together without rushing tonight. Your hyung and nuna are off this weekend too, aren't they?"

Forgetting the awkwardness, I met his gaze.

He was the type who seemed selective about who he let approach and who would never hold back someone trying to leave—and yet here he was, speaking as if holding me in place, asking me to stay for the second round.

I searched every corner of his mysterious eyes for some hint or hope of my own.

Amidst the heavy scent of rain that had permeated the car's interior, a fleeting whiff of his fragrance sent a chill down my spine. Even for just that brief instant, the scent instantly revived inside me the intensity of the pleasure that had accompanied it. Flustered, I unconsciously turned my head and covered my nose and mouth with my hand.

"It's a business trip wrap-up party—it would feel off if someone didn't show."

As he added that, he seemed to want to preemptively block whatever optimistic interpretation I might attach to his words. The ticklish feeling that had seemed to flutter closer dissolved the next moment, like a fleeting scent that brushed past and faded before I could grasp it.

In any case, it would be nearly impossible for me to read his intentions or thoughts. It might be the ten-year age gap, or the difference in experience that comes with it. It could also stem from something more fundamentally different about who we were. It was frustrating, but there was nothing I could do. It wasn't as if I could go out and pretend to be a playboy just to gain some romantic experience.

"I'd like to, but... I have something important to discuss today."

At my cautious refusal, he narrowed his eyes and studied me.

From behind, a car horn blared sharply. The light had changed without my noticing. He drove the car toward the northwest hill.

Since returning to the country, neither he nor Manager Han had pressed me about whether I'd thought things over or put any pressure on me about the paintings. It seemed they'd laid all their cards on the table and were simply waiting for me to take enough time and decide on my own. But I knew I couldn't drag things out too long by relying on their consideration.

Perhaps today, Yeehan hyung and Morae nuna would finally state their decisions. I, too, planned to clarify my position more definitively. On top of that, I intended to persuade them to begin preparing to leave for Bali immediately, regardless of what answer they gave.

I didn't know if I could truly paint again.

But I couldn't deny the desire to try, just because it felt vague and faint. Even if it was vague and faint, something that existed could not become something that didn't.

Whatever the outcome, I planned to try at least once.

The expectation that if I picked up the brush again, it might make it easier for hyung and nuna to leave was certainly one of the reasons—but I had no intention of being hypocritical, pretending my choice was a sacrifice for others.

It was a decision made by following my own desire, not anyone else's, and I resolved to try not to see that as selfishness.

Because there were people who had shown me firsthand that listening to one's own desires didn't necessarily mean denying and crushing the desires of others—and because of them, even someone as weak as me could build a foundation of belief.

It wasn't that courage had suddenly sprung up. Rather, the thought was to take that first step, whatever it might be, without waiting for courage to arrive. Perhaps... courage would never come if I waited. It was the very act of taking that first step that would become courage.

The church building—grand in scale and utterly out of place in this neighborhood—was gradually drawing closer. In the downpour, it loomed large and dark, like a sinister castle from a medieval horror film, exhaling a faint mist from its massive form.

"That important conversation—is it the kind I might also have reason to look forward to?"

......

Even though I had made a decision, I didn't want to speak it aloud before its form had fully solidified.

Instead of answering, I looked at his face, hoping he would understand that my silence wasn't hesitation, but a desire to be deliberate.

As he slowly drove the car toward the bus stop near the steps, a faint smile touched his lips.

"You aren't someone who opens up easily."

He wasn't wrong, so this time I offered a faint smile in return.

"I'll tell you on Monday..."

"Alright, then. I'll wait."

His words—that he would wait—were sweet. Even if what he was waiting for wasn't me myself but my answer, that answer was still a part of me.

It was raining so heavily, but I managed to persuade him not to carry my bags up the stairs. The "bags," as it were, were just two paper bags of packaged hot pot and a backpack holding a few small souvenirs from Hong Kong—cookies, toothpaste, things like that.

When I opened the door, the downpour that had been following us suddenly closed in around me as if it had been waiting. The streaks of rain seemed ready to suck me right in and swallow me whole.

I paused to watch him drive away, and he briefly tapped the horn—signaling me to go ahead. When I still didn't move, his car slowly started pulling away first. I smiled to myself, imagining him sighing at my stubbornness and shaking his head, and then I turned around.

I wondered whether my slow, dense heart was hoping we might actually date, or wishing for something as absurd as being his one and only.

I had never even experienced unrequited love, let alone a real relationship, so I had no information on how I reacted when I liked someone, or just how much I wanted him.

Before I became aware of it, my feelings were just a vague stirring.

The thirst had started after I became aware, but at least it wasn't a desperate, suffocating urgency—the kind that makes you feel like you'll die if you can't become his lover right now.

I believed I was still at a point where I could nullify my feelings.

I lacked the confidence to endure the pain of discovering emotions in him with different names—be it scorn, pity, or the coldness disguised as being cool—if my feelings became more serious and heavy, spilling out before him and unreciprocated.

For someone like me who had lived without feelings for years, a heavy unrequited love was entirely out of character. It was like asking a scrawny novice who had just signed up for a gym, with no muscle strength to speak of, to lift a hundred kilograms.

Carrying the useless umbrella draped over my shoulder, one paper bag in each hand, and the hot pot dangling from my fingers, I climbed the stairs—organizing my thoughts to focus only on Morae nuna, Yeehan hyung, and painting for today.

Thwack. That was how you turned off the switch, just as he had taught me.

Rainwater flowing down from above rushed like a stream along the stone steps, which lacked proper drainage. Because of the drop from one step to the next, not only my shoes but my calves were completely soaked.

Since nuna and hyung would arrive in about an hour, I planned to shower and set the table with the hot pot beforehand. After climbing all sixty-two steps—which felt steeper than usual because of the rain—my back, burdened by the backpack, was damp with clammy sweat. Wiping the sweat from under my chin, I headed toward the innermost gate.

I searched my pocket for the gate key while balancing the umbrella draped over my shoulder so it wouldn't flip inside out. In the narrow alley where five or six houses were crammed together, the only sound was the rain drumming against the umbrella. The newlyweds on the floor below were quiet today as well.

The rain was beating down so hard my ears felt plugged, making it impossible to hear any footsteps approaching from behind.

"......Is that Ihyeon-i?"

"......"

There had been no trace of footsteps.

As if the rain had miraculously stopped, a voice calling my name pierced clearly through the downpour and lodged itself in my ear.

Before I could even turn around to see who it belonged to, my body froze. My hand dropped in mid-air, still clutching the key I had been inserting into the gate lock.

As though the rain meant nothing at all—the persistent, briny smell of the sea washed over me like a wave capsizing a boat.

It was my uncle.

To be continued in Diamond Dust, Volume 3.

Take Off: A surfing term. The motion of identifying a wave and standing up on the board. This marks the true beginning of riding the wave.