On the final day of a show, at least there wasn’t as much to do as at the opening. Depending on the exhibition, they sometimes invited the artist and buyers for an after-party on the last day, but this time it was a group show and hard to coordinate, so only artists who were free and key clients would be invited and entertained separately off-site by Phantom’s CEO and the teacher to wrap things up.
As a temp, I didn’t need to come in from morning. I clocked in at closing time and helped Yuni and Juhan break down the hall. Unlike last time, the job was to take everything down and move it to the storage in the basement.
Maybe because we’d already worked once as a team, we had every piece back in the vault and properly re-packed before it even hit ten. Most of these pieces would be delivered to their new owners starting Monday. The sell-through rate was so close to a record that the two of them, voices high with excitement about a fat bonus this month, even did a mysterious little dance down in the basement.
The pace was fast, but afterward we were completely spent. It felt like the fatigue after a short sprint.
We sat spread out from one another at the office conference table. Juhan had an arm for a pillow and lay facedown on the tabletop; Yuni dropped two capsules in the coffee machine, drew a strong shot, added ice, and downed it. I crossed my arms and slouched back, feeling a bit tired myself.
“Guess you really do like stripes.”
“Sorry?”
I wasn’t asking because I truly didn’t understand. It was just a reflex to an unexpected topic at an odd moment. Having drunk more than half of the big tumbler of coffee, Yuni looked revived.
“At the VIP opening and the day before, you wore a striped T-shirt. And now today, stripes again. Thanks to you I lost a bet.”
“Thanks, Ihyeon. [N O V E L I G H T] Because of you, I get a meal out of Baek Yuni.”
Still lying there, Juhan turned just his head toward us, made a lazy V with his fingers, and grinned.
“Ah... sorry, Yuni.”
As she passed behind me, Yuni laughed and gave my back a light pat.
“Would you be sorry to Juhan if I’d won?”
“Ah....”
Fair point, now that I thought about it.
“You’ll be even sorrier after I give you this. What can we do....”
She set a small shopping bag on the table, black with a black ribbon and the lettering “Old Future.”
“What’s this?”
“A present. You seem like a stripe maniac. The moment I saw it, you popped into my head.”
Inside was a black-and-white striped T-shirt. Spread out, it was a loose short-sleeve with a slightly wider neckline.
“It’s not something I went out and bought; I grabbed it from the shop we run, so just take it without pressure.”
“No, feel pressure. Take it, feel pressure, and come work with us. Yeah?”
At some point Juhan had moved to the seat across from me; he shot his arms over the table and clasped my hands with an earnest look. His plea to work together landed with real sincerity—happy and grateful—but with the face of that man who’d growled like someone from the underworld, stressing “peace and safety” and saying, “Right, Seo Ihyeon?” all I could do was give an awkward smile.
“But... you run a shop?”
“Calling it a shop isn’t quite right, but if you have to label it, sure. It hasn’t been long since we opened. What, half a year?”
She glanced at Juhan, as if checking her memory on the last bit.
“You know our taste. It isn’t easy to find clothes we like domestically. We thought it’d be nice to open a site for people with similar taste. Since it’s mostly pieces we pick up while traveling abroad, we rarely have more than one or two of anything, so it’s not some big moneymaker. We’re not doing it for a fortune—we just like it.”
Juhan said it as lightly as telling you he goes out to ride his bike when he has time, but to me it seemed impressive enough. Regardless of how successful it was, I at least knew that turning an idea into action isn’t easy.
“Then shouldn’t this be something you sell?”
“Even so, it’s not expensive. Wear it without worry. Juhan and I don’t do gifts that weigh on people.”
Perched on the table and drinking her coffee, Yuni lightly mussed my hair. Just the clink of ice in her cup sounded cooling.
“Thank you. I’ll really wear it well.”
There wasn’t some special reason or stubbornness behind only wearing stripes. I didn’t have a knack for choosing stylish clothes, and I wasn’t that interested in clothes to begin with.
Stripes seemed like they wouldn’t be too drab yet wouldn’t stand out—that was how it started. Before I knew it, every top in my closet was stripes. Honestly, saying I only wore striped T-shirts was generous; I didn’t have that many clothes at all. And since I left my grandfather’s house, I’d only packed two or three thin long-sleeves I needed right away, so I really did need some short sleeves with the weather getting hotter.
But it wasn’t just the relief of getting something I needed.
Someone had watched me closely enough to catch my taste and thought of me even when I wasn’t there. That unexpected kindness made something at the edge of my heart lightly ring.
Their gentle thoughtfulness—remembering me with a single striped T-shirt—felt like a tender scolding of my social hiding, my refusal of any world beyond the narrow circle of Morae and my brother.
Maybe sacred, sacrificial love isn’t the only salvation, I thought, looking down at the shirt in my hands—getting a bit grand about it.
They shoved me behind the office partition, saying they wanted to see me wear it. I took off the worn long-sleeve I’d had on and hung it over the partition, then pulled the new shirt over my head. It was more stylish than what I usually wore, so it felt odd, but their reaction was heated.
“One T-shirt changes the whole vibe like that?”
Juhan, playing on his phone, overdid it a bit; I couldn’t help a snort.
“Now acknowledge the eye of Baek Yuni.”
Arms folded, chin lifted, Yuni crowed; seated, Juhan scowled.
“Baek Yuni, he already looked good in plain black pants and an off-brand tee.”
“He was already good-looking and now he’s better. Admit it, you punk.”
“When have I not? I admit it, I hella admit it. Baek Yuni is the best.”
Their nonstop use of the word pretty about me felt as awkward as the shirt, and I found myself rubbing the back of my neck. Then I remembered the shirt I’d left draped over the partition, grabbed it, and tucked it into my bag with the shopping bag.
“How tall are you?”
I rummaged my military memories.
“Last time I measured, about a hundred eighty-one.”
“Maybe because your face is small and your limbs are long... I thought you were taller.”
She ran her gaze up and down me from across the table like she was gauging my height.
“It’s perfect. It’s not like you’re going to model; taller than that just makes it a pain to find clothes that fit. You read as a hundred eighty-three or four while being a hundred eighty-one. That’s ideal. I’m jealous.”
Juhan, who looked five to seven centimeters taller than me, drummed quick fingers on his screen—apparently back in his game. To me, he was the one who looked like a model. I’d thought that the first time I saw him in the basement vault.
“Great proportions and a face that works—swap in a T-shirt with black jeans and you look like a model. You must get people asking if you’re Alpha, Ihyeon.”
Yuni sounded nearly certain, but try as I might, I couldn’t remember ever getting that misunderstanding. At least, no one had said it to my face.
“No, not at all....”
“Eh, Ihyeon isn’t Alpha-like so much as...”
Juhan lifted his eyes from the screen and looked at me with a slightly nuanced weight, as if pressing me down with his gaze. Before he could finish, a clutter of noise sounded outside the office door.
The front door was locked from inside, so only people with a pass could come and go. We glanced at each other with a “who is it?” look.
“Hello, babies!”
The man from the passenger seat burst in like a musical actor, sweeping through the hall and corridor to the office door. Seeing his face, both Yuni and Juhan let out blatant sighs.
It felt less like genuine rejection than that joking greeting you trade with someone you’re comfortable with.
“My Juhan and Yuni welcome me so warmly again. What kind of reaction is that to a guy who came to buy you good food?”
Over his shoulder, faintly tipsy, came the Phantom CEO, looking displeased.
“Boss, why did you bring Inwoo?”
“I didn’t bring him. The brat insisted on coming, so I had no choice but to be dragged along.”
With a tired expression, the CEO nudged the passenger-seat man aside and stepped into the office.
“Who dragged who? Instead of sitting among people with nothing in common and fake-smiling, I said let’s go to Phantom and buy something nice for the babies who are working hard, and you tagged along.”
He raised his voice toward the CEO’s back as the man walked past him, then, without giving him a chance to defend himself, came straight to me. He bent slightly, bringing his face close. There was the faintest smell of wine—not strong.
“Ihyeon, how have you been?”
“Yes. Hello.”
The CEO had passed the table and was drawing himself a coffee at the machine by the window. With one hand on his hip, standing at an angle, his back looked a little worn out.
“So you came to buy us something nice, huh. Right. You came to see Ihyeon.”
Juhan grumbled. The passenger-seat man slung an arm over my shoulder and turned his body toward Yuni and Juhan.
“So what if I came to see someone? I’m still paying today.”
“Then let’s go. Ten minutes to get ready.”
Yuni checked her watch and answered crisply.
■ ■ ■
The bar was tucked down a narrow alley deeper inside a busy nightlife district, like a classy hideout. It served Spanish-style small plates and wine, with maybe only four or five tables inside.
It wasn’t stiff or severe. The clothes people wore, the rise and fall of their voices, the music—it all made for a casual atmosphere.
Still, for someone who’d spent the last five or six years in a fishing village without even a chain pizza joint, let alone a Spanish restaurant, it felt polished enough to be a bit awkward.
The passenger-seat man seemed most at home here. With everyone’s agreement, he took the menu and immediately ordered two or three good bar dishes and a bottle of wine.
Except for me, the other four all seemed to be on a first-name basis with the owner. That alone told me they were fairly close privately too. At least close enough to share favorite haunts.
“Can I call you Ihyeon?”
I hurriedly set my water down and nodded to the man across from me.
“You can just call me Inwoo, too.”
I knew his name was Choi Inwoo because I’d checked the artist credit on his piece at the VIP opening.
“How is Inwoo a big brother to him? Uncle, maybe. Let’s just stick with Inwoo.”
Juhan needled him, and the man frowned, folding his arms and resting them on the table.
“Why should I be called ‘doctor’ when I’m not even his physician? I don’t like it.”
“Then why do we call you ‘doctor’? You’re not our physician either.”
Tch. In response to Juhan’s jab, the man clicked his tongue. He seemed forced to concede the logic but shifted to a new complaint.
“Hearing ‘doctor’ at the hospital is more than enough. Every time I hear it I feel twenty years older. And you two call every other artist ‘sir’ or ‘ma’am’ but only call me ‘doctor.’”
“Oh, but we see you way too often thanks to the CEO. Calling you ‘sir’ makes it feel distant.”
Juhan, leaning fully sideways with his back to the window, toyed with his long, thin fingers and grinned lazily.
“Right. It’s a show of affection.”
Yuni backed him up. But the man didn’t let it pass.
“What about Chouchou? Then why do you call Chouchou ‘sir’?”
