Through his bedroom window facing North Michigan Avenue, the John Hancock Center—famous as one of the best spots to enjoy the Chicago skyline alongside the Willis Tower—stood directly in front of me.

The spacious living room, with windows facing north and east, offered a cooler, more expansive view. Beyond the John Hancock Tower and the buildings of another world-famous chain hotel, the horizon of Lake Michigan, which looked like an ocean, was faintly visible. To the east, the Chicago Museum of Contemporary Art lay within easy reach.

From my room—the other bedroom within the same suite—the dazzling panorama of the Magnificent Mile, famous as a shopping street, could be seen directly through the south and east-facing windows.

Yuni had briefly shown a surprised expression when she realized he and I were staying in the same suite, but she seemed to arrive at her own conclusion soon enough—that with two bedrooms and two bathrooms, there was no need for a separate room—and the surprise settled into acceptance. Perhaps she forgot her minor suspicions easily, delighted by the first-class tickets and five-star hotel room he had prepared like a surprise event.

The travel party for this business trip consisted of five people in total: Shushu, Yuni, him, myself, and the driver. Thanks to his consideration, all five of us were able to travel comfortably in first class. When Yuni mentioned that a round-trip first-class ticket to Chicago usually costs around twelve million won, I couldn't quite feel at ease about it.

In any case, unlike me—who was pointlessly nervous and watching Yuni's reactions—he seemed completely unconcerned with the situation, signing the check-in documents on the sofa in his suite's living room rather than at the lobby counter.

Even with the driver there, that was one thing... but with Shushu and Yuni still in the same living room, he stroked my hair and asked about the afternoon schedule in a voice tinged with a particular warmth, causing me to dart my eyes around and stammer through my answer.

Perhaps he truly didn't mind if things became known to those around us naturally. Come to think of it, deliberately announcing that we were dating did feel rather unusual.

I recalled the advice from Juhan, who had told me that he wasn't a suitable romantic partner and that if I was nursing an unrequited crush, I should give up quickly. I wondered what his reaction would be if he found out I was actually dating the very person he had warned me about. And what about Yuni and Manager Han...?

Feeling awkward about even lightly worrying over such things, I puffed out my cheeks, let out a long breath—huuh—and picked up my pencil again. I was sketching the Chicago downtown skyline as the sun was setting. I waited for him by his bedroom window while he finished showering.

"So, you spent the entire afternoon at the Chicago Art Institute?"

He emerged from the bathroom connected to the inner walk-in closet, wearing a robe, and asked with a smile. Even the simple, everyday gesture of lightly running a towel through his wet hair made my chest flutter inexplicably.

Feeling a little embarrassed—the plan I'd told him about beforehand had been quite ambitious—I nodded and managed a faint smile.

He leaned against the wall at the entrance to the long, corridor-like dressing room, both hands tucked into the front pockets of his robe.

"The scale is different from a regular gallery."

His words were true.

Although the title of being one of America's top three art museums didn't particularly appeal to me, I figured there had to be a reason people inevitably sought the place out in Chicago, where numerous galleries of various characters operated actively. The museum was divided into two buildings—a main building and a modern wing—and housed approximately 300,000 works.

"Even though I tried to look around diligently... I couldn't even get to the first floor and the basement of the main building, let alone the annex."

We'd arrived at O'Hare Airport around 10 a.m., and by the time we checked into the hotel room, it was noon. Shushu—the star of this trip—along with him and Yuni had meetings scheduled immediately with the gallery hosting the exhibition, with no time to catch their breath.

I had planned to explore the Chicago Art Institute and two other nearby galleries before they returned to the hotel to prepare for the VIP opening party that evening.

But it was an unreasonable schedule. I couldn't even finish seeing the Chicago Art Institute properly.

He seemed surprised to see me express disappointment—a rare sight. He tilted his head for a moment, watching me curiously, then playfully waggled his index finger before disappearing into the dressing room first. I stopped agonizing over how to capture the city lights—which grew more dazzling as the natural light faded—in just a sketch, and followed him inside.

He was choosing a party outfit in front of the innermost wardrobe. I awkwardly perched on the velvet bench situated between the dresser and the full-length mirror, directly across from the bathroom entrance.

"How was it? If it were Seo Ihyeon, I think he'd have liked the second floor of the main building the most."

I chuckled and rubbed the back of my neck at his accurate guess. The second floor of the main building he mentioned housed European paintings from the 15th century onward. Many familiar works I'd often seen in my parents' art books were there. Back then, like a child picking out illustrations, I hadn't bothered checking the artist's name or the title, but this time was different.

I lingered in front of pieces that piqued my interest, photographing both the artwork and its caption on my phone—photography was permitted at the Chicago Art Institute—and committed the names of artists who left a strong impression to memory.

Picasso, Monet, Rembrandt... I lingered a long time before the works of painters whose names even someone as ignorant as me had heard, whose pieces I recognized without realizing they were theirs.

Even in a single line, one could feel the mastery accumulated through countless hours of practice—lifetimes willingly mortgaged to the work. Before the colors and brushwork that couldn't be achieved through shallow technique or clumsy imitation, and the profundity granted only to those who had dedicated their time without pretense, I even felt something close to reverence. These were not painters whose genius was recognized only posthumously through sheer good fortune.

"Honestly, I tend to value content over form, so I've always found modern art—with all its radical forms—difficult to understand. I unconsciously kept my distance from it. But walking through the galleries today... I realized that not all modern artists try to convey their message through shocking forms. In a way, it's only natural that there are many different kinds of painters... I think I held prejudices based on my limited perspective."

I confessed this while my gaze drifted toward his back as he stood naked, having removed the robe, and pulled on black boxer briefs that clung tightly to his firm thighs. After donning his underwear, he began styling his hair in front of the mirror atop the dresser, which reflected only his upper body. I leaned my temple against the corner of the dresser, looking up at him.

Among the modern artists whose work had impressed me most, I told him about Edward Hopper's Nighthawks.

Though it was entirely my own impression, the composition—characterized by long, bold straight lines cutting across the canvas—struck me not merely as a stylistic choice for visual impact, but as a form carefully considered by the artist to effectively carry meaning. For me, someone who tends to neglect form in favor of content, it offered a fresh sensation, as if I'd discovered a small breakthrough.

Even if it was common knowledge that everyone else already understood, each moment of such realization was precious to me—I had, until now, been confined only to my own world when it came to painting.

It brought back the excitement I'd felt as a child, around the time Manager Han and I used to paint together. That thrill—how much fun it was to see and express the world through art, and to encounter yet another new world in that process—felt like it was newly dividing within me.

Having finished his hair and put on a shirt with darts across the chest, he leaned against the wardrobe opposite me, listening as I spoke, then tilted his head and said,

"I thought it was surprising that you'd be interested in someone as quintessentially American as Edward Hopper... but then again, maybe not."

"......"

"It was Hopper's belief that great art is the perfect expression of the artist's inner life."

Smiling faintly, he went on to share other interesting stories related to Hopper—films like Shirley and Carol, which used his works as motifs or paid homage, and a collection of short stories called Light and Shadow, written by seventeen authors, each inspired by one of his paintings.

"Hopper's Room in Brooklyn is on display at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. If you're interested, we could take some time during this trip to go see it."

He said this while fastening the buttons on the front of his shirt.

After our four-day Chicago trip concluded, instead of returning to Seoul with the others, he and I were scheduled to head to Boston. It was a short three-day trip to visit the couple who had been like mentors to him during his youth—people he had stayed with for about two years.

Chicago and Boston were only about two hours and twenty minutes apart by plane, and he'd said it wasn't that far within the US. Since it had been a long time since he'd last seen them, he really wanted to pay his respects this time, and had asked if I could come with him. If it was an opportunity to meet people important to him and get to know him more deeply, I had no reason to refuse. I also couldn't deny a quiet anticipation for a trip that would be just the two of us.

After fastening his shirt cuffs, he put on the trousers of a tuxedo suit he'd selected from several options and crossed in front of me to adjust his appearance in the full-length mirror. It was a trendy, sharp-looking suit that emphasized his broad shoulders, trim waist, and long legs, rather than being classic. His preparations were almost complete. Outside the window across from the bed, the Chicago nightscape—the sun now fully set—was sparkling gold.

He passed by me again, opened the top drawer of the dresser, and placed his hands on his hips. Scanning the various ties and scarves neatly organized by his personal staff, he spoke.

"After Hopper passed away, his wife Josephine donated all the works in her possession to the Whitney Museum of American Art in New York. The Museum of Modern Art and the Metropolitan Museum also hold major works by Hopper. Well, New York... it is the ideal city to encounter works not just by Edward Hopper, but by artists from many countries and eras."

The last comment sounded a bit like a New York tourism slogan, but it didn't seem to carry any particular hidden meaning.

He held up two ties with very different characters: a wide, dressy black silk tie and a small black bowtie that gave off a sleek, intellectual vibe. He alternated between them, holding each against his shirt and checking in the mirror.

Then, after standing up his collar and tying on the bowtie, he looked down at me and smiled faintly.

"It's only been a few hours since we were apart, and so much has already changed in Seo Ihyeon. Are there other thoughts you're hiding from me?"

I let out a soft laugh at his tone and pressed my thumb into my right palm as if massaging it—an action born of shyness. I was terrible at putting my organized thoughts or resolutions into words, but his help up to this point had been immense. He deserved to hear it. Actually, I wanted to share it with him.

"The time I've spent not drawing until now... it feels too wasteful."

The hands adjusting his shirt collar slowed. He turned toward me and smiled softly.

"That's the best kind of stimulus."

I returned a faint smile toward him, who had understood the meaning of my words perfectly.

"I'm not exactly quick-witted... For me, painting is like a language. I know I have to use it consistently, every day without fail, and as often as possible, so that it becomes part of my body rather than just my mind."

He stopped preparing, leaning against the edge of the dresser, assuming a posture that said he was ready to listen seriously.

"I thought... at the very least, I should devote the same number of hours to painting each day as a regular office worker spends at work."

"......"

"Because now... I'm a full-time artist."

He smiled when I added that, trying to lighten the weight of my too-serious tone, but his eyes were complex, lost in thought. He straightened up from leaning against the dresser and crossed his arms, leaning back against the antique bathroom door opposite me—the one designed to open on both sides.

"This is a project I've been thinking about for a long time..."

He moistened his lips with his tongue, paused, and rubbed his left upper arm with the right hand crossed over his chest.

"I'm thinking of opening a U.S. branch of Phantom."

"......"

His tone was calm—he was trying to deliver it as if it weren't a big deal—but he couldn't entirely hide a sense of gravity or caution. I, too, widened my eyes and felt my shoulders stiffen at the sudden announcement.

"Since New York is one of the most influential cities in the global art market... it would probably be there."

He chewed on his lower lip as if hesitating.

"It's not a simple matter, so I can't move on it right away, but I plan to push it forward as quickly as possible. If that happens... I'll leave Seoul to Manager Han... and I'll probably be overseeing the branch."

His voice trailed off, and his gaze, which had been slanting toward the dressing room floor, shifted to me.

"The truth is, I wanted Seo Ihyeon's debut to happen in the States—I wanted his activities to begin here. While this exhibition is somewhat informal for a debut, the gallery owners, curators, and collectors attending today's VIP party and tomorrow's opening event are the most influential figures in the industry, so it's practically the same as holding a real debut exhibition."

I was aware that he had personally negotiated with the hosting gallery to display about ten of my pieces alongside works by Phantom's other affiliated artists in a separate, smaller hall, distinct from Shushu's exhibition.

Back in Seoul, he had told me not to feel pressured—Shushu's exhibition was the main event, and the other ten or so pieces were merely supplementary.

But to hear that this was effectively my debut in front of world-renowned figures in the art industry... My mouth went dry. I could finally understand why Shushu felt uncomfortable with media exposure and being photographed.

Sensing my tension, he approached and gently stroked my cheek.

"This is just a test run since a good opportunity came along, so there's no need to be so nervous. There's no harm in letting them know your name—think of it as simply making an impression."

I nodded in his hand, but my heart was pounding.

"I want you to work in the best environment and under the best conditions, and I want you to receive recognition that matches that. That is the most certain support I can give you as a gallerist and as a dealer, Seo Ihyeon."

As he spoke, stroking my lower lip with his thumb, his eyes and expression conveyed the firmness of someone who had already made a decision and steeled their resolve.

"It's not a simple matter, and a concrete outline won't emerge until next year at the earliest. If I move to New York... will you come with me?"

"..."

My reaction was subtle. It was sudden, but if my instinct wasn't wrong—if it wasn't just self-consciousness—it seemed like he was pushing himself for my sake. While opening an overseas branch might indeed have been his long-held dream, I sensed he was rushing it, at least partly because of me.

He looked down at me as I struggled to answer, narrowing his eyes. The hand that had been slowly tracing my lips pulled away, accompanied by a tight smile that couldn't quite hide his bitterness.

"You don't have to answer right away. Opening an overseas branch isn't something that gets settled in a month or two. You have plenty of time to think."

Even as he said that, his expression showed a clear disappointment that I was hesitating. But it wasn't because the decision was difficult that I couldn't answer, as he seemed to think.

With Morae and Yeehan gone, I had no lingering attachment to Korea or Seoul. The confession that I didn't want to be separated from him was not just a flippant remark made in the heat of emotion. I was ready to trust and support him, assuming this was a decision he had reached after careful consideration.

But the anxiety I sensed from him—his desire to rush the opening of the overseas branch—stirred up a vague unease deep in my chest. As far as I knew, he wasn't the type of person to become anxious before an important event.

Perhaps that image was just a fantasy I had created about him based on incomplete information. Getting tense when making a major decision is natural—was I perhaps feeling unnecessary anxiety?

Seeing me, my wandering thoughts clearly visible, he forced a smile. Then he returned to the dresser to finish getting ready, spritzing his shirt with cologne a few times. The heavy black bottle with its clean, linear design was one of the few fragrances he frequently used. Its deep, heavy, intense scent matched his presence.

"I kept the last day open, so we can go sightseeing together then and visit the galleries you missed today. Revisiting the Chicago galleries would be nice, too. This is my third time in Chicago, but I've always been here for work. There are many places I haven't seen yet, so I'm looking forward to it."

As he chose a watch from the second drawer and fastened it around his wrist, he deliberately lifted the tone of his voice.

"I'm sorry for asking you to come all this way and then leaving you alone."

I shook my head firmly toward his back as he took a jacket from the wardrobe and slipped it on.

"I'll be fine, so please focus on the exhibition."

Having finished getting ready, he turned to look at me with a smile, and for a moment simply stared. Then he slowly turned back and walked toward me. I unconsciously lowered my breathing at his flawless appearance.

He cupped both of my cheeks, gently lifting my face so I had to look at him.

"You're so understanding and thoughtful—you're perfect... so why do I keep wanting to see the needy side of you, the Seo Ihyeon who throws tantrums?"

"......"

"The one who wishes I didn't have to go to parties and could just stay together. The one who wishes this was a trip for the two of us instead of a business trip. That Seo Ihyeon who sulks and won't let go of me."

His wishes were always this specific, and the expression on his face as he joked was so seriously sincere that it made me laugh. He chuckled along with me.

"Well, if I actually started throwing tantrums like that, I wouldn't really be Seo Ihyeon anymore, would I?"

I gripped his hands holding my face and rubbed my cheek against his palm, which smelled faintly of cologne.

"If I actually acted that way, you might change your mind."

He looked at me briefly with an unreadable smile and muttered, almost to himself.

"...I wonder if that's true."

I looked up at him—his expression bitter, as if he were the only one tormented by irrational feelings and childish desires—and pressed my forehead against his firm lower abdomen. With just a hint of resentment.

"If I start thinking like that, I won't want to be apart... so I hold back too."

His hand stroking the back of my head made my lower belly tingle. I thought about how much I was looking forward to the journey to Boston, when we would finally be alone together after all the schedules were done. I almost confessed how childish I felt, but instead I firmly bit my lower lip, let go, and raised my head.

"Just remember this: I will always welcome the Seo Ihyeon who isn't holding back."

He bent down and pressed his lips to mine. A sweet sigh escaped at the light brush of lips before he reluctantly pulled away. Smiling, he ruffled my hair, checked the time, grabbed a few belongings—his phone and cigarettes—and left the dressing room.

"I'll head straight to the venue from the gallery, but Yuni will stop by the hotel because of Shushu. You can go with her."

"Won't Shushu... be attending the after-party?"

As he led me by the hand toward the entrance, he paused and looked back at my question.

"Well... the official part ends with the party at the gallery. It's hardly an after-party—it's more like a small private gathering I'm hosting for just a few people, so Shushu isn't obligated to attend."

In contrast, I was exempt from attending the party at the gallery but had agreed to attend the more intimate gathering afterward. He had given me the chance to exhibit my work overseas and said there were people he wanted me to meet, so I couldn't refuse that either.

He stopped in the hall near the front door after we passed through the short corridor, released my hand, and wrapped his arms around my waist.

"If you come to the party, you'll inevitably get nervous and barely eat anything. Make sure you order dinner via room service before you come out. If you skip a meal, I'll end up having to prepare everything for you again, just like before."

The memory of Hong Kong, where he'd arranged for both local and Western meals to be prepared, came to mind. I touched the breast pocket of his jacket, smiling silently.

"Inwu also said it's important not to skip meals. Since you'll probably have to drink a little at the party too. And make sure you take your medicine."

The results from Inwu's examination confirmed it was just mild gastritis. He said it was likely stress-related—not serious right now, but I needed to be careful to prevent it from becoming chronic. He'd also recommended several supplements, which I was taking along with the medication.

He insisted I take them diligently, saying he wanted to see me take good care of myself. He always personally organized my daily medication and supplements into a divided plastic case that could hold a week's worth.

"You know I won't worry you about things like that. Shushu must be waiting for you."

When I smiled and pushed him toward the door, urging him to go, he shrugged with a playfully disappointed look.

"Before, you used to beg me not to go see Shushu."

I hurriedly ushered him out, hiding my face—which was heating up from that embarrassing memory—and pushed him through the entryway. Just before he completely disappeared beyond the door connected to the private elevator, he stood in the opening, dressed impeccably, and said with a serious expression:

"See you later. Don't dress up too beautifully."

I shook my head, thinking: Look in the mirror before you say something like that, Director.

· · · · ·

The luxury sedan he had arranged with the hotel began its journey north toward the wealthy enclave of Chicago's Old Town.

The high-rises were shrouded in a hazy fog, likely due to Lake Michigan, making it impossible to distinguish what lay at the end of the long, straight road. The car, gliding smoothly over the pavement without sound or vibration, felt as if it were willingly being drawn into a story full of adventure, with no telling what waited at the end.

I quietly rubbed my arm and turned my gaze away from the window, leaving behind the desolate landscape that reminded me of a dehumanized future city or the Gotham City of Batman.

Yuni, who had changed into a more glamorous and free-spirited outfit for the after-party, was hurriedly touching up her makeup in the back seat of the sedan.

"The Director seemed incredibly motivated today, didn't he? He even agreed to do an interview tomorrow, which is so unlike him. He always said he was reluctant to take the spotlight—that the artists were supposed to be the main focus."

As she applied a deeper shade to her eyeshadow, Yuni kept talking. It looked like she was applying it roughly, but that style suited her.

"Well, having the Director give an interview and having his picture out there will certainly boost publicity. We don't know when we'll have another exhibition in Chicago, but there's no harm in getting our name out there."

I smiled back at Yuni as she turned toward me and closed the eyeshadow case.

Contrary to her lighthearted guess, my smile was awkward. Had he not mentioned anything to Yuni about the New York branch yet? I thought. The idea that he might have agreed to the interview with that opening in mind was hard to push aside.

"Anyway, tonight's opening party was insane. Honestly, this gallery isn't exactly some powerhouse, right? But the guest list was stacked. Wow... I was handing out my business cards like crazy without even thinking."

Yuni, still facing me, radiated the excitement from the party in her expression and voice. I was reminded of her in Hong Kong—diligently greeting people and exchanging cards, hoping someone might recognize her talent and potential and scout her. Whether it was studying abroad or a new job, it was clear Yuni wanted experience overseas.

"What's wrong, Ihyeon? Are you still nervous? You've gone so quiet."

Sipping the coffee she'd placed in the cup holder on the armrest between us, Yuni poked my stiff face and playfully pinched my cheek.

"I'm still awkward at parties like this... and I'm worried about my English, too...."

After the Chicago trip was decided, I had taken English lessons twice a week from the teacher who also instructed Yuni and Juhan. I studied separately, and in the evenings, he would go over things with me a little at a time. Our study sessions, however... mostly evolved into learning words and phrases that weren't appropriate for polite company, eventually extending into dates that led to physical intimacy.

Regardless, it had only been three weeks of more serious study. That wasn't enough time to build the skill to cover for my lack of confidence in English and my unsociable nature.

"You're good, so stop pretending you aren't. Your teacher was praising you, you know? She said you'd surpass Kwon Juhan within a few months, and now he's in hardcore study mode because of you."

Yuni added, tapping the cushion on the armrest with delight, that Juhan had practically cried when she boasted about flying first class and staying at a five-star hotel—saying it wasn't a business trip but a luxury tour and that he should have followed no matter what.

It seemed Yuni, who was plotting to take pictures at the after-party to tease him, actually wasn't so much wanting to poke fun at Juhan as she was wanting to share the present moment. Despite their bickering when together, it seemed she felt a bit empty now that they were apart. Sometimes I envied their friendship like that.

Even through elementary and middle school, I had never managed to make what people call a "best friend." Morae and Yeehan were certainly precious friends, and while they rarely acted like a couple in front of me, their strong bond was like a visible current—clear even without them holding hands or hugging in public. Because of that, it was difficult for the three of us to form a perfect triangular balance as friends. Even between Yuni and Juhan, who were like twins or doppelgangers, I felt like a different color entirely.

As I followed that train of thought, I realized, surprisingly, that I had him.

The bond connecting him and me wasn't just the burning thrill of passion or romantic feeling. He was the one person who could draw out the most stories, emotions, and thoughts from me—someone like hardened concrete—and accept and understand them without any distortion. The meaning he held for me was more than just a romantic partner.

Suddenly, I missed him. At such a clear and concrete emotion, my face flushed red in the dark car, as if he'd already caught me.

The car stopped in front of a three-story mansion just one block away from the street where Hugh Hefner's "Original Playboy Mansion" once stood.

As if to signal that a party was taking place inside, the entrance of the stately, massive brick building was decorated with dazzling lights.

"The lighting here must be incredible. Ihyeon, take a picture of me."

Yuni, reaching into her small clutch bag while looking at the lights—which reminded me of Christmas luminaries—suddenly frowned.

"Oh, the battery.... My power bank is dead, too. Ihyeon, take a picture with your phone. I'm uploading this Chicago trip in real-time on social media. I even posted a picture of your artwork on display—look, there are already over a hundred comments... oh... it just died."

We burst out laughing over the phone that had gone completely dark in Yuni's hand.

Fortunately, my phone, which I had charged all evening at the hotel, was working fine. As I unlocked it to take a picture of Yuni posing under the arched structure at the entrance, she dropped her pose and looked at me with interest.

"What is it, what is it?"

Her eyes narrowed, giving her a sly look.

"Since when did Honeybee Seo Ihyeon start setting a passcode on his phone?"

"Ah... it's not that... I was worried I might lose it while traveling... I'm on roaming, so if someone found it, I didn't want them making calls..."

"Why are you trying so hard to make excuses? Everyone has secrets at this age. It's perfectly normal."

Even as she said that, her face still held a teasing smile. She seemed certain there was some other reason for locking my phone, but she didn't press me any further.

After one round of photos, Yuni rang the bell, and a gentle-looking employee opened the door. The mansion felt like a maze. As we walked down a long hallway past several rooms and small sitting areas, the loud noise and music of the party grew steadily closer.

He was already there, coming out to greet us from the far end of the hall. Without his jacket, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his neatly styled hair now falling across his forehead, he looked remarkably cheerful.

He could usually hold his liquor very well, so I'd never seen him drunk before. But even if he wasn't fully drunk, alcohol seemed to be fueling his high spirits. Intrigued, I glanced sideways at his face as his arm rested over my shoulder.

As we descended the stairs into the hall—which was much larger than the sitting room we'd just passed—he leaned close to my ear and whispered.

"I told you not to dress up so much..."

Despite what he said, the outfit I was currently wearing was one he had personally selected and gifted me for this gathering. He said that since I was attending as an artist, I didn't need to be too formal, so he matched a casual-fit suit with a navy and white striped T-shirt.

"Hmm... what's this? Wouldn't this just make people more suspicious?"

He pressed his forehead against my temple and playfully tugged at the small bandana scarf wrapped around my neck. Several people were looking our way, and my throat suddenly felt a little dry.

The truth was, his marks were scattered around the back of my neck. Ever since the night Inwu came to check on me, he had developed a habit of leaving marks, mainly around my chest and neck.

He hadn't left one right in the center of my neck where it would be obvious, but precisely because the outfit he'd chosen for today was a boat-neck T-shirt, the mark above my collarbone was exposed, leaving no other choice.

"Sorry, sorry. It's all my fault. I was being presumptuous."

Perhaps sensing my resentful look, he pulled me closer, tightening his arm around my shoulders as he apologized. Even as he repeated his apologies, he seemed to be in high spirits. Yuni, who was walking ahead, turned around, but since he was uncharacteristically excited, she seemed to dismiss the close skin-ship as just part of his drunkenness.

The people enjoying themselves in various parts of the hall—a space large enough to host a small banquet—were mostly dressed formally, like him, but with a relaxed, cheerful look: shirts unbuttoned at the top, sleeves rolled up. One woman in a stunning silk evening gown had taken off her high heels and was enjoying a cocktail barefoot while chatting with a pleasant expression.

The atmosphere suggested that everyone in the hall either knew each other well or had been aware of one another's existence for some time. As he had said, it didn't feel like an extension of a formal business party.

He first introduced Yuni and me to the owners of the mansion who had provided the space for the gathering.

Jane Song, a Korean-American woman whose hometown was New York, and Conner Drake, who was from Orland Park not far from Chicago, were a couple who had spent time studying abroad in London alongside his parents. They were business partners running a fashion venture in Chicago and were also ardent collectors of works by promising emerging artists.

"When I asked them to help secure a venue in Chicago for a small party, they generously offered their home, asking why we would bother going anywhere else. Oh, Yuni, I already introduced you to them at the gallery earlier, right?"

The couple and Yuni exchanged brief greetings first, and then he introduced me as a new artist joining Phantom—someone he was very excited about.

"Conner and I enjoy buying good work from lesser-known artists. Honestly, the pieces by already famous artists are just outrageously expensive," Jane exclaimed as if protesting, but it was immediately clear that the couple wasn't refraining from buying famous artists' works for financial reasons.

"I saw Ihyeon's nude painting at the gallery and immediately told Awi I wanted to buy it, but he refused, saying it wasn't available for sale yet."

Jane shot him a look, calling it petty for dangling something he wouldn't even give away, but thankfully, Conner brought cocktails from the bar set up on one side of the hall for Yuni and me.

"Awi, I actually invited someone specifically because I really want you to meet them. Is that alright?"

"Of course. If Jane is the one introducing them, I should make time to greet them properly."

He answered readily and cheerfully, but the eyes that brought the cocktail glass to his lips seemed momentarily preoccupied with something else. He didn't seem like the person who had been laughing and chatting loudly just a moment before.

"They aren't based in Chicago, but the timing worked out perfectly for you two this time. I thought it would be nice for you to meet. I just got a message saying they'll be here soon. Oh, there they are!"

At Jane's delighted wave, I reflexively turned around too.

For a brief moment, I mistook him for Juhan.

The closely cropped hair that looked prickly to the touch, the sharp impression given by an extremely thin frame, his towering height and long limbs—plus the all-black outfit covering his entire body.

"Oh my god. What is happening? It's R.R.!"

Whether she recognized the man who reminded me of Juhan or not, Yuni quickly pulled her cocktail glass from her lips and started jabbing me sharply in the side. In stark contrast to her excitement, he merely gazed impassively at the man approaching them.

"Jane, Conner! Thank you so much for inviting me."

The man approached the couple with a bright smile, and since they seemed to have met recently, they exchanged simple, friendly greetings.

Up close, he seemed far less mischievous than Juhan. He exuded a calm, mature presence that made it strange I'd thought they resembled each other at all. He also looked to be three or four years older than Juhan. Above all else, he was a foreigner.

"Now, this is Reed Rogers, the leader of the organization I sponsor. And this is Liu Weikun, who runs a gallery in Seoul."

He nodded first and extended his hand for a shake. As Reed accepted the handshake, he spoke.

"Actually, I was at the VIP opening today. I really enjoyed the exhibition."

"You were?"

Jane frowned slightly and placed a light hand on Reed Rogers's shoulder.

"I wasn't actually invited, but another gallery staff member I know asked if I was interested because they had one extra plus-one spot. They knew I was just hanging around Chicago right now."

Even while listening to the story, he showed no particular interest in the man—or perhaps his mind seemed to be elsewhere.

"If it's an organization Jane and Conner support, what kind of..."

Although he asked the question, it felt like minimal courtesy, given the couple's deliberate intention to introduce them. It was also unexpected that he steered the conversation away from asking Reed—who had attended today's VIP opening—for his impressions of Shushu's work.

"It's a kind of artist community. To be precise, it's an organization that selects and supports the livelihood and creative activities of emerging artists in economically and environmentally difficult situations who show exceptional promise. I oversee the overall operations."

"Hmm."

Despite his lack of visible reaction, the man continued to answer earnestly.

"It's not like we're all working toward a common goal; it's quite personal, actually... I suppose we call it a collective because people with similar inclinations happen to gather here."

Strangely, the organization's image seemed to grow hazier the more Reed explained, but he didn't press for more details. Jane chuckled and patted Reed's shoulder.

"Reed himself was originally a painter. He even won a special prize at the Venice Biennale when he was very young."

"Yes, though winning that prize completely soured my relationship with painting."

The man's expression and tone suggested resentment toward his past achievement.

"I don't paint anymore. I got sick of the system where galleries manufacture stars through clever management, suck them dry, and then abandon them once the hype dies down. I was just one of those overly inflated, flashy stars manufactured by that system, rather than someone with genuine talent."

The content of his words was quite scathing, but his tone was not. Thanks to what I had gradually heard from him about how the so-called "global art market" operated and the reality that competition was impossible without promotion and management, I could somewhat understand what Reed was saying.

"That's also why I ended up helping emerging artists through my current foundation. Now, I focus solely on running the foundation while writing fiction."

"That short story collection you published earlier this year was very impressive."

Everyone's gaze turned toward Yuni at the excitement in her voice.

Reed grinned, creasing his exposed forehead, and pointed alternately between Yuni and himself.

"You're Yuni, right? We follow each other, don't we?"

It wasn't just Yuni who knew him; he seemed genuinely delighted to see her, like meeting an old friend, and offered his hand to shake hers. The flow of conversation instantly shifted to the two of them.

Someone began playing the grand piano situated beneath the glass ceiling, near the large folding doors leading to the backyard, and the attention of the crowd shifted in that direction as well.

"I really enjoyed the live posts about the exhibition today. Yuni, did you direct this show?"

"No. This gallery hosted the exhibition; I was just in charge of our side of things."

"The scale of the party was incredible."

"This gallery was the host, but for some reason, our Director really put his all into it this time."

While Jane, Conner, and the other adults around them enjoyed and responded to the jazz piano performance, Yuni and Reed continued their conversation.

Yuni apologized for the late introduction and introduced the man to me. Reed seemed to find the pronunciation of "Ihyeon" amusing despite its difficulty. He commented that while the name "Yuni" was convenient and lovely for international use, the resistance felt in his vocal cords when producing the name "Ihyeon" gave him an exotic feeling, which earned him a light rebuke from Yuni.

"My name is the worst. While anyone, regardless of their language background, can pronounce it easily, that's exactly why it doesn't stick in anyone's memory."

Reed made a displeased face, creasing his brow. It seemed to be a characteristic expression of his, forming three or four distinct lines across his forehead. They were not wrinkles that made him look old.

Reed readily accepted Yuni's suggestion that the three of us sit at the bar and talk slowly. All the other guests were engrossed in a piano performance—a jazz arrangement of a famous Michael Jackson hit. Though I didn't know much about it, the skill level didn't seem amateurish.

Before we left, I turned my body halfway toward him as he was talking right beside me and tapped his shoulder lightly with my index finger.

When I said I would stay with Yuni at the bar, he smiled and touched my cheek. The look in his eyes was full of affection, even by my own estimation. He didn't seem to notice at all, but just being near him and talking intimately with him caused people to display subtle curiosity or outright hostility, and unlike him, I wasn't accustomed to being stared at. Feeling burdened by the glances from several people who pretended not to look but kept stealing peeks, I gave an awkward smile, gently took his hand to pull it down, and quietly slipped away.

In the hall, against a backdrop of boldly printed wallpaper, two formally dressed bartenders stood behind a large S-shaped bar, mixing cocktails or pouring drinks according to the guests' requests.

After settling into seats side by side in the inner curve of the S-shape, Reed proposed a toast and asked me to call him Reed.

Reed leaned his upper body over the bar, studying my face intently, and mentioned that he had seen my paintings in the first-floor exhibition hall of the gallery that afternoon. The thinly shaped eyebrow—trimmed deliberately with something like a razor—twitched. Come to think of it, Reed didn't have any piercings.

"To be honest, while I didn't sense the mastery of a craftsman or the deep weight of time in the work... because of the boldness in leaving negative space and omitting backgrounds, and the individuality and color sense that masterfully expressed the transience and loneliness of a sunset using cool blue tones—I honestly wouldn't have guessed it was the work of someone so young."

Sitting separated from me with Yuni between us, Reed leaned his upper body far back for a moment, narrowed his eyes, and shook his head.

"No. In a way, it might have been expected. The pieces somehow felt... like the tender nostalgia of an old man looking back on his past as he enters the twilight of his life, yet at the same time, they also felt like the sharp pain of a boy painfully passing through adolescence."

"Ah... um..."

Since he had offered such specific and passionate feedback on my paintings, I felt obligated to offer some kind of response in return, but I wasn't sure whether agreeing or simply thanking him would be the appropriate reaction. While I fiddled with the thin stem of my cocktail glass, stalling for time, Yuni stepped in for me.

"This is his first exhibition, you know. He's just shy about hearing comments on his own work."

After that, the three of us chatted comfortably about various topics. It felt like a lighthearted conversation between close friends. Contrary to his sharp first impression, Reed wasn't difficult to get along with. In fact, he and Yuni seemed like they had known each other for ages, striking up an easy rapport within just two or three minutes of meeting.

I was laughing at Reed's witty anecdote about a famous museum director—so confident in his artistic taste that he mistook a famous artist's trash can sculpture for an actual trash can at a biennale—when I felt someone place their hands on both my shoulders and press down gently.

"Well, I'm glad you seem to be having fun."

When I looked up, he was smiling.

The piano performance had ended at some point, and the hall was now filled with music at a faster tempo than when I first arrived. The lighting had dimmed further, like a club, and simultaneously, the music volume had increased. People cheered, ramping up the excitement.

"Sorry to interrupt your conversation, but... there is someone I really want to introduce you both to. May I borrow you for a moment?"

After getting Reed's permission, he led Yuni and me to a sofa set located in the innermost corner of the hall. Among the four or five large and small sofa arrangements filling the hall, this one was the smallest but decorated the most lavishly and comfortably.

Between the sofas, and around the round standing tables apparently prepared specifically for tonight's party, a group of five or six people clustered together were talking quietly, unlike the others who were swaying to the music.

"Chloe, these are the friends I mentioned. Yuni, the director of Phantom, and the artist... Ihyeon."

He squeezed the hands resting on Yuni's and my shoulders alternately, introducing us to them—or rather, to the woman in the black suit. Now it was our turn to be introduced to her.

"And this is..."

"I know her."

Because he was standing between us, I had to lean forward to see Yuni's face. She looked surprised by her own statement that she already knew who the woman in front of them was.

"Ms. Chloe Kent, Senior Director of H&W Gallery's New York branch. Before moving to H&W Gallery, she worked as an auction specialist in modern art at Christie's New York for fifteen years."

Despite her heavy smoky makeup and fashion sense that older people tended not to favor, Yuni looked like a highly capable secretary commanding a large salary. The woman sitting on the sofa managed a faint, barely perceptible smile over her thin lips and stood up to shake Yuni's hand.

"I didn't realize there was such a young gallerist taking such an interest in me. I'm actually getting nervous. Have I been living my life doing shady things?"

Even at her joke, Yuni couldn't smile comfortably. She watched the woman's every reaction with a dreamy expression, like a child meeting their idol.

"I didn't realize it was to this extent either. Most of the careers represented in this hall are probably at Yuni's fingertips. She has an excellent understanding of and sense for art, she's an incredibly hard worker, and on top of that... she has ambition."

He emphasized that last word as if ambition were Yuni's most appealing trait. Since he had previously been negative about her studying abroad or transferring to an overseas gallery, his unrestrained praise in front of key figures made Yuni's eyebrows twitch in surprise, but she gave him an unseen thumbs-up.

Chloe Kent, who seemed to possess a dazzling career as the Senior Director of the New York branch of a global gallery with seven main and branch offices worldwide, naturally guided us to an empty standing table next to the sofa. A waiter circulating through the hall quickly approached, cleared away an empty glass someone had left, and brought us fresh drinks as ordered.

"This is Seo Ihyeon, a newcomer who has not yet officially debuted. He will be showing a few pieces through Shushu's exhibition this time, but it's only an informal, test-level unveiling. We intend to spare no expense to support a debut exhibition that will leave a powerful impression on the art world."

At his cautious yet confident remark, Kent took a slight sip of her champagne glass, just enough to moisten her lips, and offered a subtle smile—a smile that suggested she understood exactly what he meant.

She set her champagne glass down on the table and spoke.

"There could be no more successful debut than for a newcomer—not an established artist who has already achieved a certain level of recognition and success—to have their first exhibition at H&W New York Gallery."

"I agree."

When he concurred, her smile deepened slightly.

Yuni, standing beside Kent, and I, standing beside him, exchanged glances diagonally across the space between us. Yuni's eyes conveyed her confusion about what their conversation actually meant. But a debut show at a famous New York gallery... Like Yuni, I had never heard anything about that.

"Since Liu-ssi owns Pettibon's works, the ability to cooperate with H&W to exhibit them must ultimately be some kind of... proposal."

Yuni's gaze, which had been darting back and forth between him and Kent, turned toward me once more. Our eyes met in mid-air and froze there.

He was currently negotiating a deal with Kent, using my debut show as leverage. At least, that seemed to be the case.

"I only own three pieces myself, but my father has been a longtime fan of Pettibon and owns over thirty major works. I know H&W also holds quite a few of his representative pieces, but... if you check my father's collection list, I'm sure you'll find it interesting. It would be the largest Pettibon exhibition in the world on record."

Having finished speaking, he flashed a charming smile and raised his own glass, inviting a toast. His demeanor conveyed absolute confidence that his counterpart could never refuse this offer. Kent also seemed to be receiving the young gallerist's confident attitude positively.

Yuni and I joined the toast, but seeing the strange expression on her face—neither a smile nor a frown—I thought she was likely thinking the same thing I was.

It struck me as strange that he had brought up his father's collection as a card to play to seal the deal.

"It's certainly a tempting offer from my perspective... but how could someone who owns over thirty Pettibon pieces remain unknown in the art world?"

"Most purchases were made anonymously. Until recently, he was part of the management team at a relatively large gallery, so he had easy access to information on works he was interested in. Furthermore, he participated in most auctions through a representative or by phone. Besides, he values collecting itself rather than showing off ownership, so his acquisitions were always made quietly."

"Hmm. If he owns around thirty Pettibon pieces, I doubt that's the extent of his collection... If he's a collector of that magnitude, he's probably someone I know. May I ask which gallery he used to run?"

Yuni's gaze turned toward him. Her focus seemed less on the content of the answer and more on whether he would actually respond to the question. Though skeptical, she seemed to have settled on the expectation that he wouldn't answer. No—more accurately, she wore an expression that seemed to hope he wouldn't.

"He was the founder of The Face Gallery in Hong Kong, and now serves as an honorary advisor."

He answered without hesitation.

Seeing Yuni's eyes and expression subtly stiffen and tremble immediately after... it seemed that the fact that Suki Kim was his mother wasn't the only thing he hadn't told Yuni and Juhan.

The story about his father was new to me as well.

The Face Gallery.

If my memory served me right, The Face Gallery had hosted the party at the mansion I attended in Hong Kong. It was also where he and Manager Han had first met and worked together in the past. I didn't know if his former colleagues—with whom he'd briefly shared a table at the party—were aware that he was the founder's son, but I didn't recall any such conversation taking place at the time.

Kent's brow furrowed upon hearing the answer. She tilted her head and asked again, like someone who had just heard something unbelievable.

"Mr. Nick Liu?"

He nodded.

"I purchased quite a few works from The Face Gallery at Christie's Hong Kong as well."

"I hadn't heard that the son had jumped into the same industry."

"My accomplishments are meager compared to my parents' reputations."

Even as he said that, his smile suggested his words meant something different than what he was saying. Kent, understanding the joke, also nodded and smiled.

"Well, I understand. If you picked up a single dollar bill on the street, you could still be accused of relying on your parents' reputation, so I suppose you'd want to keep a low profile. Suki Kim and Nick Liu—they are quite famous in the art world as the Eastern Picasso and Kahnweiler, respectively. Oh, I hope I haven't offended you by describing your parents that way?"

He shook his head with a smile.

"You meant it as a compliment, so why would I take it the wrong way?"

"I'm also a huge personal fan of Suki Kim. Although I haven't been lucky enough to acquire any of her works."

Yuni's lips, which had remained silent the whole time, parted slightly as if to say something, then immediately pressed shut. Clutching the glass filled with a lime-green cocktail, she lowered her gaze. It seemed that even meeting Chloe Kent could no longer excite her.

Given the dim lighting and how focused everyone was on the conversation, it was hard to tell whether he truly hadn't noticed Yuni's awkward reaction or if he was deliberately ignoring it.

He placed a hand firmly on my shoulder, squeezing it for emphasis, and leaned his upper body a little closer toward Kent.

"Actually, I plan to open the New York branch of my gallery starting with the exhibition of artist Seo Ihyeon. Naturally, I hope to establish a cooperative relationship with H&W, which holds immense influence in the New York art world."

"Director."

Yuni, who suddenly called out to him in Korean, looked surprised by her own action. Kent turned to look at Yuni and asked if she was alright. Yuni quickly composed herself and managed a slightly awkward smile. At that moment, my suspicion was confirmed—that he hadn't hinted anything about the New York branch to Yuni, just as he hadn't to me.

"Ah... I apologize. I think I need to make a call to another employee remaining in Seoul. If you don't mind... may I step away for a moment?"

As Yuni, having sought permission, hurried past us, he grasped her shoulder and asked what was wrong. She glanced quickly toward Kent, then said she thought she had drunk too much alcohol since the previous party, asking him to cover for her.

Weaving through the crowd of people loudly chatting and dancing, Yuni crossed the hall. While I wrestled with whether I should follow her, or if I did follow what I could possibly say to her, or whether it would be best to let him figure things out, she slipped out of the hall, turned into the corridor, and vanished from sight.

"This certainly sounds like more than just a one-off exhibition. I think a lot of people will be interested."

After saying that, Kent immediately introduced several people to him right there on the spot. The area around two standing tables quickly became crowded with people showing both personal and professional interest in the gallery that the founder of The Face Gallery and Suki Kim's son were opening in New York.

A few people standing around the tables shared brief impressions, mentioning they had seen my work at the gallery earlier that day. Others inquired about the other artists represented by his gallery, while still others tried to build rapport by indirectly expressing interest in his parents and showing their goodwill toward him.

While the atmosphere wasn't stiff, it certainly wasn't a place where I felt at ease. He was skillfully leading the mood of the gathering with a pleasant demeanor that wasn't overly forward, but I couldn't be sure if he was genuinely enjoying himself.

I disliked the envy that attributed everything to his parents, but I disliked the flattery just as much. I had no intention of becoming a casualty for those who loved judging others' lives—whispering that this was just the shallow performance of a prince who wanted the title of self-made success too.

His stories about wanting to be just himself, regardless of his origins or background... The tentative empathy and connection forged that night. And the way he was presenting himself here now... It wasn't just Yuni who was confused.

There must be a reason. I wasn't trying to judge him right now.

I do not believe that benefiting from one's parents and family is inherently immoral. Nor could it be a reason to dislike him. Perhaps this represented a compromise he felt compelled to make—a concession chosen for flexibility, for a greater objective, a leap to the next stage.

I just wanted to know the reason if his thinking had changed from before. I wanted to understand him.

Suppressing the urge to leave and find Yuni, I handed my empty glass to the waiter and smiled gratefully at the woman beside me who offered me a new cocktail. She introduced herself as the editor-in-chief of an art magazine published in Chicago, and mentioned she planned to feature an article on Shushu's exhibition in the next issue.

Just then, someone grabbed her shoulder and pulled her toward the outside, greeting her loudly and boisterously. Although they exchanged brief pleasantries—apparently knowing each other—she didn't seem particularly pleased to see him.

The man who wedged himself into the gap created as she turned halfway around was flamboyantly dressed in colorful, fashionable attire—unlike most people in the hall—decked out in primary colors.

Taking a sip of a cocktail that seemed on the verge of spilling due to his careless movement, the man looked up at him diagonally across, with her and me positioned between them.

"I heard some interesting investment talk was floating around here. I could smell the money."

The man, whose platinum-blonde hair was smoothed back neatly, appeared slightly aggressive—perhaps because of his attire or because of the slight stagger in his posture from the alcohol.

"Liu-ssi, the host of tonight's party, is planning to open a branch in New York, so that's what everyone was discussing."

It seemed most of the people gathered already knew the blonde man to some extent.

"If it's that kind of talk, I'm very interested too..."

"But it seems investment won't be necessary. He doesn't appear to need any help with funding."

At someone's explanation, the man scratched his cheek and cast a probing look toward him.

"Hmm. What a shame. It seemed like there would be a lot of interesting things happening at that gallery..."

The chief curator from the Chicago Art Institute, whom I had visited that afternoon—distinguished by his well-groomed beard and scholarly glasses—stepped forward to introduce the blonde man to him.

The man, who said he had come from Miami to attend today's VIP opening at the invitation of the gallery hosting Shushu's exhibition, was the son of a collector famous for buying a work by a renowned artist for twenty thousand dollars when the artist was unknown and reselling it ten years later for a profit of ten million dollars. He himself was now one of the well-known collectors in the southern United States.

"Collector, sure. Sounds more like a speculator to me."

He leaned close to my ear and whispered in Korean. Since he had a smiling face, no one could guess what he said—and if it had been Yuni or Juhan, they would have skillfully played along and laughed with him—but my heart fluttered for no reason, so I glanced sideways at the man across from us.

Our eyes met, and the man raised the glass holding a cocktail as vibrant as his hair color, flashing a bright smile toward me. I quickly looked away, unable to even manage an awkward smile.

Ever since the blonde man arrived, the mood at the table had begun to be dictated by him. While everyone else was enjoying their drinks just enough to liven things up, the man seemed a bit too intoxicated. And it appeared that in any culture, it was difficult for ten sober people to handle one drunk person.

"Betas might not want to admit it, but it's true that Alphas and Omegas stand out much more in the art world, isn't it? Especially in the art scene, even Alphas can't match the delicacy and creativity of Omegas."

The man proudly boasted that his investment secret was always to check the gender and appearance of an artist beforehand.

"There are some Omegas who possess an especially mysterious aura, and I unconditionally collect the works of those artists. It's like... those Omegas are always destined to reach the top eventually."

The man, who had been laughing with his shoulders shaking and his eyes crinkling as if he found something endlessly amusing, added another remark.

"Whether it's through their painting skills or by seducing influential old-timers in the art scene with their charm as an Omega."

"Omega, Omega, with every other word... It's getting a little uncomfortable to listen to."

As if he couldn't bear to listen any longer, he stepped in to stop the man. Though his tone was polite, the heavy pauses between his words conveyed his displeasure clearly enough.

The man perked up, quickly raising his upper body, which had been almost slumped over the table, his eyes gleaming. He appeared as if he had been anticipating this very moment, waiting for him to react.

"Ah, did I make you uncomfortable? Please don't misunderstand. I had absolutely no intention of belittling anyone."

The onlookers were now observing the man with the mindset of an audience enduring the villain's continuous misdeeds on screen, awaiting their eventual downfall. The man himself seemed like a distasteful spectacle.

"Actually... I'm rather old-fashioned about these things; I believe Alphas should naturally end up with Omegas. And as for the pleasure in bed... well, it's incomparable to being with a Beta. Just between us—sleeping with an Omega in heat, intoxicated by pheromones... ah... in that moment, it's so intense you feel like you could give up your very life if asked. It makes me almost feel sorry for men born as Betas."

Everyone present stiffened with discomfort, but the man didn't seem to care in the least. He was so rude and frivolous that it seemed he was deliberately trying his hardest to make the atmosphere frigid.

Morae nuna, Manager Han, Inwu hyung, even Awi. How sensible the Alphas around me had been until now.

The realization that this repulsive man before me was, whether I acknowledged it or not, a facet of a world I hadn't known—it sent a chill down my spine, like feeling the scales of a snake crawling over bare skin.

The man was specifically targeting him even within the group, and he showed no intention of resolving the situation passively by turning away from the challenge. He tilted his glass and threw a cold glare at the man.

The man, who had just been handed a freshly filled glass by the waiter, spilled about half of the drink onto the bar floor and the front of his flashy jacket. Then he burst into loud laughter all by himself and licked the liquor from his fingers.

"I thought I might find common ground with Liu-ssi, since he's openly showcasing Shushu as a Golden Omega and using his beautiful appearance for promotion... Ah, it is indeed an excellent strategy. To think that such a beautiful Golden Omega's work was available—I bought five pieces today without a second thought."

At the man's comment about reserving Shushu's works, his eyebrows and lips twitched.

"But... Shushu wasn't the only one...?"

Leaning his elbows on the table, the man let his words trail off, casting a brief glance in my direction.

This time, I felt his entire body go rigid. The gaze looking down at the man no longer maintained the cold distance as if he were watching an unrelated villain on a screen. Yet the man wouldn't stop, as if encouraging the other person to kill him since he couldn't take his own life.

"I am not attached to current fame and such. With an Omega like this... I feel like I could reserve everything he plans to paint for the next two or three years. When he's this captivating... So what if he only drew a single line on a blank canvas?"

"......!"

A large palm clenched around the man's face, which had been subtly leaning toward me.

Following the thud of a blow landing, the shattering sound of the glass the man had been holding hitting the floor ensued.

Everyone nearby jumped back a step reflexively in surprise. My own shoulders stiffened from the sudden event happening right in front of me. He kept his gaze fixed on the man and slid his hand against my lower abdomen, pushing me back as if signaling me to retreat.

It happened in an instant.

He struck the man just below his right shoulder and near his side. Although the attack seemed deliberately aimed to avoid a vital spot, it was enough to make the man collapse onto the floor. The range of motion wasn't even wide. His movements were so concise that one might think the man was merely feigning injury.

Screams, groans, and murmurs followed. Though the man hadn't shed a single drop of blood, he curled up clutching his stomach, writhing on the floor. He couldn't manage a full scream, only emitting strange moans as he continued to draw himself into a tighter ball.

Jane and Conner immediately rushed over and began managing the situation.

Even after taking the man down, he was not in a normal state, his shoulders heaving as he gasped for breath. His tightly clenched fists looked like a restraint to keep him from lunging forward to attack again.

He was unfamiliar like this, unable to control himself. I couldn't even dare approach him rashly. The man I knew until now was someone at the peak of reason and skill, who I thought could handle this situation much more skillfully.

Two burly employees, responding to Conner's call, rushed over and helped the man up as if escorting him, leading him out of the hall. Conner followed behind them. Some of the people present approached Jane and began discussing the situation with her. Jane nodded and apologized to them on his behalf.

"It's alright. To be honest, everyone was just holding back because he's a big-spending client, but no one here has a reason to blame Liu-ssi. He treated his own artists like they could be bought with money... How could we just stand by and listen to that?"

After hearing their explanations, Jane turned her gaze—first to him, still breathing heavily—and then to me standing behind him.

Jane gently coaxed him, suggesting it would be best if he went to a private room to rest for a while. He, who until that moment seemed entirely focused on restraining his own outburst, slowly turned to look at me.

Then, without a word, he reached out and took my hand. Unsure of what to say, I simply squeezed the hand he had offered first.

Jane, after asking Conner—who had returned—to handle the situation in the hall, led him and me into a room further down the corridor. It was a small reception room furnished with a comfortable sofa and a table for tea.

He and Jane sat side by side on the three-seater sofa, and as Jane suggested, I took a seat on the armchair opposite them. He tried not to let go of my hand, but Jane persuaded him, saying it was better to do so for now.

"Ihyeon is in the same room, right in front of you. It's fine. It's not dangerous. It's fine."

She offered him whiskey, without ice, and a cigarette. I worried if offering alcohol to someone in an agitated state was appropriate, but by the time he finished one glass of whiskey and one cigarette, his eyes had almost returned to normal.

He let out a long sigh, his shoulders slumping, and shook his head before speaking.

"I apologize. Causing such a commotion in Jane's house..."

"I heard everything. What was said in my house is far less forgivable than the commotion caused within it, so don't apologize."

Pouring hot water from the electric kettle at the makeshift bar set up in one corner into a cup, she spoke resolutely.

"Even without hearing an explanation, I know perfectly well you wouldn't have done that without a reason."

Adding that, she patted his back a couple of times before looking back and forth between him and me with a cautious gaze.

"Ihyeon, he's an Omega you're involved with, right?"

"......"

Although she was tentative, she was asking with conviction.

Instead of answering, he raised his head and looked at me. It was a gaze whose meaning was hard to decipher. It seemed like a simple stare devoid of intent, yet it also felt like a profound appeal meant to convey something complex.

"Weren't you reacting out of a protective instinct for the Omega you're involved with?"

If that weren't the case, there was no way he, who possessed such strong self-control, would try to resolve the situation through violence, even after being insulted by someone so far beneath him. She seemed utterly convinced of this.

"......It isn't?"

"......"

Doubt crept into her certainty.

He continued to gaze blankly at me for a long moment without answering. His vacant stare, as if he had lost everything and all will to resist, seemed to urge me to answer in his stead—whether I was an Omega, a Beta, or something else entirely.

In Hong Kong, after the first time, after he had knotted inside me, he had frantically tried to clean me, apologizing over and over as if he had lost all composure. The look in his eyes back then overlapped with the one I saw now. A clear, unmistakable sorrow—so deep that for a fleeting moment it stripped that large, solid man down to something fragile, almost boyish—seemed to lay bare the very depths of his soul.

And yet, even that depth was transparent. It wasn't that there was nothing there. It was simply too transparent to grasp.

As if his long stare had been pointless, he withdrew his gaze without a hint of hesitation. Leaning back with a slight hunch, he stared down at his hands as though they belonged to someone else, then let out a short, quiet laugh.

"No. He's a Beta."

A look of confusion crossed Jane's face.

"Really? I made a big mistake... Your reaction just now... it was exactly that sort of sign. I'm sorry, Ihyeon. I jumped to conclusions."

"It's nothing. Please, really... don't worry about it."

Since her assumption wasn't driven by ill intent—unlike the blond man's had been—Jane didn't need to apologize. Just as I unconsciously treated everyone as a Beta, she had simply judged me to be an Omega based on the standards of her own experience. When I repeatedly assured her it was fine, she offered a smile that seemed slightly relieved.

"He is... someone precious to me. That much is true."

"......"

Jane and I both turned our attention to him.

He had always shown me affection generously. But this was the first time he had so clearly defined my significance in front of others.

Pretending not to notice our gazes, he lifted his glass and finished the little whiskey remaining inside.

"Is that so?"

Jane's face brightened. She looked thrilled and pleased, as if she were meeting her son's first girlfriend. However, she didn't launch into the standard questions that seem to follow couples around—how long they'd been dating, how the relationship started, who confessed first, and so on.

Unsure how to react to Jane, who sent me a slightly mischievous smile with her eyes sparkling, I awkwardly averted my gaze and let out a long, silent breath.

"A lot of people got a good impression of you today. Conner and I will support you no matter what you decide. Don't worry about what happened just now. If you've been navigating the art scene, there have been far more times when things like that didn't come to light."

They're not people you should be concerned about, she added, as if encouraging him, tightly gripping and releasing his wrist once. By now, they've probably figured out who you are and are tearing their hair out on their side.

"It wouldn't be so bad for him to experience some suffering himself when he meets a different kind of power, considering he's spent his life enjoying wielding his meager influence to torment others."

He said he was only sorry for troubling the people who had gathered, Jane, Conner... and me, and that he wasn't concerned about the blond man. Jane smiled, nodded, and then rose from her seat.

"You two should rest a little longer before coming out."

Even after she left, we remained silent for a while. He stared down at his empty glass, and I held the cup of warm water Jane had given me, feeling its heat, both of us focused on our own thoughts, hoping it would help us calm down.

Well, what thoughts? I was concentrating all my awareness on the person sitting across from me. The throb of the party music, continuing despite the minor disturbance, faintly pulsed through the walls.

It was he who broke the silence. Tap, tap—he patted the seat beside him. But his eyes, fixed on me, showed uncertainty about whether I would grant his request.

I glanced back at the door she had exited, hesitated, and then got up to move to the seat next to him. He just stared at me—with eyes that desperately wanted to touch me, but couldn't rush it because he didn't know how I would feel.

He seemed to be searching for words, aimlessly swirling the empty glass, now devoid of anything to drink, in his hand.

"Am I scary?"

It was a foolish question. I shook my head immediately, without a pause.

"You might not believe me, but... that was the first time I've ever hit anyone."

"......"

"I did learn a few martial arts for self-defense from a very young age, but that's ultimately a last-resort defensive measure... You can't resort to violence every time someone gets on your nerves. I also studied, in parallel, the dangers of physical force and the value of the mind and reason required to control it. Well... after witnessing this scene, I suppose you wouldn't trust that, but...."

With a self-deprecating, wry smile, he dropped his gaze back to the glass in his hand. Seeing him so uncertain in front of me was strange, yet it left a bad feeling in my chest.

There was still enough space between us for a child to sit. I dragged myself across the plush cushion, halving that distance, and moved closer to him. I lightly stroked the skin on his arm, revealed beneath the rolled-up shirt sleeve, tracing up and down as if tickling it, before moving down toward his wrist.

He kept his gaze fixed on me, as if watching the most peculiar movement. In response to my action, he set down his glass and offered me his hand. Slowly, I placed my palm over his large, warm one.

"I believe you."

A faint sense of relief flickered in his blue eyes. His gaze was earnest, like someone who had found a sliver of hope in despair. Was this enough to make him so uncertain of himself around me? I felt sorry for him, as if he were judging himself with more weight than necessary.

"Please don't be afraid... I won't do it again...."

He added, his voice strained with anguish, Don't despise me.

Watching him, afraid that I might distance myself from him for some reason, I remembered how it was when we had first met. Back then, I meant nothing to him. I was just a temporary part-timer who would help out for a while and then leave. And he had even been wary of me to protect the precious Phantom family members he cherished.

Now I understood. He wasn't the type of person to offer unconditional kindness to just anyone. He prioritized the people precious to him and focused only on them. Even with those cherished people, he wasn't someone who revealed and shared everything about himself. So, to an outsider, he might not seem like a very good person.

I too, for that reason, initially felt a barrier and was disappointed, but now... precisely because he is that kind of person, I was monopolizing his affection, which was entirely focused on me.

It was an interesting thing. The same characteristic in a person first became a source of difficulty, and then became a quality one hoped would never change. Now that I had entered the world beyond the wall he'd built—a wall that had once disappointed me and fueled an uncharacteristic defiance—I found myself relieved that he wasn't kind to everyone. I couldn't help but scoff at my own shallowness.

I shook my head and laced my fingers through his hand, which was resting near mine.

"I'm not scared. Everyone else said it was a situation that warranted it. It's natural to be angry. And—thank you for being angry. To be honest, I was... very angry too."

"......"

"I'm not trying to endorse violence, but... you can't always make perfectly rational and balanced judgments in every situation. Because we're human...."

A look of greater relief settled in his eyes than before.

"I didn't come all this way just to hear garbage like that.... I'm sorry."

He scowled, recalling the words the blond man had spoken.

"That's... not something Awi needs to apologize for, so please don't say that."

Unable to hide his joy at being called Awi, he showed a faint, hazy smile. It seemed that through the address "Awi," he confirmed that I truly had no intention of pushing him away because of this incident and finally fully relaxed.

He met my eyes, raised our clasped hands, and kissed the back of my hand. Then, he kissed each knuckle of my fingers as they curved toward the back of his own hand. It was a kiss as if he had obtained something so precious that he dared not grasp it tightly.

"I'm glad you couldn't smell that stench."

In the voice that spoke those words, relief mingled with a cool displeasure.

I hadn't noticed, of course, but the blond man had likely exposed his pheromones toward me. If he had mistaken me for an Omega and tried to sexually disrupt and seduce me with his pheromones... then it would have been more understandable that Awi couldn't control himself and expressed his anger to that extent. After all, hardly anyone could remain composed while witnessing someone seduce or insult the person they like in such a vulgar manner right before their eyes.

The man I met at The Face Gallery party in Hong Kong—who, now that I think about it, also had striking blond hair. Even when that man released his pheromones toward me, he had acted roughly. But not to the extent of completely breaking the bounds of restraint the way he was now.

Staring at his thick lashes as he kept his lips pressed against my middle finger with his eyes lowered, a sudden curiosity arose. I had actually been preoccupied with it ever since Jane mentioned "protective instinct toward an Omega one is currently involved with." I hesitated, worried I might seem nosy, but my curiosity outweighed that concern.

"When an Omega becomes your lover, do you become... like a different person—willing to go through fire and water for that person?"

"......"

Without lifting his lips from my finger, he looked up at me. He moved his eyes, carefully scrutinizing every feature of my face for a moment before shaking his head decisively, as if reaching a conclusion.

"It's not like that. If the person in question is you, it has nothing to do with that kind of instinct. I just can't stand by and watch a threat to your happiness and safety—not because of some mere instinct... not because you are an Omega... but because it's you."

His last words sounded a little suggestive. Depending on how one interpreted them, it seemed like he was trying to appeal to the genuine feeling underlying his recent actions—that it wasn't a "protective instinct" triggered by me being an Omega, but rather his "affection" for me.

If that were the case, it was unnecessary persuasion for me, a Beta, but ultimately, it was all a matter of interpretation. Although his answer strayed slightly from the core of my question, I didn't want to be persistent. In the end, it was just an idea born out of childish and trivial jealousy. An unproductive, fleeting sentiment focused on hypotheticals about a situation that hadn't even occurred, directed at a nonexistent, imaginary person.

Silence settled between us again. However, it was a silence with much less tension than the one that had followed Jane's departure from the room.

He lowered his gaze, gently biting and releasing his lower lip, as if he had something to say but was hesitating.

"And. Why would you say something like that?"

Although he seemed to be trying not to show it, his voice was petulant, expressing disappointment and dissatisfaction.

"What...?"

"Things like someone else becoming my partner. Even just imagining it for a moment..."

Seeing him pout over such a trivial thing was endearing, and only then did my own tension ease, bringing a laugh to my lips. It felt like I'd landed a light, unexpected punch on him—a pleasant one.

In the past, I never would have imagined that he would lose his composure over something so small in a relationship.

Though I couldn't speak for him, it was precisely in moments like these that I truly felt like I was actually "dating" him.

It was in these moments—when, despite slight differences in degree like all other couples, we felt slighted by petty things or demanded more delicate affection—that I understood the meaning of being in a relationship. Even someone who was generous, easygoing, and considered "cool" by others could become a bit unruly when facing one specific person, breaking down their own solid habits and revealing gaps and imbalances.

He leaned his large frame down, burying his lips against the nape of my neck as he hid his face.

Don't laugh, he said, complaining that I was trying to gloss it over with laughter while he was speaking seriously, rubbing his lips against my neck like a child throwing a tantrum, and when I still didn't stop laughing, he eventually bit me as if annoyed.

I held back my laughter and lowered my head to look down at him, then stroked his cheek. He reached out his left hand—the one not laced with mine—and stroked my right arm.

"Just a little longer. Is that okay?"

In response to his plea, which sounded heartbreakingly cautious, I silently wrapped my arms around his waist and pressed my lips against his eyelids. He straightened up to face me. He cupped my face with both hands, gently stroking my cheeks with his thumbs. While my eyes were open, the inside of his thumb lightly swept over my eyelashes. As the featherlight tickle made me smile, our lips met.

His soft yet dry lips changed angles, slowly enveloping mine, pressing down firmly, and tracing them with his tongue. His large hand moved from my cheek to my ear, pressing his palm flat against my skin, shutting out all the sounds of the world.

Being enveloped in a world filled only with the sound of flowing air—as if submerged deep underwater—was truly wonderful, feeling only his body heat, his lips, and his scent.

Instead of aggressively pushing in to claim and overwhelm me, he used a slow kiss that gently rubbed against my lips, mingling our tongues, gradually igniting a heat deep within my body—until finally, a sweet breath escaped.

Fearing that continuing the kiss here would be dangerous, I gently pushed against his chest and lowered my head. His solid chest, where my palm rested, was rapidly swelling and receding with rising excitement. My entire body, saturated with his scent, ached as if I had caught the flu—not just my exposed skin, but deep inside as well.

The truth was, we hadn't been able to have proper sex since a few days before coming to Chicago. He had been extremely busy. The only time we'd had sex in the last five days was the night two days before departure, when neither of us could hold back any longer, and we cut down a session that had been lasting for hours to a quick thirty minutes. Even then, there wasn't time for knotting.

The new realization I came to during those thirty minutes of sex in the bathroom shower was that I could no longer be satisfied by such limited encounters.

Even without the knotting, even though he had definitely entered me, rubbed over the sensitive place inside me, and made me climax, I was still tormented by a heat that wouldn't subside. Because he had always approached me with burning eyes and satisfied me to the point of overflowing before I could even consciously recognize my desire, I hadn't realized how accustomed I had become to the pleasure sex provided.

I even held a certain belief that he simply had an unusually strong libido, and that my body's reactions were nothing more than a natural response to being near someone I desired and who gave off that particular energy.

But that might have been true up to a certain point in the past—it wasn't anymore. Even after coming once, the thirst to have him again was so strong that after he left to finish his remaining office work, I was shocked to find myself touching my own body, twisting my waist, and putting my hand down low, searching for him.

Because of that, frankly, I was sexually frustrated. Even just being surrounded by his scent in the quiet space and getting lost in a kiss with him made me feel the immediate urge to rush forward, rip off his shirt, and press my bare skin against his. Trying to stop at just kissing felt—and this is a strange comparison—as difficult as holding back a pee midstream.

Although he pulled away from me, he kept holding both my arms, breathing out with a look in his eyes that clearly showed he wanted more. Feeling like I shouldn't steer the atmosphere in that direction, I cleared my throat a couple of times and changed the subject.

"It seemed like... Yuni was really shocked."

"......"

"I think perhaps more than anything else... she was flustered from learning too many things at once. I'm not sure if I should say this, but... you'll talk things through, right?"

Glancing at him and asking cautiously, he slid his hand resting on my upper arm down and gripped my wrist.

"I will."

Then he bowed his head deeply and kissed me once more.

"I feel like I'm dying right now."

As he pulled his lips away, whispering in a voice thick with pain, I felt like I might die too. Just hearing that voice—saturated with desire for me—made my body tremble. I felt a shameful sense of lust, almost embarrassing in its unfamiliar intensity, and instinctively clutched at my chest. It felt less like healthy desire and more like the avarice of a libertine, so I couldn't bring myself to be completely honest about it.

"I'll go out first, so stay here for five—no, ten more minutes before you come out."

"......"

"Seo Ihyeon's face right now..."

I understood what he meant and didn't ask. He stood up first, offering an awkward smile.

Only after slowly finishing the glass of water, which had gone completely cold, did I leave the room. Despite the commotion, the party was still in full swing. It almost seemed as if the uninvited guest's departure had only heightened the excitement. He appeared to be surrounded by people, offering apologies. Instead of approaching his circle, I decided to look for Yuni.

Beyond the terrace windows, which resembled a glass conservatory, Yuni was talking with Reed poolside. Although they followed each other on social media, this was their first time meeting in person today, and judging by their expressions, it seemed like they were having a real conversation, not just light small talk. It seemed best not to interrupt.

I stopped awkwardly on the terrace between the hall and the pool, and when I turned back, he had already returned to his usual pleasant and relaxed demeanor from before the commotion, mingling with the crowd.

Even though he wasn't the type to actively take the lead or talk much, he always seemed to be the center of any group. A man standing diagonally across from him was telling some story accompanied by grand gestures. People laughed lightly, and when he smiled, everyone's laughter instantly amplified. Standing far away from the group, that dynamic was even clearer to see.

It reminded me of the first VIP opening party I attended as temporary staff, shortly after we first met. I was stationed at the information desk with Juhan then, watching him surrounded by people, laughing. I tried hard to imagine the desperation beneath the surface—the grim determination of someone paddling furiously under the water, even though it looked like he effortlessly obtained everything.

I wanted some fresh air, but I didn't want to catch anyone's eye and interrupt Yuni and Reed. I moved further inside the terrace, into the shadows cast by a lush, leafy garden tree where the light didn't reach, and quietly sat down on a metal chair.

From there, I could see his face even better than from where I had been standing moments before. I was watching him burst into laughter in response to someone's joke when I realized I was mirroring his laughter. Once I became aware of it, my smile froze awkwardly.

Since the first VIP opening, many things had changed. He, who once seemed like someone from another world, had become close—almost like a second self watching me from outside my body. But now, watching him across a pane of glass in Chicago, a city on another continent I'd reached after a thirteen-hour flight from Seoul, I felt detached, like a viewer watching a TV character, moved by events that didn't truly concern me.

The heat left by our kiss moments ago already felt like a distant past, so I touched my lips. I pinched them as hard as he always did, painfully, but there was no pleasure in it this time.

The Chicago moon, shrouded in thick fog as seen from the terrace shadows, was blurred and looked like a mirror incapable of reflecting anything.

· · · · ·

The party lasted until 2:00 a.m. Most guests left between midnight and one o'clock, but the final group, including us, was seen off by Jane and Conner and scattered into the Chicago night in their respective sedans around 2:00 a.m.

After enthusiastically greeting people as if they were old friends, he got into the car, immediately ran his fingers through his hair to muss it up, and put a cigarette in his mouth. When he, in the front passenger seat, rolled down the window, the cold, humid night air brushed against my face. It felt refreshing.

"About the New York branch. Don't you have anything to tell me?"

Yuni, sitting right behind the driver, couldn't wait any longer and started the conversation first.

"You know it's something I've been thinking about for a long time. Why act so surprised, as if you're hearing it for the first time?"

He answered, exhaling a long stream of smoke toward the window. His voice was heavy and raspy from exhaustion.

"You mentioned someday opening an overseas branch—casually, like a dream you hoped to achieve someday in the distant future—over drinks, over lunch, over coffee. But then you suddenly tell me that dream has become a reality without my even knowing, and you have to go to New York right away... How can I not be surprised?"

Her tone wasn't accusatory or rushed. It seemed Yuni was doing her best to remain as unemotional as possible. Her arms were crossed, her hands gripping her own arms tightly.

"Between the Chicago exhibition and preparing for the second half of the year's joint exhibition, the entire gallery was hectic. I knew bringing up the New York branch then would only upset you, so I deliberately kept quiet. I intended to talk about it once we were back in Seoul. I apologize that you found out this way... Yuni."

He turned his body to meet Yuni's eyes.

"Let's not read too much into the timing of when I brought it up. Okay?"

I couldn't see his face head-on from where I was, but just by the rough look of his profile, I knew the day had not been easy for him.

But that was probably true for Yuni as well. I didn't know if she had heard about the commotion involving the blond man, but without trying to objectively compare degrees of severity—thinking that tonight couldn't have been entirely pleasant for him, for Yuni, and for me—I felt a pang of regret for the unavoidable chill in the atmosphere.

"Does Manager Han know?"

Yuni asked. He turned back to face forward and took a drag from his cigarette.

"She is opposing it, saying it's too soon. If I go back and talk about the results we achieved this time, her response will change. I'll persuade her one way or another."

"Why the sudden rush?"

"......"

She waited a moment for an opening, but she couldn't get an answer to that question.

"First, you suddenly agree to an interview, and then you throw a party on an excessive scale, even dipping into your personal funds... I thought something was strange. You've never used your personal money for business matters before."

Yuni paused briefly, let out a long, deep breath—haah—and ran her fingers through her hair. The distance from Old Town to the hotel wasn't far. Although the entire city was still shrouded in fog, I could see the destination drawing nearer at the end of the straight road stretching out before us.

"You covered all the expenses—including flights and accommodations—for the representatives from the major New York galleries who were invited, didn't you?"

He rested his right arm on the window frame and pressed his fingers to his temple. Even from the back seat, his inhale as he drew on his cigarette sounded deep.

"It's not that I consciously tried to keep my personal funds and Phantom's funds strictly separate; it's just that I never felt the need to invest it before."

"I've known you for years, Director. Do you really think I'd believe that?"

"......"

He leaned back in his seat and stubbed out his cigarette in the car's ashtray.

"I always knew you weren't from an ordinary family. But... I also know you haven't used your background once since Phantom opened. So why the sudden, massive desire for a branch? Enough to reveal the family background you've kept hidden all this time?"

Yuni's voice sounded more confused than accusatory. His behavior today was baffling even to me, so I could only imagine how she felt after years by his side. It didn't take much imagination to picture it.

Even after the smoke had completely cleared, he still didn't roll up the window, replying in a dry voice.

"I made the decision purely from a business perspective. Shushu's exhibition is a great opportunity, and there's no better publicity than opening the branch while giving Seo Ihyeon's debut show an explosive launch. That's all there is to it. Once I decided, I simply changed course and moved boldly accordingly."

If that was the answer I would receive from him when asking the same question Yuni asked, I probably wouldn't be able to accept it fully.

The complex feelings toward his parents, the skepticism he'd felt among people who linked his every move to his background—it didn't just stop at dissatisfaction with a life vaguely lumped together as "dark"; it seemed to have become part of his foundational beliefs or identity.

His choice not to reveal his background, nor to use it to benefit his business, could not have been meaningless. That was the impression I got from hearing him talk about his family. To borrow the words of Yuni and Juhan from Hong Kong, their thoughts weren't much different either.

Soon, the hotel's outline became clear through the mist. Yuni rubbed her exposed arms and spoke.

"After returning from Hong Kong, you started working from the UN Village villa... and you've been pushing things related to the New York branch from there, right?"

Even Yuni's voice sounded quite weary now. It seemed she had no intention of pressing him further for an answer, at least not here.

"Juhan was right. I can't believe you were really plotting something over there."

Thinking back to a joke Juhan had made one day when the four of them were eating hamburgers on the roof of his house—back when summer was still in full swing—she let out a belated, deflating laugh.

The car stopped in front of the hotel's main entrance. In the dry silence, she was the first to get out.

Glancing at his face as they walked toward the elevator lobby, she saw that he barely reacted to her confusion. He seemed consumed by some other issue, something bigger, though she didn't know what.

It was just the three of us in the elevator at two in the morning.

Yuni, who had to get off on the twelfth floor before us, stood by the door, fiddling with her clutch, and said,

"I know the Director is the owner of Phantom, and that he technically doesn't have an obligation to explain every decision about Phantom to us as they happen. That goes doubly for his private life or family matters. And yet... finding out like this... I can't help but feel disappointed. I'm sorry. No matter how much I pretend, I'm still just a kid."

He stood leaning against the wall opposite the door, looking at Yuni's retreating back and hesitating to speak. He merely swept back his hair and let out a long sigh. The elevator was just moving from the seventh floor to the eighth.

Yuni turned halfway around to face me.

"Did you... know?"

Her gaze held a suspicion that I might have known, but only halfway. Put another way, she wasn't entirely sure.

"Ah... well..."

"Seo Ihyeon only heard about the New York branch this afternoon as well."

While I was debating what the wisest answer would be, he answered for me. Depending on how one heard it, it might sound like he was trying to shield me.

"So, you're saying you already knew that the Director is Nick Liu and Suki Kim's son?"

It was a sharp question from Yuni. That didn't mean it was a malicious question—not like waiting for an opening and immediately plunging a knife in.

"......"

He didn't deny it, and Yuni let out a sigh. Then she reached out and casually placed her hand on my shoulder.

"I wasn't asking because he told you but hid it from us. I'm genuinely curious, so don't make that face."

The doors opened with the calm, automated announcement that we had arrived on the twelfth floor. Yuni offered a strained smile that was worse than no smile at all, then squeezed my shoulder once before her tired gaze fixed on him.

"Thank you for all your hard work today. I'll see you in the lobby tomorrow at ten."

Before he could even finish offering his thanks to Yuni, the door shut.

The less-than-one-minute ride from the twelfth to the sixteenth floor felt suffocating, as if the silence was soundlessly sucking all the air out of the space.

"It looks like we won't be able to spend Sunday together."

Perhaps trying to change the mood, he brought up a completely different topic as we stepped out of the elevator and draped an arm over my shoulder. I could sense a deep exhaustion radiating from him as he pulled my head close and kissed my temple.

Toward the end of the party, he had received an invitation to a Sunday lunch gathering with several key figures, including Chloe Kent. The conversation he'd had with Kent seemed to be developing in a positive direction. Because of that, our lunch plans had to be canceled.

Those were not the things I wanted to ask him or hear from him right now, but it didn't seem like the right time.

"Still, we can spend the evening together..."

I murmured, looping my arm awkwardly around his waist as he opened the front door to the room with the key card. Click. As he pushed the right-hand door of the entryway inward, he gave me a brief smile, as if grateful for my understanding.

In the small hall just past the entrance, where the path split toward his room, the master bedroom, the living room, and my room, he didn't let go of me, instead pulling me straight toward his bedroom.

"Um..."

As I hesitated and tried to pull my arm back, he stopped walking and looked back.

"Should we sleep separately tonight?"

"..."

"It's quite late now... and you have to head out in the morning for the official opening tomorrow."

For a moment, his eyes looked like the screen of a phone that had been dragged across asphalt, leaving a loud, deep scratch.

He let go of my hand and his fingertips absently traced the edge of the decorative cabinet holding the flower vase, the lamp, and the telephone. It was as if he were checking whether everything had been properly cleaned.

"Are you genuinely worried about me? Or are you indirectly expressing that you want to sleep separately?"

"..."

I knew he regretted his words even before he finished speaking them. He clamped his mouth shut, let out a heavy breath through his nose, and ran a hand over his face as if trying to smooth it out.

"I'm sorry. That last comment was just a stupid outburst. I'm sorry... I think I'm just on edge because so much happened today... So, let's just sleep separately tonight, as you suggested."

Just like Yuni, he also forced a smile. Thank you for enduring such a hard day well. Sleep well. He gave me a careful goodnight kiss, but I couldn't sleep properly. He was probably the same. If I'd known it would be like this, I should have just slept together, tracing each other's bare skin and body heat to soothe the fatigue and anxiety. I tossed and turned for a long time, regretting it.

· · · · ·

When they had researched beforehand in Seoul, they were told that it rains in Chicago about once every four days in September. We encountered rain on the morning of the second day.

The scenery—a mix of low-hanging slate-gray clouds and fog swirling among Chicago's grand, distinctive architecture—possessed enough atmosphere to make one want to stroll the streets all day with an umbrella hooked over one shoulder, but it inevitably caused disruptions to the event schedule.

The photo wall set up at the gallery entrance became useless, so the schedule was changed to allow for a brief photo session during the Q&A session with the artist, which was set up inside instead.

The gallery interior and exterior were chaotic for a time as staff led the considerable number of people indoors.

Because today was the official opening day of the exhibition, the gallery and even the surrounding area were bustling, packed with various Chicago media outlets, administrators of art-focused social media and blogs, and general visitors alike.

I grabbed a canned drink provided by the gallery and was swept along by the crowd as I made my way to the second floor, finally finding a spot near the relatively quieter railing, not far from the stairs.

Shushu was standing behind the desk set up in the center of the temporary exhibition hall, and I could easily spot him and Yuni waiting a half-step behind him, as if assisting him. Although Shushu and Yuni kept disappearing behind people, even here—where the average height is a bit taller than in Seoul—his face rose more than a hand's span above everyone else's heads.

The attention garnered by the beautiful Golden Omega photographer—who captured delicate yet intense photographs after flying in from an Eastern city—was immense even in Chicago. There was also a significant number of teenage and twenty-something visitors requesting selfies and autographs with Shushu.

Since this was Shushu's first solo exhibition in America, I felt it was proper etiquette to visit the gallery and offer my congratulations when it opened. However, seeing him surrounded by people, sweating, and forcing an awkward smile, I figured adding my congratulations to the mix might actually be more of a hindrance than a help.

When he'd left for the gallery about an hour before me, he'd said, half-teasingly, that I'd have to see him with Shushu—was I really okay with that, he was worried I might jump into his arms out of jealousy and cover him with kisses, turning the gallery into chaos... but now, it didn't bother me at all, making my previous reluctance to send him to Shushu about three weeks ago seem pointless. It wasn't because I didn't trust him back then that I was jealous anyway...

I had been worried that our parting the night before might create an awkward atmosphere when we met, but thankfully, he seemed to have recovered his composure when I saw him in the living room this morning.

Although it was unofficial, he had even prepared a bouquet—no, a flower basket—saying it was the day my work would first be revealed to the world. It was a lush, beautiful basket, so abundant that lifting it with both arms would obscure my view. It was so splendid and extravagant it could be called a small garden in itself.

When I came out into the living room, he was almost ready to leave. He apologized once more, referencing last night's events. Then, he mentioned he had made a reservation at a wonderful place for dinner, and we agreed to meet in the hotel room around five, as he thought he could be back by then.

"It won't be a romantic date, though, since Baek Yuni has to come with us."

Even though he'd had no intention of going anywhere without Yuni from the start, he said it as if complaining, and I was the first to kiss his cheek. Of course, it developed into a deeper kiss too.

As I stood in the living room, thinking about the morning kiss we shared amidst the fragrance of flowers, I froze for a moment, feeling as if I had just made eye contact with him in the present. I wondered if it was a delusion—but he made a playful, pained face as if he was dying. His gaze was definitely directed at me.

Letting out a small laugh, I pointed downward with my index finger to indicate I'd go down to the first floor. He nodded and gave me an okay sign.

The stairs were already quite crowded with newly arriving visitors. Still, the line going down was better off than the one going up. Among the flow of people ascending to the upper floors, a group that looked like teenagers was chattering excitedly about Shushu's appearance.

Someone else was talking about the tall man standing next to Shushu, noting his rare combination of "black hair and eyes like blue diamonds." Then another person mentioned a famous Hollywood actor from England, saying he resembled him. "What? Are you kidding? That guy is way better-looking!"—the chic-looking girl who had compared his eyes to blue diamonds refuted firmly, linking her arm through another's.

I could understand why people were making such a fuss. Although Shushu was the main attraction today, he was the kind of person who couldn't blend into the background and hide his presence no matter what. If I let myself get provoked by every bit of curiosity, admiration, or excitement people showed just by looking at his looks, my nerves wouldn't last.

Just as I finally managed to descend the stairs, led by the gallery staff, my cell phone rang in my pocket. It was Inwu. I slipped out of the procession heading toward the gallery exit and turned into the first-floor lobby before answering the call.

"Yes, hyung."

[...Hmm. What is it? Did Ihyeon always greet me like this?]

When he spoke after a brief pause, his voice sounded genuinely curious, so I laughed awkwardly. It was true that receiving a call from an acquaintance while abroad made me happier than usual.

[I called to congratulate you on the first exhibition. Are you busy?]

"No, I'm alone right now."

[How does it feel now that the first exhibition has started?]

"I was upstairs, and I just came down to see. Maybe because I haven't seen them hung up yet... I still don't really feel it."

[Hearing you talk, I guess you haven't received my bouquet yet.]

"Pardon?"

[I asked the hotel to prepare it so you could receive it before you left. I guess the timing didn't work out.]

I felt bad for him, who was clearly trying to hide his disappointment. I sat down on the bench next to the large areca palm and thanked him for his consideration. He just laughed, asking what I had to be thankful for when I hadn't even received it yet.

[Yesterday was the VIP opening, right? Did your painting sell?]

"Ah... no. The Director said this time he only wanted to check the exhibition's response..."

[He's not selling them?]

"No. Not this time."

I wondered if he even intended to sell them at all. I fiddled with the can of my drink while listening to him mutter like that to himself. A young couple, who looked like they were in their early twenties, walked past the bench toward the inner exhibition hall—the direction of the room where my painting was displayed. My heart fluttered for no real reason.

[How are you feeling? Is eating uncomfortable?]

"I'm much better. My appetite has almost fully returned, and thanks to the nutritional supplements you recommended, my condition is good too."

[Hmm... Looks like he still hasn't said anything.]

"Pardon?"

I could sense him pulling the corners of his mouth into a smile on the other end of the phone.

[I boasted a little—said who wouldn't get better with treatment from me.]

The call ended after he earnestly joked that while Chicago didn't really have any standout souvenirs, a Starbucks city tumbler would make for an obvious, yet good, travel gift.

I felt a slight easing of tension. Unlike my time with him, where I couldn't afford to relax because I still wanted to look good and was always aware of his gaze, talking with Inwu felt comfortable. The tension he created was a pleasant tightness, entirely different from discomfort, but I still needed moments where I could let my guard down.

I got up from the bench, slipping my phone into my pocket with a much lighter expression than I'd had before.

Unlike the second floor, which was crowded all the way to the stairs, the lower level was significantly quieter. Following the stylish typography on the wall that pointed toward the exhibition hall, I walked further inside. As I moved away from the noise of the entrance and the upper floor, the calm, slightly hazy lounge music playing inside began to register in my ears.

"......"

Turning the corner of the concrete wall, I felt my toes twitch inside my Converse sneakers the moment I saw the painting hanging under the soft, indirect lighting. Heat rushed to my face. I could feel the tops of my ears burning bright red.

It felt like walking into school one day and finding my diary plastered on the bulletin board, page by page. Or, it was closer to that awful feeling I sometimes get in dreams, where I'm standing naked among fully clothed people, watching another version of myself suffer the embarrassment.

That was my first impression.

The roughly twenty or so visitors seemed mostly like people just killing time, waiting for the upper floor to clear out a bit. But it didn't matter. I was a complete unknown, and I wasn't foolish enough not to know that simply getting this opportunity in my position was a huge stroke of luck and something to be grateful for.

Three paintings hung in a row, spaced apart from one another: Alienation, the nude portrait of Juhan which was temporarily titled Untitled because I hadn't settled on a final name yet, and one other piece I had completed after that.

The exhibition space was not as small as I had expected. The ten or so pieces were displayed with enough room between them so that their individual character wouldn't interfere with the others. I watched the people wandering in front of the paintings in their own ways, then walked over to the empty wall to the right of the entrance—where nothing was hung—and casually leaned my shoulder against it.

Although there were only a few visitors, most of them seemed more interested in the two newest pieces, while one man lingered unusually long in front of Alienation.

The man was an East Asian with long hair that brushed his shoulders, standing ramrod straight while leaning on a long umbrella in a plastic cover. Though I couldn't be certain just from a quick glance at his profile, he looked Korean. And even from that brief side view, I could tell the man possessed a remarkably neat and handsome appearance.

Even after navigating past two or three teenagers who had been giggling in front of Alienation—a work overflowing with bold defiance and playfulness compared to the two recent pieces—the man remained stopped for quite some time.

After that, the man moved back and forth between the three paintings, checking the captions several times. It was as if he needed to confirm that what he was seeing was indeed true.

Amidst the crowd who lingered in front of the paintings for perhaps ten seconds at most, moving along the path as if on a leisurely stroll, the man's behavior was impossible to ignore.

It was the first time I had encountered, in person, the meaning of a painting not as a means of self-expression, but as something viewers interpreted, felt, and accepted entirely according to their own will.

The initial shame began to fade. What was displayed there was no longer my own dirty secret.

It was fodder for light conversation among all the viewers present, including the long-haired man; it was an unremarkable part of daily life, like a streetlight or a shop window that one passes by; or perhaps it was the viewers' own secrets they were projecting onto the canvas.

The man finally began to walk away slowly.

He walked a few paces away from the painting, then turned back. As expected, the man was strikingly handsome. His eyes met mine as I leaned against the wall, and I offered a slight smile, adhering to the etiquette I'd learned from my English teacher, but the man ignored the greeting and left the exhibition hall with a stony expression.

The expression on his face was not the delighted look of someone who had just found a painting they loved. A pang of guilt struck me, sensing that his prolonged scrutiny of my work likely wasn't for a positive reason, but the pieces already hanging there existed independently of my touch now. Even if my painting made someone's face harden, there was nothing I could do about it anymore.

I leaned against the wall for about thirty minutes, observing the other visitors. As I watched the varied reactions of people viewing my work, I was strangely stimulated by a sudden urge to paint something.

This urge to create, which had always originated from within me, was now being provoked by an external reaction.

While I wanted to expose myself further to this intriguing, unfamiliar sensation, it was time to move on to stick to my schedule.

Before exiting the gallery, I turned back again, just like that man from earlier. The paintings—they had come from within me and were once a part of me, but now they existed separate from me, breathing and changing shape according to the perspectives of others who assigned them new meanings.

A couple who had walked past me while I was sitting on the bench earlier stopped in front of Alienation and were talking with serious expressions. I watched them a bit longer before leaving the gallery with a step that showed no lingering regret.

The second floor was still noisy as if a party was in full swing, but fortunately I was able to offer my congratulations to Shushu directly. In the midst of his busyness, he briefly left his spot and escorted me all the way to the gallery entrance.

"I tried not to do it unless necessary, worried you'd complain about being overprotected... But it's an unfamiliar city and it's raining—why don't you just move around by car?"

He held up an umbrella wide enough for two people without any trouble, tilting it more toward me, and his face was filled with concern.

But before I met him, I had lived perfectly fine—accepting the inconvenience of taking the bus under an umbrella on a rainy day and the discomfort of wet socks soaking through my sneakers as just a natural part of life. In fact, the rain had softened considerably, now just a light drizzle.

I couldn't help but laugh looking at his face, which looked as though I had just announced I was going to jump into a fire with nothing on.

"I'll just visit the two galleries we couldn't get to yesterday and head straight back to the hotel, and I'll message you immediately every time I make a move. You know I wouldn't do anything to make you worry."

He pulled his hand out of his pants pocket and lightly sighed as he adjusted the collar area of the jacket I was wearing. I felt his warm breath brush against my forehead.

"Generally, yes. It's just that every once in a while you do something unexpected that makes my heart jump."

Did I? I didn't think I had ever done anything that would warrant worry. When I looked up at him with a puzzled expression, he smiled as if admitting defeat and handed me the umbrella.

Afterward, I practically forced him—still looking tense and listing off all sorts of common-sense warnings—to go ahead of me first, and then I started walking down the rainy street.

It took over four hours to slowly visit the two galleries I hadn't been able to see yesterday, and then walk back to the hotel. Except for a brief fifteen-minute break for coffee and a muffin at a cafe near one of the galleries, I had been standing the entire time, so my legs felt heavy by the end.

In the elevator heading to the hotel room, I had to hold onto the rail and lean against a corner. Thinking about how long it had been since I'd felt this kind of physical exhaustion, I let out a vacant chuckle while looking at my reflection in the gleaming elevator doors.

It felt like ages ago that just a few months prior, it was my daily routine to sweat through T-shirts moving boxes almost every day. And now I was in Chicago, a city I'd never even thought about.

Although my body was tired, my mind was racing with all the images I wanted to paint. What he had said—that experience is an artist's treasure—was true. From the moment this morning when I faced my own work hanging in the gallery until I returned to the hotel, everything I saw, heard, and sensed was a sharp stimulus, pricking the skin of my senses like needles, drawing out vivid drops of red.

Though the images were scattered, not yet coalescing into a single concept, I wanted to capture them before they faded.

As soon as I reached the room, I tossed off my jacket and immediately began sketching. I recorded the desired images in brief croquis across several pages, adding short notes where necessary.

Time was short, so after intently finishing four or five pages of sketches, I quickly undressed and headed to the bathroom. When I came out after showering, he was already in my room.

He was standing at the table by the window, looking down at my drawing notebook, and he looked up toward me when he noticed I was there.

"When did you get here?"

Even without trying, the muscles in my face relaxed the moment I spotted him, and a smile threatened to break through. I firmly bit my lower lip and forced my steps to slow down as I approached him. He quickly scanned my entire body in a brief moment. I felt his gaze—fervent and hungry—tightly wrapping around my just-showered body.

"Oh... I'm sorry. It was open, so I took a quick look."

He apologized, suppressing the desire emanating from his eyes.

"It's fine."

I smiled and shook my head at him as he set down the page he was holding, looking apologetic. He lightly wrapped his arms around my waist, rubbing my wet hair between his fingers. It seemed that my saying it was okay for him to look at the sketches had made him happy.

I wanted to inhale a little more of his scent—deep, intense, yet never vulgar, carrying a kind of sinking weight—so I carefully buried my nose in the shoulder of his jacket. That particular scent was faint, almost imperceptible, but I loved every perfume he wore and every combination he used.

"Did the event go well?"

"Well, the event itself went fine, but..."

I looked up at his face as he trailed off. He narrowed his eyes, brushed my wet hair behind my ear, and spoke.

"When I asked Shushu to come to the lunch gathering tomorrow, he complained a lot... It's not always about business or anything like that—you can build rapport with people even informally. Even though he's improved from before, he remains stubbornly closed off."

Realizing he might have complained too long about something I didn't need to know, he stopped talking. Then he checked his wristwatch and softened his expression into a gentle smile.

"I want to take one more shower before we go out. Will you wait while I get ready?"

"I will."

After he returned to his room, I dried my hair first. I wasn't intentionally growing it out, but since the last time I got a haircut with him before coming to Chicago, it had only been trimmed, so the length was awkward—a little messy if I didn't tuck it behind my ears.

Not knowing how to style it with gel or wax, I was thinking I should probably cut it short once I got back to Seoul. Just as I loosened the tie of my robe to change clothes, the doorbell rang. I figured it must be Yuni, who had finished getting ready earlier than expected and come up ahead of time. I re-tied the sash around my waist and headed for the door.

"Who is it?"

"...Is Liu Weikun-ssi here?"

"......"

After a brief pause, the voice outside the door continued, and it wasn't Yuni.

Peering through the peephole to check the hallway, I saw a man lingering by the door. He didn't look like hotel staff, but since the person had come specifically asking for him by name, I couldn't pretend not to be home.

As soon as I grabbed the handle of the left door and pulled it open, I recognized the visitor instantly. It was the man who had been standing in front of my painting, Alienation, at the gallery that morning.

I couldn't help but widen my eyes at the strange coincidence, but he didn't seem to recognize me at all. The man, radiating an air of impatience, narrowed his brow and stared intently at my face.

"Are you Korean?"

When I answered yes, his suspicious gaze swept over me once more, taking in my shower robe. The man made no attempt to hide his intention to figure out exactly who I was.

"Where is the owner of this room? You can't just open the door like that. He's going to be furious."

His tone suggested he knew the man who owned the room better than I did—the one who had just opened the door for him.

"He's... taking a shower right now."

At my answer, the man shrugged as if the situation were absurd and clicked his tongue. Judging by his mutter—something like, What a thing to be doing in broad daylight—he must have assumed that the owner of the room and I had just been entangled in sex. Furthermore, he seemed to have concluded that I was merely the person he had brought up to his room for sex.

"I'll come in and wait. Is that alright?"

Though he asked for permission, the man didn't wait for an answer and stepped inside the room. However, I didn't have the right to let just anyone into his room. I subtly blocked his way and put on a troubled expression.

"First, could you please tell me who I should say is here...?"

The man glanced back at me, his lips twisting. He showed no intention of hiding or softening any emotion he felt toward me.

"Has Baek Yuni arrived already?"

It was his voice.

He pulled down the towel covering his head, looked out from the master bedroom toward the entrance hall, and then slowly stepped outside the door. With his expressionless face and gaze, it was difficult to read the feelings he had for the man.

"What is it?"

At his hostile reaction, the man shook his head and laughed.

"Is that all you have to say after all these years?"

"What is it?"

Barefoot, he walked up to the entrance and pulled my arm, drawing me behind him. Seeing the way he aggressively cornered the other man, it was clear this wasn't a welcome guest.

The man, who glanced back and forth between him and me—both of us clad only in bathrobes—soon looked straight at him as if that didn't matter, and spoke.

"I came because I have something to say."

"Since when did we have a relationship where I have to drop everything and listen just because you show up unannounced like this?"

"Shushu's work is selling well. It's opening day, and I saw almost everything was marked sold out. You're staying in the same hotel, aren't you?"

"And? Are you threatening me?"

The man scoffed, letting his gaze drop sideways. Then, he tapped the tile floor with the plastic-wrapped umbrella.

"Hyung, you're amazing. You really surprised me. You finally tracked down the artist behind Alienation, didn't you?"

"......"

He seemed like someone poking around everywhere, trying to find some hidden weakness the other might have. Yet, for someone targeting another's vulnerability, the man himself looked cornered.

Unsure how to handle the situation, he stared intently at the man's face with a complicated expression. He then glanced briefly over his left shoulder at me, before making a decision.

"Go wait in the study."

He had never used such a firm, commanding tone with me, nor with anyone else at Phantom.

Pointing to the door of the study visible right across—just beside the master bedroom, separated by the corner—he moved aside. Passing by me and glancing at me briefly with a light mix of contempt and curiosity, the man entered the study and closed the door.

After letting out a deep sigh that sounded as if it were drawn up from the very bottom of his lungs, he turned fully toward me. His face, etched with fatigue, managed a troubled smile.

"I know him from way back... He's an artist. I don't know why he came all the way to Chicago, but I think we need to hear him out first."

"......"

"As you can see... this isn't the kind of situation we can just brush off..."

"That's true..."

"Sigh... This really wasn't how I planned for things to go.... What am I supposed to do? Now I won't be able to keep my promise again. How about you and Yuni go by yourselves?"

Seeing my passive reaction, he seemed to think I was displeased with the situation. He gripped both of my shoulders, bent at the waist, and looked down at me, his face filled with apology as he gauged my mood. It was the expression of a man flustered because he had unintentionally canceled our date two times in a row.

However, I wasn't at all unhappy that the evening plans were canceled. While spending time together would certainly have been better, this situation wasn't his fault, and I had no intention of showing displeasure or resentment.

"If I stay here... will it bother you?"

"......"

He paused for a moment, perhaps surprised by my question, before quickly shaking his head several times.

"No, why would it bother me? Not at all. I was just worried you might be disappointed because the appointments kept getting canceled."

"It wasn't that I wanted to go out; it was that I wanted to be with you, Director. If it's okay, I'd just like to stay here. I'm also... worried about what's going on."

With the hand still holding my shoulder, he gently lifted my chin. My gaze, which had been fixed on his chest, met his eyes. I felt like he was about to see the pettiness hidden within my expression of "worry"—the desire not to leave him alone with another man.

"By any chance, in the past..."

"......"

His face, which had come close as if to kiss me, stopped. I shook my head and nudged the chest before me lightly. I felt unfamiliar with myself for trying to ask this question. Although I was aware we were dating, I still needed more time to adjust to myself acting like a lover.

"No, never mind. I'll explain everything clearly to Yuni. You should go inside now."

As I turned to leave, he grabbed my shoulder again, stopping me.

"Are you asking if I dated him before?"

"......"

"Well?"

Even if such a relationship had existed, I knew it was irrelevant to our current relationship. It wasn't that I didn't trust him. That's why—not wanting to show such an ugly side of myself—I didn't answer. I wanted to hide somewhere. I could feel my earlobes burning and heat rushing to my face.

"You can ask. You are someone who has the right to question me over something like that."

He kept trying to look at my face, gently shaking my shoulder. I pushed him away, raising my arm to cover my face.

"F-First, why don't you talk to him?"

His hand, which had been gripping my shoulder, slid down to my arm, and in the end, he uncovered my face. My reddened face was now exposed, but he didn't make fun of it. The face looking down at me was only serious.

"I'll tell you everything later..."

As soon as he finished speaking, he pulled me into a hug. While hugging wasn't unusual between us, I was a little surprised because this wasn't the timing I expected. Moreover, the strength tightening around my upper body felt as if he were trying to engrave me into his embrace.

Thinking about his journey since arriving in Chicago—where he hadn't had much time or mental space—I felt this hug implied more than just the current situation. I felt sorry that I hadn't embraced him first, sensing that he must have been going through a particularly hard time.

"I'll tell you everything."

I nodded, wrapping my arms around his broad back in response to his voice, which murmured the words as if emphasizing them one more time. After a moment's hesitation, I patted his back a couple of times, and he laughed as if he had unexpectedly received comfort from a child four or five years old.

He returned to the master bedroom to change clothes first, and I walked to my room to let Yuni know the situation over the phone.

I worried Yuni would be disappointed that our plans were canceled, but she actually looked relieved. She said she felt burdened by the need to feign a warm atmosphere when we both clearly felt awkward inside, so she was glad it had fallen through. Hearing that, I couldn't say anything else.

To distract myself from my preoccupation with the study, I took off my robe and changed clothes after finishing the call. I sat down at the table, intending to refine the sketches from earlier, but focusing was difficult.

Just as I was about to take a can of beer from the refrigerator in the small kitchen between the living room and my room, the doorbell rang again.

"Oh, Ihyeon... Awi, Director Liu, is he inside?"

This time it was Shushu. He was still wearing the outfit he had worn to the opening event at the gallery that morning.

"Yes... but he's talking to a guest right now."

He was probably just managing his connections because of the New York branch anyway. Shushu grumbled, clearly displeased, and pointed toward the inside of the door.

"May I wait in the living room?"

It seemed another headache had found him... but if it was Shushu, there was no reason not to let him in.

After leading him to the living room, I asked if he needed a drink. Shushu, who had requested coffee, stopped me as I headed to the kitchen and asked for a beer instead. I returned to the living room holding two bottles of beer.

"Thanks. Don't mind me; you should go rest in your room, Ihyeon."

"Not at all. I was just taking out a beer for myself right before you arrived."

"I'd be happy if you'd drink with me while I wait."

Shushu didn't refuse.

I took a seat on the matching sofa, separated from Shushu by a small table. Shushu was sitting on a single-seater velvet sofa adorned with light-blue silk cushions. From my seat, the right window offered a view of eastern Chicago, and straight ahead, the entire living room was visible at a glance. Besides where we were sitting, there were two more sofa sets in the living room, providing enough space and facilities for about twenty people to have a casual party.

"I enjoyed your work," he said.

"Ah... You must have been busy, yet you made time to see my work. Thank you."

"I only just found out today that the artist behind Alienation is you, Ihyeon."

"......"

"That bastard Awi—even though he's involved in the art world, he usually doesn't display many paintings in his home. But he always hung that specific piece in a prominent spot every time he moved."

Everyone who knew him well spoke unanimously about how special Alienation was to him. Hearing such things was certainly pleasant, but I hadn't expected Shushu to join in on those remarks.

"...Why?"

Shushu noticed my gaze, took his mouth off the beer bottle, and smiled. Realizing I must have been staring too intently, I quickly turned my head away and apologized.

"No, it's just... I was surprised you called him 'that bastard'..."

Shushu smiled again, as if he had expected my reaction. He then tilted the beer bottle again and playfully raised his eyebrows at me.

"When a piece isn't going well during the creative process, I say things much worse than that."

Shushu kept laughing as he looked at my face, which must have shown my disbelief.

"It was like Awi's little game—asking everyone visiting his home for the first time what they thought the theme of that painting was.

Even though he owns several famous pieces, he was particularly obsessed with that one painting... But to think that you, Ihyeon, are the artist behind Alienation, and that you have a past connection with Manager Han. I don't know how things get so tangled up. I haven't lived that long, but sometimes life is truly funny, isn't it?"

Shushu took a drink of beer, smiling wryly as if he, too, had once been a subject in life's unfolding comedy.

Life for him, who seemed so perpetually cheerful, must also have been a real-life situation unfolding in the wilderness, not a greenhouse. I suddenly felt a pang of guilt, wondering if I had, without realizing it, started viewing Shushu through my own preconceptions, even while knowing that what's seen isn't always the whole story.

"Is Awi treating you well?"

"......Pardon?"

The sudden question made beer get stuck in my throat, and I coughed ungracefully. At least I could blame my flushed face on choking.

Even as he apologized and asked if I was okay, Shushu smiled as if wondering why I was so surprised.

"Awi and I have been friends since kindergarten. You can tell just by the way he treats Ihyeon. Besides, that guy doesn't even seem to be trying to hide anything, anyway."

I knew that if he truly wanted to hide something, that son of a gun could fool even God about who he was dating. Hearing Shushu add that, I nervously fiddled with the beer bottle.

"I asked if he treats you well, but in your case, Seo Ihyeon, it seems like he'd be head over heels for you. Right?"

Urging me to talk, Shushu seemed somewhat amused by my reaction. The more he did, the more my face burned. I wasn't even completely accustomed to the relationship between just the two of us yet; talking about it in front of others was still too high a hurdle for me.

As I struggled to steer the conversation elsewhere, I heard the sound of the study door opening down the hallway connected to the living room. It seemed their conversation was over. Thinking this was a stroke of luck, I let out a breath of relief, set the beer bottle on the table, and stood up.

"......Seon-yu?"

The hallway connecting the living room to the study and the master bedroom wasn't long. Furthermore, from where Shushu and I were sitting, we had a clear view into the hallway. Shushu, rising slowly from the sofa as if he had seen a ghost, called out—but it wasn't him he was addressing. Shushu's brow furrowed, as if doubting his own eyes.

"H-Hyung..."

Before that, the man emerging from the study reacted to Shushu's voice, and the person following him out noticed the situation, scowled, and bit down hard on his lower lip. His expression was one of defeat. However, Shushu's eyes were fixed only on that man.

"Why are... you... here..."

"Oh... Well, I'm looking into opening a solo exhibition in Seoul this time, and since someone at a gallery here said they knew a good place, I came specifically, and... it's Kun hyung."

The man walked hesitantly down the hallway to the entrance of the living room, offered an awkward smile, and rubbed the back of his neck. Then, with a complicated look in his eyes, he cautiously addressed Shushu.

"Have you been well? Your work... it's gotten even better."

"......"

"How's your ankle...?"

"That was ages ago."

Shushu gave a bitter smile and looked down at the beer bottle in his hand.

The moment I heard about the ankle, a page unfolded in my memory. The search results from the portal site that told me about Shushu's past, how he had to give up dancing due to consecutive ankle injuries and complications from surgical site infections.

As I watched their gazes cautiously meet in the air—as if even eye contact without physical substance were weapons capable of inflicting mortal wounds—I suddenly thought that perhaps the man's past partner wasn't him, but Shushu.

If the tension swirling between him and the man at the entrance was close to hostility, the atmosphere between Shushu and the man now was much more complex and strange. Rather, he—standing behind the man with his arms crossed—seemed like a third party who had taken a step back from the situation. Though his expression was quite severe...

"What are you going to do? Are you going to have tea while catching up on how you've been?"

He asked, looking at Shushu over the man's shoulder. His tone and expression carried a subtle pressure, implying that there was no need for them to speak to each other this way.

But Shushu couldn't answer right away, only parting his lips repeatedly. The man, too, just bit his lower lip while looking at Shushu, unable to get any words out. As the two of them stood unable to approach and close the distance or turn away, he stepped in instead.

"Hong Seon-yu, do you have anything else to do here?"

Urged with the nuance of think carefully about whether he had any more business, the man turned to look at him. And when he looked back at Shushu standing in front of the sofa, the man's gaze was visibly shaken.

The man firmly pressed his lips together, speaking slowly in a dry voice.

"Congratulations on the exhibition. Well then..."

And even as he turned completely away, the man couldn't take his eyes off Shushu. Shushu remained silent.

As I looked back and forth between the man disappearing toward the entrance, his retreating figure, and Shushu standing there frozen in bewilderment, an inexplicable tension seemed to transfer to me, stiffening my body and mind. I couldn't even take a deep breath next to Shushu.

He soon returned to the living room. Feeling that it would be best to give them space, I gathered the empty beer bottles Shushu and I had finished, took them to the kitchen, and went into my room. I sat back down in front of the table, but there was no way I could paint.

Seon-yu.

Though it had only happened once, Shushu had definitely called the man that, and he himself had called the man Hong Seon-yu.

It might be an excessive delusion, but the memory of the painting Lovers on the Bed, which I had viewed with him at the Hong Kong Art Fair, overlapped with the present moment.

At the time, because his reaction in front of the painting had been so striking, I had committed the artist's name to memory so I wouldn't forget it: SEONEW. A Korean artist in his twenties. He was affiliated with a gallery in New York.

Back then, he had acted as if he wanted to hear what I had to say about that painting and the artist. It didn't feel like he was just asking for my impression of one piece that happened to catch his eye. I even felt as if he were goading me, urging me to criticize the painting more frankly and sharply, given my hesitation. He himself had offered a cold assessment, saying it was a work whose bubble would burst within a year or two, causing its value to drop by more than half.

Adding to that explanation from earlier in the entrance hall—it didn't seem like a completely far-fetched delusion.

But even if that man was SEONEW of Lovers on the Bed, there was nothing more I could deduce from that fact. I could search for more information, but I felt reluctant, as if I were digging into the private lives of people close to me, like Shushu or him.

Perhaps I had been lost deep in thought without realizing it, because when I heard a knock, I jumped, startling myself upright in the chair.

"Yes?"

After my stiff reply, the door leading to the living room opened quietly.

"Can we talk for a moment?"

He stood in the doorway without entering the room as he spoke. I nodded, taking it as a sign to come into the living room, and moved forward.

Shushu had already left. On the table in front of the three-seater sofa, opposite the set of single armchairs where Shushu and I had been sitting just a moment ago, whiskey, an on-the-rocks glass, an ashtray, cigarettes, and a lighter were scattered haphazardly.

After having me sit on the long, calm ivory-colored fabric sofa, he asked if I wanted more beer. I didn't want to get drunk, but I did feel like I needed something to drink. When I nodded, he brought a bottle of beer from the kitchen. Then, he pulled a dining chair from the dining area between my room and the living room and sat down near the corner of the table, to my right.

Turning the glass, which still had about a third of the whiskey left, over and over in his hand, he spoke.

"The atmosphere suddenly got a little strange, didn't it... You must have wondered what was going on. I'm sorry."

I didn't answer right away, waiting for him to continue. His face, fixed on some spot on the table edged with antique gold, hinted that the story I was about to hear would not be pleasant. Though moisture was rapidly beading on the surface of the beer bottle in my hand, I didn't even have the urge to wet my throat with the liquid inside.

"I know that hearing this story... might be a burden for you, Ihyeon."

Without looking away from that spot on the table, he took a sip of his whiskey.

"I'd hate for you to misunderstand anything about Shushu or... that jerk just now, Hong Seon-yu, so I'll tell you."

He had been leaning forward with his arms on his knees, but he lifted his head to look at me. His face was pale, devoid of all emotion rather than calm.

"Do you remember the painting we saw together at the Hong Kong Art Fair, Lovers on the Bed?"

My heart began to race at the possibility that my suspicion might not have been just an overactive imagination. I unconsciously tightened my grip on the beer bottle and slowly nodded toward him.

"The man who arrived a moment ago is Hong Seon-yu. He is the artist who painted that piece."

After offering just that brief piece of information, he couldn't continue the story for a while. Although he had said he would tell me, he seemed unsure if revealing everything to me was truly the wisest choice.

Rubbing the surface of the beer bottle, which I hadn't taken a single sip from, with my thumb, I spoke to him.

"If this isn't something I absolutely need to know... that is to say, if it doesn't directly affect the Director and me... you don't have to tell me. Since other people are involved too..."

His gaze rested on me wordlessly once more. I quietly met his eyes and waited for his decision. His lips, looking drier than usual, slowly parted.

"Hong Seon-yu... was Shushu's lover, and the person responsible for the decisive accident that forced Shushu to quit dancing."

"......"

"And, even before that, he was a man I dated."

"......"

Upon hearing that last addition, I inhaled without realizing it, then held my breath. I knew my wide, round eyes were revealing all my shock to him, yet I couldn't compose myself.

He watched my reaction, yet his own expression remained calm. It was the look of someone who had either anticipated or steeled himself for this kind of response.

"It was hardly what you'd call a relationship... like all my other connections before that, it was just a meaningless physical arrangement that didn't even last six months... but regardless, we did have something. This was after I finished the H.M.I.S. program in Hong Kong and moved to London for university. I was in my final year at my British university, and Hong Seon-yu was a first-year at the Royal College of Art. His entire family had moved to London when he was in middle school for his father's business, and everything was going so well that he was incredibly self-assured and arrogant. He was young, too. I was young back then as well, and I guess I found that attractive for a while."

He gave a short, cynical sneer, lifting one corner of his mouth as if mocking his younger self from those days.

"That's not to say I tolerated or indulged that insolence, though."

He downed the last sip of whiskey, refilled his glass, and continued speaking.

"I was a person who had neither the time nor the emotional capacity to pour into dating or love. Since I was in my final year, I was overwhelmed just by my own problems, so I just thought of him as someone I met up with occasionally to blow off steam. He knew I was seeing a few other people besides him, but I didn't care at all."

He paused his story and glanced at me quickly.

"Telling you about this past... I doubt it will earn me any points."

Just based on what he had said so far, Juhan's guesses about his romantic history seemed somewhat accurate. In my case, however, it was actually harder to imagine his detached arrangements where he focused only on himself.

"Just as there was never any talk of becoming an exclusive couple, of making any sort of commitment to each other, when we parted ways, it was the same—we just gradually drifted apart as our contact faded... It was around the time I was agonizing over whether to stay in London and build my own career or return to Hong Kong as my father suggested and learn the family business, that he suddenly contacted me again. He said his father's business was in trouble, so the family—excluding his father—had to give up their life in London and return to Korea... and he asked me to let him stay in London. Said that feeding and supporting just one person through his studies wasn't a big deal for me."

He clicked his tongue and laughed, as if still amazed by the audacity of it all.

"I have to admit, for someone with such a proud personality, it took courage to approach me—someone he'd only had a physical arrangement with, and one that was already over—and make such a request. But the way he rushed at me, as if he were collecting on an outstanding debt even at a moment like that, made me lose whatever small affection I had left for him. His obsession with success was strong to begin with, but once the financial backing disappeared, it seemed all that remained was a fierce drive to succeed, with no pure passion for art left in him anymore. So there wasn't even a shred of appeal left."

He pressed his lips together, furrowing his brow. He spun the rocks glass in his hand once before wetting his dry lips with whiskey.

"After that, Hong Seon-yu had no choice but to leave London, so I just thought that was the end of it. He was one of those people I'd completely erased from my memory, someone I'd never expect to see again, until Shushu—who was living in Seoul—introduced him to me as his lover."

"Ah..."

A sound escaped me, an involuntary groan. But he looked at me and gave a crooked smile, as if that wasn't the whole story.

"I knew Shushu was head-over-heels for someone before the introduction, but I never expected it to be Hong Seon-yu. When he introduced us, he looked like he'd seen a ghost. How could he not?"

He stared into the empty air, letting the calm tone crack as he spoke through tightly pressed lips.

"Shushu is an Omega, and Hong Seon-yu—as far as I know—is a Beta gay man who is a bottom to the bone. And not just any bottom—one who's twice as hungry for sex as anyone else. But a guy like that with an Omega?"

That doesn't make any sense. As if Hong Seon-yu were right there in front of him, he added, as if to condemn the man standing there.

"Of course, it's not that Omega males universally prefer the receiving role in sex, but most Omegas' instincts naturally lean that way. The sexual drives of Alphas and Omegas function much more dominantly than those of Betas. And from the moment Shushu manifested as an Omega, he was someone who had grown up conforming to his instincts and his nature. If you were to compare Shushu and Hong Seon-yu to two gay Beta men, it would be like two people who are both absolute bottoms dating—their tendencies absolutely couldn't change. From my perspective, knowing Hong Seon-yu's true nature, I was flabbergasted. Two grown men aren't going to have a platonic love affair. The idea that those two could be in a relationship that included a sex life was absurd."

He paused for a moment, then asked if he could smoke. Instead of answering, I picked up the pack of cigarettes and the lighter that were closer to me and handed them to him. A bitter scent rose up with the smoke. He exhaled a long breath, mirroring how deeply he had inhaled, and then spoke.

"The moment I heard that he was going to study abroad in New York with Shushu, I thought I had a rough idea of Hong Seon-yu's objective... but the problem was..."

His brow furrowed tightly, and he pressed hard against his eyelids as if suffering from a headache. It wasn't hard to deduce that Shushu must have been the source of the funding for that study abroad trip.

"That I had a past with Hong Seon-yu, that I knew what kind of man he was, and that your boyfriend was trying to use you for his own success. That's what I couldn't tell Shushu."

None of that was something one could easily say to a longtime friend. He ran a hand over his face once, took a deep drag of his cigarette, and settled back into a different position.

"You are an Omega. There is no future with a Beta male... I tried to persuade him with those obvious, insincere platitudes, but it had absolutely no effect."

The two had already been together for over a year at that point, and the only way to completely separate them was to shock Shushu by revealing everything about his entanglement with Hong Seon-yu. However, facing his friend's happy face—deeply in love and trusting his partner—that choice was far from easy.

"If I told him everything... I might have been able to stop Shushu from leaving for New York with Hong Seon-yu immediately, but he would have suffered the shock of betrayal anyway. If the shock that his cherished first love was involved with his best friend were added on top of that... I don't know if the young man—who was much more fragile back then than he is now—could have endured it."

He lowered his gaze toward the tip of the cigarette, smoke curling up as he rested the hand holding it on the armrest. Then, he slowly brought the cigarette to his lips.

"At the time, I was only briefly in Seoul on vacation, so I had to return to Hong Kong, and once I was back to my routine, there were even greater limits to stopping him over the phone in a foreign country."

This time, he hung his head as if he were a sinner.

"In the end, that was it. I was afraid of the shock he would immediately face right in front of me, so I couldn't try harder to stop him."

His voice was laced with self-reproach. Suddenly, he lifted his glass and swallowed several gulps of neat whiskey, then took a long drag from his cigarette. He seemed like someone trying to punish himself indirectly through substances bad for the body.

Shushu's lover was a man who had a past relationship with him. I thought the story would unfold to the point where Shushu found out and had no choice but to break up with his lover, but the situation was more complicated than that.

It seemed he ultimately chose not to tell Shushu about Hong Seon-yu's past and true nature, which meant the reason they broke up couldn't have been about that either.

"The two of them ended up leaving for New York as planned, and surprisingly, they lived together for two more years after going there."

After taking another sip of liquor, he let out a short, dry laugh. Now, his story was flowing like a monologue recalling the past.

"Well, even those two years they weren't separated—we can't know if they were wholly focused on each other. Maybe that sort of behavior went on for the entire two years; who knows, maybe he just wasn't caught."

He twisted the corner of his mouth cynically, then roughly stubbed out the nearly finished cigarette in the ashtray.

"Shushu had surgery to repair his Achilles tendon due to an injury sustained during practice. He was regularly going to a center for physical therapy. At the time, the surgery results were perfect, and the chances of him being able to continue dancing were very high. It wasn't at a worrying level. But one day, his assigned therapist had to leave early due to family circumstances, and Shushu—who was very shy around strangers—changed his schedule and went home much earlier than planned instead of training with a different therapist."

Given his earlier reference to "that sort of behavior," I could somewhat anticipate what happened next. Despite being able to anticipate it, my mouth felt completely dry, so for the first time, I drank the beer I was holding. The beer had already gone lukewarm.

"In the very bed where he slept every night and woke up every morning with his lover—or at least, the man he believed to be his lover—he had to witness a scene where his partner was so absorbed in sex, moaning and screaming, that he didn't even notice the bedroom door opening, while another man's cock was deep inside him. The sight of his lover gasping in pleasure, completely unlike when he was with Shushu, being held by another man..."

His face crumpled as if he were witnessing that scene firsthand. He set the beer bottle down on the table, covered his head with both hands, and bowed his head. It was a horrific story.

"After that... everything fell apart. I only heard a brief account from Shushu, so I don't know all the details, but Shushu ran out, and that bastard chased after him completely naked—not even wearing a stitch—trying to stop him... While they were grappling on the apartment stairs, Shushu, who was screaming and thrashing around like a madman, missed a step and re-injured the same ankle that had undergone surgery. I hear he didn't even feel the pain at the time... that's how beside himself he was."

Perhaps he wouldn't have felt it even if the pain had been greater. It had been a year since he introduced Hong Seon-yu, and two years since Shushu left for New York. After spending a total of three years together, anyone—not just Shushu—would lose their composure upon witnessing such a betrayal. Me... if it were me...

I picked up the beer bottle I had set down. The lukewarm beer had become intensely bitter and the carbonation flat, but I mechanically swallowed the liquid anyway.

"That ended both Shushu's life as a dancer and their relationship. Of course, Hong Seon-yu could no longer receive financial support from Shushu. I don't know what he did afterward, but he took a one-year leave of absence and eventually managed to graduate."

He spoke of Hong Seon-yu's aftermath dismissively, then refilled his glass. As he slowly drained it, he continued the painful story.

About a year after the accident, he opened Phantom in Seoul with Manager Han, and it took another year before he could even hand a camera to Shushu—who had become a complete wreck—and make him focus on photography enough to hold his first solo exhibition.

During that time, he heavily confessed the guilt he had felt while watching over Shushu. I couldn't say anything to him.

"Now that everything is over with Hong Seon-yu, if Shushu finds out about my past with that bastard, and that we both kept quiet about it... it probably won't be fixable this time. He'll think that every suggestion and every word I spoke to him during that time was just pity stemming from guilt. Since he's the type whose thoughts naturally flow in a negative direction."

I couldn't claim to understand everything—like why he had shown such hostility toward the artwork or the artist in front of Lovers on the Bed, or how he felt when Hong Seon-yu reappeared before his eyes—but I could guess and empathize to a certain degree.

Thinking about the time he had spent treating Shushu while carrying the weight of a guilt that was far from light as a part of himself, I lowered my gaze and spoke carefully.

"I'm sorry..."

"......"

Although it was a very small voice, he didn't miss it. I felt his gaze on my face but couldn't meet his eyes, so I answered the question his gaze was offering.

"About Shushu... I was just childishly jealous..."

He let out a short laugh. It was the kind of laugh that suggested he hadn't expected me to react that way. When I lifted my gaze from his knees, his face—etched with a faint smile and radiating warmth—was looking at me. He was no longer lost in the past, rambling to himself as he seemed to have been for a while, but had returned to the present moment, looking at me now.

"Choi Inwu transferred to Minton from the middle school division right after his manifestation, and we've been friends since then... but Shushu and I have been together since kindergarten."

H.M.I.S., where the children of wealthy Asian families gathered, never officially declared itself an educational facility exclusively for Alphas and Omegas, but after the middle school division, enrollment required confirmation that the student themselves had manifested as an Alpha or an Omega. For admission to kindergarten and elementary divisions, at least one parent had to be an Alpha or an Omega. While this was not an official requirement, it was a clearly existing, unspoken condition.

Although Beta students occasionally mingled in the middle and high school divisions, this was only permitted if the family's influence was exceptionally strong. In cases where manifestation had not occurred, most students transferred schools under unspoken pressure. In fact, this was recognized within H.M.I.S. as almost a tradition, a natural procedure. Therefore, his explanation was that any student who completed their secondary education there could safely be considered an Alpha or Omega from the highest echelon of the established elite.

"He's like a brother to me, who grew up with me despite being an only child who was called cold for being indifferent to others... but... no one, under any circumstances, takes precedence over your feelings."

He stated this with an air of certainty, driving the point home unequivocally. Based on his past actions, I already trusted him completely on that matter.

"I'm not worried about that..."

After offering me a smile once more at my murmur, he simply gazed at me for a long time. We had both endured exhausting days and hadn't even managed dinner, yet I didn't feel hungry. Outside the window, it had already grown completely dark.

"When it comes to other people's problems, anyone can maintain an objective distance and a cool perspective to reach a plausible conclusion and offer clear advice. But when it comes to your own affairs... even after the conclusion has been reached, you hesitate. The reason is simple. No matter how perfect a conclusion seems, there are always weak points, and the small probability of failure that you could easily dismiss when looking at someone else's life becomes an unavoidable fear when it concerns your own. The fear of even a one percent chance of failure silences you, ties your feet, and makes you the foolish person who knows the problem will only get worse over time yet still cannot make a decision."

I knew better than anyone what he was talking about. It was precisely because of that fear that I had ignored my father's silence and turned a blind eye to the problem.

I was afraid of being rejected again, so I hadn't taken any action to pull my father out of his silence. I knew that if I didn't try anything, the relationship wouldn't change, but even knowing that... I still chose to just stand by and watch the situation unfold.

He looked at me again for a long time, as if savoring his own words. I couldn't look away from his gaze, which was a lighter shade of blue than usual. He had an expression that looked like he might collapse the moment I looked away. It was the face of someone struggling to hold on, and I understood his struggle.

"I lashed out at Shushu, asking if his judgment was clouded by being swept up in something like love—an emotion that could vanish at any moment—but now..."

He didn't finish the sentence, instead turning his head as if to flee and taking a drink. Then he looked back at me, took a deep breath, and opened his mouth.

"I think about what would happen if I lost you every day."

"......"

"That thought seizes me several times a day. Not just when you're not beside me, but even when we're together like this... even in the moment of climax, fully submerged in the pleasure you give me after entering you and connecting through knotting, the truth is, I'm afraid."

It was such an unexpected confession that I felt a slight shock. It seemed like a confession of love as deep as that, but I didn't want the most overwhelming emotion he experienced through me to be fear.

"Seo Ihyeon."

His voice was calm and steady, without any agitation or tremor, yet strangely, there was something about it that made me feel a vague dread about what he was about to say next. My chest felt chaotic, like an ill-fitting door rattling in a strong wind.

"......"

"......Shall we get married?"

However, the statement his lips uttered with such a composed expression was not a threat.

If it had been impulsive, I would have sensed some faint excitement, but his voice, the way he looked at me, and his expression were all steady and calm, as if he were sharing something he had prepared for a long time.

Though my heart was full of so many things I wanted to say, things I felt I had to say, it felt as though he was using that single phrase to stand in for all of them—I even sensed a humble caution in it.

Regardless of his seriousness, it was such a sudden proposition that I looked at him with a somewhat dazed smile.

He leaned forward, loosely gripping the rocks glass in both hands.

"Whether it's the UK, France, Germany, or the US... as long as it's a country where the marriage between an Alpha male and a Beta male is legal. It wouldn't be hard for me to obtain permanent residency or citizenship in any country. If I did that, all my rights would be legally guaranteed to you as well... and if something were to happen to me, I could safely transfer all those rights into your name."

Hearing him talk as if the possibility of something happening to him was imminent made my expression harden slightly. Seeing my rigidity, he closed his mouth for a moment as if he had spoken out of turn, and avoided my gaze.

"It's not that I'm trying to tie you down using some petty material benefit as an excuse, but..."

No, maybe that wasn't entirely untrue. He muttered to himself with self-deprecation and broadly rubbed his jaw. Then he ran his fingers through his hair, which had dried naturally after his shower without any product in it.

"Bringing up marriage with you, when you're only twenty-two... it must sound insane."

He seemed to interpret my lack of reaction as a negative response to his proposal, or perhaps that I wasn't taking it seriously. He put his glass down, roughly swept a hand over his face, and then took out a cigarette and lit it.

I realized now that his composed demeanor when bringing up marriage wasn't calmness, but rather a blank expression born of tension and anxiety—a kind of rigidness.

Leaning forward deeply with his elbows resting on his thighs, he just repeatedly brought the cigarette to his lips for a while. Looking at his bowed head, which seemed disheartened by my reaction, I twisted the beer bottle in my hand.

Even though I thought I was running toward him with my whole heart, his love always seemed a few steps ahead of mine. That wasn't to say I couldn't keep up. It was just that a vague fear arose: if he had to stop every time to wait for my slower pace, wouldn't he eventually grow weary?

Biting down lightly on my lower lip, I looked down at his face and slowly opened my mouth.

"If... it's not a suggestion brought up as if chased by something... but something you say after fully considering your future or life plans... Director... then I too, at that time, will answer with all my heart."

He looked at me, straightened his upper body, and spoke in a dry voice.

"It's true that I said it impulsively, but that doesn't mean it lacks substance."

"......"

"And it's definitely not something I said just on a whim without sincerity."

Watching him crush the cigarette, which was only half-smoked, into the ashtray, I started to feel a little anxious this time.

It wasn't that I was trying to ignore his sincerity. How could I not know that when a man like him brought up the word marriage, nothing light could possibly be mixed into it?

While I was happy that he desired me enough to feel impatient... I didn't want marriage chosen as a method to resolve that.

I tightly gripped the beer bottle, now beaded with condensation, with both hands.

"Since this is my first time having this kind of relationship... I don't know if I've made you anxious somewhere. But... my feelings are definitely not light."

Looking back, he had always craved deeper affection from me. Sometimes it was like a joke, and sometimes it was in his serious eyes. But he never once forced it on me, so I just accepted it as one of the minor emotions that make up a relationship, much like my jealousy toward Shushu.

I thought I was showing him everything—my feelings, which, unlike his, had nothing to begin with but were just starting to grow again, however meagerly, and even my past that I had buried and tried to ignore.

Was I still unconsciously holding something back inside me, refusing to give it to him? Was that why he was feeling anxious?

Intellectually, I knew that the balance of love between two people was unrelated to objective circumstances... but sometimes I couldn't believe the impatience he showed toward me, someone who shouldn't need to feel anxious regardless of whom he was dating. Compared to him, I was like a clueless child, yet I was so completely falling for him...

"I don't know how you'll take this, but... I only got this far because of you, Director."

"......"

"Whether it was the issue with Morae nuna and Yeehan hyung, starting to paint again, or even being able to talk about my father to someone... all of it was possible because you were here, Director."

If I was the only one who could erase his anxiety, I had to find the courage to break the silence. I took a deep breath and continued speaking, as if savoring the air in small sips. The moisture on the beer bottle in my hand felt like sweat seeping from me.

"Even as I think that you might have said that impulsively... just as I was happy when I heard about the marriage talk, putting everything else aside... I, too, want Awi... and I love you."

"......"

His face looked as if he had heard a declaration of separation rather than a confession of love.

He looked like a person standing beneath a collapsing sky.

His lips parted as if in a sigh, and his furrowed eyelids trembled slightly, like someone who had just heard a cruel sentence taking everything away, not a tender murmur meant to fill and satisfy.

Taking a deep breath to release the air I'd been holding, I placed the beer bottle on the table and rubbed my damp hands on my pants. My lips instinctively pressed into a firm line.

Was my confession too immature? Was the word "love," uttered by a twenty-two-year-old after only a few months of dating, too flimsy to inspire belief?

But I was sure that the feelings melted into our shared connection, though unspoken, had evolved naturally into love before I knew it.

My feelings for him were too complex to be contained within the simple phrase "I like you." What I saw through him wasn't just rosy palpitations or butterflies. If the definition of love ultimately differs for every person and every lover, then no matter how carefully I searched, the word closest to what I felt looking at him now was love.

"......"

"......"

As if shaking off a deep sleep, he blinked and shook his head a few times. Then he roughly rubbed his face with both hands. When he looked at me again, the whites of his eyes were bloodshot.

He stared at me for a long time, his expression resembling that of someone stung by harsh words and now feeling the sting. Then he stood up from his seat and moved to the one next to mine. Hmm... The breath escaping his tightly closed lips was heavy.

He cupped my cheek, turning my face toward him, and used his long, neat fingers to brush my hair behind my ear.

"Even knowing I'm a man who has never had a serious partner... does Seo Ihyeon still love me?"

I offered him a silent smile as he tried to crack a joke in a tightly controlled voice. He smiled back, rubbing my earlobe with his thumb. He was so warm when he smiled at me. At those times, he looked happy, like someone who had everything he wanted, and I thought I was successfully conveying my feelings to him.

I lowered my head, brushing my cheek against his jawline, and rested my forehead on his shoulder.

"If you knew my true desires beneath this barely contained rationality... you would be very surprised."

It wasn't disappointment over the casual past arrangements he'd had, but rather relief and happiness that he had never given his sincere feelings to anyone other than me before.

He cupped my face again, turning it toward him. His face was overflowing with emotion as he looked at me, but that flow wasn't pointing in one specific direction. I wondered if I had looked similarly complex when he mentioned marriage to me—a feeling that couldn't be defined by a single word.

While still holding my cheeks, his gaze traced my face, and the distance between us slowly closed. His lips were drier than usual. After our lips touched just enough to slightly press against each other, they parted. He brushed his nose against mine, lowered his eyes, and spoke in a low voice.

"From the perspective of someone who can't and isn't trying to restrain himself, I wouldn't think you'd be that surprised."

The hand stroking my cheek moved up to cup the back of my head, resting at my neck. With our foreheads touching, he whispered once more.

"Love me in a way that surprises me even more."

"......"

"It doesn't have to be the right or healthy way. Just love me enough to truly shock me—forget all restraint and dignity when it comes to me. I want you to be so greedy for me that people point fingers and call me a bad man."

"......"

"It has to be that way, or it won't work. I don't think it can."

It sounded as if he was saying that he himself was already loving me in that manner, beyond all measure.

I gently stroked his arms as they firmly encircled my neck with both hands. He pressed his lips to my eyelids and the bridge of my nose. Then, he pulled my neck closer, pressing our faces tightly together, and kissed my temples and ears lingeringly.

"This is the only value I think I can give you with these words—that I've never said them to anyone else before..."

As if to say his confession was insignificant compared to my love, he whispered into my ear in a dry voice, sounding as if he might crumble away like a piece of cookie, breathing softly like the wind.

"I love you."

It was such a small whisper that only I could hear it. But for me, hearing it was all that mattered.

Behind the whispered "I love you," delivered in a low, husky voice, our lips met, and in the moments they weren't touching, he spoke of love. It was as if his lips existed solely to kiss me and declare his love.

Although we had always implicitly avoided direct expressions that defined our relationship, even while sharing many emotions and stories, it seemed he had now decided not to hold back his words anymore.

Even after repeating it so many times, the meaning of love whispered from his lips never felt lightened in the slightest. On the contrary, it was as if every time he uttered the word, a piece of him was being carved away; as if he were bracing himself for that level of sacrifice to speak it aloud, his love flowed into me, carrying weight and accumulating within.

In truth, I had always dismissed words as not very important once feelings were clear. Yet, paradoxically, it was precisely because I knew their importance that I held back from voicing them, even when my own heart was certain.

Perhaps that, too, was one of the things I kept, never giving it to him, which in turn made him anxious. In any case, I realized I needed to be more expressive in every way.

"Don't say it's pathetic..."

I said this while gently stroking his cheek with my fingertips, close enough that our lips could brush. As soon as I finished speaking, my lips were swallowed up. The surface of his lips was dry, but the inner walls beneath and the flesh pressing in were hot and wet.

The word "love" he spoke of seemed to seep into a more essential space beyond the realm of romance, beyond sweetness or emotional fulfillment. My chest swelled every time I heard him whisper. I wanted him immediately.

He parted his lips, alternating between my upper and lower lip, then traced up my cheek with a kiss while sliding his hand from my neck down to my chest. The moment his hand, bunching up my T-shirt, slipped inside to caress my bare skin, I let out a moan and held the back of his head.

While he caressed my ear with his lips and tongue, he moved his hands behind my back, dug into my pants, and grabbed my ass. The way I slightly lifted my body to make it easier for his hands to move—easier for him to touch me—made me realize anew how accustomed I had become to this.

But that thought soon dissipated as he pushed me down onto the sofa with his weight.

Just feeling the pressure of his body—long, which appeared sleek in clothes despite his thick build—pressing down on me made my chin lift and my lips part. As if a puzzle piece fitting into place, his lips settled over mine where they were parted.

His hand, which had slipped between our lower abdomens, had already unfastened the buckle of my jeans. Even while doing that, he didn't stop moving his hips, grinding against my lower body where we were pressed flush together.

"Ugh, mmm... ah."

As friction and heat built from the movement, I fumbled with my arms to grip the back of the sofa tightly.

After pulling my jeans wide open, he pushed my T-shirt up and traced his hot tongue up my bare skin. Once the shirt was pushed up to my armpit, he circled my nipple a few times with his thumb before licking from the bottom up in a caressing motion.

"Ngh... ah."

The stimulation from his tongue repeatedly licking my nipple—which had become hard and more prominent than usual—made my back arch upward. Watching my reaction with wide eyes, he traced down my exposed upper body with his hands until he reached my hips. Grabbing both my jeans and my briefs at my side, he sucked strongly on the flesh around my nipple.

"Ah, yes! Hngh."

I gripped his shoulders tightly with the hand that had been tearing at the sofa's backrest, and he continued to look up at me, dragging the small piece of flesh in his mouth with the tip of his tongue. Only after I bucked my hips hard several times, clutching his shoulder painfully instead of the sofa back, did he release my nipple with a wet sound.

He hooked his fingers into my jeans and briefs—already dragged low enough to expose my hips and the heat between my thighs—and pulled them off in one swift motion. I raised my legs, letting him. The jeans, peeled inside out, were flung under the sofa, while the white briefs I'd put on after my shower stayed clenched in his hand.

"......"

He straightened his waist and positioned himself between my legs, looking down at me with narrowed eyes. Then, with his nose and mouth covered by the briefs, he stroked the inner thigh resting over his own thigh and slowly ground his hips against me. It looked as if he were breathing in the briefs, or perhaps pressing his lips to them.

Feeling the heat between my legs after so long, intensified by the lingering atmosphere of our confession, I could only gasp for breath as I looked up at him. Smooch. He made a kissing sound against the briefs, then took off his black short-sleeved T-shirt in one motion, tossing it and the underwear onto the floor.

Then he laid down, squeezing into the small gap between the sofa and me. I shifted my body sideways to make room for him, and he lay down pressing his body tightly against my back, then took one of the cushions rolling around on the sofa and placed it under my head. He slipped his arm into the space beneath my neck, pulled my chest toward him, and kissed the nape of my neck, nipping lightly at my skin with his teeth. His firm thigh wedged itself between my legs.

"Mmmph... Ah, mmm."

As my eyelids grew heavy, my body went limp. I placed my hand over his as he stroked my chest, and when I looked back at him, our lips met. His upper lip pushed down against my lower lip, and then my plump lower lip pressed back up against his. The kiss, without the use of tongues, felt tantalizingly teasing, but the movement of his thigh rubbing between my legs, and the touch of his hand stroking my cock was explicit.

He was wearing indoor pants with a drawstring and elastic waistband, fabric far too thin and soft to conceal the growing bulk of his cock hardening between my cleft.

"Seo Ihyeon...."

Just hearing my name whispered while he rubbed his nose and lips against my earlobe made my body tremble. It truly was a great voice, too. Not inherently a comforting sound, but that particular low rasp created an impressive accent that made it unforgettable. Especially when he lowered his tone even further during intimacy, infusing it with breath as he whispered in my ear... even more so then.

"I love you."

Hearing such a confession while he grazed his lips across the curves of my ear, accompanied by his warm breath—it was indescribably sexier.

Extending his arm over my waist to grip my cock and quickly stroke upward, he kept pressing his body against mine. Half-crushed beneath him, I stroked his cheek.

"Hngh, hngh."

Grasping his wrist tightly as he pinched, twisted, and tugged at my nipple, I pushed my hips back, pressing myself flush against his cock.

After broadly sweeping his hand over me, he slipped his hand between his groin and my ass. His index and ring fingers spread open both sides of my entrance, while his middle finger rubbed around the entrance as if exploring before sliding in through the narrowly closed folds of flesh. I bit my lower lip and let out a muffled moan. It wasn't from pain.

"Haa, hngh. Hngh."

Letting go of his wrist that I had been clinging to, I reached my arms back and grabbed his ass. Beneath the thin fabric, I could feel the movement of tightly bunched, writhing muscle.

Without rushing, without being rough, yet concealing an intense excitement right behind him, poised on the brink of explosion. His long, firm fingers probed inside, stirring, sliding lightly over the sensitive inner wall, and then, mimicking penetration, they stabbed rapidly into my depths.

"Haa, ah. Ah. Hnh... ah."

Perhaps deliberately, each time his fingers pressed heavily over the most sensitive spot inside me, I tilted my chin up, closed my eyes, and pulled his hips harder toward me.

"Already... your scent is so potent..."

I opened my eyes at the sound of his voice, heated as if savoring something, and turned around. His lips, which had been kissing my jawline, cheek, and earlobe, seemed to be waiting, and then they enveloped my lips, parted by excitement and moans. His lips were no longer dry.

It seemed that the strength of the scent indicated the level of my arousal to him. If it meant my reaction was faster than usual, that was true. However, his own scent was thoroughly saturated in the air of the entire living room, pressing down on everything in the space, including me.

Inside me, his fingers curled, pressing against the heat within, as he looked down at me with damp eyes and whispered—our parted lips barely brushing—

"Your scent... it makes me feel... human."

A deep kiss immediately followed. The sheer delight of being the one to break down his defenses made me dizzy, as if I might collapse even while lying down. As the scent rushed in with the kiss, I opened myself completely and closed my eyes.

"...Ah."

But in the next moment, a strange sensation registered deep inside my body, and I reflexively grabbed his wrist. I turned my head, pushing away his tongue that was sweetly conquering my mouth, and looked down. Annoyed at being interrupted, he let out a soft, unsteady breath near my ear, ignoring my resistance as he continued moving his fingers.

"Hey, just a moment... right now, I'm a little..."

He climbed over me so that I was almost completely on my stomach, creating a huge arch in his body as if he were already inside me, and driving his fingers as deep as they could possibly go as he pushed my hips up.

"It's not 'just a moment'... Why should I stop?"

"I think something came out... inside..."

"......"

He paused his movements for a moment. But soon, he began thrusting inside faster than before, grinding his entire body against mine. His wet breaths, moistening my ear and panting close by, overwhelmed my thoughts with arousal. His other hand slipped inside my parted lips, touching the soft inside of my cheek, and I instinctively sucked in, drawing his long finger deep into my mouth.

"It's just pre-cum flowing in."

"It's not that... Hngh."

I couldn't finish my sentence as his fingers smoothly slid out from between my legs. His fingers, alternately applying pressure and tracing my tongue, were so soft and flexible that they seemed to awaken every sensation in my mouth that I hadn't even known existed. Further thought was impossible.

The withdrawn hand rubbed in and out between my legs with obscene movements. The palm left a slick wetness wherever it swept past, and he deliberately twisted his palm to create lewd sounds, looking down as if to remind me.

"Look at this. You've leaked so much... If it's like this, every time you twitch, it's just going to seep inside..."

Instead of telling him to look away, I reached back, pulled his neck toward me, and kissed him. At this point, I didn't care what happened; I just wanted him deeper, closer, now. No matter how much I breathed in his scent through the kiss, I couldn't quench the burning thirst throughout my body.

As his fingers withdrew, he ground his cock hard against me from behind, pressing himself tightly against me, and then he bit down gently on my lower lip. Releasing the soft flesh he had been holding between his lips, he spoke in a voice so low it felt secretive.

"Shall we go to the bedroom?"

"......"

I nodded. Sitting up, he pulled me to sit facing him on his thighs. Even as he carried me like that across the room to the bedroom, he didn't let my arousal cool even slightly, moving his lips constantly from my mouth to my jawline, my neck, my shoulders... kissing everywhere his lips touched.

With me clinging to his waist, he got onto the bed on his knees and immediately tumbled onto the mattress with me. His blue eyes were right in front of my face, looking over every part of my face as he stroked my hair, which was buried in the large pillow.

His eyes, reminiscent of a turbulent sea, were captivating enough to be unforgettable even after a fleeting glance. It wasn't just that he was flawlessly perfect, like a painting or a sculpture; he radiated a mysterious aura and presence, leaving a deep mark on the impressions of those who he gazed upon... The fact that this beautiful man was the one I loved, and the one who loved me, felt newly profound. Perhaps it was because, only today, we had first permitted each other the expression of love.

As I stared at him as if entranced, he lifted his upper body after kissing my nose and lips. The front of his black loungewear was unnaturally prominent, and the fabric between his legs was stained a deeper black from the copious pre-ejaculate of a Golden Alpha.

He quickly shed his lower garments and, even in his semi-erect state—his cock already exceeding the maximum expansion of many men—he slid it onto me, positioning himself between my legs.

"Hhh... mm..."

Just the feeling of his cock brushing against my skin made my hips lift off the surface. He swept his hands down my legs, gripping both ankles and pushing them up toward my chest. Naturally, my knees bent, and the next moment, my bent legs straightened again, my ankles hooking over his shoulders. The angle pressed his groin even tighter against my ass. The feel of our bodies together made my breathing even more ragged. As he stroked my thighs and calves, he arched his back, applying friction to what lay between us.

"Hah, ngh. Ah. Ngh, hnh."

With our eyes locked on each other, our heaving chests created a tense atmosphere with their irregular rhythm.

As he braced his hands beside my shoulders and bent his upper body, my lower body folded in half along with his movement. I cupped his face as it approached, brushing aside his sweat-dampened hair with my hands. As I looked at his face—repeatedly drawing close to kiss and then pulling back—I waited for his hot Alpha, rubbing against me, to press into my depths.

"Ah, hah!"

I gripped the sheets and bit my lip, but what I felt from below as his length pushed in was far from pain.

The thick, slickly wet shaft penetrated the walls of my body, which had contracted back to their original state after days without sex, without hesitation. It wasn't quite painful, but I vividly felt the sensation of raw flesh—which had been healing and sealing together—being forcibly pulled open by the merciless intrusion from outside.

To be honest, I preferred it that way. I tilted my chin up and parted my lips, fully satisfied as something huge and scalding slowly, distinctly filled me. His cock always felt like it was piercing straight to my lungs and heart, suffocating me and interrupting my blood circulation. Yet, with barely any breath and only a slight amount of blood, I felt more alive than ever before.

He lowered his upper body, watching every reaction I had as if swallowing it whole, and took my lower lip into his mouth, sending a tingling stimulation through with his lips and teeth, accompanied by a dizzying, thick, potent, and lewd scent.

"Mmm, mmm... Haa, ugh."

The moment he pressed his body close enough for my knees to touch his shoulders, the deeper parts inside me spread open. I tilted my chin up, stroking his flexing arms, and lifted my head. He was withdrawing, only to thrust back in deeper than before, his face contorting to match his own rhythm of repeated thrusts. I released my grip on his arms, letting my hands travel up over his broad, thick shoulders and the taut, long, strong nape of his neck.

I slowly traced my fingers down his features: the dark eyebrows that furrowed sharply toward his brow when he was serious, displeased, or sometimes just feeling mischievous; the deep, slate-gray eyes set closely below those brows, as if proving his somewhat complex heritage; the straight bridge of his nose, lending him masculine breadth and height; and finally, his sensual lips, which looked sexy whether they were closed, slightly parted, or especially when he pronounced the English letters F and L.

He was breathing in deeply, his shoulders rising and falling, focused entirely on driving deeper inside me while letting my touch linger on his face. As my fingers traced over his lips, he pursed his mouth and kissed them. I looked up into his eyes—eyes that were pulling my lower lip wide before drawing it up to rub against my finger—and forced out a tight, constricted voice.

"Awi's pheromones... I sometimes wonder what they smell like."

"......"

Perhaps surprised by the unexpected topic, his eyes narrowed slightly. He gave his lower lip a quick, moist sweep with his tongue, then briefly slowed the pace of his hips.

"I bet they're a really... good scent, right?"

"......"

"I... won't be able to know, though."

He looked down at me for a moment before starting to move his hips with renewed fluidity. Bending his arms, he leaned his upper body completely toward me, driving himself deeper inside me and stealing my breath. I couldn't think or say anything else. All I could do was feel him, hold him, inhale the perfume he wore instead of his pheromones, and become one with the rhythm he set.

He buried his lips deep in my neck, hidden by my hair, sucking at my skin to leave a mark, driving himself deeper. The entire mattress swayed with the force of his movements inside me.

"Hah, ugh... hnh...."

As I ran my fingers through his hair and slowly opened and closed my eyes, his face was right in front of mine.

"Did you forget I'm a Golden?"

"......"

"I won't let anyone smell it...."

He told me not to make that face. He promised—even though I hadn't asked him to—that he would make sure no one else could catch that scent.

I nodded. I pulled on his sweat-dampened nape and kissed him first, whispering for him to keep it from anyone else's notice. I didn't want to think about whether this greedy desire—wanting to claim even his scent, which I couldn't smell, as mine, to seal it away as mine—was a healthy form of love.

The heat building inside my body from his rhythmic movements prevented me from sustaining any longer thoughts.

He restrained himself until my inner walls had fully adjusted to his size, and then he lunged as if challenging me, swallowing my lips and beginning to thrust his hips as violently as he desired.

He didn't just use his hips or his cock; his method, which always involved causing ripples throughout my entire body, demanded tremendous energy and, in turn, unleashed an equally tremendous pleasure.

Scraping my inner walls as he withdrew, then thrusting in at once with a tight heaviness enough for the fluid pooled thickly inside to spatter out, I repeatedly spread and closed the toes of my feet resting on his shoulders.

"Haa, ah. Ah. Hah."

Sensing the tidal wave rolling in from the distant sea, I clung tightly to his shoulders and gasped, as the approaching sensation of knotting slowly stirred the blood within me.

If the previous instances of knotting had felt like accidents completely dominated by arousal, this time was different. Although his eyes, looking down at me, were glazed over with pleasure, they were clear. They were eyes that were fully aware of what he was doing. In fact, the intense friction happening inside me felt surprisingly calm and collected.

Inside my body, accepting the powerful pulsing of his knotting—as if to prove to me that he was alive—I came even without touching my cock. But the initial release was no longer the issue. The pleasure and orgasm continued even after it ended. My highly sensitized cock kept leaking fluids, reacting on its own accord.

After a deep kiss, he rubbed his face against my cheek until my nose felt crushed, and called my name amidst his ragged breathing.

"Seo Ihyeon..."

"......"

"I love you."

"......I love you too."

He pulled his eyebrows together near the bridge of his nose and murmured against my lips, hoping that whatever happened in the future, the sincerity of this moment would never be doubted or damaged.

Then he added, his voice sounding as if something were tightly blocking it.

"I'll... I'll really do well."

I remembered hearing him say something like that before. I wrapped my arms around his neck, which seemed to be thinking only about what he couldn't give despite all he had already given, and kissed his hot lips.

Whether it was because of the pleasure of the knotting inside me, or something else, I stroked his contorted face, kissed his eyelids, nose, cheeks, and lips, called his name, and told him I loved him. His words—that he was actually anxious even at the moment of knotting inside me—lingered in my heart.

Whether he realized my intention or not, he looked down at me with a hazy smile. Stroking my hair, pouring kisses all over my body, leaving marks, tightly pulling my body into an embrace, he came, heating my insides with his swollen knot, expanding my inner walls to the maximum. Even the sensation of an enormous amount of cum trickling out between my legs as the knot subsided was an extension of sex.

Without eating, we clung to each other's bodies until past midnight. All that remained on his bed after the sex was one naked body, its sheets soaked with sweat, cum, fluids that looked like an overturned two-liter bottle of water, and the angry red marks he had left all over my skin.

For me, too exhausted even to stand in the shower, he—never seeming to tire and still fully hard as always—prepared a bath for me in the tub. I had no appetite, but he brought me a banana and a glass of milk while I soaked limply in the water.

After bathing just long enough to wash off the fluids, we went to my room instead of his ravaged bed and got into bed together.

I was giddy about sleeping together for the first time since we'd had sex. And, unusually, it was hard to hide. We shared one large pillow, lying facing each other and stroking the other's body as if enjoying the afterglow.

He bent the arm he had slipped into the space between my neck and shoulder beneath the pillow, wrapping it around my shoulder, while his other arm held my waist, slowly stroking my side near my ribs.

I wrapped my arms around his back, my thumb tracing patterns on his skin, then lifted my chin to look up at him and asked,

"When I wake up tomorrow, I won't have turned into a toad or a beast, right?"

He smiled without opening his eyes. Then, stroking the curve of my shoulder where he held me, he said,

"Isn't the story usually about a toad or a beast turning human after realizing true love? I think the order is reversed."

The memories of him proposing and of us allowing each other to use the word "love" felt so distant it was hard to believe they were real, yet the strength of his arms pulling me closer as I shifted, and the pressure of his lips on my forehead, were proof of it all.

He kissed my forehead and brushed back my hair, murmuring it was time to sleep, and I closed my eyes. My deepest sleep was always in his embrace.

· · · · ·

The wind grew stronger as we neared the lake, but the weather was clear enough to see the sky, which was an unreal shade of blue.

"It's Sunday—I wondered where all the Chicagoans went, but it turns out they all gathered at Navy Pier."

Yuni muttered, pulling her hands out of her leather jacket pockets to tuck her scarf inside so it wouldn't fly away.

It wasn't exactly a crowd, but compared to the relatively quiet downtown area, there were quite a few people around the pier. Families out for a stroll and tourists were particularly clustered in the direction of the amusement rides, like the Ferris wheel and the carousel.

Yuni and I looked for a spot where we could enjoy the scenery of Lake Michigan more peacefully, heading toward a direction that offered a diagonal view of the observation wheel. Wherever we looked, the view seemed wide open and not far away, but as we actually walked, the destination didn't get closer as easily as it looked. We thought it would take two or three minutes, but it took almost ten minutes before we reached the bench we had picked out.

"Alright, let's taste it now."

As soon as we settled onto a backless bench under a coniferous-looking tree, Yuni opened the popcorn with a face full of anticipation. This was the popcorn she had been looking forward to trying, insisting that no matter how busy she was, she had to eat it because it was a Chicago specialty, even before the business trip.

She opened the cheese-flavored and caramel-flavored popcorn bags we had each bought, took a few pieces of the caramel popcorn first, and then immediately made a face.

"Whoa, this is seriously sweet! Is this even safe for humans to eat?"

Intrigued by Yuni's assessment that the sweetness felt like it could melt one's brain, I tried a few pieces myself. Ah... it really was intensely sweet. In my case, I thought my teeth might dissolve before the sweetness even reached my brain.

"Hurry up and eat the cheese flavor, the cheese flavor."

Yuni frantically shoved the cheese popcorn into my mouth as if performing emergency first aid, and a few pieces missed their target, tumbling down inside my jacket or between my legs. We both burst out laughing.

After laughing for quite a while over something so trivial, we alternated reaching into the cheese and caramel bags while chatting about trivial things. Yuni talked about the strange people she'd met during this business trip, and I talked about the artwork I'd encountered at galleries and museums.

"It really is vast, though. You can't even tell how vast it is because you can't see the end. Not many people think of the sea as being wide, do they?"

Looking out at Lake Michigan before us, Yuni spoke. As she exhaled a breath that seemed deep enough to lift her shoulders, it sounded less like a deep breath and more like a sigh.

Yuni was right. The limitless blue panorama stretching before me, defined only by the horizon, resembled the ocean in that applying the concept of "vastness" felt awkward. Just as no one talks about the vastness of the sky, the sea was the same.

When I was at my grandfather's house, the ocean was a part of my daily life. Just as the sky and the land are taken for granted by those who live inland.

The ocean was always present—in the wind, in the salty scent mixed with that wind, in the corrosive power that rapidly rusted every gate and car, and in the blue and white shimmer visible whenever I turned my head.

And my father was still there.

Did my father feel abandoned by me, just as I had felt abandoned by him?

I recall my father's silence the night I left that house with Yeehan hyung—a silence that didn't try to hold me back, as if he saw me as nothing more than a part of the darkness.

Perhaps my father didn't feel the same way I did.

In his world, I had already been excluded—no, everything had been excluded—so even if the world, rather than I, had turned its back on him, he wouldn't have needed to feel a sense of loss or abandonment.

Thanks to his persuasion and goodwill, I started painting again, traveled to unexpected cities like Hong Kong and Chicago to find inspiration, and even though I began to have stories I wanted to paint, as he predicted, and seemed to overcome something by confiding my past to him... in reality, it was like riding a bicycle where he held the seat from behind, wearing protective gear within the safe boundaries of his affection. The actual reality I left behind in that other world remained completely unchanged.

Perhaps that very fact was the source of the anxiety he felt because of me.

The part of me that I wasn't fully revealing to him—in other words, the part of myself I was turning away from—was still right there, in the place where my father was.

The gentle smile I offered him in his embrace last night, the whispered "I love you" we shared, all the affectionate words, and the happiness of sleeping and waking in his arms—these were not a present that the two of us had built together through mutual effort.

I knew it. Just as I had done with my father's silence, I had only pretended not to know.

He had told me Chicago would be colder than Seoul, and even this jacket I was wearing was something he had prepared for me before the trip. No, everything currently on my body, down to the sunglasses blocking the sun and the single piece of underwear, was a gift from him. In the closet of my Seoul studio hung striped T-shirts by a brand even Picasso was said to favor, organized by design and color.

The light I created myself was still nowhere to be found. This wasn't merely about financial matters. What he gave me wasn't just clothes, a place to stay, or luxurious travels. I relied on the light he cast to see my own hands, to see what lay ahead and around me, and I clung to that light to grasp at something substantial.

I dropped my gaze to the coffee in my hand, as if fleeing from the sight before me that reminded me of the sea. Water droplets beaded all over the surface of the iced coffee cup. It was the coffee I bought at the Starbucks where I had stopped by for Inwu's gift. By now, more than half the ice had melted.

"Yesterday... our dinner reservation was canceled, so I went out to meet Reed instead."

"......"

Snapping out of my thoughts, I looked back at Yuni. Her face was still turned toward Lake Michigan. But I couldn't tell what those sharp, dark eyes behind her sunglasses were actually seeing.

"I got a message on social media. He said he was flying back to Paris the next day and asked if I wanted to grab a drink."

Yuni, who had been munching on popcorn, dusted the crumbs off her hands and checked her wristwatch. "He should be on the plane by now," she murmured indifferently.

"I was in a gloomy mood, so I agreed to meet him, but honestly, I suspected it wasn't just about grabbing a drink. I got a feeling when we talked for quite a while at the party."

"......"

I thought I knew what Yuni was trying to say, too. But instead of interrupting, I waited silently for her to continue.

"Do you remember that organization Reed runs? The one Jane and Conner sponsor?"

"Yes."

"He asked if I wanted to work with them."

"......"

Even though I expected what she was going to say, I was speechless. As we nibbled away, the popcorn bag lightened, and I grabbed it to keep the wind from blowing it away, swallowing dryly.

"Ah... um... what did you tell him, Yuni?"

"I haven't answered yet. I asked for some time."

Yuni's face turned toward me. I couldn't see her eyes, but I knew she was frowning.

"But I wasn't the only one who got the offer."

"......"

The organization "The Hands," which Reed established by designing the system himself and personally recruiting sponsors, was an arts foundation that selected emerging artists struggling to create due to financial constraints—those whose vision aligned with the foundation's—and provided them with accommodation, materials, and studio space for a set period, even handling the management of exhibiting and selling their work.

According to Yuni, the headquarters of "The Hands"—which served as both the artists' residence and the organization's office and exhibition space, in a small Parisian apartment—was where Reed wanted to recommend me as the new resident for an available studio.

"The Hands," which was funded not only by Jane and Conner but also by several art patrons and corporations, did not charge a commission on art sales, unlike typical galleries or dealers; all profits earned while under the organization belonged entirely to the artist. Even so, since all the artists were emerging talents, the amounts weren't substantial, but it went without saying that this was incredibly helpful in establishing themselves as painters.

Galleries usually charged commissions ranging from 30 to 50 percent of the artwork's price. If the commission was 30 percent, that was considered quite low. Therefore, if the commission wasn't factored into the sale price, it wasn't just the artist who benefited. More people, beyond the wealthy few collectors, could have the opportunity to acquire good art at a "reasonable price."

That was the artistic direction "The Hands" pursued, and I couldn't deny that I agreed with their philosophy and found it appealing.

"...What do you think?"

Yuni leaned forward slightly, glancing at me tentatively, and asked carefully.

Fiddling with the coffee cup, its color now much lighter as the ice had nearly melted, I lightly moistened my lower lip with my tongue. I felt thirsty, and though I held coffee, I had no desire to drink it.

"I'm very happy about the offer... and grateful, but..."

I shook my head at Yuni. She moved closer to sit beside me and took off the sunglasses she was holding.

"They want to email me some information about the organization's nature, operating system, and facilities. It shouldn't hurt just to receive it and look it over first. They haven't told me yet... but it's okay if I give them your email address, right?"

"Even if I receive the materials... my opinion won't change."

Yuni's clear eyes, which had made such a strong impression on me from our first meeting, stared at me intently. Her short black hair was blowing messily toward her face in the strong wind, but she didn't seem to mind.

"Is that because of the Director?"

"......"

"You and the Director... are dating... right?"

Perhaps sensing how strange her question was, Yuni let out a short laugh even before hearing my answer.

"I truly never imagined I'd end up asking you a question like this, considering the Director."

Yuni laughed, resting her legs on the bench with her knees up, her arms crossed over them. She shook her head while holding the sunglasses to her lips, explaining the reason for her amusement.

"No. The issue isn't that it's you. There was absolutely no information about who the Director's romantic partner was, or even if he was dating anyone. But he is certainly not the type to play games with someone like you. You are definitely dating, aren't you?"

"......Yes."

Back when Juhan warned me to stop if I liked him, saying I wouldn't get what I wanted. Even then, I had a certain level of certainty about the relationship between him and me. Back then, it was such a cautious stage that only the two of us could be included, so I couldn't tell Juhan that we liked each other, or that I wasn't just one-sidedly crushing on him.

But now... I was admitting to Yuni that we were in a "definitely dating" relationship. Although I hesitated a little before answering, it wasn't because I lacked certainty.

At my answer, she smiled faintly and reached out, tapping the lens of the sunglasses I was wearing.

"These are the exact same ones as the Director's. To think that man would buy you the exact same pair just to assert ownership."

She laughed, sounding teasing and disbelieving, then took a sip or two of the coffee she had set down next to the popcorn.

"I did think he was particularly fond of you, but he's the type who carefully looks after all his affiliated artists anyway, and you're not the kind of person anyone would dislike. I just figured he doted on you because you were young and endearing, and then you became one of his artists, so of course he'd be fond of you. Even if he acted rudely at first, as if you two would never see each other again, he's not the type to pretend not to notice the other person's good qualities as time goes on."

That was exactly how he was. He might not have been polite, but he wasn't one to arbitrarily set expectations for someone only to be disappointed. He clearly recognized and acknowledged strengths, and he was also someone who delicately looked after the needs of those around him.

It was hard to view his actions—providing Yuni and Juhan with an officetel, arranging English tutoring, and creating a comfortable environment for business trips—as mere consideration from a boss.

It was just that I had never encountered that type of person before; thinking back now, he wasn't a cold-blooded person who wouldn't bat an eye at someone suffering from hyperventilation. Even if it hadn't been me, he was the kind of person who would have shown basic kindness, like administering first aid and letting someone rest in a comfortable place. Though he certainly wasn't the type to caress someone and make them climax just to calm them down and get them to sleep after they were suffering from hyperventilation.

After exchanging a small laugh with Yuni while facing each other, I stirred the ice in my cup with a straw and recalled this morning.

Since he was scheduled to attend Chloe Kent's luncheon with Shushu, Yuni and I had agreed to go sightseeing alone today—our last day in Chicago—and I had gotten up first to start getting ready.

To avoid waking him, I showered in the master bedroom's bathroom and quietly finished getting ready. Then, as I sat beside him, looking down at him sleeping with a sense of wonder, just as I was about to get off the bed, he grabbed my wrist.

"Are you just going to look at me and leave without even giving me a kiss?"

Although he said that, he seemed so exhausted he could barely keep his eyes open. Given the lack of sleep and accumulated fatigue from Seoul, it was understandable. I turned back to him, hugged him, and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and lips.

Only after asking if I had taken my medicine and hearing my answer did he release my wrist and bury his face back into the pillow. As I was about to leave the room, he apologized once more, mumbling against my back that he was sorry for not keeping his promise.

However, I really didn't care about sightseeing. I was worried because it seemed like all the difficult things that had been plaguing him had hit him at once since the business trip. Of course, most of those problems had already been pressuring him back in Seoul; I just hadn't known about them.

"Then... do you know why the Director is suddenly rushing the New York branch story so much? Haven't you heard anything?"

Yuni, who had been staring silently out at Lake Michigan, lost in her own thoughts just like me, asked in a low voice. I shook my head.

"Even if you knew something, asking you to reveal what he told you because you're his lover would be out of line."

Yuni glanced over at me, smiled, and then immediately turned her gaze back toward the lake, whose vastness was beyond measure, making it seem infinite to our eyes.

"When I left home, I was completely fed up. I was arrogant, thinking that because I was smart, resourceful, and good at everything, I could build my life exactly as I wanted without relying on my parents' financial support by following the path they set out. In reality, though, I was just an inexperienced high school graduate. I got an entry-level job at some gallery, earning next to nothing, basically being exploited for labor. Since there was a line of people willing to work for even less money, anyone who wanted to build a career had no choice but to endure that period. It turned out that being smart, resourceful, and good at everything... wasn't very important to those people. After all, those aren't the virtues required of a junior. It wasn't just me; that's how it is for everyone starting out in this field, even those who graduated with the right degree from a relevant major. Being called a gallerist sounds impressive, but as you know from working in the field, the actual day-to-day work is mostly just handling miscellaneous paperwork."

Yuni gave a bitter laugh and took a few sips of her coffee.

"That's when I met the Director. Even though the work wasn't much different from what I did at the previous gallery... meeting someone who recognized and appreciated my effort to do better made all the difference. I realized that even though I act like I know everything, I'm still just a kid who needs the recognition and praise of adults like Director Liu or Manager Han to grow better."

"......"

"The Director and Manager Han are like second parents to me and Kwon Juhan... I think."

Having watched them from the sidelines, I understood exactly what she meant, but I couldn't bring myself to say that I knew.

That day, after the afterparty, Yuni apologized in the elevator for confusing the personal and professional with him, but she, he, and I all knew that their relationship, centered around Phantom, wasn't clearly separated into public and private spheres.

"Manager Han is one thing, but if you put it that way, the Director would be annoyed and ask why he's your parent."

I could so clearly picture the tone and expression he would use that I laughed along as I looked at Yuni.

"Please keep Reed's proposal a secret from the Director and Manager Han for a while. I think I need some time to think about it quietly on my own. You should discuss it with the Director, too. Especially if the two of you... are in a serious relationship."

My feelings weren't going to change. So, I just smiled ambiguously without answering.

"You're going to tell Juhan... right?"

Yuni reached out, ruffled my hair, and laughed. Her laughter, too, was unclear.

"Let's go. It's too windy. What if the Director docks my travel bonus because you caught a cold?"

Yuni put her sunglasses back on and brushed herself off. She tossed the popcorn, which she had been craving so much, into the trash can without a second thought, even though she hadn't even finished half of it, as they left Navy Pier.

Shushu and Yuni were heading to Seoul, while he and I were going to Boston.

The next day, we left Chicago—the Windy City, the city of wind that blows everything away and mixes it all up—heading in different directions.