City of Wind

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What is it, what is it?"

Her eyes narrowed, giving her a sly look.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For a brief moment, I mistook him for Juhan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You were?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hmm."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The scale of the party was incredible."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ah... um..."

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

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

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

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

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

When I looked up, he was smiling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And this is..."

"I know her."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I agree."

When he concurred, her smile deepened slightly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He answered without hesitation.

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

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

The Face Gallery.

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

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

"Mr. Nick Liu?"

He nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

He shook his head with a smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Director."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"......!"

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

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

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

It happened in an instant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"......"

Although she was tentative, she was asking with conviction.

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

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

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

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

"......"

Doubt crept into her certainty.

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

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

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

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

"No. He's a Beta."

A look of confusion crossed Jane's face.

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

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

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

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

"......"

Jane and I both turned our attention to him.

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

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

"Is that so?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Am I scary?"

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

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

"......"

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

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

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

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

"I believe you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"......"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"......"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What...?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Just a little longer. Is that okay?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"......"

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

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

"I will."

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

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

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

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

"......"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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