Is he insane? Why would a rumor be going around? If the two of us just keep our mouths shut, isn’t this a problem that solves itself? He isn’t actually planning to spread that rumor himself, is he?
No. Kwon Gyo-eon was not an ordinary person — he was a member of a chaebol family. It was entirely plausible that there were paparazzi lurking around, stealing glimpses of his every move.
Unlike Hae-yul’s heart, which was pounding furiously in his chest, the face of the man who had casually named the staggering sum of one billion won was nothing but calm.
“…Even so, one billion won seems like it would be difficult. No — it is difficult.”
Having stood there in a daze for a moment, Hae-yul finally came back to his senses and shook his head from side to side. Even if an ordinary person lived frugally their entire life saving up, one billion won was a sum they might never even reach — and for Hae-yul, who was already struggling just to make ends meet, it was an outrageous demand. A hundred million, maybe — he could figure something out, scraping together loans here and there.
And to think, one billion was apparently the amount Kwon Gyo-eon had named after considering the state of Hae-yul’s bank account. It was a moment that made it painfully, crystal clear just how different their worlds were. Did Kwon Gyo-eon truly believe that one billion won was such a trivial sum that an ordinary person could casually fork it over as compensation? Chaebol or not, that was simply too much.
Hae-yul looked Kwon Gyo-eon straight in the eye and spoke.
“Instead, a hundred million might be possible. Of course, I can’t come up with it right away, but if I split it into monthly payments……”
“I’m fairly certain I gave Ju Hae-yul two options.”
Kwon Gyo-eon, who had been silently listening as Hae-yul pressed on in a deliberately composed voice, finally opened his mouth.
“Is my charm lacking enough that you’d choose the former over meeting with me a few times?”
His tone was that of someone who genuinely couldn’t understand Hae-yul’s decision. He also regarded Hae-yul the way one might look at a person who, faced with an easy path, was stubbornly searching for the hard way around. At the question that radiated unmistakable self-confidence, Hae-yul pressed his lips tightly together.
Kwon Gyo-eon didn’t look arrogant saying it, nor did he seem unlikable. He just seemed to be reciting an obvious truth in a matter-of-fact tone.
Perhaps if Hae-yul had been an ordinary person born into this world from the start — if he had been the original Ju Hae-yul — he might have genuinely welcomed the proposal and the sweet words that came with it. And not just that. Hard as it was to imagine, he might have even developed romantic feelings.
But at the very least, the Hae-yul of right now felt no flutter of anything like that for Kwon Gyo-eon. More than anything of the sort, what loomed larger was the fear of the future the original story held in store for him — the future that would come to pass if he became entangled with Kwon Gyo-eon. Hae-yul cast his gaze downward and answered.
“…Honestly, I’m not really sure.”
Kwon Gyo-eon’s brow furrowed ever so slightly, but Hae-yul didn’t catch it as he continued speaking.
“Couldn’t you give me a different option instead?”
There was no particular response from Kwon Gyo-eon. The thought that he might be angry made Hae-yul flinch internally — oh no. It was the kind of remark that would leave a crack in someone’s towering pride; there was no way it couldn’t sting.
“…I see.”
But Kwon Gyo-eon let out the words like a sigh and fell silent. In the quiet of the deserted alley — where not even a passing stranger could be seen — the stillness stretched on, and Hae-yul lifted his head slightly. Kwon Gyo-eon appeared to be lost in thought.
Hae-yul waited quietly, hoping with everything he had that Kwon Gyo-eon was mulling over a different option, just as he’d asked. Money was scarier than people. And one billion won was a sum Hae-yul had never touched, nor would ever have occasion to.
Unless he got incredibly lucky and won the lottery, or went as far as selling an organ, there was no way that kind of money would ever end up in Hae-yul’s hands. So it was far better for him if things could be resolved in a different direction.
Before long, Kwon Gyo-eon’s lips moved.
“Understood, for now.”
It wasn’t entirely clear what exactly he understood, but Kwon Gyo-eon gave a nod, so Hae-yul nodded back in kind. Kwon Gyo-eon gazed at him steadily for a moment, then reached into his wallet and pulled out a business card, holding it out.
“Since Ju Hae-yul seems uncomfortable, I’ll be on my way for today. I’ll need to think over the matter of a different option. If anything comes up, please contact me at this number.”
He watched with laser focus until Hae-yul tucked the business card into the front pocket of his bag, and only then did he turn away. Hae-yul stood alone in the alley, staring at Kwon Gyo-eon’s retreating figure — which, for all the lengthy conversation they’d had, showed not a single trace of lingering attachment — before turning around himself and walking away.
There had been a bit of a crisis, but it seemed like he’d managed to get through it, for now.
***
The following day, Hae-yul had worried that Kwon Gyo-eon might show up at the convenience store again without warning — but by the time his part-time shift ended and he returned to his cramped goshiwon room, he felt a deep wave of relief at the fact that he hadn’t run into him at all.
Right. Even Kwon Gyo-eon has his pride. After hearing something like that said to his face, he must have realized what a waste of time it is to keep coming after me.
Hae-yul thought as much, the corners of his mouth curving upward.
With Kwon Gyo-eon’s presence no longer in sight, it finally felt like he’d returned to his ordinary daily life. It was as though a train that had been running along a derailed track — thrown off course by a minor problem — had wandered for a while before safely finding its way back to the right rails.
At the break of dawn, Hae-yul curled up uncomfortably on the bed of his windowless goshiwon room and tried to sleep. The drowsiness that had been stubbornly clinging to his eyelids throughout his entire shift dragged him, as if it had been waiting for this moment, down into the deep sea of unconsciousness.
Hae-yul, who had fallen into a dreamless, deep sleep, opened his eyes at a time just past early evening. He had slept so soundly that even after waking, his head stayed foggy for a good while.
Giving a small yawn, Hae-yul took out his phone and slowly checked whether any urgent messages had come in while he was asleep. During his deep sleep, there had been messages from his close classmates Lee San-ha and Yun U-jae.
***
Lee San-ha
Course registration is tomorrow, wanna go red?
14:23
Yun U-jae
yeah
14:23
Lee San-ha
also
14:23
@Ju Hae-yul hyung I found the perfect easy gen-ed class for u
14:24
(embarrassed sparrow emoticon)
14:26
***
He wanted to reply right away, but whether it was because juggling the part-time delivery job on top of everything was physically too much for him, his fingers wouldn’t cooperate. Hae-yul opened and closed his hand several times before slowly typing out a reply in the group chat with Lee San-ha and Yun U-jae.
The moment he sent the message saying he’d have to register for courses separately because of work, the number beside the chat bubble disappeared as if it had been waiting, and Lee San-ha’s messages came flooding in rapid-fire.
***
Lee San-ha
hyung what time does ur shift start??
21:15
21:16
7 to 7
Lee San-ha
is there literally no one else working there besides u????????
21:17
***
In that short exchange alone, the number of question marks Lee San-ha had sent totaled a staggering ten. Lee San-ha continued to fire off several more messages in a row after that. Most of them were about worrying over whether Hae-yul would succeed in getting his courses registered. Reading the message about how he shouldn’t end up with a schedule that looked like a high schooler’s — the way it had last year — Hae-yul burst out laughing.
What his schedule had even looked like back then was something he could barely remember now. At the time, he’d had a hard time of it, trying to get course registration done in the middle of a café shift. The spots he’d barely managed to secure had been purchased from other students through the school’s online community. There had been no other way to keep up with Yun U-jae and Lee San-ha, who were both quick-fingered and lucky.
Hae-yul sat staring blankly at the messages that kept popping up on his lock screen before slowly stepping out of his room. As he did, he came face to face with Kim Myeong-gyu — a civil service exam student four years his senior who lived in the room next door — and bowed his head in greeting.
“Hello.”
Kim Myeong-gyu, a workbook tucked under his arm, pushed his glasses up and greeted him warmly.
“Oh, Hae-yul. You were in your room? I had no idea you were there — I couldn’t hear a peep out of you.”
“Ah, I was sleeping.”
“Ah, right. I figured as much. Going to get dinner?”
“Yes.”
Hae-yul nodded, and Kim Myeong-gyu gave him a pat on the shoulder.
“Alright. Enjoy your meal.”
With that, Kim Myeong-gyu turned toward the hallway on the opposite side where the laundry room was — but then came to a halt. His voice reached out and stopped Hae-yul, who had just been about to step onto the stairs.
“Hey, Hae-yul. Don’t you get lonely and bored eating by yourself?”
“Pardon?”
“I’ll keep you company. Isn’t that kind of thing popular these days? Isn’t it better to have a real conversation with someone while you eat rather than just staring at your phone?”
“Ah……”
Hae-yul, who preferred eating alone in peace, stared blankly at Kim Myeong-gyu for the out-of-nowhere suggestion before answering.
“I’m fine. I like eating alone.”
“Come on, it’d be better to eat while chatting with me than watching videos, wouldn’t it?”
“I don’t watch videos — I just want to eat quietly by myself. Please study hard today.”
Without giving Kim Myeong-gyu a chance to say anything further, Hae-yul hurried down the stairs and headed toward the dining area on the first floor.
Kim Myeong-gyu stood in place, watching Hae-yul’s retreating figure grow smaller in the distance, then pushed his slightly slipped glasses back up and came to a stop in front of the door of Room 203. He sniffed the air and muttered to himself.
“Maybe it’s because I’m a beta. I can’t smell anything at all.”
Kim Myeong-gyu, imagining to his heart’s content the scent of Hae-yul — who had told him that despite being an omega, he was fine being treated like a beta — went back into his own room.
