Chapter 13
1-3
Tae Igyeol and Shin Dael had been deep in conversation for over an hour, dissecting Mo Eunje’s full-length novel, Class Villa. The story distilled the stark inequalities of modern capitalist society into the microcosm of a single villa.
The villa’s floors were stratified by size: the first floor housed 20 one-room units, the second had 14 1.5-room units, the third contained 8 two-room units, the fourth featured 4 three-room units, and the penthouse on the fifth floor—complete with a rooftop terrace—was home to just one family. The number of residents per unit varied wildly—some lived alone in two-room apartments, while others raised children in cramped one-room spaces.
The residents of the lower floors were nameless. Throughout the novel, they were referred to only by their unit numbers: 101, 201, and so on. Only two characters had names: the man living alone in the fifth-floor penthouse and the family in the largest three-room unit, 401, on the fourth floor. The villa’s hierarchy was rigid, dictated by floor level, with further divisions even within the same tier.
“I really want to act in this if it gets made into a movie,” Shin Dael said, her eyes alight. “I already told my agency to push me first if Class Villa casting news comes up. I’d love to play 101, but I’ll take any role—even a cameo—if I can audition.”
The main characters were archetypes, embodying the realities of their respective floors. Shin Dael was drawn to 101, the woman living alone in the smallest unit on the first floor. Despite her competence, 101 was the most vulnerable, constantly threatened and constrained by the villa’s oppressive structure.
“If you want to play 101, no director would refuse,” Tae Igyeol said. “You’d be perfect for the role.”
“Really? Wow, you can actually say things like that?” Shin Dael laughed, surprised. “This is the first time you’ve ever complimented me.”
“……Has casting been decided yet?”
“No. The production company’s already changed three times. I hope it finally gets made this time. I’ve been turning down other projects just waiting for this.”
Tae Igyeol had never intended to grow this close to Shin Dael. When she first called at the beginning of the year, asking for Mo Eunje’s signature, he had planned to brush her off politely, as he always did. But the problem was that during their first call, Shin Dael talked in vivid detail about each of Mo Eunje’s short stories. Before he knew it, three hours had slipped by. The conversation had been almost hypnotic.
After that, they occasionally met to discuss Mo Eunje’s novels. Shin Dael did most of the talking, but since Tae Igyeol couldn’t openly gush about Mo Eunje with him, these conversations were satisfying in their own way.
“It makes sense that it keeps falling through,” Tae Igyeol mused. “Since it’s more focused on human psychology than plot, it’s not easy to adapt into a visual medium.”
“Exactly. The psychological depth is so intricate,” Shin Dael agreed. “Even if someone seems powerful, wealthy, and respected, the novel convincingly portrays them as just another fragile, helpless human being.”
Shin Dael called Tae Igyeol her “fanboy buddy.” Thanks to her, he could openly rave about Mo Eunje during their time together. Even though she knew Tae Igyeol was Mo Eunje’s closest friend, she didn’t find it strange that he fangirled over him. That made it easy for Tae Igyeol to spend time with her.
‘My best friend is a composer, and we never talk shop. We just say stuff like, “Your new song was great,” or “That movie you were in was fun.” But then I go around bragging to everyone else about how amazing my friend is.’
Perhaps because she related to the situation, Shin Dael never suspected that Tae Igyeol’s feelings for Mo Eunje went beyond friendship.
“But when are you going to introduce me to Novelist Mo Eunje?”
“He’s busy writing his new book. He was stressed earlier because the words weren’t coming. I didn’t want to bring you up and add to that.”
“Then at least let me get a signature.”
“I told you to bring a book. I’ll get it signed for you.”
Tae Igyeol had known Shin Dael for a little over two months. Despite the short time, he felt an inexplicable closeness to her. Her jet-black hair, dark eyes, and clean, elegant image reminded him of someone—not in appearance, but in essence. She gave off the same vibe as the person he secretly admired.
That’s why, after seeing Shin Dael in a minor role in a drama, he looked into her background. She was rarely seen in films or TV but had a strong reputation in theater for her acting. She was technically signed to an agency, but it seemed to be in name only.
At the time, Shin Dael was starring in a play at a small theater in Daehangno. Mo Eunje was fully immersed in revising Class Villa, so Tae Igyeol went alone to see the play. Afterward, he recommended Shin Dael to his father.
Of course, not every actor Tae Igyeol recommended ended up signing with Ilra Actors. His father left casting decisions to the team, and after verification and proper procedures, the company paid the breach fee to her former agency and recruited her.
Ilra Actors deemed Shin Dael worth the investment, even after the breach fee. Proving them right, she cut her hair short and, in her next role, skyrocketed to top-star status. Within three months, she filmed four commercials, earning far more than the breach fee.
In other words, even if Tae Igyeol hadn’t intervened, Shin Dael would have shone sooner or later.
“Are you going to keep fangirling over Mo Eunje’s work forever?”
“Isn’t it enough to just like his books? Why do you need to meet him?”
“I want to talk to him.”
“You did at the end-of-year party.”
“Remember? You and Iden left early because you said you weren’t feeling well. I barely got to say a few words after working up the courage to ask Iden to introduce me.”
At last year’s end-of-year party, Tae Igyeol had been dragged around by his father, exchanging greetings with various people. When he saw Mo Eunje laughing and talking with Shin Dael, something inside him snapped. The guy who usually flirted with actresses for photos and autographs had suddenly switched to “intellectual novelist” mode in front of Shin Dael.
He didn’t know why that had unsettled him so much. Maybe it was because he knew how weak Mo Eunje was to his readers’ affection. So he faked indigestion and asked Mo Eunje to drive him home instead.
“Even though we only talked briefly that day, I could tell Novelist Mo Eunje is a warm person. I mean, he unravels such profound themes with such warmth—of course he’d be a warm person himself.”
Tae Igyeol was glad someone recognized Mo Eunje’s warmth. But that didn’t mean he wanted to arrange a meeting between them. He wanted to block all unnecessary interactions and keep Mo Eunje to himself. Even though he now considered Gye Minho and Ban Hajun true friends, he had initially accepted them only to monitor Mo Eunje’s new relationships from up close.
“What’s Novelist Mo Eunje’s real personality like?”
“Hmm…… He’s honest about his feelings.”
“For example?”
“Even though we’re close enough to skip formalities, he always says thank you and I’m sorry—things most people would omit. He never crosses the line, no matter how close we are.”
Tae Igyeol had given a mundane example, but every time Mo Eunje verbally expressed his emotions—even the trivial ones—Tae Igyeol found it endearing. Mo Eunje’s every joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure showed on his face, but he also had a habit of putting it into words, as if he needed to be understood. Tae Igyeol found this so charming that he sometimes pretended not to notice just to ask, “How do you feel?”
“Come to think of it, so many people don’t even say thank you or I’m sorry—basic things. Novelist Mo Eunje really is just like his image.”
Shin Dael’s perception of Mo Eunje was partly an image he cultivated, but Tae Igyeol nodded along. Just then, his phone vibrated—a message from Mo Eunje.
Mo Eunje: [You coming over after dinner?]
5:50 PM
5:50 PM [Yeah.]
He didn’t actually have dinner plans, but he lied to suppress the rebellious desire that threatened to betray his self-control. It wasn’t hard to kill time outside before heading back.
He had thought living together would make him happier, but instead, he found himself avoiding Mo Eunje more. When Mo Eunje came and went, he could at least endure the longing, but now that Mo Eunje was fully in his space, his true feelings surfaced. The sudden surge of greed and impulsive urges were dangerous. There had been more than one moment when he wanted to kiss him. He was ashamed to realize how little self-control he had.
This unplanned cohabitation was turning out to be more of a crisis than an opportunity.
“You’re not thinking about dinner, are you?”
“No. I’m on a diet for a shoot. I’ve been eating nothing but chicken breast, and my stomach’s been off. Igyeol, sorry, but can you press here for me? My fingers hurt too much to do it myself.”
Shin Dael extended her hand, pointing to the reddened area between her thumb and index finger. Only then did Tae Igyeol realize she had been pressing that spot herself the whole time. He had been so absorbed in talking about Mo Eunje that he hadn’t even noticed her discomfort.
Without thinking, Tae Igyeol pressed the spot as she asked. He was used to doing this for Mo Eunje whenever he complained of indigestion. But Mo Eunje, unaware of Tae Igyeol’s desire to hold his hand as long as possible under the guise of helping, would pull away as soon as he felt better. The longing was Tae Igyeol’s alone.
“Why is your stomach so bad? Sorry, but can you buy me some antacids? I’d ask my manager, but he’s out of town for a shoot.”
“Let’s just go. Wait in the car. I’ll get the antacids and drop you off.”
“No, don’t bother. I can just take a taxi—it’s quick.”
“I’m not doing it because it’s inconvenient. Your company’s CEO would kill me if I didn’t make sure you got home safely after meeting you privately. I’ll grab your book while I’m out. I’ll get Mo Eunje’s signature for you.”
Before Shin Dael could respond, there was a knock—and before Tae Igyeol could let go of her hand, the door swung open.
“……What the hell.”
Tae Igyeol’s voice and pupils trembled in confusion.
