"Want something to drink?"
Too drained to speak, Yuni nodded as she sat and drummed her leg behind the desk.
"They’ve got juice—lots of kinds."
"Alcohol. Bring alcohol."
"Champagne okay?"
"Not a flute. Fill a water glass."
I did as instructed, filled the biggest glass with champagne, and headed back. About fifteen or sixteen paces from the desk, the teacher, who was with a client, raised his voice slightly in our direction. With the whole hall buzzing, it didn’t come off as rude.
"Yuni, could you grab the editor’s book from the office? It should be in my bag."
I stopped Yuni, who’d almost popped up on reflex, and handed over the glass.
"I’ll get it. I know where it is."
I hurried down the stairs and pulled the book from the spot where I’d stashed it earlier. Handing it to the teacher and walking back to the desk, I felt like a kid turning in homework copied from a friend. I wasn’t trying some big con, yet I was jittery enough that I could barely look that way.
"Chief Han, you read it close enough to underline? Of course you did. That tiny difference. Plenty of people buy a book and get it signed just to look good. But do you think I don’t know? Most of them never even read it. Our Chief Han doesn’t treat people like that. There’s sincerity. How am I supposed to come to Phantom and not open my wallet?"
Thankfully the teacher didn’t seem to notice the "copied homework." He even praised it.
Yuni took a long swallow, downing half the champagne like it was grape juice, then, just like Juhan earlier, widened her eyes at me.
"You even underlined things in the meantime?"
I nodded to her whisper, and she flashed a cool smile.
Whether he’d meant to buy from the start or was just riding the mood, the editor from that powerful magazine went so far as to ask for a recommendation—something to hang in the office of his daughter, who’d recently been promoted.
"It’s silly, right? Getting that happy over something so small? But that’s how it is here. We sell paintings, but sometimes it’s really about handling people’s feelings. Put nicely, we’re in a line where salesmanship matters; put bluntly, our job is to flatter. To the point I sometimes feel a twinge of futility."
Watching the editor move with the teacher to another section to check the picks, Yuni gave a wry smile.
Before I could ask what exactly lay under that smile, she was called back onto the floor. Social hour was over; time to push the actual stars of the day—the paintings.
Left alone at the desk, embarrassed by my idle hands, I cleared our empty glasses and pointlessly straightened the remaining pamphlets. A shadow fell across the desk.
"Can I get a pamphlet?"
I looked up. The man from the passenger seat was smiling.
The smile itself was fresh, but there was something about it that made the viewer bristle—probably that distinctive light tone and lounging manner.
I handed him a pamphlet, but he didn’t seem especially interested in it.
"I just moved up to the thirty-second floor. Going from a standalone house with a yard to a high-rise feels boxed in and bleak. Could you recommend a piece? Your name is..."
Like he was looking for a name tag, his eyes wandered around my chest.
"Seo Ihyeon."
Studying me with laughter in his eyes, he gave a small shake of the head.
"Even your name’s my taste."
It sounded like a mutter to himself, the tone saying, This is inconvenient.
He’d had a come-hither air since we met at the entrance, but it looked half a joke. He hadn’t made any direct proposition, and I couldn’t find a reason to react. He didn’t seem to expect one, either. From start to now, he talked to himself and amused himself.
"I want you to recommend one piece. What would be good? Something I can relax with."
"I’m just a part-timer helping out today..."
"It’s fine. Recommend one. I’ll just use it for reference."
The representative and Yuni were tied up with clients. The teacher and Juhan were nowhere in sight—probably working another section. I wasn’t keen, but since he knew I was temporary and still asked, it didn’t seem like saying yes would cause trouble.
"Where do you want to put it?"
"Mm... if you’re recommending it, I want it in the bedroom..."
He stressed "bedroom" meaningfully and smiled. I left the desk, looking past the light, TV-drama playboy face.
About fifty works hung in the show.
This was a group exhibition by six or seven of the gallery’s artists. Some showed two pieces, others ten or more. I’d prepped all night yesterday, so I had their images and rough positions mapped in my head.
Without hesitation, I led the way and stopped before a square canvas, fifty-three centimeters on a side.
Cubist oddity in interpretation, with a cheerful, comic tone in the brushwork—yet the palette ran dark and heavy.
"This one? This?"
As if he couldn’t see why, he asked again. I nodded twice, firmly.
He glanced between the painting and me, then turned and looked around as if for someone. Spotting the representative talking with three or four people in front of a large pop-art piece, he called out.
"Koon, come here a sec."
Excusing himself from his little circle, the representative came over.
I’m not short, but I’m not small either. The passenger’s mouth was about level with my nose, and the representative’s mouth was at the passenger’s nose. Well past one-ninety.
Up close again, he wore the same look—like everything was a hassle. Fair enough: that honeyed, lover-of-all smile would be an unnecessary option in front of the passenger and me.
Standing crooked with one hand in his pants pocket, he prodded the passenger with a look to get to the point.
"I asked for a recommendation for something to hang in the bedroom, and he picked my piece. What do you think of that?"
The representative’s gaze moved to me. We’d only known each other two days, but it was the longest he’d ever looked at me in that span. It was also the first look that was neither indifferent nor hostile.
Not the gaze of a lion leader watching a strange animal skulk around the edges, measuring whether it threatened the pride—but eyes holding me as a single person, straight on.
His look swept me carefully, like he was taking in information about me through my eyes, then slid away. Only then did the coincidence hit me—the piece I’d picked turned out to be the passenger’s work.
"How does this fit me?"
"I didn’t know you were the artist."
"Sure. I’m not saying otherwise. I’m asking why you recommended this to me."
The passenger seemed delighted by all of this.
"Could you be honest? Please."
Was he that starved for someone to be candid—to tack on "please"? Over his shoulder, I took in the piece again, fixing it in my eyes.
I’d never really cared what other people thought of a painting—I just got absorbed and drew alone. But I remembered how that one win and the feedback then had made me feel. I could understand him.
"It looks like it’s showing everything honestly, but... it isn’t."
"Isn’t what?"
"Somehow it feels similar."
"Me and the painting?"
"Yes."
"Not honest? Me and the painting?"
He leaned in and peppered me with questions, and I found myself stepping back.
"Not quite that. More like... wanting to be honest but not able to be. If you see it as laying that state bare without trimming it, then that’s also a kind of honesty..."
At my elaboration, the mischief left the passenger’s face, and the representative laughed out loud. Brief, but a real laugh.
"Sorry. I’m not good with words... And it’s just a personal take, so don’t mind it too much."
The passenger looked flustered for a second, then bent at the waist to peer even closer at my face with an intrigued look. He’d already slipped back into that easy expression.
"What are you doing after this? I heard it ends at six."
The sudden topic shift was hard to follow.
"Cleanup..."
For the first time he dropped the exaggerated silly grin and looked disappointed. He tapped the representative’s arm, asking for backup.
"That’s a hard no, right?"
The representative studied my face, as if the answer were printed there. I didn’t look away.
What faced me was a very beautiful color. For a moment I forgot these were human eyes and just fell into the living beauty of that color, taking a slow look at the left eye first, then the right.
The next instant, the man’s focus slipped cleanly off mine.
"Hard no or not—do you even want to try that with someone ten years younger than you?"
Clicking his tongue, the representative said that and turned his back, heading to where he’d been.
The passenger started on about knowing a place that served the best dumpling soup in Seoul, asking me to make time if not today. I let it wash past and thought: had I ever told the representative my age?
■ ■ ■
"Did you really underline the editor’s book?"
Juhan and I set six or so leftover champagne bottles on the big conference table in the office. The representative uncorked one, poured, and asked the teacher—mischief in his grin.
"When would I have had time lately? It’s been out less than two weeks. Think about how we spent those two weeks."
Taking the glass and wetting his lips, the teacher perched his tired legs—tired from standing all day—on the table and answered.
"Then what?"
"What, Ihyeon?"
As if he’d been curious anyway, the teacher turned to me.
"I thought it shouldn’t look too new... So in the taxi I smudged it a bit, underlined... folded a few corners... like that."
Strictly speaking, the instruction had only been to go buy the book. But he’d mentioned he was actually reading it, and it felt too shameless to hand over a brand-new copy just bought for the signature. Now that it had become a topic, I got tense, worried I’d done something unasked.
We’d wrapped a successful party and were basking in not-bad numbers when, for a second, the warm mood grated and froze. The source of the chill was, of course, the representative. As I’d felt yesterday, he had a knack for steering the air with nothing but the angle of his eyes or a change in expression. People adjusted to him because they had to; and that wasn’t only because he was the owner.
"Couldn’t he have been offended that you handled his book carelessly? Underlining and folding pages... A lot of people hate that."
Almost to himself, the representative muttered as he sipped champagne.
"I only thought ~Nоvеl𝕚ght~ it needed to look actually read. I’m sorry."
"Why are you sorry, Ihyeon? Koon, what’s with you? Aren’t you going too far?"
The teacher set his glass down with a sharp clink.
"I didn’t say anything. I asked if he’d considered the other side."
Shrugging, he pretended to drink to avoid the teacher’s eyes.
I didn’t feel the icy hostility from yesterday, but the slant in his attitude was intact. The teacher seemed a little angry—a rare thing.
"Representative Ryu is a results guy, a numbers guy. If the editor’s mood was good thanks to Ihyeon and it boosted sales, give him a bonus if you want, but why pick a fight? I brought him in—do you not like him?"
His eyes turned slowly to me. I couldn’t know what the teacher and the representative were to each other privately, or how close they were, but I could tell he trusted the teacher completely. At least with the teacher he didn’t wear that bored look or the villain’s grin. Not even the mass-produced candy smile, that harmless mechanical sweetness.
"Like or dislike? He’s helping for a bit and leaving. You know I’m not comfortable working with strangers. If Chief Han says give a bonus, I will."
"That’s not the point. Ugh... I thought you’d changed a little, but you’re the same."
Shaking his head, the teacher drained his glass, checked the time, and stood.
After this, the representative and the teacher had an after-party with the VVIPs among the VIPs.
"People don’t change after twenty-five," he said in a teasing tone, and the representative squeezed his shoulder lightly like a playful show of affection, then pulled a card from his wallet and handed it to Yuni.
"Good work today. When you finish cleaning up, go have fun."
Sorting the remaining pamphlets, Yuni darted over and snatched the card, eyes shining.
"Company card? Or your personal?"
He pushed a fingertip to her forehead and frowned.
"Why are you all so obsessed with that? You like spending my money that much?"
"Yes. It feels like love."
"There’s no love in a company card. Don’t talk nonsense."
The catering gear and leftovers had already been packed up and hauled away. Once we tidied the interior and exterior a bit, the day would be done. I headed up to the second-floor hall to start cleanup, and Juhan, looking apologetic, spoke hesitantly.
"Our representative... was a bit much, right?"
"Don’t worry about it," Yuni added. "He’s not just like that with you. That’s just how he is with new people."
I smiled to say it was fine and folded the legs of a temporary table set on its side.
"When I first came here, it was worse. I was so pissed I thought about scratching his car with a nail and ghosting. Seriously. I really considered it."
Given how he treats Juhan now, it was hard to imagine. But from Juhan’s face, it didn’t feel like a made-up story to comfort me.
"But if I’d tried, he’s the type who’d track me down no matter what and make me pay. I gave up on the nail plan. I figured he’d find me, strip me naked, and scratch my whole body with a nail."
Juhan scrunched his face and shuddered theatrically, like the representative had literally threatened him.
"I don’t know... You ever think the real reason was you coming on to him like an idiot?" Yuni called from inside, sticking SOLD OUT stickers on the pieces that had gone today.
"Hey, who came on to who—i-it was the pheromones! How am I supposed to resist Golden Alpha pheromones?"
"What are you talking about? Why would he open pheromones in front of you? And you’re a Beta."
Having just given me a long lecture about the representative’s superb pheromone control as a Golden Alpha, Juhan sneaked an embarrassed glance at me, his excuse sounding thin even to himself.
"What I’m saying is, his basic personality is trashy. It’s not that he especially hates you. That’s the point. He’s combative by default, not because he dislikes someone. He treats everyone like that—until he likes them."
I didn’t know if that was comforting, but it did seem true that he wasn’t picking on me in particular.
Lifting the folded table with me and carrying it to the railing, Juhan added:
"And at his level, if he wanted to, he could blast pheromones at a Beta and make it stick."
Leaning against the partition that divided the sections, Yuni pinched her brow.
"What is this, a superhero finisher? Blast and make it stick?"
"If you really use it on purpose, it could be a finisher. Hey, you know what’s stronger than pheromones?"
He looked from Yuni to me and back again. Neither of us answered. Juhan tipped up his chin and struck a slightly smug pose.
"Taste. Taste beats pheromones. I got a little high on the Golden Alpha haze at first, but once I came to my senses, he wasn’t my type. My type is..."
He launched into a fiery dissertation on his preference: a man at the border between youth and middle age, late thirties, face lines just starting to soften, slipping into a kind of inertia.
From their chatter so far, I guessed Juhan’s partners were probably men. He didn’t seem to hide it, even in front of someone not that close. And I had no desire to push him behind some line for that.
Yuni had clearly heard it dozens of times; she shook her head and, as if there were no need to humor him, grabbed my wrist and led me down the stairs.
Thinking about it, there was no reason to hate or not hate someone I’d only seen twice. As the teacher, Juhan, and Yuni said, it was just the man’s standard way with strangers.
I got curious. How would it feel to be someone he "especially" hated?
From the crowd that had shown up earlier, I found myself thinking there were probably plenty of people who’d take even his hatred—if it meant becoming "special" to him.
