My sister pointed at his car parked by the main gate behind us—the only ➤ NоvеⅠight ➤ (Read more on our source) part visible from here was the front bumper—and he gave a wry, self-deprecating smile, as if his tires were all deflated. Then, as if trying to wipe away that bitter aftertaste of a laugh, he snatched the spoon from my sister’s wrist just as she was about to bring it to her lips, swallowing the ice cream himself. It wasn’t even the first time he’d teased like that, so my sister barely blinked; she simply scooped up more ice cream on her spoon.
Judging by his appearance alone, you might guess he had mild germophobia, but in reality he didn’t seem fastidious at all.
“You’ve got zero interest in things like that,” my sister teased in a light tone, but the subtle shift in atmosphere among the three of us warned me that this was a touchy subject: one you could only mention in jest, because going any deeper would shatter the calm. Studying abroad, his material desires—these were all careful, sensitive topics when it came to me.
“And you, Representative, talk as if you wouldn’t live on dreams alone. Why don’t you just provide a place for these twenty-somethings who have nothing but their bodies and their dreams? Just open the front gate for them.”
He still wore a look of displeasure, but it was clear he had no intention of pushing the conversation further.
“If someone in Phantom leaves, I’ll object,” he said, “but I can’t picture myself clinging to someone else’s life that deeply, no matter who it is.”
“Got no plans? Want to come along?” my brother, Gwon Juhan, invited me. “We’re shooting Old Future’s latest clothes in the garden at your place. It’s eerily beautiful there—perfect for photos. It’s totally unkempt.”
It was awkward being invited to his home, so I just looked at him. He only shrugged playfully, as if to say, “I don’t know why I deserve any flak for providing a place.” My sister caught my glance and read my thoughts at once.
“You’re worried about the Representative? Don’t be. We’ll only shoot in the garden. Representative, can Seo Ihyeon come too?”
“He said he’ll handle it while I sleep. Do whatever you want—just don’t wake me.”
He rummaged through the jacket draped over the chair back to pull out a pack of cigarettes, speaking as though it were nothing. My sister lifted her spoon with that last bite of ice cream and signaled to him: yes or no? Instead of lighting a cigarette, he leaned forward, and she fed it to him. He licked the sweet residue from his lips, then furrowed his brow.
“Ugh, I really hate sweet stuff.”
My sister and Gwon Juhan laughed at his reaction. It was exactly what I’d expected—he didn’t like sweets—but then why did he eat it when offered? And earlier, why had he swiped my sister’s ice cream without anyone asking? His big, unpredictable behavior struck me as childlike, and I found myself laughing too, belatedly.
A delivery truck laden with pamphlets arrived, and we all stood to help unload. But my sister patted my shoulder from behind, insisting it was three against one and no need for me to push myself—she’d work us plenty later today, so I should conserve my strength.
If only she’d just stayed and sent me instead—being alone with the two of them still felt awkward....
“By the way, did you quit the moving company? Or is it that you couldn’t leave, so you had to quit?”
At last she asked me a question first, as though I’d ceased being invisible.
“Yes. It was casual work—I left whenever I needed to....”
But that didn’t mean he now cared about my feelings. He wore the same indifferent look he always did.
“How’s it been since then?”
“.......”
Yet whenever something interested him, his expression changed—like just now. He lit a cigarette he’d merely held between his fingers before, and with a mischievous glint in his eyes, he looked at me.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I thought, staring at the sunglasses shielding his eyes.
“Are things going well with Choi In-woo?” he asked.
Maybe he thought his question was childish, because he let out a soft chuckle and added, “Does he still keep in touch?”
“Sometimes... he asks if I’m eating well... things like that.”
“With you? About eating?”
He laughed scornfully, as though someone claiming to have reformed was telling tall tales. He shrugged off the idea and then removed his sunglasses, setting them on the table. Tilting his head toward me, he stared across the table.
“Choi In-woo must really care for you, if he’s worried about whether you’re eating. That’s the only thing he asks about.”
I couldn’t tell what he meant. Had his advice—the kind of ‘responsibility’ he’d offered that night—already run its course?
Watching him smoke and drink his coffee, I wanted to ask, “Then why are you so curious about my relationship with In-woo?” But I held back. I feared it would be a regretful provocation—worse, it might expose my weakness instead of acting as a challenge.
Though the gallery was closed, the streets of Samcheong-dong were crowded on an early-summer Saturday. Tall, scraggly trees hid the courtyard, but beyond them voices drifted in clearly—voices all brimming with excitement.
My glass of coffee, barely sipped, remained full of ice. Smoke from his cigarette rose from the shade toward the light. A blue-and-white striped parasol fluttered above us. I suddenly felt the urge to try on his sunglasses, but lacked the courage to act.
He leaned forward over the table, resting on his elbows, and swept the cigarette between his fingers over his brow.
“Or... is it that I’m neither an Alpha nor an Omega, so I’ve lost interest?”
“.......”
He smiled faintly as he spoke—this time, it felt like twisted interest in the fact that I wasn’t an Omega. To me, it looked like anger: he was angry I wasn’t an Omega.
But his warped interest didn’t last long. His phone vibrated on the table, and he stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette in the portable ashtray, then hurriedly stood up.
A truck carrying the artwork had arrived.
■ ■ ■
Eight months after the ‘body& soul’ exhibition, which had been received with fervent acclaim from visitors, critics, and the art press, Shu-shu now unveils the ‘body to soul’ series—cementing the maturity of his distinctive style and deepening his thematic exploration.
The body as a medium for expressing the soul.
The body suffering from discord with the soul.
The body’s mere physical existence, detached from the soul.
When it comes to treating the body as his subject, Shu-shu has reached a level of mastery that belies his age and experience.
He delivers a mature rebuke to those who still dismiss photography as mere documentation rather than an art form, employing in ‘body to soul’ an extreme technique of pure light and shadow—line and plane alone.
The results, almost abandoning photography’s realist traits, resemble traditional painting more closely than photographic art.
As anyone knows, the simpler the form, the more the artist’s essence is laid bare. In culinary terms, it’s like crafting a splendid meal with only a handful of rice and a head of kimchi—unadorned yet refined, simple yet characterful.
Standing before Shu-shu’s work, I always feel anguish. I see in his art the self I wish to avoid, and I want to turn away, pretend I don’t know. Yet simultaneously, if only I had the courage, I’m driven by an unruly impulse to confront that self head-on. After all, he too must have endured such suffering to infuse his soul into his creations.
But I know—courage alone isn’t enough. I will likely remain cowardly, and live on, claiming flimsy solace that through his art I’ve momentarily recalled my own cowardice and preserved a shred of humanity. For me, art means that: after the monotony of daily life, it stands us before grand themes, compelling us to ponder life’s vague meanings.
As both dealer and collector, and as an ardent fan, I await Shu-shu’s future works with both excitement and torment.
■ ■ ■
The pamphlets printed without a hitch—no color separations gone awry, no pages misordered, no skewed binding. They were packed today to ship to clients tomorrow, just as planned.
While waiting for the address labels to print, I picked up one of the 500-odd pamphlets piled beside the conference table.
After the artist’s portraitless résumé came a critic’s preface—admittedly a predictable, pedantic flourish for a gallery-hosted exhibition. But dressing an artwork in lofty jargon and existential musings can serve as necessary packaging for its sale.
What was striking, though, was the introduction that followed: written by Phantom’s representative, Lau Wikun.
My sister and Gwon Juhan had told me that it’s extremely rare for a gallery to include its own representative’s introduction alongside a critic’s. Even more astonishing was Lau Wikun’s personal tone: fully aware of its intimacy, yet seemingly unwilling to revise it. His unabashed confession of admiration for the artist’s delicate yet resolute soul and the unique works it produced felt like a love letter.
“Standing before his work, I always feel anguish.”
A man who joked away everything, betraying no one with his true feelings—here he was, baring his soul through art, and pouring out his heart in print.
“What messed-up bastards,” Gwon Juhan cursed, tearing his gaze from his phone. He clicked a link in haste.
“Did you see this blog post about Shu-shu’s new exhibition? The title’s ‘Alpha and Omega Art: Is It Any Different from Drug-Induced Hallucinations?’ They’re trying to belittle their work.”
His link led to a post suggesting that creations born of the Alpha or Omega heat cycle were no different from art made under drug-induced hallucinatory conditions—undermining their value.
Especially targeting Golden Alphas and Golden Omegas: who knows if they’d used their pheromones to boost creativity? The post brimmed with veiled hostility.
“What’s wrong with these people? Beta complex? Or another gallery trying to trash them no matter what? Like, so what if someone gets sexually aroused—does that make their art any less? Even if it did, would it be anything but erotic? Fools. No wonder they have nothing better to do.”
The label printer dinged, and Gwon Juhan rose, chair scraping roughly as if mirroring his disordered thoughts.
It’s true that some Alphas and Omegas succeed in various fields, but that only reflects their high success rate among an already tiny minority. Most high achievers are Betas, simply because Betas form the vast majority.
The origins and history of Alphas and Omegas are cloaked in theories—no consensus exists. The prevailing view holds that pre-civilization, when mortality was high, their fertility gave them a larger share of the population; but with the rise of agrarian societies and stable settlements, Betas gradually became dominant.
In medieval Europe, they were sometimes persecuted as cursed mutants; conversely, ancient China revered them as divine progeny—some dynasties even barred Betas from royalty.
Their modern image—externally attractive, gifted across domains—took shape after the 18th-century Industrial Revolution. To preserve their scarce lineage amid societal upheaval, they amassed wealth and influence.
There’s no genetic proof of superior abilities; most Alphas and Omegas are simply born into privilege and thus enjoy better opportunities. From Betas’ perspective, the added element of pheromones—romantic to some—has fueled both adulation and resentment, spilling into film, drama, and the entertainment industry.
But whether admired or reviled for being different, the only real class in today’s world is wealth. As our moving foreman once said, Alphas and Omegas struggle more without financial backing.
“Is the artist... an Omega?” someone asked.
“Yes. A Golden Omega.”
Gwon Juhan continued packing nearly mechanically.
“Seeing Shu-shu in person, you can sense that Omega aura. It’s like... nobility. Not just handsome—there’s something special about his presence. You wouldn’t understand unless you saw it. Dancers have long been his fans, and when he moved into art, they followed. A Golden Omega with striking looks—no wonder it made headlines and drew fresh interest in the art world.”
