The Offer

I had assumed this dinner would be just the two of us—Manager Han and me—but parked along the curb of the two-lane road leading to the restaurant entrance was a white SUV with an elegant design reminiscent of a sleek sports car, its hazard lights blinking.

The driver who got out to hand over his keys for valet parking was, unsurprisingly, him. The parking attendant who rushed to the driver's side instinctively looked up, startled by his height, before quickly averting his gaze — realizing he had been rude to a guest.

Though it was a quiet stretch of road in a residential neighborhood just off the main road, his presence was distinctive enough to instantly draw the attention of everyone nearby — an older woman walking her dog, a foreign man with a baby carrier strapped to his front and a shopping bag in hand, a young couple who looked like they were on a weekend date... It wasn't just his height, which seemed to easily surpass 190 cm — a rarity in Korea.

"Listen, I saw the most ridiculously handsome man on the street today." Anyone who saw him would probably end up saying something like that to a friend or family member later. Once he entered your field of vision, he was impossible to dismiss as part of the scenery. He simply wasn't "ordinary" enough for people not to glance twice. Seeing him outside the Phantom offices only made that fact more obvious.

When Manager Han tapped the horn lightly, he turned from the back of the car toward the entrance and looked our way. Manager Han waved, and he slowed his pace with a smile.

"Let's really squeeze Director Liu dry tonight."

Looking out at him standing on the sidewalk, seemingly waiting for us, Manager Han laughed like an anime villain.

"Director is joining us too?"

"Oh? Didn't I mention it? Ah... I only said we were going out to eat, so I guess it never crossed your mind. Sorry."

"No, not at all."

I waved both hands as I denied it. Manager Han looked genuinely apologetic.

"I've been so scattered lately. I think things in my head and forget to actually say them out loud."

These days, Manager Han was focused on finalizing the list of pieces for the Hong Kong Art Fair, along with deciding pricing and placement. While Yuni nuna and Juhan hyung were handling the administrative side of the exhibition, the artwork itself was the most important part, so it was understandable that she felt the pressure.

No one could predict which artist, which work, or when and how it would capture the public's attention. It was a profession that demanded not only an extensive knowledge of global art-market trends, but also the insight to anticipate where those trends were headed before everyone else.

Even at Phantom, Manager Han had been spending most of her workdays lately in meetings with the Director. Sometimes they agreed. Sometimes they didn't. They spoke with countless people over the phone in Korean, English, Cantonese, and Chinese. At times they sounded genuinely delighted and grateful; at others, they stood with their hands on their hips, rubbing their brows in frustration.

As the fair date drew closer, a palpable tension settled over the gallery. Yet everyone at Phantom seemed to embrace it as excitement, and even I — someone with no direct involvement in the trip — could feel myself getting swept up in it.

Given the circumstances, it was more than understandable that she'd forgotten to mention this was a company-wide Phantom dinner. She'd been so busy lately that I'd even found myself thinking I'd made the right decision moving nearby, simply because it meant I could help out whenever something came up.

On the other hand, that was a relief.

As busy as Manager Han was, he was probably just as busy. Which meant he likely didn't have the time to dwell on the incident where one of his employees had trouble breathing in his living room—or on what happened afterward, the sleeping arrangement I'd chosen to think of as little more than emergency first aid.

But sometimes, everything that happened that night felt like a dream—the kind you have after dozing off on a sunlit sofa for just a few minutes. The clock says only five minutes have passed, yet it feels as though you've dreamed an entire story spanning years.

After exchanging warm greetings with Manager Han, he returned my greeting with a brief nod. As we followed a restaurant employee toward the building, the two of them immediately resumed discussing the art fair. Walking quietly behind them, I couldn't shake the feeling that things between him and me had gone back to the way they were at the very beginning.

It wasn't that I wanted to complain about him not paying attention to me.

Just as he had once isolated me within his sphere of influence with nothing more than a shift in expression and demeanor, he now seemed to be treating me without any trace of the familiarity we'd built up, however shallow it might have been. Compared to the man who had given me porridge that night, lent me his sweatshirt, and indulged my insistence that he stay — however unlike him it was — he felt like an entirely different person.

A first sexual experience would be an intense memory for anyone. Not just for me. Not simply because I had feelings for him.

Whenever I remembered the sensation of his breath warming my ear, the heat of his lips against my skin, my hand would drift there before I even realized it. I wondered whether he ever had moments like that too — whether a memory of my reaction that night would surface unexpectedly in the middle of his day, causing the hand turning pages, brushing his teeth, scrolling through his phone to pause, just for a second. Returning to our original dynamic was far better than becoming awkward after sleeping together. Still, I couldn't help being a little curious.

The sight of his back as he exchanged pleasantries with the restaurant owner — who had come all the way to the entrance to greet him, suggesting this wasn't his first visit — seemed to answer that question with a firm no.

It was only curiosity. It wasn't as though I hoped or expected him to be carrying the same aftereffects I was. There was nothing to be disappointed about.

The room we were shown to was a private dining room with a plaque above the door reading 'Samcheolli.' The restaurant had been converted from an old family home, and because the structure had been left largely untouched, the interior felt simple and cozy, like stepping into a family's sitting room. From our second-floor room, we could look down on a small but well-kept garden. The contrast with his garden made me smile to myself.

"Director Liu heard you were sick and said we should come here so you could build your strength back up."

Sitting beside me across from him, Manager Han flipped through the menu as she spoke.

He didn't deny it. He just went on gazing out at the garden through the window, as though he hadn't heard her.

"I'm completely recovered now... but thank you for looking out for me."

"I don't know if you're tougher than you look, but you're awfully thin. Kwon Juhan and Baek Yuni are the same — all skin and bones. Are you all dieting on purpose?"

She frowned as she said it, genuinely puzzled, and he just gazed out at the garden through the window. Manager Han laughed, leaning back against the floor chair.

"You know how much Juhan eats and you're still saying that? He eats like a kid who hasn't seen food in days. Yuni's a little picky, but she eats a perfectly normal amount. What can they do if they're just built that way?"

It surprised me that they had arranged a meal like this with my collapse still in mind, but it probably wasn't a kindness reserved specifically for me. More likely, it was simply an extension of the care they already showed Juhan hyung and Yuni nuna, with me included by default. I wanted to hide the part of myself that felt disappointed by that. Wanting to be special compared to everyone else — that wasn't like me.

"Juhan hyung and Yuni nuna are running late... Should I call them?"

"......"

The brittle silence that settled over the room made my hand freeze halfway through pulling my phone from my jeans pocket.

"I didn't invite them today. This is supposed to help you recover, so relax and eat. If Kwon Juhan had been here, you wouldn't have gotten a single bite of the eel."

Adding a touch of playfulness, Manager Han quickly called someone over to place the order. Judging by how effortlessly they handled the menu, this was clearly a place they visited often.

Even while waiting for the food, the two of them had work to discuss, and I felt like an elementary school kid stuck among adults at a holiday gathering with not a single cousin my age in sight.

Manager Han argued that artist Shushu's work resonated more strongly in Korea than overseas, and that they should push a different artist as the centerpiece of this art fair. He didn't openly disagree, but neither did he seem inclined to let it go unchallenged.

Meanwhile, grilled eel with garlic and braised short ribs were placed in the center of the table for sharing, and a nourishing soup filled with abalone and octopus was set before each of us. Served in thick earthenware pots with wide openings, the soup carried the faint medicinal scent of jujubes and ginseng.

"Whatever else you leave, finish that. Think of it as medicine, not food."

Pointing at the earthenware pot in front of me, he said it in a mildly stern tone — and then barely touched his own.

Their conversation resumed, and I focused on eating. Or at least, I tried to. This was the first time I'd eaten with just the two of them, without nuna or hyung around, and I could hardly taste anything. It felt less like a casual meal and more like dining with two top executives as the company's lowest-ranking intern.

Since he kept glancing into my pot between sentences as though checking whether I was eating properly, I had little choice but to diligently empty it.

"Would you look at that — no matter how mature he acts, he's still a kid."

Just when I thought I'd done my best and set down my spoon, Manager Han laughed and pointed into my pot. Floating among the remnants of the abalone and octopus I'd carefully picked out were the jujubes and ginseng. He was smiling at me too.

At least his expression was no longer as indifferent as it had seemed at first. Still, heat rushed to my face — because sure enough, as Manager Han had just pointed out, I'd behaved exactly like a kid.

"Do you really want to do that with someone ten years younger than you?"

The words he had once said to Inwu hyung surfaced without warning. The implication was clear: someone ten years younger wasn't the sort of person he'd consider in that way. Which meant either I was an exception — or what happened that night had truly been nothing more than emergency first aid. It had to be one or the other.

How had my thoughts wandered all the way here from the embarrassment of leaving behind the jujubes and ginseng? There was no logic to the path they'd taken.

The empty bowls and half-finished dishes were cleared away, replaced with simple refreshments: several varieties of beautifully colored hangwa and warm tea. The tea carried a fragrance somewhere between flowers and fruit, and it was the perfect temperature for drinking in the softly air-conditioned room.

"I discussed Seo Ihyeon-ssi... with Manager Han a little."

There was no trace of caution or hesitation in his voice. It was as if he'd simply been waiting for me to finish eating, and now that I had, there was no reason to put it off any longer.

I lowered my teacup and looked at him. The moment our eyes met, I felt as though he was warning me of the weight of what he was about to say. My mouth went dry. I swallowed, but it didn't help.

"How about painting again?"

"......"

The strength left my hand and the cup slipped. I caught it just before it fell and set it down on the table. Without thinking, my eyes went to Manager Han — no. Teacher.

Teacher clasped my hand gently but firmly, a faint smile on her face. She had known this conversation was coming — more than that, she had known this entire dinner had been arranged for it. Suddenly I understood why nuna and hyung hadn't been invited.

Paint again.

Having said something that had never once crossed my mind, he remained completely unruffled — those pale, colorless eyes simply fixed on me, waiting for me to be ready to hear the rest.

His hands, loosely laced on the table, separated as he extended his fingers and brought the tips together, forming a triangle.

His hands were large, proportionate to his height, but his long, well-shaped fingers gave them an elegant, refined look. The slightly prominent knuckles, the steady thickness down to each fingertip, the dark blue veins standing out against the backs of his hands — all of it seemed to hint at something beneath that elegance — the cold, ruthless decisiveness of someone who wouldn't hesitate to take any risk if he judged it necessary to get what he wanted.

But a hand was just a hand. Just as a scent was only a scent. It meant nothing.

"I won't bother dressing up my intentions or softening them."

His tone was relaxed, entirely unremarkable. Then he continued.

"Phantom represents around twenty artists, but to be frank, only three or four of them are actually responsible for sustaining the gallery and helping it grow. For a small gallery like ours to hold its position against the major galleries, we have to keep discovering fresh talent. Of course it matters that our established artists continue producing strong work — but creativity doesn't guarantee output just because someone sits in a studio for a few hours. You never know when a slump will hit, or when an artist's market value might drop. It's equally important to keep introducing newcomers who can shock people and generate buzz. Many people think of fine art as something lofty and refined — and while we try to provide the kind of environment artists want, and some may genuinely create from conviction rather than for money or fame — we dealers aren't artists. We can't pay our employees with the feeling of having become one."

He lifted one eyebrow slightly in my direction, as though asking for my agreement — but gave me no chance to agree or disagree before moving on.

"Who becomes a critically acclaimed artist, who becomes a commercially successful one — unfortunately, neither is determined by artistic merit alone. The value of art itself depends heavily on subjective interpretation, which makes any truly objective evaluation nearly impossible. To be even more direct: one of the greatest strengths of the major galleries and the giant dealers who drive today's global art market is their ability to actually create value through marketing and business. The contemporary art market isn't so different from show business."

He wasn't speaking particularly quickly, but it was difficult to keep pace with where he was going. I still felt as though I was standing at the starting line, destination unknown, while he was already far ahead, pulling me after him.

"It's true that Phantom's finances have strengthened considerably over the last year or two — but that's largely down to the success of our flagship artists, Shushu among them. We still haven't found anyone expected to follow in their footsteps, let alone surpass them. That's a serious problem. We've searched everywhere — university graduation shows, small café galleries out in the provinces, social media. Manager Han and I have combed through all of it like maniacs, but finding genuinely interesting artists just isn't easy."

Tap, tap.

He tapped his index fingers together as though punctuating a brief pause, then looked at me — a gaze that felt like he was pinning me against the wall.

"I've taken the long way around, but what I'm saying is this: I expect you, Seo Ihyeon-ssi, to become that kind of artist."

I hadn't asked a single question, yet he kept watching me with persistence, as though waiting for an answer — or perhaps simply measuring my reaction. Either way, all of this was far too sudden.

I used to paint. There had been a time when painting was my language. But even then, I'd never once imagined where my work might fit within the "art market" he was describing now.

Having observed me as long as he wanted, he unfolded the triangle he'd made with his fingers, leaned back in his chair, and settled in.

"Now Manager Han will explain the same thing in a way you'll find more appealing."

Teacher sighed and shook her head at him. He only shrugged — as though he genuinely didn't understand what the issue was, or perhaps as though this was simply the best he could do.

There was no malice in what he'd said. It was a difference in perspective, nothing more. He was speaking as a gallery owner and dealer whose job was to sell paintings, and there was nothing unethical about that. Realistically, if he couldn't sell art, some artists might no longer be able to paint.

Lightly patting my clenched hand as if to offer encouragement, Teacher spoke in a careful, gentle voice.

"Director Liu may sound as though he's speaking purely from a business standpoint, but please take it as a sign of how much potential he sees in you. For all the things he says, he's not the kind of person who throws himself headfirst into a lost cause."

I looked down at the hand resting awkwardly beside my teacup and nodded without thinking.

Teacher was right. He wasn't someone who invested in things he believed had no chance of succeeding. But no matter how perfect someone appeared — even a top-tier Golden Alpha — he was still human. And it seemed his judgment had failed him this time. Why me?

"Director Liu owns that painting you did years ago, doesn't he? The one that won the contest."

"......"

Slowly, I raised my head and turned toward Teacher.

By then, she had already left Korea. She must have heard about the award through her sister, who was friends with my mother. There was no way she could know what that painting truly meant to me. Even so, tension wound through me. My throat was so dry it stung.

How much had he told Teacher? After I'd confessed the painting was mine, I'd reacted like I'd seen a ghost — stopped breathing, then passed out cold. Had he asked her whether she knew anything about that?

I looked at him, certain that curiosity — or perhaps anxiety — was written plainly across my face. Bold of me, but he just stood there with his arms crossed, looking back, and offered nothing. Not a single hint.

"It's a piece Director Liu has kept in his collection for a long time. I found it very impressive myself. I just didn't know it was yours."

"That painting... I did it a long time ago. It's been more than five years since I've painted anything. And besides, you've never seen any of my other work..."

I'd barely managed to gather myself enough to force those words out when a quiet scoff came from across the table.

"If it takes a portfolio of twenty-plus pieces to judge an artist's talent or potential... then you should give up on making a living as an art dealer."

"......"

"I know that sounded a little obnoxious, but my point is that one piece was enough. Especially if you painted it when you were sixteen."

As though trying to smooth over the cynical edge of his earlier remark, he added the explanation in a more measured tone.

His praise for Alienation was unexpected. And because he wasn't the type to offer empty compliments or exaggerate his impressions, I didn't feel any particular resistance to it. Still… someone who could fall into hyperventilation just from facing a painting from their past wasn't likely to ever paint again. That was different from absentmindedly doodling in a sketchbook now and then.

"I've been away from it for five years."

I'd muttered it under my breath, but in a room this small, it hadn't gone unnoticed.

Teacher shifted closer to me and rested her free hand lightly on my back.

"I agree with Director Liu. Last time, I told you that there's absolutely no reason to feel guilty for not painting right now, and I meant every word. But it's also true that if the opportunity arose—and if it's what you wanted—I would love to see you paint again. Because I know how talented you are."

"Teacher... I'm truly grateful that you think so... but that's all... ancient history."

"Ah, ancient history. How old are you again, Seo Ihyeon-ssi? Fifty? Forty? No, wait—have you even turned twenty-five yet?"

Just when it seemed he'd decided to exercise a little patience, he spoke again in that prickly tone, drawing a sharp look from Teacher.

His words might have been true in a general sense. I wasn't forty or fifty. I wasn't even twenty-five yet. Maybe I was too young to be calling something "ancient history."

If people knew about me—about how I'd cut away a part of myself that had rotted from being shackled to the past and gone on living without it—they might click their tongues and call me weak-willed. They might say I'd lost my passion far too soon.

But in truth, many of the people around me had cut themselves free from pasts that threatened to destroy a part of who they were, moving forward even as they sacrificed things, even as they bled.

I wanted to find that kind of courage too. I wanted to live in the light of the present.

But everyone moves at their own pace.

What I wanted was to move forward at the pace that suited me, from where I stood now—not to imitate others just so I could look like I was doing the same thing.

"Ihyeon-ah, what Director Liu and I want you to focus on is just one thing: whether you still want to paint. If it's not that you lost the desire to paint, but simply that you decided not to... then couldn't that decision change someday? You don't have to answer now. Take all the time you need."

It wasn't that I'd stopped wanting to paint, nor that I'd decided not to. At first, it was neither. I simply couldn't paint anymore.

Looking down at Teacher's hand resting over mine, I parted my lips several times before finally managing to speak.

"I probably... won't be able to paint."

Neither of them interrupted. They simply waited for me to continue.

"I've been away from it for too long. And while I was letting painting go, my affection for it... my passion for it... those things naturally faded. I've spent all this time thinking I'd probably never paint again, so..."

I lowered my eyes.

"I can't even imagine myself painting anymore."

I had never explained my current circumstances—or the path that had led me here—in detail to either Teacher or him. Given that, this was the most honest explanation I could give. Anything more would have required either a lie or a confession, and right now, I wanted neither.

"Thank you for being so honest with us. We weren't expecting a positive answer today, either. It's a sudden offer. No one's going to change their mind on the spot. Especially not if you've already spent a long time sorting out your feelings about painting in your own way."

Teacher had been gently patting the back of my hand. Now she clasped both of my hands firmly in hers.

"But Ihyeon-ah... what if you tried painting again? When Director Liu first brought it up..."

She hesitated for a moment.

"To be honest, I felt grateful to Director Liu."

A flicker of emotion crossed Teacher's face as she looked at me.

Teacher and I hadn't kept in touch since my childhood, but I knew that the emotion wavering in her eyes wasn't sentimental pity for the terrible past of a former student she hadn't seen in so long.

When I was a child, Teacher and I shared a secret garden. She understood the world as I saw it perfectly. I couldn't believe in myself through my own strength alone. Because of Teacher, my world grew wider, and I learned to feel at home in it.

I didn't need to hear the details of why Teacher felt grateful to him. The more grateful she was to him, the more apologetic I felt toward her.

I could no longer object. But agreeing was just as difficult.

Afraid that even the smallest nod might give her hope I didn't mean to offer, I kept my gaze fixed on our joined hands and bit down lightly on my lower lip.

The faint sound of rain had begun to mingle with the steady hum of the air conditioner. As if on cue, all three of us looked out the window almost simultaneously. Outside, rain streaked the window. Before we'd noticed, dusk had deepened into darkness.

It was he who broke the heavy silence.

"Seo Ihyeon-ssi, try this."

He pushed the plate of refreshments, which none of us had touched until then, toward me. Neither Teacher nor I could keep up with his sudden change of subject.

When I didn't respond, he speared a piece of yakgwa—cut into small squares for easy eating—with a fork and held it out to me.

"Try it. It's a type of Korean confection made of layered pastry. A master craftsman made it. It's rare."

"How on earth do you even know a word like 'master craftsman'? You weren't even raised in Korea."

Manager Han took the fork from him on my behalf and passed it to me.

"When you're apart, it only makes you cling harder. Everyone becomes a patriot when they're living abroad, you know."

Spearing another piece of yakgwa with a fork and offering it to Teacher, he arched an eyebrow and replied smoothly.

"That's rich coming from someone who isn't even a Korean citizen."

"Nationality is just a legal and administrative status. I'm a mixed-race quarter, but half of my blood is Korean. I only got half from my father."

As I put the yakgwa in my mouth and chewed, honey seeped from between its many layers, sweetly filling my mouth. It wasn't the kind of excessive sweetness that made my brow furrow, but the kind that made my eyelids droop.

"How is it? You would've regretted not trying it, right?"

He leaned toward me and asked with a serious expression, as though his thoughts on the yakgwa now mattered more than any painting.

There was nothing distinctly Eastern in his light grayish-blue eyes or in the sharp three-dimensionality of his features. Only his black hair seemed to quietly, yet stubbornly, assert the fact that he was, as he himself put it, half Korean.

To his question — "You would have regretted it, right?" — I nodded.

He smiled more deeply than I had ever seen from him, the kind that pulled his jaw muscles taut and carved a deep dimple-like crease into the side of his cheek.

Rainwater running down the umbrella borrowed from the restaurant dripped to my feet, spattering onto my sneakers and the cuffs of my jeans.

It wasn't a downpour, but it was more than a drizzle you could ignore without an umbrella either. A foreign man with his windbreaker hood pulled up was heading toward us, a Golden Retriever leading the way.

"Hi."

"Hi."

When the man, his jaw thick with a golden beard, came close enough for his expression to read, the two exchanged brief greetings.

"Your dog is handsome," he said.

"He throws a fit every time it rains until I take him out — so here we are," the man said, laughing.

"Bye-bye." When he brushed past and smiled at me, I gave a faint, barely noticeable smile and stepped aside to let him and the dog through.

His SUV, which had been in the external parking lot, was approaching the restaurant entrance. Teacher's car had left first, and since she had another appointment related to work afterward, she had asked him to drive me home and had left about three minutes earlier.

"Thank you for dinner today."

He tilted his umbrella slightly to avoid the light from the car pulling up close to the curb as he said his goodbyes to Manager Han.

"I'm just going to walk for a bit to clear my head, then I can take the bus home, so please don't worry about what Manager Han said. Well then..."

His expression wasn't entirely clear because the umbrella obscured his view. It wasn't entirely unintentional that he avoided looking directly at Manager Han. He turned away from her black dress shoes — which suited her more casual Saturday evening attire — and started walking toward the incline where the foreign man had just descended.

"I was thinking of having a drink while I clear my head, too."

I stopped in my tracks and turned around at the sound of his voice, which was mimicking my exact words. Holding the umbrella with his other hand tucked into his pocket, he watched me. In the rain, every scent becomes stronger. I seemed to recall hearing somewhere that one should wear less perfume on a rainy day. Like a wave that approaches slightly only to soak my toes before retreating, his scent lingered at the tip of my nose, then vanished without penetrating deep into my sense of smell.

"Would you care to join me?"

The inertia from how I've lived up to this point urged me to refuse the offer, turn tail, and run home, but this new stimulus — sweetly paralyzing that inertia — made me want to inhale his fragrance and taste it. I don't know where this impulse and greed came from within me. Even if it had existed before, I thought it would have all died out by now. His eyes, which had seemed pale as if they would fade quickly, looked unusually blue.

Perhaps he had been holding back a craving to smoke for a long time, because as soon as we settled at the bar, he lit a cigarette. Flipping through the long, vertical pages of the menu — one given to each of us — indifferently, he spoke.

"It's raining, how about something strong?"

I fidgeted with the bag I had set down next to me, awkwardness stemming from being in a place I'd never been before, and nodded in agreement. In truth, the awkwardness of being in a place like this alone with him was greater than the awkwardness of the location itself.

The bar was about a ten-minute drive from the restaurant where we had dinner, situated on the uphill road leading toward Namsan. The building itself wasn't tall, but being halfway up Namsan gave it a good view. Apparently, this was also a place he frequented, as the manager — who introduced himself to me — came out personally to greet us warmly.

The seat we were shown to was almost like a semi-private room. One edge of the partition wall was open to allow people to pass through, but from where we sat on the sofa, we couldn't see the main hall, and the structure was such that the interior wasn't visible from the hall unless one deliberately tried to look.

The cozy room was furnished with a deep, high-backed, plush sofa, and in front of the sofa was a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the night view. It was a suitable spot for two or three people to drink privately and talk.

It wasn't far from where Morae nuna and Yeehan hyung lived. The view outside the window was also similar to what I used to see from the outdoor platform on the rooftop — although there was about as much difference between this space and that one as between Morae nuna's old place and Grandpa's house.

Rain was falling over the Seoul nightscape, which brought to mind squid fishing boats. Suddenly, a laugh escaped me as I realized I was living it up way beyond my means. The only bars I had ever visited in that port town were shabby raw fish restaurants or grilled clam joints. I hid the grin spreading across my face by pretending to pore over the unfamiliar menu so he wouldn't notice.

After calling a waiter and finishing our order, I kept flipping through the menu even though we were done, because his gaze felt fixed on my profile.

He and I were sitting at the corner where the L-shaped sofa bent, so technically we weren't sitting right next to each other, but we were close enough that I had to be mindful of our legs potentially touching. If we had been side-by-side, it would have been easier to avoid his gaze, but our position forced us to look at each other while talking.

A slightly muffled voice followed a deep drag of his cigarette.

"Looks like you had fun yesterday."

He must have been talking about meeting Inwu hyung. I looked up from scanning the cocktail list meaninglessly and stared at him. Just as I expected, we were seated too close for either of us to easily look away.

Even if he mentioned meeting me, Inwu hyung wasn't the type to go around broadcasting the details of our conversation. I didn't know what basis I had for thinking this, but I was sure of it. If it were some trivial chat, fine, but I doubted he would know I had asked him specific questions about Alphas and Omegas.

I hadn't reacted strongly, nor had he said anything particularly funny, yet he suddenly ground out the cigarette butt in the ashtray and let out a short laugh.

"Gay people, honestly."

He muttered it almost to himself.

It was unclear who the "gay people" in his laughter referred to. Judging by the conversations we'd had over hamburgers and beer during the shooting of Old Future, he himself was gay, or at least bi, and Inwu hyung — who had shown no hesitation in expressing interest in me, a man, from the start — couldn't be much different. Because of that impulsive declaration where I'd said, "I'm like men," he categorized me as gay too. There was no need to piece things together; we had already... slept together.

Was that self-deprecation, a repeated evaluation of Inwu hyung as not being a great romantic prospect, or an accusation directed at me? The information gleaned from that brief mutter and subtle smile was too sparse to figure it out.

After smoking the entire cigarette, he shifted slightly toward me, relaxing his posture.

"I heard you initially refused, saying you had a prior engagement, but then you called back and asked to meet."

There was a faintly negative nuance in his tone. I still couldn't tell if Inwu hyung had expressed it that way, or if this was a new interpretation he had layered onto hyung's words.

He didn't look angry or displeased. In fact, he held back a smile by lightly biting his lower lip, then released it and chuckled once more. I couldn't figure out what he found so amusing by himself, as he had been doing all this time.

"Right... People can't all be the same, can they?"

He was talking to himself frequently today. He would toss out a remark directed at me, only to immediately conclude it with his own private monologue. Faced with his stubborn behavior, a rebellious spirit stirred within me for the first time in a long while.

"What do you mean by that..."

It was frustrating. He clearly had something he wanted to say, but unlike his usual self, he just danced around the subject, occasionally bumping into me.

He rolled the cold, metallic lighter in his palm, then looked up at me with a smile.

"It's a compliment. Hmm... it's probably a compliment. You're twenty-two, a grown adult after all, so it would be strange not to know anything in that area, right? I assumed that because you usually seem so demure, you'd be reserved about those things too, but I judged Seo Ihyeon-ssi unfairly. Actually, being that way is more natural."

There was no hint of sarcasm on his face as he spoke, but it was also true that a shadow, less refreshing than the lightness of his tone, lingered around him.

It was as if I had deliberately used some kind of "technique" to seduce Inwu hyung more effectively. He was steering the conversation.

It was a strange feeling. Misunderstandings were certainly unpleasant, and while that discomfort wasn't entirely absent, it wasn't the only thing there either. There was also a slight, buoyant excitement, as if both body and mind were lifting off.

Were the reactions he was showing now perhaps jealousy?

The thought struck me as absurdly fanciful. It was a thought I'd kept entirely to myself, but my face flushed hot, wanting to scribble over the trace of that thought with a pen. So much so that I almost laughed at myself.

To think my thoughts were leaning toward jealousy. Did I really have such an optimistic side to me?

"That kind... what kind is that?"

In my fluster, I might have unknowingly turned the arrow back on him, spilling out the rebelliousness that had been stirring inside me. Still, I didn't adopt a challenging expression or use that kind of tone. I simply asked a question.

Yet he looked at me as if blindsided by a sudden ambush, his eyebrows twitching and his gaze weighted with intensity.

It was strange that I knew nothing about "that kind," but it wasn't that I was indifferent to "that kind" either. I wanted him to erase those vague boundaries and just get straight to the point.

"I'm not sure what you're trying to say."

The silence stretched on. He pulled out a new cigarette, lit it, and seemed to be peering into the very depths of his own mind, searching for an answer to my question. All I had wanted was to see him flustered, just a little.

After a long moment, as if he had finally found his answer, his dry lips moved.

"You're right. I was speaking vaguely. What I want to say is..."

Footsteps approached from the entrance of the partition wall. It was a deliberate sound, meant to let us know he was coming closer so we could prepare and pause the conversation appropriately.

The manager who had guided us brought the liquor himself. Dark amber whiskey in a bluish bottle, several types of crystal glasses that looked elaborately cut but felt sturdy rather than delicate, and a basket of ice were quietly served onto the table.

"Straight for me. And something easy to drink for this one."

The manager, who had poured two drinks into different glasses in different ways according to his order, vanished as silently as if he were a person floating on a cloud, unlike when he had entered the room.

He held and fiddled with the slender glass, smoothly emptied the liquor inside, and then continued the conversation where he had left off.

"What I want to say is... that every human being has an unexpected side to them."

It felt as if the tension drained right out of my shoulders. I strongly felt that he was running away, and I could clearly see my own disappointment in that realization.

I felt unfamiliar with myself for expecting something in this manner.

It was also true that I didn't feel repulsed by him when he sought my attention and asked me to get into bed with him. I had genuinely believed his words that being with him would numb my pain. At that time, if someone else — say, Inwu hyung — had said the same thing to me, I probably would have refused.

But that was all. At least for now.

Though I had never dated, or even had a crush, the combination of wanting someone's attention, wanting to draw that attention, and not minding physical contact — that whole spectrum of feelings wasn't necessarily love. The intimacy that night felt like emergency first aid from him.

To borrow his expression, I wasn't so much of a novice as to not know the difference.

"That day, why did you do it?"

Again, his question came with no prelude or knock. He opened the door and looked around the room first. This was much more his style than beating around the bush.

What was the subject of the "why" he was asking about? As I slowly turned the gears in my head, I brought my own glass of liquor to my lips. I had braced myself for the harsh burn of strong alcohol since it was whiskey, but the unexpectedly smooth swallow made my preparation feel pointless.

"I'm asking why you reacted the way you did to your own painting."

He clarified his question further.

I realized the meeting at the restaurant with Manager Han had only been a preview, or perhaps a light warm-up for him. He hadn't brought me here to probe about my time with Inwu hyung last night, nor to have a drinking buddy on a rainy evening.

"You said you wouldn't ask anything..."

"And that's why I didn't actually ask anything that day."

That was true.

"I'm the one who took care of Seo Ihyeon-ssi the entire day; don't I deserve that much of an explanation?"

His gaze, fixed directly on me without any sign of backing down, looked ready to bring up even more direct topics.

I felt like he was about to corner me and force me to speak by saying things like, I'm the one who brought Seo Ihyeon to the boiling point that day and stayed with him until he was completely exhausted and could fall asleep. Remember? Every part of your body I touched and kissed with such care. Even though I didn't even get to finish.

"It wasn't because of the painting... I just suddenly felt unwell..."

"I see. So it wasn't because of the painting..."

He slowly rubbed his chin, nodding as if savoring my words.

"Then it seems the internal obstacle isn't related to wanting to paint again."

"......"

"She told you to just focus on whether or not you want to paint again and think about it slowly. Although Manager Han said she would respect Seo Ihyeon-ssi's decision, frankly, I won't."

Fiddling with the empty glass, he didn't take his eyes off me. I couldn't believe this was the same person who, that night, had preemptively understood my feelings, telling me not to strain myself making excuses because he wouldn't ask anything. Yet this felt somehow different from being coercive. Perhaps it was a delusion, but I sensed something like anxiety at the edge of his gaze.

"I strongly hope you will paint again."

I hope you will paint.

Though at first glance it sounded like he was expressing a hope or a wish, the intensity in his gaze and the stubbornly set line of his mouth suggested something else entirely: that he would make sure I painted, no matter what.

Whether it was my imagination or the lighting, his pale eyes — which I often felt might shatter and vanish — looked deeper than usual. It was as if a blue flame were burning within the transparency of his eyes, just like the liquor bottle set before him. Having grown accustomed to black eyes, his eyes sometimes seemed utterly inorganic to me. The emotions reflected in his bluish eyes were like a foreign language I couldn't quite grasp.

"Accompany me on the next business trip to Hong Kong."

The conversation had suddenly surged in an unexpected direction. The man who had been with me when I was with Teacher was a facade. He must have planned all along to pull me onto his boat and drive me forward relentlessly.

"After encountering works by artists with diverse nationalities, styles, and thematic concerns at the Art Fair and feeling the energy of the art market, you might receive good stimulation and your perspective could change. It will help you make up your mind."

I recalled Yuni nuna's post I had seen on the Old Future website. The curiosity about that unfamiliar city I felt after reading that article. The excitement for sunlight I had felt for the first time in a long while concerning the future. It was also true that I faintly sensed the scent of that sunshine in his proposal.

But could I really paint again? Was it truly that hopeful? This wasn't a matter of feeling.

"Director... I appreciate what you're saying, but..."

"Suki Kim."

"......"

The boat, which had been about to lose its balance and capsize against the rocks, suddenly stopped. The current ceased, the boat halted with its front end lifted, and the water droplets that had splashed everywhere froze in mid-air. I was immobilized, as if trapped in a photograph.

"Foreigners who found the Korean pronunciation difficult started calling her that, and now 'Suki Kim' has become its own proper noun, almost a nickname. But even though she was born and raised in America as a Korean American, she used her Korean name, Kim Suki, from the very beginning of her career. Well... asking foreigners to pronounce Kim Suki clearly is an unreasonable request, of course."

It was natural that he, the gallery owner, knew the internationally famous artist Suki Kim — or rather, Teacher Suki Kim. Moreover, if he owned the piece titled Alienation, he would likely know that Teacher had been a judge in the contest where that painting became known to the world. He might have even purchased the painting directly from Teacher. It wasn't an impossible scenario. However, the proposal he made immediately afterward was something I absolutely had not anticipated.

He pulled a fresh cigarette from the pack, placed the white stick between his lips, and flipped open his lighter.

"I'll arrange a meeting with Suki Kim."

And then he played his trump card — one I simply couldn't refuse.

Swept away by a dizzying current, the boat carrying me was already drifting downstream at an unstoppable speed.