It was a clean cutback.

Morae popped up on the cresting white foam in an instant, immediately turned her board, and zigzagged across the curve of the incoming swell.

The sequence of movements — dazzling, never once losing the wave's rhythm — drew cheers from several people watching along the beach.

The wave quality was excellent, thanks to the steady breeze blowing in from the distant eastern sea. Even from my perspective — years of watching surfers without ever trying it myself — the conditions looked absolutely perfect for a leisurely session.

The sky and the sea looked like a decalcomania: a pattern made by folding a piece of paper in half and unfolding it. Like the accidental marbling you get when blue and white pigments are pressed together under light pressure.

White clouds in the blue sky. White waves in the blue sea.

About ten people were waiting in the lineup to catch a wave, but the only surfer who had actually caught one and ridden it all the way to shore was Morae.

Her balance on the board was so perfect it was hard to believe she was floating on water, relying on nothing but a six-foot, seven-inch plank.

There was no sense of precariousness or danger. She looked more comfortable and free than someone riding a bicycle on land, and the wave seemed to carry her along like a carpet — a magic carpet from some faraway fairy tale.

"Wow… what must it feel like to ride like that?"

"Amazing. If I could just ride like that once, I'd have no regrets."

Even the people taking lessons about ten meters from where I sat stopped churning their arms and marveled at her surfing. Their admiration quickly turned into urging directed at their instructor.

"Instructor, when can we ride like that?"

Yeehan, his back to the sea as he faced his students, subtly turned his head, confirmed that the object of their "riding like that" was Morae, and let out a sigh. The scowl on his face was clearly visible even over his sunglasses.

"The surfer you're admiring right now has seven years of surfing experience, and her swimming experience — well, you can just assume she's been floating in the ocean since she learned to walk. Now what about all of you?"

"……"

They were beginners handling a board for the first time today, practicing paddling by lying face-down on styrofoam boards placed on the sand and churning their arms.

At his blunt, unfiltered words, their shoulders slumped. They wore the expressions of people standing at the foot of a mountain, looking up at the summit before they've even begun to climb.

April.

The weather was still too chilly for swimming, but as soon as the temperature recovered enough to get into the ocean in a wetsuit, beginners eager to learn and experienced surfers alike all flocked to the beach. The landscape here — and the kind of tourism it drew — had changed significantly over the last few years of the surfing boom.

Morae finished her surf, walked out of the sea with her board tucked under her arm, and skillfully unzipped her wetsuit and pulled her arms free even while alone. She sank down onto the spot next to me.

"Oh, man. It's no joke riding after such a long time. There isn't a single spot on me that doesn't ache."

I took the water bottle out of my bag and handed it to her.

This was her first surf in the East Sea this year. She'd mentioned taking a surfing trip to some island in Southeast Asia over the winter — while Yeehan and I were finishing the final stretch of our service — but that was already about three months ago.

Even as she complained, her wet face was clearly flushed with excitement. It was the energy that radiates from someone doing exactly what they love. I could feel the cool, salty touch of the sea from her sitting beside me.

It was perhaps the same feeling I'd had when I first met Morae nuna at this beach — arriving on Yeehan's bike while she was surfing — that same warmth and scent when she walked out of the sea and offered me a handshake with a smile.

Maybe that was why. Although her name was Morae, she always reminded me of the sea: full of moisture and vitality.

Not the dry, grating sand spread across school playgrounds or piled up at construction sites, but the sand that is part of the ocean — perpetually drenched by relentless waves, constantly changing its shape.

Whether she was an Alpha or not had nothing to do with it. It was the impression conveyed by the mere existence of Lim Morae — not the effect of pheromones, which are reproductive elements. Besides, it was nearly impossible for me, a Beta, to detect Alpha pheromones in the first place.

"How was it?"

"You ride as cleanly as someone who was out there yesterday."

"Do I ride better than Yeehan?"

I turned my head to look at hyung, demonstrating for his students by paddling on a styrofoam board. Then I answered in a low voice.

"You always rode better than him."

Morae glanced over toward hyung as well, then gave me a quick smile so no one else would notice.

"I did some special training while you two were away. It's nice to ride again after so long… but the waves are too tame. Ah, I wish I could ride some big waves!"

That had been Morae's refrain lately.

She had described many times the thrill of riding inside the hollow tube formed when a big wave curls and crashes — and the sense of mystery, as if being sucked for that brief moment into a natural dimension entirely separate from Earth.

Such waves were hard to come by in the East Sea. Even Yeehan, who had never surfed abroad, had only heard about them or seen them in videos; he had never actually ridden one.

As skilled surfers, they couldn't be satisfied with just the waves of this sea. No matter how long they stayed on their boards, a lingering thirst remained.

About seven years ago — back when this beach, now lined with over a dozen surf gear rental and lesson shops, was nothing but seafood restaurants and cafés catering to tourists — Morae was practically the first person to ever put a board on these waves.

After trying surfing in Hawaii on a family trip, following a guide's suggestion, she immediately bought a board and came home. Traveling to a Pacific island, or arranging for the large piece of equipment she'd bought there to be flown back — neither posed any real difficulty for her.

Morae's father was one of the wealthiest and most influential men in the area, owning five or six large fishing trawlers and several restaurants. He was someone who spared no expense for Morae — his only daughter among older brothers, a daughter born a female Alpha, his precious and somewhat troubled child.

Thanks to Morae, Yeehan naturally took up surfing and was instantly hooked. As soon as the ocean warmed enough for their wetsuits to handle, the two of them would race to this beach, a forty-minute ride away on their bikes. And just like now, I would sit on the shore watching them paddle out to the lineup and get pushed back to the sand again and again, never seeming to tire of it. It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that my three years of high school passed exactly like that.

"Want me to teach you? Want to give it a try?"

A question I'd heard at least a thousand times over five years. My answer was always the same. I fiddled with the water bottle she'd handed back and shook my head.

"Aren't you bored?"

Same response.

Yeehan hyung and Morae nuna asked periodically, but they never tried to actively persuade me or drag me into the ocean by force. This time too, Morae nuna just laughed while lightly tapping my shoulder with her wet fist. But the laugh carried disappointment and worry — that I was still the same person even after finishing my service.

She got up to head back into the water. I brushed the sand off and stood to zip up the back of her wetsuit. That was my role whenever Yeehan or Morae was without the other.

"Alright, lift your hips! Keep your gaze far ahead! Engage those triceps!"

"Instructor, can we stop now? I want to get out in the ocean!"

"With your current arm strength, you wouldn't make it ten meters out there. Arch your back more. If you can't secure your vision, you're not just putting yourself in danger — you're putting other surfers at risk too!"

Morae nuna let out a soft chuckle at hyung's rigid, instructor-like tone — barking corrections and re-emphasizing safety.

"Looks like he still hasn't shaken off that military stiffness."

I smiled back at her in agreement. Morae nuna lightly patted my cheek with her cool, wet hand.

"But Ihyeon is so fresh and dry. Who would ever think you're an old army man who just got discharged?"

Army man.

That was true. Just a few months before enlisting, being a soldier had felt like belonging to a completely different realm from being a high school student — like a fully realized adult who had completed the transition to the next stage. But now… I wasn't even sure what that nearly two-year stretch had actually left me with.

"Don't follow anyone who talks to you if you don't know them, and stay right here, okay?"

When I nodded, she flashed a bright smile, her face dotted with seawater, tucked her board under her arm, and headed back into the ocean.

She crossed the boundary between the sea and the sand without hesitation, paddling against the direction of the waves toward the lineup, her head held high without fear even on the unpredictable water — just as Yeehan was currently emphasizing to his students.

And then, miraculously, she stood up on that fragile white foam, which looked like it could vanish at any moment.

No matter how many times I watched, or how many years passed, it was always an astonishing sight.

· · · · ·

The fish market was chaotic, preparing for the evening boats that would soon arrive. Near a few vessels that had come in slightly early, auctions were already underway. Perhaps because the weather had warmed up, quite a few tourists were visible as well. The shops selling iceboxes and ice buzzed with activity.

Near the very end of the pier leading to the breakwater, I sat perched on a low concrete mooring pillar, looking out to sea.

The boats that had headed out at dawn were beginning to appear one by one from the distant horizon, returning to port after finishing the day's labor.

A gust of sea breeze carried the smell of fish. As the sun set and the air grew sharply colder, I hunched my shoulders and shoved my hands into the pockets of my light jacket.

Yeehan had gone out on the boat today with our grandfather and my uncle. If hyung hadn't been on the boat, I almost never would have come down to the harbor to wait for their return.

My uncle — Yeehan's father — and our grandfather had been pressuring hyung to join them on the boat. It seemed this had been going on since hyung was in middle school, even before I came here.

I had been granted an exemption, but hyung hadn't. He had started running small errands on the boat in the later years of elementary school, and by the time I arrived here he was already fully equipped — a proper fisherman who could pull his weight.

But hyung only ever considered it temporary help for his hardworking grandfather and father. He had no intention of becoming a fisherman himself.

Now that he had been discharged, though, grandfather and uncle were pushing harder than ever, as if they had been waiting for his return. The adults insisted that since he had finished his service, it was time for him to settle down.

Hyung was only twenty-three years old.

He had been holding out, refusing to even board the boat after his discharge — afraid it would be taken as a sign that he intended to keep fishing, or cause them to expect as much. Yet today, he had gone out to sea.

Morae's phone had been turned off all day.

Our grandfather's boat came into view. A small secondhand fishing vessel, purchased with loans pulled together from here and there — small enough for three men, grandfather, uncle, and Yeehan, to operate.

The spot where I was sitting was our boat's designated mooring slip. Hyung, standing at the bow and preparing to dock, made eye contact with me.

I caught the rope he tossed and wrapped it around the piling. He let out a small laugh at how clumsily I handled it. Seeing him smile at me confirmed that nothing serious had happened, and the tightness in my chest that had lingered all day finally eased a little.

In an instant, the catch was transferred to the fish market right beside the pier, and a Fisheries Cooperative employee in a red cap blew a whistle to call the auctioneers. From the moment the boat docked to the moment the goods were awarded to the highest bidder felt like less than ten minutes. Everyone involved was a professional.

Without waiting for instructions from grandfather or uncle, as soon as the auction ended, hyung loaded the fish onto a cart with an oxygen tank and began making deliveries to the restaurants that had won the bids.

I was watching hyung's broad back when I sensed a shift in the surrounding air and turned.

"Old man. A word."

It was Morae's father.

Mr. Lim — who appeared to be about grandfather's age — skipped any greeting and demanded a private word with a grim expression. Before grandfather could respond, Mr. Lim had already turned his back and started walking ahead.

Everyone who bought, sold, or moved fish at this market — excluding outsiders — owed him money. That was what the adults always said. Even allowing for exaggeration, it wasn't entirely baseless. Our family was no exception; we were in debt to him as well.

Grandfather and Mr. Lim navigated through the sidelong glances of people pretending not to watch, exited the fish market, and turned the corner past the Fisheries Cooperative building. Once the two men were completely out of sight, the surrounding murmur returned to its usual volume.

Only uncle couldn't tear his gaze from the heavy, lingering significance of their departure.

From beneath the brim of his deeply pulled-down hat — a hat that always retained a fishy smell no matter how much it was washed — uncle's eyes, lined deeply for his age, stayed fixed on the spot where they had disappeared. Then, slowly, his paused hands began moving again.

His hands, plunging fearlessly into piles of fish with mechanical precision as he prepared for the next auction, were tough and thick, as if incapable of feeling any emotion or pain.

My own soft hands, which had never once gutted a fish, suddenly felt tainted with guilt — like hands stained with blood after stabbing someone — and I quietly tucked them into my jacket pockets.

· · · · ·

Grandfather said he would kill Yeehan.

He slammed the floor with a long pole kept in one corner of the yard, screaming that anyone who acted up without knowing their place and dragged their parents' name through the mud deserved to be beaten to death.

"How dare you, you good-for-nothing… where do you think you're reaching!"

Grandfather seemed less like Yeehan's grandfather and more like Morae's.

"Who do you think you are, dragging Mr. Lim's daughter around? Did you want to see this old fool groveling like a criminal in front of him, you son of a bitch!"

The pole struck the ground sharply once more.

"Who dragged her? What bastard is going around saying that? I'll rip his mouth apart!"

Yeehan wasn't exactly meek either. I could picture his face — veins popping, shouting even while sitting inside the room.

"Shut your mouth! You're the one who'll have his jaw ripped apart for taking a rich man's daughter to a motel, you punk!"

Morae and Yeehan had been dating since middle school, and around high school, Morae's family had begun applying pressure when rumors about them surfaced.

At first the pressure had only amounted to occasional disapproval — perhaps because they believed the two were still young and their relationship wouldn't last. But after Yeehan was discharged, that pressure had slowly shifted into something more concrete and threatening.

It must have been a few days ago, after they went surfing. The two of them and I had parted ways and I'd gone home first. Hyung didn't return until late that night. Someone must have seen them entering a motel together and reported it to Morae's father.

In a small fishing village like this, stories like theirs still made for interesting gossip. The whole town buzzed with rumors — who was having an affair with whom, who had run off abandoning their children. That kind of scandal filled the air.

"Someone like you takes his one and only daughter to a motel where people can see… how do you think Mr. Lim must feel, you damned bastard? No matter what you do, Mr. Lim will never give his daughter to you — don't you get that yet? It's obvious you'll end up standing there empty-handed like a fool, so why are you chasing a pipe dream?!"

Although I wasn't there, I knew without seeing it that Yeehan hadn't taken Morae — they had gone together. Even if the conclusion was the same, those two versions carried entirely different meanings.

"Who said I was asking that man for Morae? Is she his property? If she were your daughter, would you really think it was up to you to just hand her over to someone?!"

"Stop talking nonsense! Would a family like that give their own child to a nobody like you?!"

Grandfather believed that the reason Morae's parents opposed the relationship was the decline of their family's standing — but in reality the issue was somewhat more complicated than that.

Grandfather and the other adults didn't know Morae was an Alpha. In this village, besides Morae's family, only Yeehan and I knew.

Alphas, said to make up roughly one in every thousand people nationally, were mostly concentrated in areas with high income and education levels. By the statistics, a small port town of about thirty thousand like this one should have around thirty Alphas — but in reality, there seemed to be only two or three at most, and even those were people who were merely Alphas in a biological sense, not significantly different from Betas.

For ordinary people, it was difficult to even catch a glimpse — over an entire lifetime — of an Alpha with the powerful pheromones and capabilities depicted in dramas and films: the Golden Alphas written as protagonists. Even if such an Alpha were born here, they would inevitably leave for a big city to take advantage of more favorable conditions.

In this small fishing village, where Betas were the absolute majority and the average age was high, Alphas and Omegas were not viewed favorably. Discrimination against female Alphas and male Omegas was especially severe. To the people here, they were nothing more than disgusting abominations.

That was why Morae's family had lived concealing the fact that she was an Alpha.

I didn't know exactly how strong her Alpha traits were, but between an Alpha and a male Beta, conception was difficult. Nearly impossible, in fact.

That was why Morae's family opposed her being with Yeehan. And if she had even suggested pairing with a female Omega, it felt as though one of the family members would have staged a suicide attempt.

It's not that I couldn't understand what they felt — wanting her to live a life without a single blemish in the eyes of others.

The problem was that Morae nuna cared more about a life with Yeehan than a flawless reputation.

The next problem was that her family was absolutely convinced she would regret her current choice.

To be able to make such strong assertions about someone else's future — not even their own. I wouldn't dare say a single word with that much confidence about my own life.

"Look at your uncle. He insisted on a marriage both families opposed, and look at the mess he's in now. Why waste your energy on something doomed to fail? You're not in a position to throw away your strength on that kind of nonsense — do you have no regard for your grandfather, who struggles just to haul in the nets at his age, or your father?"

The sudden mention of my father made me cover my ears, but it was useless. Grandfather was digging up other family wounds — dragging in matters completely unrelated to the issue at hand.

"Why is he being brought up now? Damn it, I can't even have a rational conversation with you!"

Yeehan spat out a curse, kicking what sounded like a washbasin or a bucket.

"Listen carefully, you idiot, and hear what your grandfather has to say."

Grandfather's tone, which had been boiling over until this moment, suddenly shifted. Unlike his previous shouting — carried on regardless of whether the neighbors could hear — his voice was now choked, as if someone were gripping his throat. As if the real point was only beginning now.

"If you don't do as I say, who knows what Mr. Lim will do to you, you fool! For the sake of his daughter… he's the type who wouldn't blink at crippling a nobody like you. The only reason he's held back this long is because he didn't want to make his daughter cry — not because he's helpless against you. Listen to your grandfather. Cut ties with her completely, starting today. If you really can't stand to be near her, go work the deep-sea boats for a year. Just listen to me for once, you useless punk!"

Mr. Lim.

Morae's father — called "Teacher" in these parts, though he wasn't a teacher by profession, nor was he distinguished or respected in any field enough to warrant such an address.

But grandfather was acting differently now. This wasn't like his earlier, aimless shouting. Whatever Mr. Lim had told him behind the Fisheries Cooperative building had left him visibly shaken, muttering to himself.

The commotion had only died down because Yeehan stormed out, but we weren't naive enough to think it was over. This was only the beginning.

They wouldn't stop.

Mr. Lim would try to separate Morae and Yeehan, and grandfather and uncle would try to force Yeehan onto the boat — because in their minds, this was the decent thing to do. They truly believed this was the path to happiness for Morae and Yeehan, or at the very least the only way to save them from a lifetime of regret.

I sat blankly in the room, fully exposed to grandfather's continuing curses and the argument between him and uncle, who had begun blaming each other even after Yeehan stormed out.

When I first arrived here, this room had been a mess. Discarded clothes, comic books, and surfing magazines scattered everywhere; on the low desk, textbooks and reference books I'd never opened were precariously stacked.

Like one of those pieces of junk, I had been tucked quietly into a corner — but a few days later, I started opening the window and cleaning the room.

I arranged the magazines and comic books in publication order, sorted the clothes by season and color before folding them into the drawers, organized the textbooks and reference books alphabetically. Whenever hyung messed it up, I cleaned it again.

The only thing in this room I hadn't touched was a single photograph Yeehan hyung had tacked to the wall.

A small picture showing the silhouettes of two people surfing on a red ocean, framed by exotic palm trees backlit by a sunset. Hyung had apparently torn it from some magazine, and it had held that spot since I first arrived here five years ago.

Yeehan hyung used to say, as though out of habit, that someday he would go and live in a place like that. He never specified with whom — but Morae was naturally included in his future. It was such an obvious thing it didn't need to be said. They were two people who had never, not for a single moment, imagined anyone other than each other in their lives.

I tried to focus my attention on the photograph — its corner curled, its colors faded.

Bali… I sounded out the name of that faraway place hyung had once told me about.

Grandfather's curses had now shifted toward the two of us — calling us heartless wretches who wouldn't even glance outside despite the chaos erupting in the household, whether son or grandson.

I was worried about Morae nuna and whether she was all right, but I couldn't even send a single message — afraid that reaching out might give my family yet another reason to come at us.

· · · · ·

"Seo Ihyeon. Seo Ihyeon, wake up."

I didn't know when I'd fallen asleep. I was curled up on the bare floor, still wearing the clothes I'd had on at the harbor.

It was Yeehan hyung who shook me awake. In the darkness, his eyes shone with an unusual brightness — a light that suggested something out of the ordinary.

It was dead of night. Only the faint glow of the sodium lamp hanging over the main gate barely reached into the room. The house had fallen completely silent in the meantime, and I could sense that it was raining — not from the sound, but from the change in the smell of the air.

"Just pack what you absolutely need. Quickly."

Yeehan hyung spoke in a low, rapid voice.

"Morae will be waiting at Jaeyoon hyung's office. We'll drive to Seoul from there in his car."

Jaeyoon hyung was the owner of the surf school and a close friend of both Morae and Yeehan. Hyung had worked there as an instructor before enlisting, and even after his discharge he occasionally taught temporary lessons there to earn money.

It was a plan we'd been making for a very long time — since high school. We'd decided that if the situation ever reached a point of no return, we would put our plan into motion.

I felt a little out of place being included in what was, in some ways, an elopement — but they had included me from the very start, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

No one was telling me to work on a boat, and no one was pressuring me to break up with a lover — yet the fact that I had nothing waiting for me became my reason to leave. I had no reason to go, but then again, I had no reason to stay.

It had started as half a joke. Back in high school, lying on the beach and laughing as we sketched out this absurd plan like something from a low-budget film, we never once thought the day would actually come when we'd carry it out.

Hyung's and my hands moved swiftly as we chose what to pack. Nothing we owned was so precious that we absolutely had to take it. From the drawers crammed with nothing but striped shirts, I grabbed a couple of T-shirts and some underwear.

Finally, Yeehan hyung stuffed one of his favorite comic books into his bag, zipped it shut, and stood. He paused for a moment in front of the photograph on the wall. Then he tore it down, folded it in half, and tucked it into his jacket pocket.

The house — three rooms in a row facing the sea — had undergone modern renovations years ago, but its basic structure was still that of a traditional Korean house. We carefully slid open the door and stepped out onto the raised wooden porch, now covered in stone and cement.

As expected, it had started to drizzle. The sea breeze felt colder than usual against the skin — an unsettling chill that made the back of my neck prickle.

We hurried across the yard through the damp air. Hyung gestured for us to climb the wall instead of opening the main gate. It wasn't very high; it seemed better than risking a noisy exit.

As we started walking toward the wall, a door opened behind us from the main house. The sound of a sliding door being pushed outward from inside. We instinctively stopped and slowly turned around.

It was Father.

In the darkness — where only the sound of unseen waves could be heard — Father sat inside the room, holding the doorknob, looking toward us.

Yeehan and I were standing in the rain past midnight, each with a backpack, without umbrellas. Anyone could tell we weren't just stepping out for a casual stroll.

How would Father react?

Sweat beaded instantly on my forehead and down my spine. My pounding heart felt like it might burst.

In that moment, all my attention was fixed on Father's lips — not on whether our escape would succeed or fail. It wasn't the frustration of being caught.

The past five years. Those lips that had made me abandon hope, through the endless cycle of expecting and resenting, until finally even that cycle had gone silent.

Silence was exhausting. Yet I, too, had been becoming someone steeped in silence — someone most accustomed to it. Father…

"Ihyeon-ah, let's go."

I didn't know how long we'd been standing there getting soaked. Hyung placed a hand on my shoulder. It wasn't a gesture to hurry me along. He knew what I was thinking, what I was feeling.

We changed our minds and opened the main gate instead of climbing the wall.

The iron gate — long un-oiled and easily corroded by the sea air — creaked open. Hyung slipped out first, and then I stepped a foot beyond the threshold. With a heart more reluctant than Lot's wife leaving Sodom, I turned back one last time.

Where are you going? Don't go.

Father never said anything in the end.

· · · · ·

The interior of the antique vintage display cabinet was overflowing.

Our policy was to arrange the contents exactly as they appeared in the photographs we took before removing the items, unless the client specified otherwise — but even being generous about it, the state of the cabinet in those photos could only be described as a mess. Regardless of how high-end the collectibles were, their display condition was extremely poor.

If the client had been present, we would simply ask how they preferred things arranged and follow their instructions — but the client was absent today. We had used the door code to enter the previous house and begin packing, and the same applied when entering the new residence. Even now, with the move nearly finished, the client had not shown their face.

Just handle it as you see fit — that was the extent of the client's request.

Ah, there was one exception.

Absolutely, absolutely, absolutely handle the paintings with care — that was the only requirement the client, who hadn't seemed particularly demanding during the contract signing, had stressed repeatedly.

The client had moved into a magnificent apartment with a superb view directly facing the Yeouido skyline across the Han River, and owned not only expensive decorative items but also a considerable number of collected paintings.

To exaggerate slightly, artwork hung in every corner of the apartment, leaving almost no blank wall space — and in fact, one of the four rooms was used exclusively for storing paintings.

At first I wondered if the client was a painter, but despite the large number of works, I saw no painting tools anywhere. It was far more likely they were an avid collector or worked in a related field.

It had been a long time since I'd faced so many paintings at once. In recent years, the only artwork near me had been the baby shark mural or the angel wings painted along the uphill road to grandfather's house.

"What in the world is happening? Can these things really actually happen?"

Behind me, as I pondered the placement of an intricate porcelain doll in eighteenth-century attire, I heard the foreman's agitated voice. He was probably watching the news on his phone.

The foreman and the other four workers had nearly finished organizing and cleaning their respective areas. They were sitting on the carpet laid out to protect the floor during the move, killing time while waiting for the client to arrive.

Normally the team included an older woman in charge of the kitchen and bathroom, but today she and the foreman's son and daughter-in-law — a couple — had an urgent family matter; they needed someone to look after their grandson, who had just passed his hundredth day, so I ended up filling in.

Although my grades in school had been quite high, I hadn't gone to university, and I didn't have the confidence to survive office culture. Given my situation — more or less like being on the run — any position requiring full-time employment was immediately off the table.

That was when I stumbled across part-time work at a moving company.

The foreman grumbled that I looked like I'd never done hard labor and that my height was being wasted, but he wasn't the type to find unfair fault. I'd applied purely for the daily wage paid on the spot — setting everything else aside — but I could also freely choose the days I worked, and the pay was decent.

"What's wrong? Did something else happen?"

In a voice filled with indignation, the foreman began recounting the situation to the other drivers who had gathered out of curiosity.

"Some Alpha got drunk and caused a scene in a taxi — kicked the seats, tried to open the door while it was moving. The driver got fed up and dumped him somewhere mid-route. So there he is, completely wasted, no idea where he is, wandering around — and he runs into an Omega. What makes it so awful is that the Omega's cycle had started earlier than expected that day. Their boss, trying to do them a favor, had let them leave early to go home and take their medication."

Even just that much was enough to guess the rest. The others seemed to follow as well, murmuring their sympathy before the foreman had even finished.

"You can't even blame the taxi driver for pulling him out halfway. And if the boss hadn't been so soft-hearted and sent them home early — none of it would have happened. That's the thing. If even one piece had fallen differently, none of it would have occurred."

I listened quietly to the foreman's lament about cruel fate while absently fiddling with the hem of the porcelain doll's eighteenth-century dress.

"When you think about it, Alphas are no different from beasts. They might be handsome or smart — but when you hear what they do on the news, it's outrageous. They claim they can't control it with reason. Are they even human? I've never once seen an Alpha's face in my whole life, so the idea of people being swayed by pheromones like that always makes me uneasy."

The second foreman, who had worked alongside him for nearly thirty years, raised his voice even higher.

If the foreman leaned toward sympathy, the second foreman leaned toward a strong sense of justice — and between the two of them, it sounded like they'd seen just about every kind of situation this job could throw at a person.

"It's true for people like us, but Alphas and Omegas especially need money. Without it, they lose their dignity and turn into beasts in an instant. New medications and all sorts of upkeep cost a fortune. Anyway, it's the victim who's the real tragedy here… what are the odds of so many coincidences stacking up like that? You'd think something like this couldn't happen in the real world."

In reality, such events did exist — things that seemed impossible, requiring layer upon layer of sheer coincidence. Like a massive truck hitting someone crossing the street legally on a green light: so sudden and so lacking in plausibility that they probably wouldn't even be used in a film or a drama.

"Kid, is the kitchen far from done?"

"It's all done."

I answered while tilting the parasol-holding porcelain doll to a slight angle. The work had essentially been finished long ago. I was only fidgeting because I felt out of place among the older workers, all of whom were at least fifteen years my senior.

"The client will arrive in ten minutes, so let's finish tidying up and head straight out."

The foreman's voice, as he dusted himself off to clean up the carpet, was now filled not with sympathy for the Omega mentioned in the news but with anticipation of going home.

Just as we finished packing all the cleaning supplies and sent them down in the service lift, the client arrived. Their expression and movements clearly betrayed a sense of urgency. Apologizing for keeping us waiting, the client handed the foreman an envelope and suggested we all go out for dinner.

The client interaction was the foreman's domain, so I only caught a glimpse — but the client, dressed comfortably yet elegantly, didn't seem nearly as demanding as we'd been told. The inspection was over in a flash. Aside from the room where the paintings were stored, they simply opened each door and peered inside.

While waiting for the elevator, everyone busied themselves praising the client — saying that if all clients were like this, the job wouldn't be so unbearable, and it wasn't just because of the dinner money.

"But it looks like they live alone in a place like this. They must be quite successful."

"Exactly. Even if it's a long-term lease and not owned, an apartment this size in this building would be around 1.5 billion won."

"Is this place really that expensive?"

The other movers widened their eyes in unison, wearing identical expressions, upon hearing the estimate casually dropped by the youngest member besides me, a man in his thirties.

One and a half billion won. To me, it felt no different from ten billion, a hundred billion, or even a trillion. Simply a very large amount of money that carried no sense of reality whatsoever. A truly, truly large sum.

"We got lucky today — a client who even covered dinner money. Maybe we should buy lottery tickets."

"Hyung, how much did they give? I'm sick of samgyeopsal and soju. If it's a decent amount, let's eat something else tonight."

At the second foreman's urging, the foreman pulled the envelope from his back pocket and was just about to open it when — ding-dong — the sound of a lock disengaging came from inside the entrance we had just left. The foreman quickly tucked the envelope away again.

"Just a moment!"

It was, of course, today's client calling us back urgently.

"Who cleaned the kitchen?"

We all hesitated, glancing nervously at one another, wondering if something had displeased the client or if a mistake had been made. The others, who had just been excited about celebrating with the unexpected dinner money, now looked utterly deflated.

I calmly tried to retrace my steps, but nothing had been broken or lost. It wouldn't be the worst-case scenario. Reassuring myself, I cautiously stepped forward half a pace.

"Our team's regular helper was absent today, so I took care of it."

I answered while looking down at the client's feet rather than their face. They must have followed us out in a hurry — they were wearing slippers over stockings.

"Well… as you can see, this one is still quite young… If there was something you weren't satisfied with…"

The client smiled broadly and shook her head toward the foreman who had stepped up to defend me, as if to say that wasn't it at all.

"No, it's not that… How about working for me instead? You're completely my type."

"……"

I couldn't grasp what she meant and could only move my lips slightly.

"Ah, that came out wrong, didn't it? I mean your style of working is completely my type. My place hasn't been getting organized lately because I've been so busy… and I'm the type who gets stressed when things aren't tidy… Finding someone I like enough to trust with it isn't easy, so it's been a real bind — but then I opened the kitchen cabinets and…"

The client, who had been rambling along with an explanation mixed with self-pity, suddenly stopped speaking.

"Are you… Ihyeon? Seo Ihyeon?"

From beneath the brim of my pulled-down cap, I raised my eyes to confirm the face of the client who had called my name precisely. It was the first time I had properly looked at her that day.

She had been a figure I'd consigned to the far edges of memory, to the backstage of my life. Now, without warning, she had stepped back to center.