A new party of guests entered What Happened in Bali, and Morae stepped away from the seat beside me for a moment. She flipped through pages of her Spring Note to sketch out the director’s features, but there weren’t many blank pages left.
A brief memo—“Bali. Kuta. Surf camp. 5th anniversary promotion. 1-year long program. ₩15,000,000 per person.”—caught my eye. It looked hastily copied from somewhere else, each word circled or underlined as if she’d wrestled with the details.
Next to the note “minimum two people,” someone had scrawled, “Are they only giving a discount because it requires two or more?” in a lighter hand. Two distinct scripts were scattered across the page with doodles: Morae’s and Han I’s, no doubt, debating together.
The picture was clear: an outrageous promotional price at the Bali-Kuta surf school, but only for a one-year contract and at least two participants. That price must include lodging and lessons. After years of overhearing their conversations, it wasn’t hard to piece together.
They’re already advanced surfers, so lesson fees alone would be steep. A year-long deal with accommodations wasn’t a bad bargain at all. A long surf trip has always been their dream—and living on-site in Bali for a year to test whether they could truly make a home there would be an incredible opportunity.
I stole a glance at Morae’s back. She was chatting cheerfully with regulars who looked like they’d grown familiar over her shifts, and suddenly I felt panic tighten my chest. Just five minutes ago, she told me not to worry about her—but imagining our parting was instantly overwhelming. It felt like standing alone in a desert night, having lost everything.
My arms dropped, my face slack with despair—until the name scribbled in the corner of the notebook brought me back.
Seo Ihyeon.
That name was outlined in a thick, overlapping circle over and over.
The name that always made them hesitate at every fork in the road: Seo Ihyeon.
Morae, having taken the orders, was pulling in menus. I flipped back to the sketch page.
“They’re regulars,” she said, returning from the kitchen. “They just got back from Hong Kong and even brought us gifts. Try one.”
She set down a metal tin on the table. When she lifted the lid—decorated with a teddy bear—it was full of butter cookies.
“Isn’t your gallery also sending people to Hong Kong soon? When was that?”
Morae plucked a cookie, handed it to me, and sat back down. “We’re scheduled to travel for an art fair in early July. But it isn’t decided whether I’ll go—especially me, who’s basically an intern.”
“It would be great if you could go. It’s such a chance.”
“If my entry-exit record sticks, won’t that be bad?”
Morae stretched her long legs and pushed her hand into her pants pocket as she finished the other half of the cookie.
“Don’t worry about that. It’s hard to track someone down just from their entry-exit stamps... If they really wanted to, they could find us right now. The reason there’s been no word is they’re just waiting for the right moment. So do whatever you want.”
She looked back at me and grinned. “The only ones Dad wants to punish are me and Han I—you’re not part of this. You have nothing to lose.”
I watched her profile. She reached into the tin again, plucked a cookie, and pressed it to my lips. Crunch. I bit halfway through; the rest disappeared into her mouth.
“Mmm. These are good. We should have them with coffee—perfect with an Americano.”
I followed Morae’s retreating back as she headed for the coffee machine, clicking my pen obsessively in my hand.
I wanted to say the same to her. It’ll be okay. We’ll make it somehow. You don’t have to hesitate over Seo Ihyeon’s name anymore, because of me. I wanted to tell her and Han I that with confidence.
Even on the precarious foam of a breaking wave, Morae always found perfect balance—but never recklessly, as if she didn’t care about the outcome. I’ve never known anyone more sincerely committed to life than she is. I couldn’t bear to fool her with hollow words of reassurance.
I knew too well that our current peace was just a sandcastle built at the edge of a beach where a wave could crash down at any moment. That my days—organizing art in Phantom, staying comfortably at the director’s house, studying illustration and Photoshop—were made possible only by the kindness and understanding of those who cared about us.
I swept a zigzag of lines across the sketch I’d drafted of the café director’s face.
I had to pull myself together. For the sake of those who wouldn’t let me face this alone—who still looked back at me even as they walked the path they chose—I needed to move my own two feet. Not choosing anything no longer maintained the status quo. That had become painfully clear.
■ ■ ■
Photographer Shushu.
Korean name: Jeong Se-in.
Cantonese: Zheng Shuiyan.
Both her parents are Korean, and she holds Korean citizenship herself, yet as a Golden Omega from a wealthy family she secretly attended the only East Asian school known for admitting both Alphas and Omegas—the Hong Kong Minton International School (H.M.I.S.)—from early childhood through secondary education. She returned home to Korea to study modern dance at H University, then moved to New York to enroll at the M.G. School of Dance.
An Achilles tendon injury during practice led to reconstructive surgery, and while she was recovering she suffered the same injury again in daily life. An infection forced removal of the graft, followed by a transplant—ending her life as a dancer.
She left New York and came back to Korea. Two years later, through her long-time H.M.I.S. connection Lau Weikun, she debuted as a photographer at Gallery Phantom with her first solo show, Body. Each exhibition sold out, making her one of Korea’s most closely watched fine-art photographers. Under Lau Weikun’s aggressive marketing, she is gearing up to launch internationally, starting in Hong Kong, Singapore, and Japan.
Among family and friends she’s better known by her Cantonese nickname, Shushu, which she has also used as her artist name—and even adopted in English—since her H.M.I.S. days.
Her striking, delicate Golden Omega looks have earned her a large fan base and drawn popular attention to the art world, though some argue she’s overhyped because of her status and appearance rather than her talent. In any case, she’s undeniably a major figure in today’s art scene—an up-and-coming artist even the largest galleries can’t ignore.
■ ■ ■
I’d heard about it in advance, but this was on a completely different scale from the last group show. For Shushu’s Body to Soul exhibition—a combined press conference and VIP opening party—Gallery Phantom’s main entrance was flanked by a photo wall.
Guests dressed far more extravagantly than before struck poses at the wall as they arrived, while roughly thirty journalists battled with their flashbulbs to capture each shot. Not just art-industry publications but even major media culture reporters had been invited—and most showed up, proof of Shushu’s clout.
Well-known actors and models were on the VIP list too, offering a chance to draw in the general public who might otherwise ignore art. Even if they didn’t immediately become patrons, their presence could expand the gallery’s influence.
The makeshift parking lot before the front gate was filled with the photo wall and reporters; there wasn’t room for any more congratulatory wreaths. Beyond the barricades, fans of invited celebrities and passersby had gathered, transforming the scene into something more like a fashion-brand launch or movie premiere.
Even the most famous artists rarely match entertainers in popular recognition, and when celebrities attend art events the spectacle can overshadow the art. But Shushu was the exception.
She arrived with the director in a heavily tinted luxury sedan, stepping out in a plain black T-shirt and neat jeans—no trace of artifice. Pushing back her wavy, shoulder-length hair, she slipped out of the rear seat looking every bit the sophisticated artist in blue jeans and a T-shirt.
They say each person is the protagonist of their own life, but the moment I saw her I thought she was born to be the protagonist of every story in the world.
A being whose very existence demanded that role. I couldn’t find any other words to describe her.
“Shushu, please look this way!”
“Wave your hand for us!”
She swept her hair behind her ears at the reporters’ calls, biting her lower lip shyly, and in that moment she eclipsed all the actors and models who’d gone before her.
When the photo session ended, she quickly located the director with her eyes. He guided her past the photo wall and through the front doors.
“I love everything about you, Shushu!”
Someone beyond the barricade—perhaps a foreign fan—shouted in ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) English. Before disappearing inside, she glanced back, smiled, and waved.
■ ■ ■
Shushu took a few sips from the tumbler she’d brought and exhaled, cheeks puffed. She was to remain in the office for a brief rest before the first segment of the event, the press conference.
The director and the artist sat side by side at the conference table; rather than sitting next to her, he leaned against the table a step away, his gaze fixed on Shushu. The faint smile playing across his face seemed to light up his entire countenance—making him feel almost foreign to me.
“Can we skip the photo ops next time?” Shushu asked him, looking up with genuine hesitation.
Contrary to her confident photo-wall demeanor, her slightly downcast eyes and worried expression made her seem like a child pouting over something trivial—irresistibly lovable.
“I don’t have any power over that. Talk to the team leader,” he replied, deferring to the director. His gaze upon her was so tender it was as if he wanted to brush her hair aside. Though he was older by years, their rapport felt more like doting of an elder over a beloved junior. As far as I knew, they were the same age.
Shushu’s tame eyes turned to the director beside her. “Director, seriously, can’t we skip it?”
“You always say that, but once it starts you handle it like a pro. Destiny chose you to live under the spotlight, so just embrace it.” He squeezed her hand twice, invoking her fans.
She let out another long, resigned breath. “Then for my solo interview, you’ll come in with me, right?”
“I... I might be busy seeing off clients, but I’ll try.”
After the press conference (part one) and the reception-cum-party (part two), a one-on-one interview with a major art magazine was scheduled to take place in the gallery’s reception room.
