Although it was still early June, the temperature already neared thirty degrees Celsius during the day, and the franchise café — just past lunchtime on a Saturday — was kept cool by an aggressively running air conditioner. I rubbed my bare arm beneath my short sleeves and pulled my chair a little closer to the laptop.

A man sat on a grey rock against a backdrop of dry, tangled underbrush — long neglected, drained of anything living. His eyes were ringed in black that had smudged at the edges. He gazed into the camera lens, or glared into it; it was hard to say which.

Unlike most photographs with this kind of atmosphere, it wasn't shot in high-contrast black and white. It was in color.

That somehow made it starker. In its natural colors, without any help, the setting was already dark enough, rough enough, bare enough.

Just as he'd looked in Phantom's underground storage that first time, Juhan hyung in the photo — sweater neckline pulled up to his chin, staring straight ahead — looked like a model. His pose, his expression, the atmosphere he built with them: to someone like me, it was indistinguishable from the real thing.

Old Future.

Old Future.

The website Yuni nuna and Juhan hyung ran wasn't the casual hobby shop they'd made it sound like.

Beyond the shop itself, the site featured photographs they had taken themselves, pictures of the two of them, moments from travel and daily life — and short pieces of writing that came out of those experiences.

· · · · ·

╭────

My favorite part of Hong Kong is the Old Town — the stretch of Noho, Soho, and Poho that faces itself along the steep climb up to Victoria Peak. It's a place that manages to be both a sophisticated, sought-after destination and somewhere the most ordinary, everyday Hong Kong still breathes.

A traditional market butcher shop with non-refrigerated meat skewered and hung out to cure, a bustling Hong Kong-style open-air food stall packed with locals trying to make a meal with a bowl of noodles, narrow buildings over fifty years old with bamboo scaffolding propped along their exterior walls for renovations — this area, where such scenes stand back-to-back with Michelin-starred restaurants and cutting-edge galleries handling the most avant-garde works, is unchanging yet always new.

Like meeting an old friend who never stops striving to become a better person — personally and socially — while holding onto what is most purely themselves, their energy and passion, there is always something there that gives you a good kind of charge.

The unexpected harmony of clashing colors that seem like they have no business working together on the same street, the exotic smells that take hold of you, the languages of the world threaded through with Cantonese accents.

The novelty unique to Hong Kong — which shows a different face every day, driven by its most international sensibilities and distinctively local character — sparks curiosity and interest even in travelers who have visited the city many times before.

Kwon Juhan and I are such light smokers that calling ourselves smokers seems questionable — we don't finish a full pack in a year. Yet after a drink at a pub in Soho, without either of us saying a word, we find ourselves rushing to the nearest convenience store for cigarettes and a lighter. The desire to let go, just a little freely, or perhaps a little forgivingly, of the tension of maintaining our everyday selves — and simply look at what is around us.

To be the most Hong Kong while simultaneously being the most international.

To be inclusive without losing oneself.

In the sense that it keeps reminding me not to give up on that — Hong Kong is a city I want to return to whenever I can. Even for a punishing three-night, four-day work trip.

╰────

· · · · ·

In the photo, Yuni nuna and Juhan hyung stood in a narrow alley on a steep slope — looked comfortable as themselves without exaggeration or concealment — they looked like part of that city rather than tourists.

Just as Bali symbolizes paradise for Morae nuna and Yeehan hyung, perhaps Hong Kong is that kind of city for Yuni nuna.

And while reading that passage, for the first time, I felt a desire to visit a strange city I didn't even know well. I had listened to Morae nuna and Yeehan hyung go on about Bali for years without ever once thinking it might be somewhere I could actually go.

A desire to look at things with curiosity, to experience them directly with my own eyes and hands rather than through photographs or books. These desires were confusing.

Because I had been thinking that every desire to want something had naturally faded away.

It seemed as if they had simply dried up and withered on their own from some point in the past — like unwatered plants, quietly returning to dust. I never tried to kill them deliberately. It was only my inaction that let them die.

So the reactions I'd been having lately — to things around me, to small stimuli — were bewildering before they were anything else. Before welcome, before frightening: just bewildering.

It felt like opening eyes I'd long kept shut, certain they no longer worked — and finding out I could still tell light from dark. Not clearly enough yet to make out the shapes of things. But something in me was beginning to register that the world had light in it, and shadow, and that they created depth.

I wanted to visit Hong Kong. I wanted to smoke cigarettes in those streets in the photographs with Yuni nuna and Juhan hyung.

Hong Kong — a city I'd had zero interest in before, merely a former British colony returned to China at the tail end of the twentieth century, yet one that still maintained its own distinct language, culture, and customs separate from the mainland, a city frequently cited as among the most expensive in the world alongside Singapore and New York — suddenly came at me as a living fascination, with its own expressions and scents, its own habits and distinctive ways of speaking.

I scrolled all the way to the bottom. In the final photo of the post, the two of them stood close together against a glittering Hong Kong night street, smoking. It wasn't a posed shot — it looked like a candid moment someone had caught.

As if they'd spotted something captivating, both were looking in the same direction with their eyes open a little wider than usual. Someone who had been watching them continuously must have caught the moment in the lens.

In the corner of the photo: Photo by Kun.

Liu Weikun.

I only learned his full name after I officially became an employee of Phantom.

I imagined him on the other side of the lens, framing the two of them. It wasn't hard to picture — the three of them in those Hong Kong streets, passing the camera back and forth, living in the moment. People who, each with the most distinct individuality, could share the same space without needing to wear each other down.

I brought the mug to my lips, thinking about their bond — how they moved through the world together, different in age, background, and standing at Phantom, without ever sorting themselves into the one who had power and the one who didn't. The coffee was cold. A light sigh escaped me.

The awkward friction I'd felt that night at the tapas bar — tucked away like a hideout — wasn't entirely down to my own cheerless personality.

Until now, I had tried to protect myself by "choosing nothing." I believed that by continuously refusing to move forward to whatever came next, I could stay in the present and hold myself together.

But doing nothing wasn't a way to maintain the status quo.

Bricks, plastic cups, and erasers can hold their current state if left untouched. Generally speaking, they can.

But living things couldn't. Without water, without nutrients, without a window cracked open for air — they would grow impoverished. The mind, the emotions, even a person's unique individuality and talent.

Morae nuna, Yeehan hyung, Yuni nuna, Juhan hyung, the Teacher, and the Director. Even Inwu hyung. They were all luminous people. People who poured their own convictions and passions into their lives.

Surrounded by their abundant light, I myself was nothing more than dried-up mud, lacking even the nutrients to sprout a single blade of grass.

That was the result of my "choosing nothing."

I took another sip of coffee. I exhaled slowly, the way you might open a window to let the air in. Sitting here any longer wouldn't change anything.

I closed the tab and opened the illustration program instead. The work, using only two colors — black and white — was the result of a week's worth of practice.

It goes without saying, but I had almost no professional skills to speak of. What I could do at Phantom was mostly miscellaneous: helping deliver sold artworks, moving heavy loads, providing basic guidance to visitors when others were away or busy.

Thinking I needed to at least learn the basics of Illustrator or Photoshop right away, I'd borrowed Manager Han's laptop and bought a few books Yuni nuna and Juhan hyung recommended. They came with video tutorials, so I could pick up the most basic functions quickly — but it still wasn't enough to be genuinely useful at work.

But just because I wasn't useful right now didn't mean I could stay stuck with only tasks like updating the client address book, sorting returned mail, cleaning, or driving. I had to be more useful. I wanted to be.

A daily life that would continue even without doing anything — I had already given that up myself, from that rainy dawn when I stepped over the threshold of the front gate and left my father behind.

"What's this, Seo Ihyeon, studying illustration these days?"

Someone placed a hand on my right shoulder from behind and leaned their face over my left shoulder. It was Juhan hyung.

As he took off his sunglasses and looked at the screen, I felt embarrassed by my clumsy work under his gaze, but I didn't try to hide it.

"Oh? Is this, by any chance, an advertising draft you were sketching out?"

Yuni nuna hopped onto the stool next to me and angled the laptop more toward herself.

We had voluntarily decided to come in on Saturday to reduce some of Monday's workload. Because Yuni nuna wanted to buy a few plants to decorate the gallery, the plan was to meet here, stop by the flower market, and then head over to Phantom. I hadn't expected the two of them to arrive a full twenty minutes early.

Showing someone my weak spots brought on as much tension as showing my work to others.

"It's not that… I was just practicing…"

"Not bad. It's more surprising you pulled this off with basic skills, hey."

Tapping my shoulder, Yuni nuna spoke in a quiet tone. It didn't sound like something she was just saying.

All of Phantom's work these days was focused on preparing for Shushu's solo exhibition, which had been moved up a week ahead of schedule.

Since Shushu was one of Phantom's key artists, Phantom had decided to take out an advertisement for the exhibition in an art magazine, and Yuni nuna and Juhan hyung had to draft the concept on top of everything else.

It wouldn't be much help, but I had squeezed these ideas out as a way to practice the skills I was learning, and to do something. It felt like I had to do something.

"You've been studying Shushu's work a bit, haven't you?"

Juhan hyung patted my shoulder and smiled.

"The clear outline is good. The color palette is simple overall, but the imagery is dynamic — it's exactly the artist's style, isn't it? We can definitely keep this part and use it as is. Is that okay?"

Nuna pointed toward the image — something like a wave, fluid and moving, built entirely from black letterforms.

"I'd be grateful if you did."

"Then shall I send it to my email right now?"

While nuna opened a browser window to log into her email, Juhan hyung stepped away briefly to order drinks.

I fiddled with my coffee cup, waiting for nuna to finish.

The front of the café opened directly onto a large window with a view of the street on a Saturday afternoon. Sitting in a place like this watching people felt utterly unreal, almost like watching television. My surroundings had changed so rapidly over the past month or two that my current life often didn't feel real.

It was the same feeling I'd had in the taxi on the way home after my first day at Phantom — that strange fear that if I went back, Phantom would simply be gone.

It was all a dream, Seo Ihyeon-ssi. Time to return to reality — as if someone was about to grab me by the collar and say those words.

"Oh? Were you looking at the Old Future website?"

Seeing Yuni nuna smile at me as she said that brought a measure of relief. It was still reality. At least, for now.

"Yes, the content is quite varied so I was looking around for a while. Oh, nuna — there's a pair of pants I want to buy from Old Future. These ones."

I found the thumbnail of the pants I'd been looking at on the Old Future site and showed it to her.

"Is it okay if I give you the money directly and take them?"

"What, are you trying to repay me because you received a gift?"

"No. Well, not entirely no — I just thought they were pretty."

At my strange answer — neither a yes nor a no — nuna touched her eyebrow piercing and laughed.

"Doing it that way is fine — but you could just sign up and pay yourself."

"My phone… it's not under my name. When I tried, I couldn't sign up."

"Not in your name? Then whose? In this day and age, it must be really inconvenient if your phone isn't registered under your own name."

Juhan hyung returned after placing the order, set the vibrating buzzer on the bar, and naturally joined the conversation.

"It's something like a burner phone…"

Even if I couldn't become a full employee at Phantom, Yuni nuna and Juhan hyung were connections I wanted to keep. But since I had now reached the position of working at the same gallery, I expected that someday I would have to give them some sort of general explanation of my current situation, even if I couldn't tell them everything.

If you spend time together every day, seeing each other's faces, you're bound to sense when someone's circumstances are not ordinary.

"A burner phone? Why are you using one?"

Juhan hyung lowered his voice as he asked, pulling his stool a little closer to me.

"It's not just related to me, so I can't go into detail… but before I moved to Manager Han's place, the hyung and nuna I was living with — it's more or less like we ran away from the village we were originally from. So…"

"The three of you ran away?"

Juhan hyung's long, narrow eyes took on a slightly shrewd look.

"Yes."

"An unusual escape. Two men and one woman?"

"Yes."

"Are those two by any chance a couple?"

This time I just nodded, and Juhan hyung nudged me with his elbow, smiling somewhat slyly.

"Hey — Seo Ihyeon has no sense of social cues."

"You think he'd just thoughtlessly wedge himself between a couple? There has to be more to it than that."

Yuni nuna was being generous with me... but perhaps I really was as clueless as Juhan hyung said.

I knew Morae nuna and Yeehan hyung had never seen it that way. But whatever they thought, if you looked at the situation on its own terms — two of them a couple, three of us running — it was hard to argue with "clueless." There wasn't much room for defense.

"So that's why you couldn't get hired as a full-time employee."

Yuni nuna rested her chin on her hand, tapping the piercing on her lip with her finger, nodding as if she finally understood.

Given the circumstances, working in a way that left records accessible by the National Tax Service or any other agency was risky. Because of that, I couldn't sign a formal employment contract and ended up getting paid slightly less per day than others even at the moving company. That sort of thing sometimes happens with day labor, and the foreman — who was essentially my employer — was someone who had seen all sorts of people and hired me without asking too many questions. I was lucky.

What I hadn't expected was that Phantom's Director — known to be particular about people — would try to hire me even after learning about my situation.

That night, at Manager Han's dining table, I had assumed the offer stood only because he didn't yet know my situation. That once he understood I couldn't be registered as a proper employee, that there'd be no clean paperwork, that he might get pulled into something messy — he'd take it back.

But when Manager Han came back from speaking with him, she laid out the terms: he'd agreed to skip the formal registration for now, until things improved. Even setting my circumstances aside entirely, the terms of the offer were excellent.

Even if there were other reasons for his decision that I wasn't aware of, and even if it might later become my weakness, for now I was grateful anyway.

Right now, I wanted badly to be part of Phantom — badly enough to take the risk.

"But I see you differently now, Seo Ihyeon. I thought you were just a good boy from a good home, but you turn out to be a troublemaker with a burner phone. Still — you aren't running around after committing some crime, are you?"

Juhan hyung gnawed at the end of a green straw as he asked, and I burst out laughing and shook my head. Perhaps embarrassed by his own question, he let out a small laugh too.

"I'm curious about your story, but just looking at you, Seo Ihyeon, you're clearly not the type to spill — so I won't ask."

Nuna playfully draped an arm over my shoulder and said,

"I always thought it was funny how well you fit with us — we're openly greedy about everything, and you always looked like someone who needed nothing at all. Turns out there's a reason. And honestly, scratch the surface of anyone and there's something there. You can look completely fine and have no idea what's going on underneath."

This time, Juhan hyung placed his hand on my shoulder with a soft, heavy thump.

The buzzer on the bar rattled violently. Yuni nuna frowned at the unpleasant noise and quickly grabbed it.

"Let's get our drinks and head out. We need to leave if we're going to stop by the market before heading to the office. It should line up roughly with the Director's arrival at the gallery, right?"

This place, where Phantom still existed, was still my reality.

· · · · ·

"Director!"

Yuni nuna waved her hand out the taxi window and called out to him in her cheerful voice.

That familiar large sedan was already in the lot. He'd just finished parking and was stepping out of the driver's seat — he raised one hand to shoulder height in answer to her greeting. A gentle smile beneath dark sunglasses.

Nuna got out first. Juhan hyung and I followed after paying, and by the time we reached the lot, she was already standing by his car.

"What about the artworks?"

"Right behind. But —"

He slipped off his sunglasses and narrowed his eyes at the one-ton truck slowing into the space the taxi had just vacated. Ten or so pots of varying sizes were loaded in the back.

"I told you. I was going to bring some plants into the gallery."

He crossed his arms and stroked his chin.

"Hmm. Doesn't seem like a great idea to me. We'll probably just end up killing them all."

"We have someone who won't let that happen."

Nuna draped an arm over my shoulder with full confidence. He looked at me with an expression that wasn't quite convinced.

"Have you grown anything like this before?"

"My parents… they used to grow a lot of plants."

Both of them really loved plants. From relatively easy ones like snake plants, cacti, Chinese money plants, and anthuriums, to large pots like rubber trees, areca palms, and alocasias. Our small balcony used to look like a jungle.

"Well." He slipped his sunglasses into his chest pocket. "Seeing how he keeps Manager Han's place going, at least he won't let them die."

Yuni nuna caught that. "Has it gotten that clean?"

A smile spread slowly across his face — faintly mischievous.

"If you're that curious, why not come see for yourself sometime? Instead of always trailing after Kwon Juhan for nothing."

"I'll pass on equally fruitless advice from the Director. Why not help unload the plants instead?"

He laughed — a short sound — and ruffled Yuni nuna's short hair. They were exchanging barbs, but the way people who are genuinely close do, where the sharpness is part of the warmth. To someone outside that particular frequency, it was a code impossible to read.

Unloading the pots and carrying them inside was quick work with four pairs of hands.

When he suggested grabbing coffee outside while we waited for the artworks, I assumed he meant a café nearby. He didn't.

Just past the main entrance — without crossing the parking lot, turning right along the building wall — there was a secluded space ringed with well-kept shrubbery. A small courtyard, a parasol, a four-person table set.

"Working on a Saturday is already unfair — why does the weather have to be this nice?"

Taking out the sunglasses he'd tucked into his pocket and putting them on, he tilted his head back to squint at the sky past the edge of the parasol.

"The artworks could have come in tomorrow, but you're the one who wanted them fast, Director," Yuni nuna said, scraping at her ice cream with a plastic spoon.

At the café next door, he and I had ordered iced americanos; Yuni nuna and Juhan hyung had gone for ice cream. The season had leaned fully into early summer — the kind of weather where cold things were the only reasonable choice.

"Can't help it. Thinking about making money puts me in a good mood."

He lifted the takeout lid, pulled out the straw, and drank straight from the cup, grinning.

I stopped stirring my coffee. His attitude toward Shushu was so particular — so unlike anything else I'd seen from him — that reducing the artist's work to money felt jarring. He leaned back, fingers laced behind his head, entirely at ease. His face had the contentment of someone about to start humming.

"Are the new works really that good?"

"……"

Silence. Only the satisfied smile beneath his sunglasses deepened slightly. That was enough. His talk about money was just talk.

He held Shushu's work so close he couldn't bring himself to speak about it carelessly — as if even saying it aloud would diminish something. Perhaps he held the artist who made those works just as close.

"Then we need to make some money too. You remember we have a photoshoot scheduled for next Sunday, right?"

Juhan hyung had already demolished his ice cream. He dropped the spoon into the empty cup and rubbed his palms together — the expression of a very pleased Tom contemplating what to do with a caught Jerry.

The Director straightened up from his easy slump and made a face.

"Ah…"

"You forgot?"

Juhan hyung's voice went up.

"Does it have to be that day? Saturday's the opening. We'll definitely be drinking all night."

"You drink yourself into the ground and sleep it off. We'll handle the shoot and head back on our own."

Yuni nuna didn't seem the least bothered that he'd forgotten.

"I don't remember paying you poorly. What are you doing with all that money?"

"We have to go study abroad."

"Then maybe I shouldn't let you do the shoot. If you two leave, I'm the only one who loses."

They were going back and forth playfully. I seemed to be the only one caught off guard by the mention of studying abroad. Whether it was Yuni nuna's plan alone or something that included Juhan hyung, she clearly had it in mind — and the Director's reaction said it wasn't news to him.

The shadow cutting diagonally across the table had deepened. Everyone here was moving — steadily, purposefully — toward something ahead of them.

"And half my ambition, I learned from you, Director."

Working around her lip piercing as always, Yuni nuna angled the spoon in from the side to finish her ice cream, then pointed it at him. He lifted the corners of his mouth and laughed.

"I always consider that an honor. But isn't making money the most fun thing there is?"

"Exactly. What's the point of just playing? Making money is what lasts."

"You make money doing what you love — having fun doing it. Kids these days are something else. I'm jealous."

"Though we could never match your scale. We could work our whole lives and probably not afford one car like that."

Nuna gestured toward his car at the main gate — only a sliver of the front bumper visible from where we sat. He let out a short, flat laugh that didn't quite sit right. Then, as if to shake it off, he reached over and intercepted Yuni nuna's hand just as she was lifting the spoon to her lips, eating the last bite of ice cream himself. It wasn't the first time he'd pulled something like that — nuna didn't even blink, she simply scooped up more ice cream.

Judging solely by the look of him, you'd expect a certain fastidiousness. Someone particular about cleanliness, about order. In reality, he didn't seem that way at all.

"What are you talking about when you have no greed for things like that? My only joys in life are making money, buying things like that, and showing them off."

He spoke lightly, but I could feel a subtle shift among the three of them — this was a topic that could only be raised in jest. Push any deeper and the ease of the gathering would break. His materialism, Yuni nuna's studying abroad — both felt, to me, like carefully handled ground.

"What are you talking about, Director, when you don't want to live on dreams any more than we do? Give people in their twenties somewhere to work — people who have nothing but their bodies and their ambitions. Open the gate. That's all you need to do."

He still looked unhappy about it but didn't push further.

He would likely object if anyone at Phantom were to leave, but I couldn't picture him interfering deeply in someone else's life in order to keep them.

"If you don't have plans, want to come along? We're doing a shoot for new Old Future pieces, and we're using the Director's garden. It's perfectly bleak, so the photos come out really well. Completely unmaintained."

Juhan hyung had invited me — but the space in question was the Director's house. I didn't quite know how to respond. At a loss, I glanced at him, but he only grumbled playfully, as if to say, Why am I getting this kind of criticism when I'm just providing the venue? It was actually Yuni nuna who noticed my gaze and caught the implication.

"Is it because you're worried about the Director? It's fine. We're only shooting in the garden anyway. Director, is it okay if Ihyeon comes along?"

"You said you'd do whatever you wanted while I was sleeping and head back. Do as you like. Just don't wake me up."

He said it nonchalantly, rummaging through the jacket on the back of his chair for a cigarette. Nuna scooped the last bite onto her spoon and held it out toward him in a silent question. Instead of lighting the cigarette, he leaned over and took it from the spoon. He ran his tongue over his lips and pulled a face.

"Ugh, sweet things really aren't my thing."

Yuni nuna and Juhan hyung burst out laughing.

His dislike for sweets was no surprise — but then why did he always accept whatever was offered, and why had he reached over and taken nuna's ice cream just now, when no one had offered it? I started laughing too, a beat behind everyone else, at the sheer unpredictability of it — this big, composed man behaving like a child.

The delivery truck carrying the pamphlets arrived, and as Yuni nuna and Juhan hyung got up, nuna pressed down on my shoulder: there was no need for three people to jump in for a task one person could handle, and she was planning to work me hard enough later anyway.

If it only takes one person, why not send me and let nuna stay? Being alone with just the two of us — it's still awkward.

"Speaking of which, did you quit the moving company? Or rather — now that you can't really move around freely, you had no choice but to, right?"

At least he was asking questions now. He'd stopped treating me as though I weren't there.

"Yes. It was always the kind of work you showed up to when you could."

That didn't mean he'd started caring how I felt. He was the one who'd brought it up, and he still wore his disinterest plainly.

"How have things been since then?"

"……"

But his expression changed when something caught his interest. Just like now. He finally lit the cigarette he'd been holding between his fingers and looked at me with a mischievous gleam.

I didn't know what he was referring to. I fixed my gaze on his sunglasses — or more precisely, on the eyes hidden behind them.

"Things going well with Choi Inwu?"

He seemed to recognize his own question was slightly absurd. He chuckled softly and added:

"Is he still in touch?"

"Sometimes... asking if I'm eating well. Things like that."

"Choi Inwu? Asking about food?"

As if it were impossible — like someone refusing to believe a notorious troublemaker had genuinely turned over a new leaf — he even snorted. Then he took off his sunglasses, set them on the table, and tilted his head toward his shoulder, looking at me sideways.

"Choi Inwu must be treating you like a child, Seo Ihyeon-ssi. Asking about trivial things like whether you're eating."

I couldn't work out what he meant. Hadn't his "something like responsibility" already done its job that night — served its purpose and been retired?

Watching him smoke and drink coffee, I held back the urge to ask, Then why do you keep asking about Inwu hyung? It felt like a provocation I'd regret. Worse — it felt like it wouldn't even land as a provocation. It would just become a weakness.

The gallery was closed, but Samcheong-dong on an early summer Saturday was full of people. The courtyard was shielded by tall shrubbery, but the voices beyond were close enough to hear clearly. Every voice out there was lit with excitement.

My coffee sat untouched. The ice had melted, but the level hadn't dropped. Smoke from the cigarette in his hand drifted from shadow toward light. The edge of the parasol — cheerful blue and white stripes — fluttered. I had a sudden urge to try on the sunglasses lying on the table. But I didn't have the courage to act on it.

He rested his elbow on the table and leaned his upper body toward me. He brushed his eyebrow with the finger holding the cigarette.

"Or — did you lose his interest, now that you're not an Alpha or Omega?"

"……"

It looked, to me, like the opposite of how it had been before — as if my not being an Omega was now exactly what had caught his interest, in some crooked way. Not Inwu hyung's. His. A man who had been furious I wasn't an Omega, and now couldn't stop being curious about it.

But even that twisted interest didn't last long. His phone vibrated on the table. He pressed out the cigarette — barely half-smoked — without a moment's hesitation, and was on his feet immediately.

The truck with the artworks had arrived.

· · · · ·

╭────

Eight months after Body and Soul — an exhibition that drew an enthusiastic response from visitors, critics, and industry media alike — Shushu now presents the Body to Soul series, solidifying his unique style while proving once again a deepened thematic consciousness.

The body as a means of expressing the soul.

The body suffering from discord with the soul.

The body existing physically, independent of the soul.

In handling the body as the subject matter of his works, Shushu has already reached a level of mastery unbelievable for his age and career.

As if delivering a mature sneer at the antiquated perspectives of some art professionals who still do not recognize photography as an artistic domain and treat it merely as an auxiliary tool for documentation, he presents a radical method in this Body to Soul series, utilizing only light and shadow — line and plane — in what amounts to a radical reduction.

The resulting works, which nearly abandon the realistic characteristics inherent to photography, are closer to traditional painting in meaning than to the medium itself.

As everyone knows, the simpler the style, the more clearly the depth of its foundation is revealed. To use a Korean food analogy, he has made an excellent meal from nothing more than a handful of rice and a simple kimchi. Honestly simple, yet never losing its dignity or individuality.

Before the unique style that only Shushu can show — and more than just style, before the serious and essential contemplation of life and humanity, the profound thematic consciousness engraved into the works after strict self-reflection — one cannot help but marvel at the external and internal world of this young artist.

Before his works, I always feel anguish.

I discover myself in his works — a self I do not want to face — and want to look away, pretend not to see, and walk.

And at the same time, I feel an impulse unlike myself: if only I could, if only I had a little more courage, to face that self just once. Because he too must have poured his soul into these works after going through such a painful process.

But I know — it is not something one can attempt with mere impulsive courage. I will probably remain cowardly.

And through his works I will awaken, if only briefly, to my own cowardice, and live on with that thin consolation of having defended the minimum of my humanity. Whatever anyone says, that is what art holds for me: placing us before immense things, so that we might contemplate the vague meaning of life hidden behind the ordinary continuity of days.

As his dealer, collector, and ardent fan, I await the works he will show us with both excitement and anguish.

╰────

· · · · ·

The pamphlets had printed without a hitch. The color separation was correct, page 14 hadn't followed page 3, the binding wasn't crooked. They could be packaged today and sent to clients tomorrow — everything proceeding on schedule.

While the address stickers were printing, I sat at the meeting table and picked up one of the roughly five hundred pamphlets stacked in front of me.

The art critic's preface that followed the artist's biography — a biography without a single portrait — was, frankly, exactly what you'd expect: pedantic, old-fashioned, the kind of text that leans on ontology and existential musing to dress up plausible jargon as meaning. That said, assigning meaning to the work through elaborate packaging was probably necessary for sales.

What was unconventional was the introductory text by Phantom's Director, Liu Weikun, that followed.

From what I'd heard from Yuni nuna and Juhan hyung, it was already extremely rare for a gallery representative's curatorial statement to be included in an exhibition pamphlet alongside a critic's preface — but the content was even more surprising.

Unlike most critiques published in official materials, which assess quality against objective criteria, his writing carried a deeply personal character — and it felt as though the writer himself was aware of this yet had no intention of revising it. In expressing his affection for the artist and his intensely personal impressions, he showed no hesitation whatsoever.

Very personal, ardent words of confession about the artist's delicate yet strong soul, and the original works born from the projection of that soul. It read like a love letter.

"Before his works, I always feel anguish."

Works capable of pulling from someone like him — someone who would never show his true heart to anyone, who deflected even talk of the things that mattered most in his life into jokes — the anguish of having to face himself. And the person who had made those works.

"These crazy bastards, at it again."

I tore my eyes away from the pamphlet at Juhan hyung's rough curse and looked up. His eyes fixed on his phone, he quickly added in an agitated tone,

"Do you know what the blog post title is? I looked up Shushu's exhibition and it says: 'Are Artworks by Alphas and Omegas Any Different from Creations Made in a Drug-Induced State?' This is the garbage they're putting out."

The post he indignantly sent me implied that the artistic value of works created by Alphas and Omegas — who could experience the special state of a heat — was no different from works produced in a drug-induced haze, subtly devaluing their creations. It displayed even more blatant hostility toward Golden Alphas and Golden Omegas — who could voluntarily induce a state of intense sexual arousal — questioning who could prove that their creativity hadn't been aided by pheromone exposure.

"What the hell is wrong with these people? A Beta complex, maybe? Or are they from some rival gallery, trashing things whether it makes sense or not? Seriously, what does sexual arousal have to do with creativity? Do they feel like painting or composing music when they get turned on? Even if that were true, what could a creation born from sexual arousal be other than obscene? Ignorance is bliss, they say. They really have nothing better to do."

The beep of the finished sticker print made Juhan hyung get up abruptly, his chair scraping back.

It was true that many successful people across various fields were Alphas or Omegas — not just Golden ones. But that was simply a high proportion of successes within the Alpha and Omega population. In absolute terms, the vast majority of people who achieved anything in their fields were Betas. Given how small a fraction of the population Alphas and Omegas actually made up, that was only natural.

The origins of Alphas and Omegas are still debated — no single theory has been officially recognized. The most credible suggestion is that in the high-mortality pre-civilization era, Alphas and Omegas — with their superior reproductive capability — made up a much larger share of the population, and the proportion of Betas gradually increased as humanity settled into agricultural society.

Medieval Europe saw movements in some regions to eradicate them, viewing them as cursed variants. Ancient China went the other direction — certain dynasties considered Alphas and Omegas the children of gods, refusing to recognize Betas as emperors or even as members of the royal family.

The image they carry now — physically attractive, exceptional across multiple fields — began solidifying after the eighteenth-century Industrial Revolution. A small minority fighting to preserve their lineage in a rapidly destabilizing world, they accumulated wealth and social influence in the process.

There's no established evidence that they're genetically superior to Betas. But in many societies, Alphas and Omegas tend to come from the upper class — though not the reverse — and over time, more and more of them have simply had access to better opportunities, environmental and social.

For Betas, who make up the overwhelming majority, pheromones add a quality that can sound almost romantic depending on how you look at it — which has made Alphas and Omegas natural subjects for film and television, and contributed to their outsized popularity in fields like entertainment.

Some people idolize them for being different. Others resent them for exactly the same reason.

If modern society has a real class structure, it's money — bluntly put. As the moving company foreman once said, Alphas and Omegas, with their particular physical constitutions, actually have a harder time without financial backing than most.

"Is the artist... an Omega?"

"Yeah. A Golden Omega."

Starting to place the roughly five hundred pamphlets into envelopes with almost mechanical motions, he added,

"Honestly, if you actually saw Shushu in person, you might think… that Omega-specific aura thing might actually exist. Like… someone truly noble? It's less about being handsome and more about the aura being special. Ah, this can't be explained without seeing it yourself. Anyway, with looks and aura at that level, he had fans in abundance even when he was dancing, and many followed when he transitioned to photography. Being a Golden Omega with those looks made him a talking point, and some people came to the art world because of him. Whether Alpha, Omega, or Beta, it's a world where looks are an advantage. Even athletes, whose careers have nothing to do with their faces, get more popular if their face is good-looking."

Golden Alpha and Golden Omega.

The pairing fit so well you'd almost think they'd been matched before either of them was born. It called to mind a pair of elegant engagement watches, presented as a set.

"So now he's stopped dancing entirely and only does photography?"

Juhan hyung, having finished packaging about fifty copies in an instant, paused briefly, scratched his cheek with his index finger, and frowned.

"He injured his leg."

Although I had done some research on Shushu for the magazine ad mockups, I had deliberately avoided information outside of his work, so I knew almost nothing about his personal life.

"In an accident while studying abroad, apparently. It doesn't affect daily life, but professional dancing is out. They say he was an extraordinary talent, but I know nothing about dance. He'd mostly lived in Hong Kong even before going abroad to study. I'd have no way of knowing."

Juhan hyung shrugged and went back to putting the pamphlets into envelopes. I didn't pause my hands while listening to him. The stack dwindled quickly — five hundred suddenly seeming like nothing — as we moved them across the table, each one sealed in a white.

An artist with an interesting background. Studied dance abroad, lived mostly in Hong Kong before that, and was now active as a photographer in Seoul — a Golden Omega.

I wanted to know more about what led him to switch to photography, but asking further personal questions out of curiosity seemed like idle chatter during work. Besides, I could always look him up online.

When about fifty pamphlets remained in front of Juhan hyung and me, Yuni nuna returned to the office.

"Not done yet?"

Juhan hyung gestured at the remaining stack with his chin.

"Almost done. Just these left. What about the display?"

"Almost done. Just two or three pieces I'm still deciding on."

The entire second floor had been cleared for Shushu's show, which meant the works could go straight up to the exhibition space today — no need to bring them up from underground storage first. Nuna, who'd been up there with the Director, dropped into the seat next to me, tilted her chin up at the ceiling, and blinked.

"Getting hungry. Want to get some pho?"

"Sure."

After sticking the address label onto the last envelope and patting it down twice, Juhan hyung answered cheerfully.

The work was done and nuna had suggested food, but I'd grown a little restless.

Since reading the line in the pamphlet — Before his works, I always feel anguish — I'd been thinking about what kind of work could pull a confession like that from someone like him.

"Um, can I go look at the works? Reading the pamphlet made me curious about the real thing."

"Of course, go take a look."

Nuna was still lying back with her chin tilted up at the ceiling. She blinked and smiled up at me. Then she called me back just as I was about to open the door.

"Ihyeon, when you go up, could you ask the Director if he wants to come for pho with us? He should still be upstairs."

But when I reached the second floor, there was no sign of him. He'd probably appear from somewhere. Or maybe he'd already gone back down before me.

I slowly made my way toward the exhibition hall on the far right. Unlike the previous joint exhibition by multiple artists, the wide spacing between each work was the first thing that caught my eye. It was an environment where one could focus far more on each individual piece.

Body to Soul.

Reality and unreality. Dream and terror. Freedom and restraint. Flight and comfort. Pathos and contempt.

Bodies expressed solely as black silhouettes against a white background.

Bodies that had lost expressions and contours, existing only as outlines and the black filling within them, were something other than bodies.

Boundaries grow faint and ultimately become meaningless. Is it a black silhouette revealed against a white background, or a white silhouette stamped onto a black one? Does experience form a person's nature, or does the quality differ depending on which person it passes through, even with the same experience?

It becomes unknowable. Ambiguous. It becomes no one's fault, everything becomes significant, and yet nothing matters.

What lingers in the space that has repeatedly expanded and contracted like breath… what becomes visible when nothing matters anymore…

"How is it?"

A voice from the left, at the entrance to the exhibition hall — sudden, but oddly enough, I wasn't startled. As if someone had told me he would appear at around this point and surely say exactly those words to me.

I slowly turned my head.

Leaning against the partition wall at the entrance, he was looking at me with his hands stuffed into his pants pockets. I couldn't tell how long he had been there. That didn't matter either.

He pushed off from the wall and started walking toward me. In the entirely white space, his footsteps pressed black dots into the silence.

"Choi Inwu says your eye for art is better than most critics'. I'm curious what you think."

Whatever Inwu hyung had said, and however sincere it was, I didn't have an eye for art. Not the kind that could persuade people in this industry. Even during the height of my painting days, I was immersed only in expressing the world I saw in my own way, with no interest in anything else.

But if he wanted to hear my impressions, there was no need to pretend I felt nothing.

I turned back to the work in front of me.

From the black silhouette alone, you couldn't tell whether it was one body or two. The volume suggested one person's shadow; the angles of the hands and neck suggested a pose impossible to make alone.

What mattered wasn't whether the model was actually one person or two. What I, standing before this work now, wanted to see the subject as — that was enough.

"In the work… I don't see the artist."

"......"

I didn't look back at him.

He had lightly baited me, as if daring me to voice my opinion on the work, but I sensed he wouldn't be able to maintain his composure once he heard my impressions.

Because the works filling this space were Shushu's. The things that tormented him, made him face life, and forced confessions from him.

"Not the artist — I see myself."

"......"

"Looking at it makes me want to paint."

Only then did I turn back. His eyes were on me, not the artwork.

We first met in this exhibition hall too. His eyes — the grayish-blue of seafoam breaking apart — had indifferently questioned my identity. Eyes devoid of any curiosity. Eyes that would probably show more colored expression upon discovering a newly placed pot in an empty spot.

But now was different. His eyes were looking deep into me, as if searching for the answer within my own gaze.

More than my false declaration of being gay, more than revealing I was Beta and not Omega, the confession that Shushu's art made me want to paint — a confession he couldn't possibly grasp the full weight of — shook him to his core, creating fissures in his gaze.

His eyes left mine and scoured my face: the tip of my nose, lips, cheeks, eyebrows, forehead. Intrigued by his gaze examining me, I let myself be explored, granting permission — and then — a scent, drawn in with the next breath.

A scent that seemed to settle, heavy and low, and then without warning coiled and seized — catching at wrists, at ankles, a sudden grip. Languid at first, then pressing down hard.

Drawn in, I approached him. I leaned my upper body until the tip of my nose nearly touched his shoulder, then straightened up and looked into his eyes.

"Your cologne… it's very unique."

What expression would he make, standing before my paintings?

What kind of introduction would he write about my work? I suddenly wondered.

· · · · ·

"Juhan hyung's trademark is his bangs — long enough to nearly poke your eyes out, but cut in a perfectly straight line, like someone used a ruler. They really suit him. When he's busy, he fixes them back with a plastic pin, and it makes him look kind of cute."

On the spiral notebook Morae had given me, I drew Juhan hyung with his straight-cut bangs. I added the yellow ribbon-shaped plastic pin he sometimes used, too.

I had no idea where he got that barrette — clearly meant for toddlers — but whenever he had to revise catalog mockups until morning, or wolf down jjajangmyeon in a corner of the office for a late lunch, he'd pull it out from somewhere and pin his bangs back. Once, he went out to receive visitors with it still on and came running back into the office cursing himself.

"Yuni nuna has short hair. Very dark, very short — I thought she dyed it, but she says it's her natural color. Her eyes are big and her pupils are very clear. She's short and slight, yet she doesn't seem small. You only realize 'ah, nuna isn't that tall' when you're actually standing next to her. I think it's her presence — it's so large that her height doesn't register. Phantom would be paralyzed without her. Manager Han gets so anxious without Yuni nuna that Juhan hyung teases her about having separation anxiety."

Morae sat beside me with her chin propped on her hand, eyes fixed with interest on the image of Yuni nuna I was completing. I was just finishing Yuni nuna's lip piercing with the ballpoint pen. I put two or three stars in the pupils, old cartoon style.

"The two of them are like fraternal twins. More precisely — Juhan hyung feels like the male version of Yuni nuna, and Yuni nuna feels like the female version of Juhan hyung. But if I said that out loud, they'd probably hate it. They'd be angry, right?"

I could already see and hear their displeased expressions — How am I similar to him? — so I drew a lightning bolt between the two figures and laughed to myself.

"This is a complicated feeling."

"What is?"

Morae tilted her head, chin still propped on her hand, and narrowed her eyes at me.

"Seeing how much Seo Ihyeon has grown makes me feel proud, but also a little wistful."

I gave a faint, dismissive smile at her words, but I knew exactly what she meant. She was the one who, without any urging or persuasion, had opened the door to change for me — persistently and steadily, simply by being beside me — when I tried not to mingle with anyone outside of her and Yeehan hyung, finding even the smallest changes overwhelming.

She did that not because I was her boyfriend's troublesome cousin, but simply because she was someone who couldn't treat another person's wound as lighter than her own just because it belonged to someone else. If anyone else had been in my place, she would have done the same.

Without that steady, weighty warmth of someone with no blood tie to me — someone who owed me nothing — the current me wouldn't exist. It was a foundation she and Yeehan hyung had built over a long time.

"You don't have to worry about me anymore."

"Overflowing with confidence already? Thinking you've grown that much, huh?"

Morae placed her hand on my shoulder and tapped it repeatedly. Her expression, swaggering like a thug about to shake me down, made me laugh.

"It's not that I can do things well. It's that somehow they'll work out."

If there was one thing that had changed most since coming to Seoul, that was it. I had tried to avoid stepping in any direction out of fear that something might change, but when I actually took a step, the world didn't crumble and I didn't transform into something else. Nothing like that happened.

I looked at Morae and added, seeking her agreement.

"That's how everyone lives, isn't it? Right?"

"That's right. Nothing ever gives you enough time to wait until you're perfectly prepared. Whether it's time, or anything else."

I applied her words to herself.

I knew that the time she was spending here was not a completion or a destination for her. She wasn't someone who would reveal her anxieties to others, but she was likely still losing sleep over her next journey.

"What about him? That Director of yours — what's he like?"

She asked in a bright voice, shifting the atmosphere. The unexpected question made me pull back slightly and press my lips with the tip of the pen.

"His cologne... he wears a remarkable one. A scent I'd never smelled before. Very unique."

"Huh? That's it?"

Morae looked disappointed. I laughed.

But I honestly didn't know what other words to use to describe him. The color of his eyes, which seemed so mysterious to me as someone of pure Korean descent; his special constitution as a Golden Alpha; his exotic appearance; his unique way of running the gallery… Too many characteristics surfaced at once, yet none of them felt sufficient enough to define him.

The image that surfaced the moment she asked was, amusingly, his scent.

Yet that scent — which had so intensely seized my sense of smell — hovered at the tip of my nose like something just out of reach when I tried to recall it specifically. Impossible to pin down.

I felt I could draw it, but it was impossible to express with a three-color ballpoint pen on a spiral notebook.

A new group of customers entered "What Happened in Bali," and Morae briefly left her seat. I flipped through the notebook looking for a blank page to draw the Director for her. There weren't many left.

Bali. Kuta. Surfing camp. 5th Anniversary Promotion. 1-year long-term program. 15 million won per person.

My hand stopped at a brief memo that looked copied from somewhere. Each word was circled or underlined — traces of deliberation.

Under the note "Condition: 2 or more persons," a scribbled comment read: "Are they giving a discount because they only take groups of two or more?" Two distinct handwriting styles were scattered across the page like doodles — Morae and Yeehan hyung must have discussed it over the notebook.

A rough picture formed. It was information about a promotion at a surfing school in Kuta, Bali — a dramatically discounted price for groups of two or more on a one-year contract. The price likely covered everything: accommodation, lessons, all of it. I'd overheard enough of their conversations over the years that connecting the dots wasn't difficult.

They were already quite advanced surfers, so the lesson fees alone would usually be considerable. For a one-year term including accommodation, it was definitely a steal. A long-term surfing trip had always been their dream, and spending a year in Bali would be the perfect opportunity to gauge what it would be like to settle there permanently.

I glanced furtively at Morae's back. Watching her profile as she chatted cheerfully with what seemed like regulars, I was suddenly seized by fear.

It had only been five minutes since I told her she didn't need to worry about me anymore, yet just imagining the parting felt desolate. Like standing alone in a desert at night, having lost everything.

What snapped me out of my daze — standing there arms slack, mind blank, feeling like I needed to slap myself and try to navigate by stars if nothing else — was the name written in the corner of the notebook.

Seo Ihyeon.

And the circular border drawn over and over around that name.

The name that always made them hesitate before a choice. Seo Ihyeon.

Morae was collecting the menus after taking orders. I hurriedly turned the pages back.

"They're regulars — they brought us gifts from their recent trip to Hong Kong. Try one."

After relaying the order to Yeehan hyung in the kitchen, she set a tin box on the table. When she opened the lid with the teddy bear illustration, it was full of butter cookies.

"Didn't your gallery mention a business trip to Hong Kong too? When was it again?"

She picked up one of the cookies and sat back down beside me.

A staff-wide business trip was scheduled around an art fair in Hong Kong in early July. Whether someone like me — practically an intern — would get to go hadn't been decided yet.

"After this exhibition wraps up — so probably in two or three weeks. But I still don't know if I'll be going."

"It would be great if you could. It's a good opportunity."

"But wouldn't it be bad if there's a record of my entry and exit?"

Morae finished the other half of her cookie, shoved her hands into her pockets, and stretched her legs out as she spoke.

"Don't worry about that. It would be difficult to track someone's location with just an immigration record anyway... And honestly, if they wanted to find you right now, they probably could. The fact that there's been no news so far just means they're watching their timing. So just do what you want to do."

She looked back at me and grinned.

"The one Dad wants to track down and take his anger out on is me and Yeehan — you have nothing to do with this. No need to hold back."

I just watched her profile. She reached into the box and brought a cookie to my lips. Crunch. I bit it in half; the other half disappeared into her mouth.

"Mmm, it's good. Let's have it with coffee. It'd go perfectly with an americano."

I followed Morae's back as she went behind the counter toward the coffee machine, clicking the pen in my hand compulsively.

I wanted to say the same thing to them.

That it was fine, that I'd manage somehow, that they no longer needed to hesitate in their choices because of me — to draw a line around the name Seo Ihyeon and be done with it. I wanted to say that to Yeehan hyung and Morae with confidence.

Morae was someone who could stand up maintaining perfect balance even on precarious waves, but it had never been a reckless, "come what may" sort of thing. I didn't know anyone more genuinely devoted to life than her. Even if I hid my fear and said I was fine, I didn't think I could fool her.

That this peace was nothing more than a sandcastle built at the edge of a beach where a wave could come at any moment. That my days now — working at Phantom surrounded by artworks and receiving a salary, living comfortably at Manager Han's place while studying illustration and Photoshop — were all built on the kind concern and understanding of people I was so grateful for.

I drew a zigzag line over the sketch — the outline of the Director's face I'd been working on — and crossed it out.

I needed to get a grip. For the sake of the people who, because they couldn't leave me alone, looked back at me even on the path they wanted for themselves. I needed to get a grip and move on my own two feet.

Because I now clearly understood that choosing nothing would not preserve the present.

· · · · ·

╭────

The photographer, Shushu.

Korean name: Jeong Se-in.

In Cantonese: Zhang Shuiyan.

Both parents are Korean, and he himself holds Korean nationality, but as a Golden Omega from a wealthy family, he completed his education from early childhood through high school at the Hong Kong Minton International School (H.M.I.S.) — known discreetly within East Asia as the only school for Alphas and Omegas — before returning to his home country and enrolling in H University for modern dance. Afterward, he moved to New York and enrolled in M.G. School of Dance.

While recovering from Achilles tendon reconstruction surgery, he sustained the same injury in the same area again — this time from an accident in everyday life. To make matters worse, the surgical site became infected, requiring removal of the affected area and subsequent transplant surgery. His life as a dancer was over.

He closed the chapter on New York and returned home.

Two years later, he debuted as a photographer through his first solo exhibition, Body, at Gallery Phantom — run by Liu Weikun, someone he'd been connected to since their H.M.I.S. days.

Recording a sell-out at every exhibition, he is not only counted among the most notable fine art photographers currently active in Korea, but is also — through Director Liu Weikun's aggressive marketing — attempting to leap to world-class status beginning with Hong Kong, Singapore, and Japan.

Among family and acquaintances, he is more often called by the nickname "Shushu" — derived from his Hong Kong-style name — rather than his real name, and he currently uses the nickname as his artist name. It is known that he also used Shushu as his English name since his H.M.I.S. days.

Possessing the glamorous yet delicate appearance typical of a Golden Omega, he has garnered many fans and drawn public attention to the art world, receiving positive evaluations for this — while also facing the view that his Golden Omega status and looks have earned him praise beyond his actual skill.

In any case, it is clear that he is a figure who generates buzz in the current art scene and a central axis among young artists that even the major galleries cannot ignore.

╰────

· · · · ·

I had heard about it in advance, but the scale of the event was different from the previous joint artists' exhibition.

For the press conference and VIP invitation opening party for Shushu's Body to Soul exhibition, a photo wall had even been erected in front of Phantom's main entrance.

Guests dressed far more lavishly than at the previous opening party struck poses at the photo wall in order of arrival, while about thirty journalists burst their flashes competitively to capture their images.

Reporters from not only art-related media but also the culture desks of major news outlets had been invited, and most had accepted. Proof that Shushu's exhibition was generating significant buzz.

Well-known actors and models had been included on the VIP guest list, making it an opportunity to appeal even to the general public not particularly interested in art. Even if those people didn't immediately become gallery customers, public interest could translate into influence for the gallery.

The temporary lot in front of the main entrance was taken up entirely by the photo wall and journalists, leaving no room for congratulatory flower wreaths. Beyond the barricades, fans of the invited celebrities and passersby had gathered, making the scene more reminiscent of a major clothing brand event or a movie premiere than an art gallery.

In the art world, no matter how famous an artist is, their public recognition cannot compare to that of celebrities who appear on television — so when celebrities attend such events, a vexing situation where the roles are reversed can occur. But Shushu was an exception.

Arriving in front of Phantom with Manager Han in a darkly tinted luxury sedan, Shushu was dressed in a plain black T-shirt and neat jeans, with no hint of being ostentatiously dressed at all.

Getting out of the back seat and tucking his slightly long wavy hair behind his ears, he gave the impression of a sufficiently sophisticated artist with just jeans and a T-shirt.

People say that each person is the protagonist of their own life — but looking at him, I thought: maybe this is the kind of person who is the protagonist of the world, of every story.

Someone born and existing to be the protagonist.

I couldn't think of any other way to describe him.

"Shushu, look this way!"

"Give us a wave!"

In response to the journalists' demands, he tucked his flowing hair behind his ears again and again, biting his lower lip slightly as if embarrassed — and in doing so, made the impressions of every celebrity and model who had passed before him at the photo wall seem blurry.

As soon as the shooting ended, Shushu quickly looked for Manager Han with his eyes. Manager Han, who had been watching from beside the photo wall, led him away, and they disappeared together through the main entrance.

"I love everything about you, Shushu!"

Perhaps mindful of his long time abroad, someone shouted that from beyond the barricades in English — maybe a foreign fan. Just before disappearing inside completely, Shushu turned slightly and waved with a smile.

· · · · ·

Shushu took a few sips from the drink in his tumbler, then puffed out his cheeks and let out a long breath.

He was scheduled to wait in the office and take a short rest until Part 1 of the event — the press conference — began.

Manager Han and the artist sat side by side at the conference table, while the Director, instead of taking the seat next to the artist, leaned obliquely against the table about a step away from him. His gaze stayed fixed on the artist the whole time, and the faint smile that seemed to light up not just the corners of his mouth but his entire face — it made him feel like someone I didn't know.

"Taking photos… can't we skip them next time?"

Shushu looked up at him and asked carefully, yet sincerely.

Unlike how he'd been at the photo wall — a little shy but clearly practiced at it — his slightly downturned eyes filled with worry and his lips pressed together; he looked like a child sulking about not wanting to eat his carrots. Not the kind who throws a tantrum to make life difficult — the kind whose sulking is so endearing you'd want to give them anything they asked.

"What power do I have? Talk to Manager Han."

That thought wasn't mine alone — the Director's gaze, passing the answer to Manager Han while looking down at the artist, was so soft it seemed he might reach out and brush the artist's hair back at any moment. He had the air of an elder happily indulging a much younger person's trivial worries. Yet as far as I knew, the two were the same age.

The artist's gentle eyes turned toward Manager Han beside him.

"Manager Han, is it really not possible?"

"You always say that, but once it starts you handle it so skillfully. Being in the spotlight is your destiny, Shushu. Accept it."

"That might have been before — but now I'm not the one being photographed, I'm the one taking pictures."

Perhaps it was his calm, measured speech and pleasant, resonant voice. Even though he was practically pleading about a work-related matter, it didn't sound unpleasant.

"You saw them earlier. The fans are out there. Let's do this little bit of fan service for the people who love you. Okay?"

When Manager Han took his hand and squeezed it a couple of times, mentioning the fans, he let out another long breath — resigned, with nothing left to say.

"Then you'll come into the exclusive interview with me, right?"

"Hmm… I might be busy seeing off the clients."

After both Part 1 — the press conference — and Part 2 — the socializing and party — were over, an exclusive interview between Shushu and a major art magazine was scheduled in the gallery's reception room.

I had heard in advance that he relied heavily on Manager Han, but it seemed more severe than I'd expected. At the suggestion that Manager Han might not be able to accompany him to the interview, he made a face as if — somewhat exaggeratedly — the end of the world had been declared.

Across the room, standing with me in front of the partition, Juhan hyung turned his head and laughed under his breath — quietly enough that only I could hear. Even Juhan hyung found those aspects of the considerably older Shushu endearing.

"I'll cover seeing the clients off, so go in with him. We can't do anything without Manager Han."

The Director, pushing off from the table he'd been leaning against, lightly placed a hand on the artist's shoulder as he passed behind the chairs where Shushu and Manager Han were sitting.

"Ugh — looking at me with that face is cheating. It's a face you just can't say no to."

When Manager Han, glancing at the artist's pleading expression, waved the white flag, the artist finally showed a relieved smile. That silent smile that bared teeth seemed to have the power to purify the very air around it, making it transparent.

He was only the second person I'd known who could simply change the atmosphere of a room — by being in it, or by speaking. The Director, who in this very office made me feel as though I'd been sealed behind glass walls and separated from everything — and now Shushu, right in front of me.

Although Shushu was today's protagonist, it was clear that everyone in the office gathering their attention around him wasn't solely for that reason.

"It's because Manager Han never says no to him."

"Wow — Director Liu, are you blaming me right now? About Shushu?"

At Manager Han's aggrieved voice, the Director — who had been standing in front of the windowsill shelf pouring a glass of champagne — turned around and smiled.

This side of him, enjoying this kind of banter, was also unfamiliar. As far as I knew, he wasn't someone who particularly enjoyed jokes in the first place, and even when he did joke with Juhan hyung or Yuni nuna, it was mostly a matter of teasing each other.

"Right. When there's a problem with the work, rushing over even at 2 or 3 in the morning and acting as an assistant is just baseline — and clearing the entire schedule of other artists to unconditionally prioritize Shushu was probably Manager Han too, wasn't it?"

Even Inwu hyung, who had arrived at the gallery early to avoid the photo wall event, joined in, volunteering to be a witness to the Director's favoritism toward Shushu.

"He's the most important artist at the gallery. Is that wrong?"

Placing the slender champagne flute in front of Shushu, the Director wore an innocent expression.

Next to the glass, he set down a small box decorated with a ribbon in royal blue and gray. He had brought a deep navy shopping bag when he came to work and I'd wondered why — it must have been the box inside it.

"Is it Debauve & Gallais bonbons? Did you buy these specially?"

Perhaps it was a favorite brand — recognizing the contents just by the box, the artist made a delighted expression.

"I need you to get through the event in top condition. Have some. You'll be less nervous during the press conference."

He was framing it as business-level consideration, but I already knew well what the Director's "business smile" looked like. Right now, he wore an expression even happier than Shushu, who had just received the gift.

Inside the box were chocolates, each one meticulously crafted into different shapes — almost too beautiful to eat. A rich sweetness mingled with the coffee aroma spreading from the coffee machine Manager Han had turned on. Absurdly, the scent seemed to come not from the chocolate but from Shushu himself.

Staring blankly at the Director and Shushu — who looked like a magazine spread or a movie poster — I quickly poured a glass of champagne for Inwu hyung, who was complaining that no matter the difference in sales between artists, the disparity in treatment was too great — that he hadn't even been offered a glass of the champagne sitting right there, let alone expensive chocolates.

"I didn't mean to bother you, Ihyeon. The one who should feel guilty doesn't even care. Sorry. I'll enjoy it."

I tried to smile at Inwu hyung as he said that, but all I could manage was to awkwardly lift the corners of my mouth.

Since it was a large-scale event and a PR agency had been hired, on the actual opening day there was surprisingly little to do. Yuni nuna, the practical general manager, was supervising final preparations on the second floor, but Juhan hyung and I were waiting in a corner of the office for Part 1 to begin. Standing still and watching the close conversation of others felt awkward, and I wished someone would give me something, anything, to do.

"Let's share these. I can't eat them all by myself anyway."

"No, this is a gift, so you eat it alone. If there's any left, you can just take it home and eat it later."

The Director gently caught the artist's wrist to stop him as he pushed the box toward the center of the table. But the artist, having handed a chocolate to Manager Han and one to Inwu hyung, now targeted the Director.

"I said try one. The person who bought them should taste them too."

The artist picked up a leaf-shaped chocolate and raised his arm toward the Director standing beside him. The Director only narrowed his eyes slightly as if pondering while looking down at the chocolate — but he soon bent at the waist and accepted it.

As if wondering who had frowned just moments ago after eating Yuni nuna's ice cream and declared that sweets weren't his thing — there wasn't even a subtle change in his expression after putting the chocolate in his mouth.

All those scenes and conversations felt like a movie playing on a screen just across the table — a movie that had nothing to do with me. A movie that had nothing to do with me, and yet one that stirred something in my chest, shook my heart, made me root for someone and resent someone all at once.

"It tastes better when everyone eats together. Juhan, you try one too. Do you perhaps not like sweets?"

The artist's gaze, which had been directed at Juhan hyung, shifted naturally to me standing beside him.

"Oh… but this person is…"

And those soft, brownish eyes wanted to know my identity.

It was the first time we had made eye contact at such a close distance. There was nothing threatening about him whatsoever, yet I momentarily wanted to flee the spot.

"Ah, sorry. Was that uncomfortable?"

But I didn't need to respond. The Director stepped forward as if to protect Shushu, placing a hand on his shoulder — his face clearly showing flustered surprise. The next moment, a cold, swift command was directed at me.

"Could you step aside for a moment? He's very shy around strangers and gets uncomfortable when there's someone he doesn't know. How could no one have thought of this beforehand?"

He ended by sharpening his tone toward the others in the office.

It had been a while. His way, his rhetoric — not caring in the slightest if other people's feelings were hurt for the sake of someone precious to him.

It had only been a lull recently; there was nothing new about this. He had always been that kind of person. Juhan hyung, Manager Han — they were all precious to him, but when there was someone even more precious, they could be pushed down the priority list at any moment.

So there was no need to even mention my own feelings.

"Awi."

It was Shushu who broke the awkwardly stiffened air.

At the artist's words, the Director looked at him, and since the artist was looking up at the Director as he spoke, that unfamiliar address must have been meant for him.

Instead of using "Kun" like many others did, the artist was calling him by a different name. Gone was the milky softness of everything he'd said so far — this was resolute, with solid force behind it.

"I just asked who he was — why are you acting like that? I'm not like that anymore. You're going to make him think I'm strange because of you."

The artist's rebuke silenced him — but it did nothing to fix what had twisted in me. In fact, the more I heard Shushu defending me, the more pathetic I felt — not just in my mood, but in my very being.

I felt an almost uncontrollable urge to say to him — the Director, who had fallen silent at just a few words from the artist: Since when have you been so good at listening to other people?

"I'm sorry, Shushu. It's been so hectic I couldn't even make introductions. This is a new Phantom employee who just joined. His name is Seo Ihyeon."

At Manager Han's introduction, I stepped forward and bowed my head.

"Hello, I am Seo Ihyeon."

"Nice to meet you. Please understand him — he sometimes says strange things. His manner of speaking is a bit blunt, isn't it? He wasn't this bad before, but it seems he's gotten more prickly since getting into the business."

"No, it's fine."

On the surface the words seemed to express concern for my feelings, but underneath they felt like a defense of the Director. I was surprised at my own cynicism, interpreting kindness with such suspicion. Not wanting anyone to notice, I quickly pushed the thought away.

Inwu hyung stood up holding the empty champagne glass and pushed his chair back with a somewhat loud scrape. A gesture that clearly displayed intentional displeasure.

"Whether it's now or before, you always speak in a way that puts people off, don't you? You only pretended to be nice in front of Shushu, so you remember it differently. If anything, since getting into the business you've at least learned to force a smile, so in a way you're more developed now."

"It wasn't that bad…"

At Inwu hyung's attack, Shushu defended him in an uncertain voice.

"Let it be. It's not a false statement."

He didn't particularly try to deny his long-standing favoritism toward Shushu, or the prickly personality Inwu hyung had pointed out.

"Before" probably meant before Phantom existed, so of course Shushu wasn't a Phantom artist back then. But I could now easily picture him being the nice version of himself only in front of Shushu, even back then.

"Is there really such a thing as a good man? I've never seen one." The words he had spoken at Manager Han's dining table — might those have been a self-deprecating admission that he had never been entirely good to any single person?

That thought grazed my rigid mind, but it was something I couldn't confirm and had nothing to do with me. It was certainly not something I should be dwelling on right now.

"I'm one of the affiliated artists. I'm sorry my greeting is so late — it's been hectic. We'll be seeing each other often from now on, so I look forward to working with you."

The distance between us was such that we didn't shake hands, but the artist smiled brightly at me. A smile beautiful enough that you felt it had a value of its own. But this time, I couldn't even manage a strained forced smile.

"I… look forward to working with you as well."

My greeting — barely audible even as I said it — was swallowed immediately by the Director's voice.

"Don't waste energy on things you don't normally do. Nobody here doesn't know you're shy. Forget the greetings — you should take care of yourself first. You're going to leave without eating even one piece of chocolate."

He looked almost painfully anxious that Shushu might be called to the press conference before tasting even one piece of the chocolate.

Just as Shushu finished swallowing one chocolate and had drunk about half a glass of champagne, Yuni nuna opened the office door.

"Director, could you take a look at finishing up the photo wall? Shushu, come with me to preview the manuscript briefly."

The moment Yuni nuna disappeared into the inner reception room with Manager Han and Shushu, Inwu hyung, who had been standing by the window, twisted his face toward the Director.

"Still as overprotective as ever. Making Manager Han do all the bad roles while you try to take only the good ones — that's so like you. Manipulating everything from behind while cleverly pretending you're not involved."

"Thanks for the compliment."

He didn't even bat an eye at Inwu hyung's attack. He was entirely absorbed in repacking the box of chocolates Shushu had left behind into the shopping bag.

"I'm not criticizing the overprotectiveness itself, but stop sacrificing the people around you while coddling only Shushu. When it comes to business, you can think of ten things at once — how can you only see one person?"

"……"

At his expression of utter incomprehension, Inwu hyung sighed. I understood that what Inwu hyung was trying to say was for my sake. But I wished he would stop.

As they left the office together, Inwu hyung grabbed his shoulder with some force.

"Do you always have to phrase it like that? We've long since written it off as just how you are… but from the outside, it really looks…"

Only then, perhaps finally grasping the meaning, he glanced back at me — but the door closed almost immediately, so it was only a brief, fleeting moment. I couldn't hear what kind of comment he made to Inwu hyung about it afterward.

"Don't take the Director's words too much to heart. He doesn't mince words when it comes to work, you know. He's especially sensitive about anything involving Shushu. Shushu is our flagship artist, after all. On a day like today, we just have to understand."

Once everyone was gone, Juhan hyung seemed to feel a bit of relief as well. He let out a long breath, placed a hand on my shoulder, and patted it as if to encourage me.

Was the fact that Shushu was the gallery's flagship artist and today was his opening event truly the whole story? Everyone else seemed to accept it that way — was I the only one attaching some peculiar interpretation to it?

"Yes. It was actually somewhat satisfying that Shushu spoke up on my behalf."

Contrary to my usual habit of failing to say what needed to be said and letting things pass, I added an unnecessary lie. In truth, I felt even more wretched because of Shushu's sharp remark toward the Director, and because of the artist's kindness toward me.

Juhan hyung moved the champagne glass Shushu had left behind to the windowsill shelf and drank the remaining half. Now we also had to tidy up and head upstairs to the second floor.

"That's just how he is. Probably because he grew up so sheltered in a wealthy family, but he seems to know nothing about the dirty side of things. Simply put, he's kind-hearted but a bit naive about the ways of the world. That might be why the Director and Manager Han look out for him even more. I worry that if left to his own devices, he'd go somewhere and sign some strange contract. His fame as an artist is one thing, but with looks like that, he attracts all sorts of annoying pests."

It was a sufficiently convincing statement. Not just because of his simply beautiful features, but the unique atmosphere layered on top of them was peerless — to people who connected everything to business, he could appear as an attractive asset.

"He looked like an actor."

As I nodded in agreement, Juhan hyung, who had been standing by the shelf, swiftly turned around. His face, now looking back, was flushed as if he himself had received a compliment.

"Right? When I first saw him in person, I almost fell over. It's not just that he's handsome or pretty — it's something… the person himself just seems sublime."

I chuckled at hyung's exaggerated gesture, but the content of his words wasn't much of an exaggeration. He was the kind of person who seemed to emit a mysterious, subtle halo — like the actors who played elves in some fantasy movie I once saw.

"Even if they say there's no genetic difference other than reproductive function, there's something — this aura that's just different from Betas. It's not just that he draws you in — he consumes you. Looking at him makes your mind go hazy, like you're about to be bewitched."

Finishing his speech as if focusing his gaze on a point in the air, hyung narrowed his eyes, then tapped my back lightly and lifted his chin with a haughty expression, as if to say, Now do you understand?

"That's a Golden Omega."

Juhan hyung probably meant it as a joke, but to me the words carried weight and sank heavily into my heart. It felt like speaking of an immutable difference — determined even before birth — that I could never catch up to or surpass.

That's a Golden Omega.

· · · · ·

"Just a few more shots."

Juhan hyung said that, but it was already the third time, so I didn't put much stock in his words.

Wearing the tight shorts that ended just above my knees was awkward enough, but I also had a bit of makeup on my face and had to strike poses, or something resembling them, in front of the camera.

"Don't look at the camera. Try to make a dreamy expression."

"……"

Any visual record of my appearance had been limited to a few sneak-attack photos saved on Morae's phone — at least for the last few years, that was it. And now someone like me was being told to make a dreamy expression. Unable to bear the embarrassment any longer, I covered my face with my hands.

"Ah, that's good too!"

But even that moment was captured by Juhan hyung's camera.

"It's okay, you're doing great."

Yuni nuna, holding a large reflector to light me, gave me a thumbs-up, but it wasn't very encouraging.

I remembered coming here as a spectator and general errand runner. And that was definitely the case at first. Even the reflector that nuna was now positioning with an almost acrobatic posture had been my responsibility until just a little while ago.

All day I had been moving the clothes, shoes, and accessories we'd loaded into the trunk and back seat of the business vehicle borrowed from Phantom, shifting branches or rocks that got in the way during the shoot, running errands, and watching their passion — which seemed no less intense than that of professional photographers or models — with a somewhat complicated mix of admiration and envy.

The shoot, which had started in the morning, had gone on for about four or five hours, and the clothing portion was nearly finished. With some spare time, the two came up with an unexpected idea: to use me as a model.

My most vigorous protests and rejections were no match for those two's playful curiosity, or curious playfulness.

They escorted me to an inner room of the house that had been designated as a changing room. They dotted artificial freckles on my cheeks, clumsily spread orange eyeshadow over my eyelids, and drew eyebrows in a shape completely different from my own. They made me wear the tight shorts I would never usually put on, then had me put on Juhan hyung's clunky work boots.

It was at least fortunate that the top was a sufficiently long and boxy knit. Though the intense orange was hard to handle.

Standing me up rigid as a board in a corner of the garden, the two took turns grabbing the camera and channeling their artistic spirits. But no matter how great a photographer, what could they possibly capture from a subject who felt awkward just looking into the lens?

"I've never seen this model before."

While I was struggling to follow hyung's direction — both arms hanging loosely, head tilted, trying to perform a gaze as if looking at some cherished place in memory, not here — I reflexively raised my head toward the voice, and this time I truly wanted to cover my face.

I didn't know how long he had been watching, but the Director was leaning against the front door frame, looking down at us with a smile.

I bit my lower lip to suppress the feeling of fire instantly spreading from the base of my ears to my temples and cheeks, independent of my will. It tasted artificially dull because of the lipstick or lip gloss nuna had applied.

"We discovered a new talent this time."

Juhan hyung turned around and chuckled.

Pretending to touch my hair, I hid my face behind the long sleeves that nearly reached the back of my hands. The awkward modeling situation was one thing — but I didn't want my flushed face to be discovered.

"Yeah, the ones we had before were kind of lame."

He clicked his tongue as he descended the six or seven steps leading to the garden.

Because the days were longer, the early summer sunlight was still intense at 4 PM, causing him to frown. As he stepped into the shaded area, his expression softened a little, and only then did our eyes properly meet. As I bowed my head slightly, he returned the greeting while slowly scanning me from head to toe. He looked pleased.

"How is it? Full of youthful boyish charm, right?"

Juhan hyung showed him the photo on the camera screen, and I nearly let out a strange shriek. The heat in my face that I had just barely suppressed seemed to flare up again.

"Hmm, the photo quality itself isn't bad… but isn't his body too stiff?"

"He's an amateur. But once you take the photo, his face really is convincing. Well… Ihyeon doesn't have any real spark."

Hyung, who had been looking at the camera screen with his head close to the Director's, raised only his gaze and gave me a playful grin. Being photographed, having the photos shown to someone, exposing my most private self — it all felt so uncomfortable my throat went completely dry. And the Director was being excessively serious, even scrolling back to look at the earlier photos again.

"Still, that awkwardness feels fresh. Ah, this kind of thing feels good."

Following those words, he lifted his head and stared at me standing awkwardly in front of the spirea bush, most of its flowers already fallen. His gaze was as unrestrained as his manner of speaking, and there was nothing I could do to escape it.

The moment his gaze finally moved away, the next ordeal closed in.

"Shall I try taking a few shots too?"

This time, I definitely couldn't hide my look of bewilderment. Yuni nuna, who had leaned the reflector against a rock, came over, put her arm around my shoulder, and said,

"It's fine. The Director is surprisingly good with photos."

That wasn't the problem…

There wasn't even a chance to resist. Whether being the subject in front of the lens or the one pressing the shutter behind it, I was the only person in this garden who felt uncomfortable around cameras. Since everyone else was treating this as mere play, any refusal or resistance would just look strange.

The camera passed from hyung's hands to the Director's, and this time Juhan hyung picked up the reflector.

"Can you sit on the ground over here? Stretch your legs out long. Yuni, can you set that mat down on the floor?"

Gauging the light at the desired spot through the viewfinder, he pointed toward a mat tossed haphazardly on a prop box in the corner. Nuna and hyung, who had been somewhat tired from the extended shoot, regained their energy and moved swiftly at his request.

I sat down on the mat — an ethnic pattern reminiscent of Native American designs — and stretched my legs out as he asked.

"……"

Before I could even properly settle into position, his two feet suddenly moved inward. His closed-toe leather slippers were planted on the ground on either side of my knees.

"It's just a test shot. Don't mind it — just relax."

He said that, but I couldn't help but mind, nor could I relax. Click. Click. The sound of the shutter clicking continuously came from above, and nuna was still at my feet, changing the direction of the mat's wrinkles this way and that, searching for the desired form.

"Seo Ihyeon-ssi."

His voice calling me was no different from usual. Thinking he had something to say, I raised my head to look up at him — and the moment I did, the aperture opened and closed once more right in front of my eyes.

"Put your hands behind you and lean your upper body back slightly."

Even when taking photos, his desires were clear. He never showed unnecessary courtesy or hesitation.

"Lift your chin. Eyes down."

The directions followed without a moment's pause, and for me — someone uncomfortable with cameras — that method was actually better. At least he wasn't asking for a dreamy expression or a look as if recalling something nostalgic.

"Leave your chin where it is and slowly lift only your eyes, okay? As slowly as you can."

Slowly, I raised my gaze. The lens was about fifty centimeters away. His large body, which had stepped in up to my knees, was right in front of my face. The moment I became conscious of it, my earlobes grew hot. It was a difficult pose for an ordinary person like me, unaccustomed to this kind of work. Though he wasn't actually touching my body, I felt as suffocated as if I were bound.

"Uh… you shouldn't turn your head."

I must have averted my gaze without realizing it. From beyond the lens, he clicked his tongue softly. His tone was like a dentist dealing with a patient who keeps turning their head and disrupting the examination. This doesn't hurt much — even little kids can handle it. A doctor coaxing and placating with such words.

But I rarely got cavities, and I endured pain very well. If told to go to the dentist, I'd do it every day of the week — but this, I felt I could never do again.

He stepped back, moving outside my feet, and this time stepped up onto a rock to the side, moving further away from me. Yet I was just as unfree as when he had aimed the lens at my face from right up close.

What kind of me was he seeing beyond the lens, and how was he evaluating it? I wanted to erase such thoughts, but all I could do was repeatedly bite and release my lips, which were drying from tension.

"Yesterday."

Before I could even register surprise at the sudden change of subject, he climbed down from the rock and came back up past my legs. This time, past my knees, up to my thighs.

Nuna and hyung had been shooting clothes from further away, so the lens had never come this close. Close enough that breathing felt uncomfortable.

"You worked hard."

"Not at all."

"And… I'm sorry."

I'm sorry. He said that in a voice just barely loud enough for me to hear, then momentarily took his eye from the viewfinder and stared at me with his naked eyes.

No explanation followed for why he said those words that seemed so unlikely to come from his mouth, but only one thing came to mind.

"Could you step aside for a moment? He's very shy around strangers, so having someone he doesn't know makes him uncomfortable."

Heat rushed back to my face.

Despite my young age, my emotions didn't show on my face easily — not because I had a mature way of managing feelings, but because I had emotions less sensitive than most. Since I didn't feel things strongly, my expressions were naturally flat.

But the distance was too close, and the situation was unfamiliar. Though I was clothed and posing for a clothing shoot, the embarrassment felt close to shame — as if I were exposing my bare skin in front of him. Because of this, even slight stimuli caused my reactions to flare up easily. I could only hope the fake freckles painted on my cheeks might conceal my heat even a little.

He looked down at me for a brief moment, then tilted the camera to check the shots. He still stood with his feet straddling my thighs. When the lens was retracted, I grew anxious, unsure of where to look.

A low sound — as if something wasn't quite right — and then, his gaze still on the camera screen, he asked,

"Is there anyone you like?"

"……"

"Or someone you used to like."

"……"

As he glanced down at me, his eyes narrowed slightly and a mischievous smile played on his lips. Strangely, images of myself acting out of character to shock him flashed through my mind — but that wasn't an answer to his question about whether I had someone I liked.

He bent down again, leveling the lens toward me, and added,

"Imagine that person confessing to Seo Ihyeon-ssi."

At the unexpected remark, my gaze involuntarily fixed on the lens. Despite the pressure of anxiety that everything I normally hid would be completely exposed beyond it, I couldn't look away.

The lens, approaching for focus and then retreating, repeated its motion. It felt less like his eyes and more like his lips, taking their place.

He asked me to imagine a confession from a nonexistent person I liked — but hearing those words, I realized it was a situation that would never happen, and a rather flat, hollow laugh escaped me.

It was strange. Why did confirming the impossibility of a confession from someone I liked produce self-mockery and resignation in me at this moment? Even when the subject was purely imaginary and didn't exist.

Click.

I stared at the lens as it closed and opened more slowly than before. For the first time, it didn't feel uncomfortable. Carried on the breeze blowing from behind him toward me, I suddenly caught a faint trace of his scent.

"Got the best shot. Let's stop and grab a beer."

He retracted the lens, straightened his back, and turned away without hesitation.

· · · · ·

The garden was indeed untended, just as I had heard — but because of the season, it wasn't as desolate as I'd expected. Amidst the tangled greens of varying shades, grown without any human intervention, a certain vitality still pulsed.

As the sun dipped lower and the garden's shade expanded, we spread several mats across it at overlapping angles. Stripes, ethnic prints, checks, and even gaudy floral patterns. Laying out the delivered hamburgers, fries, and salad on top of these distinctly patterned mats, with beer sponsored by the Director, it felt just like a picnic in the park.

Yuni nuna and Juhan hyung didn't say a word until they had completely devoured their respective hamburgers. They had skipped lunch and rushed to finish the shoot while there was still natural light, so the hunger was entirely understandable. Unlike the two of them — who busily alternated between taking large bites and gulping beer with their cheeks puffed out — the Director and I barely touched our hamburgers, picking at fries while drinking beer.

As predicted, he had likely overindulged at last night's after-party. He had seemed unusually cheerful throughout the event. Perhaps he wasn't hungry because the alcohol was still lingering. Contrary to his earlier words — that he'd be passed out asleep and we shouldn't disturb him — here he was, out and mingling.

I glanced at his profile, which looked little different from usual despite yesterday's presumed excess, and swallowed a couple of sips of beer, whose taste I was now starting to appreciate.

The early summer breeze, filtering through the tall junipers forming the garden's backbone, was soft against my skin, accompanied by the pale late afternoon sunlight. An osmanthus tree, untrimmed and grown nearly two meters tall at its own will, also contributed to creating the garden's shade.

Although he didn't hire a gardener for dedicated landscaping, regular cleaning was evidently performed. It wasn't a neglected garden.

"What is this? Did the Director actually scan Ihyeon with his lens? What is this… the photos are just oozing with ulterior motives. Push it a little further and it'd be a full sexy pictorial."

As soon as she was somewhat full, Yuni nuna grabbed the camera and started scrolling through today's results, exclaiming. I choked unbecomingly, swallowing my beer the wrong way. The Director, who had glanced my way, dipped a fry in ketchup, took a bite, and spoke nonchalantly.

"You have to have that level of obsession with the subject to get a good photo. Shall I delete it if you don't like it?"

"Who said I don't like it?"

As if he might snatch the camera and delete the photos, nuna completely turned her back and hugged the camera to her chest. Juhan hyung, also curious about the photos, slid his seat over to nuna's side.

"This isn't just scanning — it's full-on caressing with the lens. Wow… we're too pure to take photos like this. Only corrupted people can take these kinds of shots."

Juhan hyung shook his head and muttered. To avoid being affected by the embarrassing words and to maintain my composure, all I could do was read the label on the beer bottle in my hand.

"Your body is pretty. I never really noticed since you always wear long pants. I think this is also the first time I've seen you without a striped T-shirt."

Leaving the two of them to their heated debate over which photos to use for the update and which to delete, he turned his attention to me. He seemed completely unfazed by the assault of words like "ulterior motives," "sexy pictorial," and "caress."

Of course. He was talking about his direction for the subject, not his personal feelings toward me. And as always, nuna and hyung had expressed it mischievously — the actual photo was probably just infused with a slightly languid mood.

While I couldn't answer quickly and was slowly pushing up the beer label with my fingernail, nuna reacted first.

"'Your body is pretty'? Isn't that sexual harassment?"

"Hmm. I tried to say it as mechanically as possible so it wouldn't sound sexual… I guess it was impossible for the words 'your body is pretty' coming from my mouth not to sound sexual."

At his nonchalant self-defense, Juhan hyung laughed and offered a toast by extending his beer bottle toward him.

"Yes, I'm sure. Who could fall for that?"

Click. The moment their beers clinked, nuna pressed the shutter. But I seemed to be the only one who noticed the sound.

As the lens shifted to capture his profile drinking beer, his wide-open mouth biting into a hamburger, his bare feet on the mat — neither of them showed any self-consciousness. In fact, he deliberately smeared ketchup from a fry onto his lips and even playfully winked at the camera.

There was no feeling that they were excluding me, but the fundamental difference between them and me was too clear for me to feel like a natural part of this group.

A well-maintained beautiful two-story house with its contrasting unkempt garden, two people with distinct personalities and presences, and an early summer picnic with a sophisticated, wealthy, overwhelmingly good-looking Golden Alpha.

The experience was as alien to me as becoming Alice in Wonderland, peeking in on the Mad Hatter's tea party hosted by the March Hare.

Looking only at appearances, Yuni nuna suited the March Hare, and Juhan hyung the Mad Hatter. By coincidence, hyung was wearing the flat cap he'd worn during today's shoot. Nuna, dressed head-to-toe in black as always, would be a rabbit with black fur instead of white.

Then what role should I assign to him?

It was difficult to find a character that perfectly suited him within Alice in Wonderland, but if I absolutely had to choose one, it might be the White Rabbit in the waistcoat.

I considered the arbitrary Queen, the cynical Caterpillar, the Cheshire Cat that appears and vanishes without warning — but setting aside all other details and their roles in the actual story, the White Rabbit was, to me, practically the symbol of Wonderland: the guide who led Alice into that world, and the first thing to spark her curiosity.

Alice — the visitor who felt curiosity and excitement about the experiences in Wonderland while also feeling confused by the incomprehensible things — was, of course, me.

Imagining myself in a blue dress with a white apron like the commonly depicted Alice, my face instinctively scrunched up as if I had drunk a strangely flavored beverage.

Under the late afternoon early summer sun, they all looked free and radiant. Unlike me — who was fortunate enough to be here thanks to a confluence of coincidences and the kindness of many people — everything they possessed, from their professional achievements to every smile, was something they themselves had created.

They were "the people of Wonderland."

His exaggeratedly provocative pose toward the camera elicited louder laughter from Yuni nuna and Juhan hyung.

Like yesterday during the event, he truly seemed in a good mood today. Perhaps because all of Shushu's works had sold out at the VIP opening combined with the press conference. Though he — or rather, Phantom — had purchased about a third of the works, that was an investment for sale at the Hong Kong Art Fair in July. They weren't troublesome pieces the gallery was stuck with.

As I fumbled, flustered by the camera suddenly pointed at me, nuna approached my side and mimicked a reporter at a breaking news scene, changing the camera angle here and there. Along with the question, "How does it feel to become the muse of Phantom's Liu Weikun?" a flash went off right in front of my eyes.

"Rumors are rife that the two of you are more than just a photographer and model. Is it true? Looking at the photos Liu Weikun has taken, it doesn't seem like a baseless rumor at all! Seo Ihyeon, please say something!"

Nuna, who had taken the beer bottle I was fiddling with and held it like a microphone toward my lips, looked at me with eyes full of laughter. His gaze, visible over nuna's shoulder, was also directed this way.

"Um… no comment."

"Are you aware that 'no comment' is usually taken as an admission?"

"In that case… no comment."

"……"

The playfulness vanished from nuna's face, and conversely, he burst out laughing. Juhan hyung blew a whistle and tapped the mat.

I knew I wasn't a humorous person, but in a situation like this, I wanted to match the mood to some extent. Nuna dropped the surprised expression, smiled faintly, and gently shook my cheek without hurting it.

"Sometimes you're adorable."

Then she returned to her spot, opened a new beer, and took a long swig. Picking up a fry, she said,

"Director, others might be fine, but not Ihyeon. Don't even dream about it."

"Hmm… what dream?"

"The risqué dreams unfolding in your Adult Land, Director."

"……"

Before he could react, Juhan hyung — who had taken the camera nuna set down and was pressing the shutter here and there — stepped in.

"No need to worry about that. Sure, if Ihyeon stripped, he'd have a slender body with fine lean muscle, a handsome face, and skin like it's been coated in honey — but thankfully, that's not your type, Director."

"Isn't that sexual harassment? Isn't anyone going to say anything? That's a far higher-level remark than mine."

While appealing his grievance to Yuni nuna, he skillfully deflected the situation with a joke. But an affirmation or denial of Juhan hyung's statement that I wasn't his type was actually unnecessary.

Because I still remembered the answer he had given Inwu hyung when we first met — Inwu hyung getting out of his car in front of Phantom and pointing at me, asking if I was his new lover.

The beer suddenly tasted bitter, but it was just the last sip of what I'd been drinking. As I reached for a new beer from the icebox, he — sitting a little closer — pulled one out and handed it to me.

"Come to think of it. I once dropped by here on a holiday because I urgently needed to pick up some work, and I actually saw one of the Director's guys. Unexpectedly, he was the bulky type?"

"What? Really? Director, is this true?"

At hyung's voice, which rose almost to a shout, he frowned and covered his ears.

"What if it's true, what if it's false? Is there some reason I shouldn't prefer the bulky type?"

"Wow… you usually see people like Shushu every day — how could bulky be your type? Do you get tired of only looking at beautiful things and want something rough?"

"I never said that was my preference. Even if it were, it's none of your business. And not everyone who was at my place is my partner. Besides, Kwon Juhan — you're in no position to comment on other people's tastes, are you?"

A man in his late thirties, facial contours just beginning to soften — caught somewhere between youth and middle age, sunk in a kind of lethargy. He would have known. I certainly did.

"My tastes are niche — the whole world knows it, I admit it myself, and even my parents know it by now. But Director, you can honestly choose whoever you like, can't you? I hate to admit it, but in terms of looks alone, you're the embodiment of a Golden Alpha — and the image of you swapping bulky guys in and out… ugh, my delicate aesthetics refuse to imagine it."

Juhan hyung shook his head several times as if chasing away the vision before his eyes, then downed his beer in gulps.

Wiping the condensation off the beer bottle with my thumb, I caught — from the edge of my lowered vision — the flicker of his gaze toward me for a moment, but I didn't lift my head to confirm it.

"Hmm. Bulky or not, pushing it as if I fool around indiscriminately is a bit much, don't you think? Just because I sleep with someone who isn't my lover doesn't make it promiscuous. So should adults my age resolve all their sexual desires through masturbation if they don't have a lover? Well, there might be people like that — but choosing that life doesn't give them the right to criticize those who don't. If sleeping with someone who isn't your lover is the definition of promiscuity… as far as I know, you two aren't exactly paragons of chastity either."

He finished with a somewhat sly smile, looking back and forth between nuna and hyung. They both nodded with expressions that said "touché," and hyung even raised a hand as if making a declaration.

"Whatever sex life one has within a consensual relationship is a personal domain. I agree with that the most."

"Yes, it's thoroughly a personal domain."

Nuna also raised her hand in agreement.

Masturbation was the entirety of my sex life — but I didn't view those who weren't the same with a negative gaze. I also agreed with the Director's opinion that sleeping with someone who wasn't your lover didn't automatically make it promiscuous.

Then, what about in the case of someone you liked? If we — the people gathered here — maintained this same stance regarding someone we liked, could we avoid being hurt by a partner who shared a bed with someone other than us?

Since it wasn't a lover relationship, the act itself couldn't be condemned. But it would be difficult not to get hurt. Not just the act of sleeping together — probably even seeing the person treat someone else affectionately would cause pain.

"Getting treated as someone with a messy private life, accused of soliciting sex or whatever — that's enough to deal with from the critics. Ah — if I had actually played around promiscuously, I wouldn't feel so wronged."

I had arbitrarily judged him as someone who wouldn't care at all about such things. But thinking about it, of course it would be unpleasant for anyone — even someone who just shrugs at cheap, malicious evaluations of themselves. Being able to tolerate it and maintain composure didn't mean taking no damage at all.

Staring down at the beer label — dampened enough by condensation that it peeled away cleanly with a light push — I quietly laughed at myself. I had been looking forward to today with nothing more than the simple curiosity of someone who wanted to see inside his house.

"But Director, why are you defending yourself so hard — it's so unlike you. You know it's all a joke between us. Could it be… you really hated the idea of Ihyeon misunderstanding that much?"

"Of course I hate it when a handsome man misunderstands me as promiscuous."

In response to nuna's playful provocation, he opened his light blue eyes wide and exaggeratedly spread both arms.

In truth, all of this was meaningless banter. Jokes possible because everyone knew he had absolutely no personal interest — or "ulterior motives," as nuna put it — toward me, regardless of how the photos had turned out.

Feeling myself worn down by those harmless conversations, I seemed like an overly sensitive person. Or perhaps there was a special reason I couldn't help being sensitive to this kind of joke. Whatever it was, I didn't want to think about it right now.

The beer he had handed me was also nearing its bottom before I knew it. Still not knowing my exact limit, I tended to drink too fast when I let my guard down. Since I wasn't good with words, I also tended to drink more whenever I felt embarrassed or flustered.

I wasn't drunk yet, but feeling slightly woozy, I wanted to clear my head for a moment.

"Nuna, the shoot is all done now, right?"

"Why? Want to change clothes?"

"Yes, and I'd like to wash my face too."

I answered, lightly rubbing the cheek where the fake freckles were with my fingertips. I felt his gaze lingering on my left side but pretended not to notice.

"Go inside, change, wash your face, and come back. You remember the room where you changed earlier? There's a bathroom to the right of it. It's a guest bathroom anyway, so feel free to use it."

"Talking like it's your own house?"

"Then why doesn't the Director just show him himself? Even after I do all the tedious work for you."

Watching nuna and him exchange words so casually and freely, I put down the empty bottle and got up.

As I passed behind him toward the entrance, he lightly caught my wrist. Looking back at me, he said,

"Feel free to use anything in the bathroom."

It was perhaps the kindest tone I had ever heard from him. Maybe it was because he had been in such a good mood since yesterday.

I thought it was probably Shushu — who wasn't here — who had made him this magnanimous. I didn't bother questioning why that thought stirred an unpleasant discomfort within me.

"Thank you."

Murmuring softly, I headed straight for the front door.

Given his somewhat arrogant ease and flamboyant aura, I had imagined his home would be a towering mixed-use complex, or a luxurious modern mansion with a unique exterior overlooking the Han River.

Of course, the house was grand enough to make an ordinary person like me gape — much like the mansions on the hill where Morae had lived — but the stone steps leading like a garden path from the gate, along with the original red-brick exterior walls, gave the impression of a home built quite some time ago.

The interior, however, seemed to have been completely remodeled.

The corridor starting from the entrance hall branched left and right. We had unlocked the main gate with a key he had given us beforehand, and to avoid disturbing him, we had been using the back door leading to the kitchen. Once I found the kitchen, finding that room would be simple.

Using my sense of direction, I turned left. What appeared before me was the living room.

Unlike the dim, windowless corridor, the living room — open to the second floor with high ceilings — was filled with the slanting late afternoon sunlight. From the look of it, crossing the living room and turning right would lead to the kitchen.

But I couldn't take even one step into the living room.

I was facing an incomparable terror — far greater than the camera lens that seemed ready to dissect me piece by piece. Far greater even than his gaze, which had 'caressed' me through a lens that felt like lips, not eyes, as it crept all the way up my thighs.

It happened in a place I never expected, without any warning or hint.

Like a knife stabbed deep into the abdomen the moment one carelessly turns a corner in an alley.

I had believed I knew better than anyone that life's malicious pranks could be sudden and violent, with no warning and no reason, like a bomb dropped on the most peaceful of places.

But once life decides to play a trick, it seems a person is destined to fall for the same maneuver twice, even three times.

I thought I had come a long way.

My father, eroded by his own sorrow, had let me go — but I had Yeehan hyung and Morae. I had even sacrificed five years, a span of time hardly short when measured against my entire twenty-two years of life.

There had been times when someone provoked me and I didn't want to turn away and avoid it — I felt the urge to stab them back and provoke them in return. In front of someone else's artwork, I had been swept up by an intense desire to pick up a brush again.

Maybe I hadn't exactly overcome it, but wasn't it more like accepting it as part of myself? Like a lump protruding on the skin, or an ugly, distorted scar that no longer bleeds but has settled in place.

It had been a grand delusion.

Nothing had changed. I was still a denied child.

From outside the entrance, beyond the massive living room window, the sound of three people laughing reached me. I wanted to run out into that world where people existed with passion and talent and the strength to face their wounds.

But I couldn't. The past I had thought was safely preserved came roaring back to life as a present that couldn't have been more vivid, tightening its grip around my neck with a smile — and I lacked the strength to loosen even a single joint of that hand.

"I thought maybe you couldn't find the room, so I followed you."

It was his voice. But I couldn't turn my gaze to look. I couldn't turn my head away from myself.

"Ah… do you like it?"

I sensed him moving closer, likely following my fixed gaze.

"The artist who painted this was sixteen at the time. A monster, really."

"……"

"What do you see in this painting? I'm curious what Seo Ihyeon-ssi, whom Choi Inwu praises so highly, sees."

"Alienation."

"……"

I murmured it in a very small voice, as if talking to myself — and then his silence grew heavy.

No, silence couldn't possibly have weight. From our first meeting, I had been aware of his presence, and I couldn't deny that over time I had shown unfamiliar reactions concerning him — but his gaze, directed at me with interest from right beside me, held not a shred of meaning at this moment.

"Hmm. No one has guessed that correctly before. Should I really ask Seo Ihyeon-ssi to write the foreword? How did you know? While it's a boldly expressed piece, it gives the feeling that the two people hold affection and lean on each other. The colors are warm too. Most people interpret it as love or lovers, that sort of thing. But you… why did you think this was a painting about alienation?"

He poured out his words, placing a hand on my shoulder and gripping it tightly. He was more excited than I had ever seen him.

I turned my head to look at him. Like someone whose neck was firmly fixed by some device — or like someone with a knife pressed against their back, their entire body's muscles stiffly rigid — I kept my neck still and only moved my face slowly.

When I focused on his grayish-blue eyes, his distinctive scent — grown as thick as his excitement — enveloped me as if it had lunged at my entire body. But this time, even the subtle, stimulating nature of that scent couldn't hook me. Why did you think that? I answered.

"Because I painted it."