Gwon Juhan. Twenty-two at the time.
He wasn’t in a top-tier school, but he was enrolled in a well-regarded art college’s Western painting department. Then he fell for the Sex Pistols late, neglected school, clung to his guitar, joined an underground punk band, left home, and was living out of the band’s practice room.
The reason he left home was not that his parents opposed his band activity after they’d rerouted his life in middle school—registering him at a famous entrance-exam art academy and hunting down skilled instructors—just to get a kid who didn’t care about studying into a four-year university in Seoul, which they eventually did.
His father had smashed two guitars, and his mother had cut off his allowance, so it wasn’t as if they approved of the band. But that wasn’t what finally drove Juhan—who’d grown up a pampered young master in his own way—onto the practice room sofa.
Play guitar, do whatever—if he just came home with a diploma, his parents would have been moderately satisfied. But even parents who had nearly given up on a son who wouldn’t move as they wished could not accept their son running around doing perverted homo stuff.
A teacher Juhan had dated for about a year during the entrance-academy days had been stalking him for years (even through Juhan’s military service). When his repeated offers to “start over” kept getting rejected, the man retaliated by trying to destroy Juhan’s life.
He sent the fruits of that stalking—collected piece by piece—to Juhan’s parents.
From Juhan’s perspective they were evidence of stalking; from his parents’ perspective they were proof their son was gay—worse, a gay man with kinks most people would find hard to accept.
There were photos from when they had dated, shots of him getting handsy with a one-night club hookup, even screencaps of deeply private dirty talk they had exchanged in messages back then.
“With your son, who loves to slide it into the anus of a middle-aged man nearly twice his age and make him sob with obscene taunts, we have here a perverted homo. I’m a man whose life was ruined because of your son. Please do your part at home so there won’t be any further victims.”
—That was the note.
It was true Juhan liked men in their late thirties who were listless and timid, and that in bed he got excited watching them break down in tears as their sexual shame was stoked and they tasted a first, taboo-crossing pleasure. But who ruined whose life?
Wasn’t Juhan the one who’d given that man release and salvation by satisfying a perverse desire he’d been suppressing with no outlet?
At least from the one who had burned hottest for that play, it wasn’t something Juhan wanted to hear.
Formally he left the house on his own two feet, but in reality it was tantamount to being cut off.
His mother, without even making it to the bathroom, retched right there on the sofa. His father, who had never laid a hand on him—guitars he’d smashed twice aside—lost all reason and beat him indiscriminately.
Juhan did try to fight back in the end—saying consensual sex between people who shared the same tastes was no crime, that even parents had no right to meddle in their grown child’s sex life. But he did understand their shock.
Even if they’d seen sex photos and dirty talk with an opposite-sex partner, it would have been a shock. Seeing their son getting his dick sucked by an older man—no wonder it felt like the sky falling.
Even if he said, I’m still the Gwon Juhan you knew, their son—his parents’ eyes were stuffed with contempt and fury. Sharing the same house was hell. It seemed better for everyone to keep their distance, at least until they could steady themselves and look at the situation again.
He was bouncing between three part-time jobs to afford a place, but they were all found in a hurry, and the pay was lousy for the grind.
Night after night, trying to sleep on a castoff sofa with burst cushions that someone had dumped during a move, Juhan thought.
Right, at that age it’s not easy to find another young kid who’ll say, “Why are you so dirty, mister? Can’t you even control your pee at your age?” and slide a swab into your urethra. So the urges pile up and you get real mad.
—If you thought Juhan would let you off with that kind of understanding, you misread him.
He’d changed phone numbers several times to dodge the stalking. The last time he changed it, the stalker messaged a “congrats on the new phone” along with a video of himself masturbating. Even then Juhan just deleted the message and blocked the ID.
The man came to every live show, waited outside his home, and kneeled, sobbing and begging to get back together—more than once. Not out of love. They’d both just enjoyed themselves from the start. The man simply couldn’t find a partner who satisfied him like Juhan did.
Juhan’s mistake was thinking, He’ll fizzle out, and treating him like an overzealous fan. He figured with a timid, introverted type, how big could the blow-up be anyway? That was a miscalculation.
A timid man doesn’t swing a blade at someone else’s life like this. The guy was just a gloomy, cowardly son of a bitch. Juhan could forgive him for being gloomy alone—cowardice he could not.
For about a month, staring at the mold stains on the practice room ceiling, Juhan lay awake nights thinking about what kind of revenge would finally cool his rage.
Right, nothing else mattered. He needed the rage to burn clean. He felt he wouldn’t sleep until he poured that heat over the bastard until it exhausted itself. To do it, the one-time pampered son of a comfortable home was ready to wear the brand of ex-con for life. That was punk.
On the day his first paycheck hit the account, Juhan went straight to his regular vintage shop.
They sold punk items—rare in Korea. He finally went to claim the combat boots he’d had his eye on. He planned to wear those boots into his revenge.
“Come on, man—what’s this? I told you I was buying those!”
“Sorry... but you know we don’t have the luxury of sitting on stock. You put a hold and didn’t show for a month. If someone wants to pay now, I can’t know when the next buyer will come... I had no choice. Try to understand.”
Hearing the boots—boots he’d begged them not to sell to anyone else, promising he’d buy them the minute his pay came in—had been sold five minutes ago, Juhan deflated. It felt like a brake slammed on his revenge, and he grew anxious.
“I literally lived on cup noodles and triangle kimbap a whole month thinking only of those!”
“We got plenty of other nice boots. Doesn’t have to be that pair.”
“To me it’s not just footwear! Do you have the buyer’s contact?”
“Uh... well...”
The owner scratched his sparse beard with an index finger and darted his eyes. Juhan leaned over the counter like he’d vault it.
“What is it—do you know? If you do, tell me! I’ll add cash on top—no, I’ll beg—just let me find them!”
A finger tapped his shoulder from behind. The touch was playful, gentle—almost ticklish.
“How much on top?”
“...”
He turned. A small-framed woman looked up at him. A razor-straight jet-black bob and sunglasses worn indoors in midwinter—striking. She wasn’t ✪ Nоvеlіgһt ✪ (Official version) tall, but the heels on her lace-up boots put her mouth roughly level with Juhan’s nose.
Head to toe, from the piercings through brow and cheek to the tartan coat—she was punk itself.
Killer style, he thought, even in that moment.
“You... bought them?”
She nodded.
“What is this—won’t even fit your feet. Sell them to me, yeah?”
“Do people only buy shoes to wear? Why are you acting like a rookie?”
She scrunched her eyes at him as he pressed in.
“Noona, please. Please sell them. I got through a month of hell thinking only of those boots in my hands. Right now they’re not just shoes to me. They’re the symbol of a decision.”
He could feel her gaze behind the lenses, measuring how genuine he was.
“Why? Something happen?”
“Because of some goddamn bastard, my life’s in the gutter. I promised myself that once I had those boots, I’d go get revenge on that piece of shit.”
She slid her sunglasses down to her nose and looked straight at him. Big eyes, bold smoky makeup, unusually vivid.
“I studied aesthetics, want to study abroad and become a curator in Europe. My parents want me to go to a teachers college and become a teacher—dress as they say, attend the academies they pick, hang out with the set friends, like my obedient little sister. I secretly applied to XX University’s aesthetics department and got in. My parents say if it’s not a teachers college, they won’t pay tuition. So I couldn’t attend the college I busted my ass to get into. I left home and now live in a tiny goshiwon the size of a closet. I joined a gallery to build experience doing what I love—work more than fifteen hours a day and get paid in ‘passion.’ There’s a line of kids who’ll work for that pay, so I could get cut any time.”
Juhan now scrunched his eyes. What was the point of this sudden flood of confession? A misery contest? If he “won,” would she hand over the boots?
“Well? Is your life more wrecked than mine?”
As if he’d been waiting for the question, Juhan answered immediately.
“Outing.”
“...”
She stared in silence a beat. Then, folding her arms, asked the next question.
“Target?”
“My parents.”
“Perpetrator?”
“An ex. My teacher from the art academy in high school. Thirty-seven then. Forty-one now.”
This time she wrinkled her whole face.
“What’s with your taste?”
“I know. My taste is trash. But he’s the one who outed that taste to my parents.”
“Total bastard.”
“Right? I’m going to wear these and ram that bastard into the gutter. Make sure he never shits out of his asshole again. Even if it means getting hauled to the police. I can’t live with debts. So please—give me a break.”
“Let’s go.”
She pushed her sunglasses back into place and walked past Juhan toward the door.
“Where? You’re not giving me the shoes? You just said he’s a bastard!”
Juhan shouted as he followed. She opened the door and winter air rushed in like it had been waiting.
“You call that revenge? Eye for eye, tooth for tooth. You pay back social ruin with social ruin.”
■ ■ ■
Being in Hongdae didn’t automatically guarantee business, apparently. Even on a Saturday evening, the bar had only two or three tables occupied. The table closest to the door seemed to be the owner’s friends.
The interior wasn’t sleek, but it was comfortable and distinctive. The music was at a good volume, the selections solid, and the drinks cheap. Despite those pluses, it wasn’t a “good for photos” kind of place, which was why it stayed quiet—so Yuni and Juhan had told me.
It had already been two weeks since I helped with Phantom’s new show’s VIP opening.
For a few days after, I floated like I’d visited another world, but hustling between moving jobs and helping at the teacher’s home brought reality back into focus.
Golden Alpha. Paintings priced at ten million won a piece. Champagne parties with pretty finger foods too cute to eat. Even the sense that such a world existed somewhere was fading.
On Wednesday, through the teacher, Yuni reached out. The invite to grab a beer with Juhan on Saturday was unexpected but welcome.
After a shift with the moving crew, I swung by home for a shower and hurried to the meeting spot. The weather had warmed enough that sweat pricked my brow—we were sliding toward early summer.
Outside work, they felt far more friendly. “Ms. Yuni” and “Mr. Juhan” quickly became Yuni noona and Juhan hyung.
With fries blanketed in melted cheddar and draft beers in front of us, Juhan hyung rewound three years to search his memory.
Of the two bar cats, one hopped up onto the empty chair next to him. A long-haired Persian, very sociable. Petting its back, he continued.
“From there we hit a nearby café, and I laid out everything—past to present with that bastard. Took two hours? Baek Yuni’s questions were so thorough and calm I felt like I was in a lawyer’s office to prep a criminal complaint.”
Because their styles matched and they seemed so at ease, I’d thought they might have known each other long before Phantom—but not at all.
After that, the two of them joined forces, drafted several revenge scenarios, picked one after careful thought, and executed. The materials the stalker had sent to Juhan hyung’s parents were forwarded intact to the director of the academy where he worked.
“His fixed duty was to report the day’s academy status while handing over the mail when the director strolled in late afternoon. So the stuff he’d sent my parents—his stalking file on me—he ended up handing to his own boss with his own hands. Imagine him standing there, pretending to be respectable, prattling about enrollment growth while his boss shakes with rage over screencaps of him begging a kid nearly twenty years younger to forgive him and treat him like a dog again in bed...”
