Wonderland

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.

"Yeehyeon-ah, 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.