WGD Ch 16

The sentence uttered by Director Yoo Yeonoh was simple, but it was difficult to grasp immediately.

“You two have mutual imprinting.”

The words disassembled and reassembled in Siheon’s mind. Before he could fully comprehend their meaning, a sharp ringing pierced his ears. Beep— The shrill sound clawed at his eardrums, causing Siheon to take a short, sharp breath. Reflexively, he tightened his grip on the hand he was holding.

“Imprinting? What does that mean…?”

“I know it’s hard to believe, but at this point, the only diagnosis that explains all the symptoms is ‘imprinting.’”

That can’t be. Imprinting? It was something that had only briefly crossed his mind as a suspicion, never something he considered real.

To begin with, the concept of “imprinting” was problematic. Imprinting is a device in romance stories, used to heighten the love between trait-bearers, a trope to emphasize fated love. There’s no way such a thing could exist in reality.

As Siheon’s focus wandered in confusion, a voice interrupted.

“Is the diagnosis certain? There must be evidence for concluding it’s imprinting.”

Cha Wonwoo, cutting in from the side, questioned in a low, steady voice. Siheon, who had momentarily forgotten about him in the shock of the news, turned his gaze to Cha Wonwoo’s profile. His expression was hard to read. The anxious, restrained demeanor he’d shown while anticipating a pregnancy was gone, replaced by a deeply serious look as he stared at Director Yoo Yeonoh.

“Before we proceed… are both of you aware that imprinting is classified as a psychogenic disorder?”

Director Yoo Yeonoh began a lengthy explanation in a calm manner, noting that because imprinting is such a rare case, it took a long time to reach a judgment.

“Psychogenic, as the term suggests, means it arises from mental or psychological causes. Pheromone imbalances caused by lovers or spouses separating are also a common psychogenic symptom. This makes diagnosing imprinting extremely difficult and complex, as the signs are easy to misinterpret.”

Siheon, who had been listening quietly, suddenly spoke up.

“Imprinting is a mental illness, isn’t it?”

His voice was so soft it was barely audible, but saying it aloud made him feel distant. Director Yoo Yeonoh, pausing briefly at the remark, nodded calmly.

“Yes, imprinting is classified as a mental health disorder.”

Imprinting is a mental illness that affects emotions, cognition, judgment, physical health, behavior, and all aspects of life. Its exact cause has not yet been clearly identified. However, several factors are known to potentially trigger imprinting.

First, the activation of latent imprinting genes due to environmental factors during trait manifestation.

Second, continuous pheromone resonance and deep emotional or physical bonding.

Third, exposure to extreme stress, such as psychological trauma.

When imprinted, one can only perceive the pheromones of their imprinting partner. While sensing the pheromones of other trait-bearers is possible, their scents cannot be detected. Only the pheromones of the imprinting partner can induce sexual arousal and stabilize the mind and body. In other words, without the pheromones of the imprinting partner, one experiences anxiety, obsession, and both mental and physical suffering.

Imprinting isn’t something one can choose to do. Despite this, its romantic portrayal in media has led many to harbor fantasies about it. From betas who don’t even fully understand pheromones to trait-bearers, some couples dream of imprinting. Of course, for couples who wish to be eternally bound to each other, it might be a welcome occurrence.

However, in cases of one-sided imprinting or unwanted mutual imprinting, some reject their partner’s pheromones to the point of being unable to function in daily life, with some even choosing death.

There is no cure, only medications to alleviate the pain—an incurable disease.

“Since you started living separately after deciding to divorce, the pheromone imbalances, sleep disturbances, and lethargy that Kang Siheon-ssi experienced were all signs of imprinting.”

“You mean side effects from being separated from the imprinting partner?”

“Yes.”

Siheon’s eyes trembled as he tried to hold onto his rationality. No matter how hard he tried to stay calm, he couldn’t settle down. His heart pounded so fiercely that it felt like it would leap out if he opened his mouth. Director Yoo Yeonoh’s voice, continuing the explanation slowly to reassure him, mingled with the ringing in his ears, fading in and out.

“When Kang Siheon-ssi first visited, your levels were extremely poor, but exposure to your husband’s—Cha Wonwoo-ssi’s—pheromones quickly stabilized you. After further consultations during this detailed examination…”

Trailing off, Director Yoo Yeonoh turned his gaze to the chart. He reviewed the results displayed on the computer monitor, meticulously scanning the detailed record of Siheon’s symptoms, including his condition assessed in New York. Then, he turned back.

“You mentioned that at an event, you felt multiple alphas releasing pheromones, but you had no physical reaction, correct? You attributed it to taking pheromone sensitivity suppressants beforehand.”

It seemed he was referring to the Stellans anniversary event, where Siheon overheard gossiping men in the restroom. While in a stall, he chewed and swallowed a pheromone sensitivity suppressant. Siheon nodded dazedly but then shook his head as if denying something.

“Wait a moment. If it’s imprinting, you can feel pheromones but not smell them, right? But I definitely smelled the pheromones of other trait-bearers then. In fact, when I went up to the second floor, I felt nauseous because of it and went to the restroom to take the suppressant.”

“That can happen in the early stages of imprinting. The function hasn’t been fully lost yet.”

The early stages of imprinting? Tracing back from this, the imprinting would have started around the time he was contemplating divorce. Why then, of all times? Siheon, digging into himself as if demanding an explanation, slowly recalled the known factors of imprinting.

Activation of imprinting genes during trait manifestation, continuous pheromone resonance and deep bonding, psychological trauma.

There was nothing notable during his trait manifestation. The timing didn’t align with deep bonding either—bonding was stronger during their dating or newlywed days. That left psychological trauma as the most likely cause.

Before he could fully process this conclusion, a gruff voice that had been etched in his mind intruded without warning.

‘In the case of betas, a 12% chance…’

Memories of that time flashed through his mind. A chilling sensation, like his heart being sliced apart, made Siheon shake his head violently.

“Hyung?”

“Kang Siheon-ssi?”

Having startled both of them at once, Siheon lowered his head and bit his lip. If he didn’t, a groan might escape. Don’t think about unnecessary things—focus on this issue. He quickly steeled himself. It wasn’t hard, as he’d done it many times before.

Regulating his breathing, he raised his head. For now, he had to deny the imprinting. His personality was such that once he accepted reality, he wouldn’t look back, but he wasn’t ready to acknowledge imprinting yet.

“When I collapsed and was brought here last time, even though I’m an omega, I smelled the other person’s pheromones.”

He brought up the day he collapsed because of Yeo Junghyun. The unpleasant odor that hit him the moment he opened the car door at the Lumière ad shoot was vivid. If it was imprinting, he shouldn’t have smelled pheromones, so this was another denial of imprinting. Noticing this, Director Yoo Yeonoh leaned closer, meeting his eyes.

“Kang Siheon-ssi, like other psychogenic disorders, imprinting varies in symptoms from person to person. There’s also something called a stabilization phase, where the body adjusts to the imprinting state. Do you remember how your pheromone levels were extremely unstable, fluctuating wildly, back then? In such a state, the stabilization phase can come later. Has the same thing happened since? Have you smelled other people’s pheromones?”

He already knew the answer. He’d reflected on these things during the Sebastian incident.

At the Japanese restaurant where he met with Director Pyo, when Jinseok-sunbae casually crossed into his personal space to wipe his shirt, Siheon only smelled a “fresh cologne scent.”

At the gym later, he only felt Cha Wonwoo’s presence and pheromones enveloping him, not Jinseok’s pheromone scent. He could only smell Cha Wonwoo’s pheromones.

But with Sebastian, he couldn’t sense his pheromones at all—not even their presence, let alone their smell. With imprinting, he should at least feel when other trait-bearers release pheromones, even if he can’t smell them.

“When I went to New York, I couldn’t sense other alphas’ pheromones at all.”

“Think back to before you left. You said you barely saw Cha Wonwoo-ssi because he got busy, right? You hardly did any pheromone reading either.”

Indeed, around that time, Cha Wonwoo was so busy that they barely had time to see each other for long. When Siheon practiced cooking and left food out, only the empty plate was there in the morning.

“With less time spent with your imprinting partner, pheromone exchange nearly stopped, causing temporary paralysis in your pheromone gland.”

Siheon’s eyes darted rapidly, searching for a flaw or a decisive clue to counter the explanation. But Director Yoo Yeonoh, anticipating his next words, was faster. He explained that Siheon’s ability to regulate his pheromone gland again, his revulsion to the sexually charged pheromones of alphas at the fashion show afterparty without smelling them, and all of it were because he went through Cha Wonwoo’s rut together.

“There’s nothing better for pheromone exchange than being intimate with your imprinting partner. The test results show stabilized levels. This means your body is healthy.”

If imprinting is a disease, can you call the body healthy? It might be meant as good news, but Siheon’s brow furrowed deeply, unable to feel joy.

“Even if that’s true for me, what about Wonwoo? He didn’t have severe symptoms like I did.”

Like someone who refuses to give up, he clung to the idea that it couldn’t be imprinting.

“Cha Wonwoo-ssi’s symptoms weren’t severe largely because he’s dominant. Dominants have higher pheromone levels compared to recessives or standard traits. But it’s not that he was unaffected. According to the questionnaire, Cha Wonwoo-ssi also suffered from insomnia. Suppressants didn’t work, and even stronger medication couldn’t stop his rut. This was due to prolonged lack of contact with his imprinted omega. When his omega was nearby, his body sent a kind of distress signal, crying for help. There was likely a triggering event as well.”

Director Yoo Yeonoh explained with the dedication of a committed doctor, never showing a hint of irritation.

A triggering event would probably be the Sebastian incident. Siheon listened more intently than when it was about himself. Hearing answers about Cha Wonwoo’s health, which he’d been worried about, brought relief.

At the same time, it was stifling. He and Cha Wonwoo needed to grow apart. But the sudden separation had backfired, making them crave each other’s pheromones instead. It was maddening. He wanted life-altering upheavals to stop. Every time he turned a corner at a crucial moment, something like this popped up.

“And the timing of Cha Wonwoo-ssi’s imprinting seems to have been earlier than Kang Siheon-ssi’s.”

“…What?”

Siheon blinked. His gaze, asking for clarification, landed on Director Yoo Yeonoh.

“We estimate that Cha Wonwoo-ssi imprinted much earlier. This means he likely experienced similar symptoms—pheromone imbalances, insomnia, anxiety, lethargy, depression. Since Cha Wonwoo-ssi has been in the stabilization phase for a while, Kang Siheon-ssi’s more recent imprinting symptoms were more pronounced.”

“When did that… I, no, I didn’t know.”

Stammering uncharacteristically, Siheon looked between the doctor and Cha Wonwoo. His heart lurched. Unlike his own shock, Cha Wonwoo sat there with no emotional turmoil, as if he’d somewhat expected it.

No way.

Dazed for a while, he finally managed to speak.

“Did you know?”

“No, I found out just now, same as you.”

“No, you didn’t. Look at me.”

“Hyung.”

Cha Wonwoo stubbornly avoided his gaze. Keeping their interlocked hands as they were, Siheon used his free hand to grab Cha Wonwoo’s chin, forcing him to meet his eyes.

“Look, your face says you knew.”

As his hand dropped from Cha Wonwoo’s chin, Cha Wonwoo spoke quickly.

“I didn’t know for sure, just a vague feeling. I never thought it was imprinting. Just… just…”

As if his thoughts were tangled, he spilled out unorganized words in a rush.

“It had to be you. No, it could only be you. Even if you didn’t feel the same, I had to. Even if you weren’t by my side, I had to be by yours.”

“So since when?”

Cha Wonwoo paused, then confessed as if releasing a long-held breath.

“…From the beginning.”

“…”

“From the day I first saw you.”

◆

“All new beginnings come from the end of other beginnings.”

— Lucius Annaeus Seneca

My nightmare begins at a playground.

It starts with the melody from an ice cream truck, a family playing catch, a child whining about not wanting to go home, and the flustered face of a nanny—all blending together.

Here, my role is that of an observer. Sitting on a bench under an oak tree, I watch a peaceful scene become frozen in a cruel moment.

Nearby, a child chasing a squirrel trips and falls with a thud. Bewildered, unable to grasp what happened, the child tries to stand, only to spot a woman running toward them in alarm. Pouting, the child bursts into loud sobs.

“Mama!”

The woman hurriedly scoops up the child, whose knees are red and scraped, patting their back repeatedly.

“It’s okay, Mama’s here.”

Each time I dream, the woman’s language changes. So does her gender. Mama, Mommy, Papa, Daddy—whatever the variation, the comforting touch remains constant.

Receiving that touch, the child wails as if they’ve suffered the worst tragedy in the world. Tears, snot, and drool stream down, but the woman doesn’t care. Even as her clothes get soaked with the mess, she never lets go. Instead, she holds the child tighter, stroking their back.

A man approaches, wiping the child’s tears and drool with his bare hands. Together, he and the woman soothe the child for a long time.

“It’s okay.”

They whisper endlessly until the crying stops.

The child realizes there are people who will always come running when they fall, who will endlessly comfort them over a mere scraped knee.

Finally, with a face free of misfortune, the child runs off again.

Born premature and slow to grow, I spent most of my childhood confined to a New York trait clinic or my home. In a perfectly temperature-controlled hospital room or house, the only way to sense the changing seasons was through the shifting colors beyond the window or the clothing of people on TV.

Dominant alpha. But much smaller than others. Late to manifest. Slow to develop pheromone glands. A defective one.

A faulty product wrapped in dominant alpha packaging.

That was the first definition given to me, labeled Cha Wonwoo.

The grandson of the CH Group, born in America, was too frail to even travel to Korea. Growing up in an isolated world from the start, I didn’t know the meaning of being with someone and thus didn’t know loneliness either.

And so, I became a solitary island in a far-off foreign land.

Visitors were few, mostly tutors for basic subjects or business-related lessons. Come to think of it, I sometimes sensed seasons in the scents clinging to their coats.

On days when blood was drawn or tests were done at the clinic, I was too exhausted to do anything. Fortunately, tutors didn’t come on those days.

So, alone, I read Britannica Comic Encyclopedia. In the background, a children’s drama played on the room’s TV to help me learn Korean. It was always the same show.

A 489-episode DVD of Dreamland Magic Garden, given to me by my father, CEO Cha Geumho.

The story was about a crisis in Magic Garden, sustained by the dream energy of Earthlings, and the protagonist, Popo, coming to Earth to help humans have happy dreams to save it.

Childish.

Snorting, I sat on the bed, flipping through Britannica Comic Encyclopedia. As I turned the pages, I occasionally glanced at the screen unconsciously.

“Popo, if you go back to Magic Garden, I’ll be so sad. I can’t let you face danger alone.”

“Why?”

“Because, obviously. You’re like family to me. Family does everything together.”

“But Siwoo-hyung and I… Ah, danger! It’s dark magic!”

“Popo!”

With shoddy CGI, Popo fell into a river with a splash. The duck boat Popo had been sitting on now held Siwoo-hyung, a mere Earthling, screaming as he was hit by dark magic.

Siwoo-hyung was an occasional side character who played a supporting role. Not a protagonist and unable to use magic, he seemed foolish, taking dark magic hits for Popo. Watching Siwoo-hyung in pain and Popo flailing, the villain’s cackling laughter ended episode 465.

Who’s like Siwoo-hyung? So childish.

Turning away from the screen, I noticed my hands had turned red. I’d been gripping the book too tightly from tension.

I wanted to read, but Siwoo-hyung’s annoying voice buzzed in my ear.

“Family does everything together.”

Eating with someone, exchanging greetings when waking or sleeping, being held in someone’s arms, or receiving their concern—all were things I didn’t know. Yet, I hated that Popo, a non-human, could easily have them. Maybe it was jealousy.

I want a Siwoo-hyung too.

I want a mom and dad to hold me warmly like Siwoo-hyung’s parents.

Hiding my unspoken truth that no one would hear, I buried my face in the book.

At ten years old, I still played Dreamland Magic Garden when alone but stopped glancing at it. I didn’t call it childish anymore. I stopped dreaming or hoping for anything.

But “family” was something I couldn’t give up on. I couldn’t resign myself to it.

A flicker of hope, tucked away somewhere, spurred me on. You’re too well-behaved, it said. Cause some trouble. Then, even if your father in far-off Korea doesn’t care, your mother will be shocked, rush to you, and cry. It would hurt to see her cry, but I wanted to be held.

So, I sneaked out of the house and headed to the park. There, I saw a man and woman comforting a fallen child. I wished something like that would happen to me.

But my half-day, modest runaway ended quietly, almost futilely. Wandering the park without a driver or escort didn’t even earn me a scolding.

Catherine, my mother who preferred her English name, looked at her returning son with an expressionless face and said only one thing.

“Go inside and rest.”

Maybe it would’ve been different if I’d skipped the trait clinic.

AM 1:30

The digital clock on the bedside table showed early morning. Having gone to bed early without dinner, I must have woken up in the middle of the night.

Hungry, I stepped out. Heading to the kitchen with a blanket draped over me, I heard faint voices conversing somewhere.

“So how’s your health? Can’t you talk to Father and stop that clinical trial or whatever… What, Wonwoo? I don’t know. He was suddenly at the park, doing that.”

I stopped and listened. It was about me. Was Mother secretly worried? My heart raced.

Light spilled through a crack in the door, reflecting off a hallway mirror. Inside, Mother was on the phone. The other person’s voice came faintly through the receiver, too soft to make out.

Pulling the blanket tighter against the chilly air, I stepped closer to the mirror, one step at a time. The truth I needed to see and the words I wanted to hear were there.

“How am I supposed to know what he was thinking?”

The woman in the room, reflected in the mirror, looked tired.

“He’s not even my child.”

Indeed, the truth I needed to see and the words I needed to hear were there.

I see.

Shuffling my cold feet, I turned back to my room instead of the kitchen. It was a hunger I could never satisfy anyway.

That night, I fell into a dream longer than sleep.

A dream of watching things I could never have. A dream of a couple who would always come running when I fell, comforting me endlessly over a mere scraped knee, and a child who knew no misfortune.

Thus, my nightmare begins at a playground.

I gave up on family. And with that, my heart felt lighter.

Silently carrying out my tasks and studying, the next day would come. I was still smaller than my peers. My pheromone gland remained firmly closed, inactive.

I accepted the label of “defective” that had been assigned to me.

I expected nothing from Catherine. Surprisingly, that eliminated disappointment.

I was occasionally curious about my biological mother, but that was all. Keeping my mouth shut made everything peaceful.

“Young master, I’ve packed all your things.”

Secretary Yang, my 24-hour escort and monitor, urged me to hurry.

“CEO Cha Geumho doesn’t have much time left.”

At eleven, I faced sudden, shocking news.

My father, on a business trip to New York, had collapsed and was lying in the trait clinic with a pale complexion. Catherine stayed by his side, her face dazed. The woman’s hand, tightly gripping the man’s, dry as kindling, trembled with desperate intensity.

“Wonwoo…”

My father called for me. The staff quickly cleared and left the room. As he blinked weakly, Catherine reluctantly stepped aside. At the edge of my vision, I caught her resentful glance.

With a soft slide, the transparent sliding door with the hospital logo closed, leaving just my father and me in the room.

“…Come here.”

His voice dragged like a radio with a dying battery. I have something to tell you. I approached and leaned in close, pressing my ear to his cracked lips. Squeezing out his last strength, he whispered.

“Wonwoo-ya, you are…”

The voice, tuned to the right frequency, was clear. Opening my eyes, which I’d kept gently closed, I often reflected on the message I received that day.

Wonwoo-ya, you are…

CEO Cha Geumho’s body was embalmed and sent to Korea. The announced cause of death was a chronic illness he’d been battling.

After changing into mourning clothes and standing as the chief mourner, everyone watched me. From family to group affiliates, not one missed me. They seemed to be searching for something in me—flaws or power.

“Your tie’s crooked. Let’s fix it.”

Uncle Cha Donghyeon, the only one showing kindness, approached and retied my poorly knotted tie. Behind him, I saw everyone’s eyes darting busily. Who will be the successor? That must be the question in their minds.

I remained calm throughout. Silently bowing to visitors, watching the encoffinment, holding the portrait at the funeral procession, and waiting at the crematorium.

The Late Cha Geumho

The urn engraved with his name was heavier and hotter than expected. Even on the way to the columbarium, Catherine fainted several times. After placing the urn, a short religious ceremony concluded all procedures.

As soon as the funeral ended, Chairman Cha Hyeoncheol summoned Catherine and me to the Hannam-dong family home and ordered.

“From now on, the boy stays here.”

“How can you do this? After how Geumho died! Why he died!”

Haggard, Catherine somehow found the strength to shout. Breathing heavily, she staggered in her agitation.

“Tch, that’s why the boy’s like this.”

Chairman Cha Hyeoncheol’s viper-like eyes turned to me. That’s when I realized a mere glance could cut me to pieces.

Dragged out by security, Catherine eventually boarded a flight to the U.S. There was talk about the percentage of stocks the deceased left her or what the CH Group offered for her to live quietly, but I pretended not to hear.

By then, silence had become a close friend.

Five in the morning.

Every day at the same time, I ground ink for Chairman Cha in the study. At first, it was pure torture. I had to grind ink in the same position for hours.

“Come here.”

While Chairman Cha wielded his brush, I ground ink motionlessly by his side. Cold sweat dripped, and my hands and feet trembled until I felt like collapsing. Instead of sympathy, he showed disapproval.

Grinding ink was grueling, but my body gradually adapted.

The first day I didn’t collapse until he said to stop, my forehead and back were drenched in sweat, and my arms trembled like they were seizing as I set the ink down.

There was no praise. The next day, he wrote longer than I’d endured the previous day. The time kept increasing. I gritted my teeth and persevered, but I was always pushed to my limit. Even when sick, there were no exceptions. Whenever he called, whether I was sleeping or eating, I had to grind ink.

He didn’t let me grow slowly. My small stature, smaller than a beta male, was a source of shame.

At twelve, Chairman Cha handed me a brush. Instead of clean rice paper, today’s morning newspaper was spread on the calligraphy desk.

“Don’t waste expensive paper.”

He gestured with his chin. After hesitating, I wrote his name. Wise Hyeon (賢). Bright Cheol (哲). When I finished the strokes meaning wise and rational, a tongue-click came first.

“What have you been learning all this time? Did I make you grind ink just to do that one thing well?”

Yelling, he snatched the brush and made me grind ink again. From then on, I studied every stroke, character, and idiom he wrote.

Another half-year passed.

He told me to write on the morning newspaper again. My skill was decent but still lacking. He clicked his tongue again.

“It’s not about copying my writing—you need to find your own.”

Every morning, newspapers from all major publishers were delivered. The task was to fill every page of the thick stack with writing practice.

“Don’t waste paper, don’t waste paper.”

One day, at five in the morning, as faint dawn broke in the study while I was grinding ink.

“On May 25, the regional investigation team conducted a massive raid on J Group’s Ulsan factory. Why, and how did it proceed? Tell me.”

Chairman Cha, wielding his brush, asked. It was a headline I’d glimpsed while practicing calligraphy. But I couldn’t recall the details. As I ground ink without answering, he asked again in a cold voice.

“K Insurance filed unfair civil adjustments against customers—what about that?”

More questions followed—false disclosures, politics, economics—but I couldn’t answer any properly. Setting down his brush, he shouted that in this small country, every scrap of news in the paper is money.

“Don’t waste paper, don’t waste paper.”

I realized what he meant. It wasn’t just about practicing writing but learning everything in the newspapers.

In this house, Chairman Cha’s word was absolute. Life was controlled down to the minute and second. While he was reluctant to expose a defective like me to the outside, he pushed me harshly with various sports and lessons. If he said to ride horses, I rode. If he said to ski, I skied. Showing emotions like fear was taboo.

Likes and dislikes were mine, but when he commanded, they became his. The only choice I had was the answer he wanted—just that.

I couldn’t freely make friends. Losing or yielding carelessly was even less permitted.

Once, something happened. Cha Ijun, who rarely visited the main house, burst into my room and said he wanted my cool wristwatch. It was an uncharacteristically friendly tone for him. Though we weren’t close, he was younger, and it wasn’t a meaningful item, so I gave it to him without a second thought.

Excited, Cha Ijun wore the watch to the dinner table. Chairman Cha’s gaze lingered on his wrist. Just as I was about to lift my spoon, it happened.

“——!”

Chairman Cha grabbed the rice bowl in front of me and threw it at the wall. It happened in an instant. The dining table fell silent. In the midst of it, he calmly sipped his soup as if nothing had happened.

Grandmother Song Wonju, frozen in the tense atmosphere, signaled the staff with her eyes. Someone brought a fresh bowl of warm rice. Before it was set in front of me, Chairman Cha threw that bowl too. Stubbornly pursing his lips, he chewed and swallowed some greens, then spoke.

“A pathetic fool who gives away his things without purpose doesn’t get to complain when his rice bowl is taken.”

The meal continued. Everyone treated me like I wasn’t there to avoid upsetting him.

That day, I had to sit upright, enduring the time of humiliation until everyone put down their spoons.

This is how I’ll live in this place. This is my life.

A distant feeling suddenly overwhelmed me.

That winter, during a record-breaking cold wave, Chairman Cha Hyeoncheol donated 10 billion won for “Warm Winter—Helping Neighbors.”

“I hope the underprivileged in our society can have a warm year-end.”

Articles adorned the internet with his gentle smile, interviews, details of CH Group’s welfare projects, and the fact that they’d donated over 200 billion won to date.

Under his teachings, I became a terrible person who doesn’t share without purpose.

At sixteen, I faced Chairman Cha with the demeanor of a negotiator.

“I want to meet my biological mother.”

My height was still closer to that of a high-grade elementary student or someone just entering middle school. My pheromone gland remained firmly closed, as if asleep, still inactive.

Chairman Cha’s patience was gradually wearing thin. Practicing putting with a golf club in the garden, he didn’t seem surprised when I mentioned my biological mother. He merely gestured lightly with his eyes, prompting me to explain further.

“There’s a paper stating that for trait-bearers separated from their parents in childhood, trait manifestation can be delayed. There’s also a hypothesis that increasing contact with the maternal line can aid manifestation.”

“Increasing contact, you say.”

Chairman Cha, holding the golf club, showed interest. I, who had always done as told, especially remaining silent about traits even when my arms were pricked with dozens of needles for blood tests, had initiated the topic myself, and he seemed intrigued.

“I want to meet her once. To see if this person, my biological mother, will help me or not.”

By then, I had learned to fabricate ambition quite well. Deep down, I had no competitive drive or desire to achieve anything, but in front of Chairman Cha, I feigned greed like a survival instinct.

The more I displayed ambition, the more I clung to what I held without wanting it taken away—in short, the more I showed traits of a dominant alpha—the more satisfied he seemed.

“I’ll think about it.”

Perhaps finding this amusing, less than a day later, an address was delivered through Secretary Baek.

Leaning against the fence, I gazed at the sky-blue gate. The paint was peeling, and cheap gum stickers, each worth a few hundred won, were plastered haphazardly across the iron gate. Even those were barely discernible, marred by the rust seeping through.

I hesitated, standing before the house of my biological mother, Kwon Suyeon. Her name, unknown to me until today, clung to my mind as if I’d always known it.

At the alley’s entrance, a couple of neighbors peered in my direction. They were undoubtedly whispering about the odd combination of an expensive car squeezing into the narrow alley and a kid. It was hard to make sense of.

Secretary Yang stood to shield me from their view and asked, “Shall we knock?”

In moments like this, an adult might light a cigarette. I let out a long breath, and my breath dispersed like cigarette smoke. I couldn’t delegate even the act of knocking on my biological mother’s door to someone else. There was no bell, so I curled my fist and knocked. Thud, thud, thud. The poorly fitted gate rattled noisily.

“Ugh, I’m coming!”

The sound of a glass sliding door scraping, the shuffle of slipping on slippers, and the drag of worn-out rubber soles followed. The gate opened.

The first thing I saw was toes wriggling outside the slippers. Smelling the mix of cigarette and alcohol in the air, I looked up.

In less than a second, we crossed sixteen years of time and space to meet. The woman seemed to recognize me at a glance.

“I came because I have something to ask.”

I skipped greetings. The pheromone excuse I’d given Chairman Cha was irrelevant anyway. I had other questions.

She glanced at Secretary Yang and Driver Kim before nodding.

“Come in. Just you.”

She slipped inside the gate, like a snail or turtle retreating into its shell, believing it the safest, sturdiest place.

Entering, I saw a large wooden platform in the yard and various odds and ends scattered about. As I took off my shoes to step inside, my gaze lingered on a toy car and a wheeled horse in one corner, likely used by a child.

Instead of asking about her job, why she gave birth to me, or how she’d lived—our respective histories—I scanned the shabby house and its contents. Sometimes, a space imbued with the traces of life speaks more than a person’s words.

“Sit there.”

She pointed to the wooden floor between the main room and a smaller one, then wandered between the sink and refrigerator.

“Want some instant coffee?”

“I’ve never had coffee.”

“…Then, orange juice?”

“Just water is fine.”

“Not bottled water, barley tea.”

“That’s okay.”

Did she know? No one had ever asked me what I wanted to drink before.

She filled a glass cup emblazoned with “Daehan Milk” in large letters with barley tea and sat across from me. She made a habit of grunting “Eussha” as she moved. On the hexagonal wooden tray beside her were piles of medicine packets.

“What are those medicines?”

Instead of the questions I’d intended, something else slipped out. I shouldn’t speak unless it’s a planned question. To stop myself, I took a sip of the barley tea.

“They make me a bit more useful.”

She touched her wrinkled mouth and answered calmly, pulling one knee up comfortably and resting her chin on it.

“What did you want to ask?”

Gulp. After hastily drinking the barley tea, another unprompted question slipped out.

“Whose toys are those in the yard?”

“They belong to the neighbor’s kid. A friend from my hometown, I look after her sometimes.”

Did you cherish that child? Fortunately, I swallowed this question with the barley tea.

We sat in silence for a long while. Her phone buzzed a few times but soon quieted. We could cross sixteen years of time and space, but we couldn’t stitch the gap between. In the awkward silence, I finished the cup of barley tea.

“More?”

“Yes.”

She kept refilling my barley tea, and I drank it three times. When she handed me the cup the last time, our fingertips brushed slightly.

“You said you had something to ask.”

Lost in the lingering warmth and sensation on my fingers, her voice snapped me back.

“Ah…”

“What are you curious about?”

I fidgeted with the empty cup, hesitating. She didn’t rush me. A stretch of silence passed. Slowly raising my head, I voiced the question I’d carried since CEO Cha Geumho’s death.

“My biological father. I came to ask who my biological father is.”

CEO Cha Geumho’s last words to me before he closed his eyes.

“Wonwoo-ya, you are… not my son.”

I was neither Catherine’s child nor CEO Cha Geumho’s son.

Since then, my nightmare no longer ended with a child innocently chasing a squirrel. Beyond the image of a loving family, I rise from the bench and stop at the edge of the playground. I should go home. But I stand at the entrance, unable to move.

Where is my home? Do I even have a place to return to?

Lost, I still stood motionless in that nightmare playground.

“I can’t tell you.”

She answered in a firm voice. I see. I thought she’d say that, and she really did. Accepting it, I didn’t press further about my biological father but asked the next thing I wanted to confirm.

“Do you have proof?”

The sharp woman nodded. That was enough. I knew it would reach me one way or another when the time came.

I placed Secretary Yang’s business card on the floor, set the empty cup on it, and stood.

“I’m leaving.”

She slipped on her slippers, dragging them as she saw me out. I walked with shorter strides than usual. At the gate, just before leaving, I turned to take her in one last time.

“One more question.”

“Go ahead.”

“…When I was little, I wanted to do something. Pack kimbap and ride a duck boat.”

“…”

“Could you do that with me?”

She gave a faint smile, then said clearly, “No. Don’t come back.”

I’ll probably remember her calm demeanor and this sad day forever. Hazel, brown—there were many words to describe the color of my mother’s eyes, but I’ll likely remember it this way.

The color of gently cooled barley tea.

Opening the rusty gate, I was greeted by the moss-covered, diamond-shaped fence. Before heading to the car, I paused to catch my breath. It felt like waking from a strange dream.

With reluctant steps, I got into the car. The engine started, and we drove off.

I reported to Chairman Cha Hyeoncheol that pheromones seemed to have little effect.

I didn’t mention reading death in her frail body, sunken cheeks, hollow eyes, and resolved gaze. Perhaps he knew too—her illness.

In the winter from sixteen to seventeen, Secretary Yang delivered news of her passing.

I was no longer Catherine’s child, nor CEO Cha Geumho’s son, nor Kwon Suyeon’s child.

Just a rootless tree, swaying greatly in the slightest breeze. So I wanted to sink deeply, very deeply, into the earth.

All things born race toward death.

So I decided not to grieve her death. I respected the destination she reached after a long life’s journey and celebrated her rest. It was a path I’d walk someday too.

I bought the house she lived in. Since it was Kwon Suyeon’s, it was as if she gave it to me. I wanted something from my mother, something passed from parent to child, even just one thing.

Per her wishes, there was no funeral.

At the crematorium, it was just me and her hometown friend from next door. With many family members, we might’ve rented a room to wait, but we didn’t. While she was in the hot flames, we were busy shaking off grief in the biting cold wind.

“She told me to give this to you.”

Her friend, sniffing with a reddened nose, handed me an envelope. Driver Kim was at the parking lot, and Secretary Yang, who followed everywhere, stood far off, avoiding the cold. It seemed she waited for a moment when their eyes wouldn’t reach.

I took the envelope. Four characters were written on it.

To Wonwoo

I read and reread the simple words. I traced my thumb over the characters spelling “Wonwoo.” When did she learn my name? Could she have named me?

“Pretty, right? She was known for her beautiful handwriting since she was young.”

“I write well too.”

I spoke, unable to tear my eyes from the letters. Her friend’s laughter came from above my bowed head.

“Really? You must take after your mom.”

I was momentarily speechless, barely swallowing.

“I guess so… I must take after my mom.”

I chuckled softly.

Her friend turned away, looking like she might cry, and cleared her throat.

“Read it and come back. I’ll be waiting.”

She left to give me space. Alone, I took out the letter. It was two pages.

To Wonwoo.

They say nothing on a lotus is wasted—leaves, fruit, roots. It’s all useful, as medicine or food. So please choose an urn with a lotus design.

I can’t pack kimbap, but let’s ride a duck boat together. Let’s play there and head to the sea. When we do, scatter some of my ashes there. In the pocket of the clothes I last wore, there’s a cigarette. Burn it too.

Thank you for not asking anything. Not asking can sometimes be a comfort.

I’m too shameless to tell you to live well. Looking back, there were moments I could’ve been happy, but I didn’t seize them. I hope you have the ability to discern those moments.

I mean, I hope you’re happy.

The first letter ended there. The second page began with “Daehan Bank: Safe Deposit Box,” more information than a letter.

I folded the envelope, tucked it into my chest, and entered the building. When I said I’d change the urn, her friend showed no doubt. Instead, she asked if I’d call her “auntie” if we met again. I nodded.

Soon, I held the urn.

The Late Kwon Suyeon

The second urn I ever held was still heavy, hot, and painful.

In the pitch-dark, I sneaked out of the Hannam-dong mansion.

Seeing the bruised faces of Driver Kim and Secretary Yang, punished for the crematorium visit, I couldn’t ask them to join this outing.

I walked a long way to where I could catch a taxi. The large backpack on my shoulders was light and flat, carrying nothing.

First, I headed to the house I’d bought, her house. Her friend, now my auntie, stood yawning at the gate.

“Are you sure about this?”

“Yes.”

When I put the urn in the backpack, it bulged out. Auntie handed a few bills to the driver, asking him to take care of me. She seemed worried about a small kid traveling alone by taxi at such a dangerous hour.

“Send Suyeon off well.”

With her final words, I bowed and got back in the taxi. In the backseat, I hugged the backpack tightly.

We headed to the river.

Getting out of the taxi, a faint dawn broke. Looking at the morning sky pushing back the darkness, I hurried my steps.

Though it was nearly spring and the weather had warmed, it was still winter. Especially at this hour, the river breeze was cold, and the place was usually deserted. But the scene on the way to the water activity center was unexpected.

People in matching uniforms carried filming equipment and props, while fans in small groups scattered about. The area buzzed with life.

I tightened the straps of my backpack.

“Hey, Seo Hanmin’s here!”

A sudden shout rang out, and the scattered people surged toward somewhere. In an instant, boundaries collapsed as the crowd—film crew, fans, actors—mixed chaotically, creating a dangerous scene.

I was pushed and bumped into a man.

Don’t drop it!

The backpack held something fragile and important. Desperate not to fall, I grabbed the arm of the stranger. Startled, he instinctively tried to pull away. But the hand that seemed to shake me off suddenly pulled me close instead. My cap fell to the ground.

“——!”

A cart loaded with equipment hit uneven ground, lurching, and heavy items spilled where I’d just stood. The staff pushing the cart swallowed an irritated grunt and began moving the fallen items.

It could’ve been a major accident. If he hadn’t pulled me… I didn’t care about getting hurt, but the urn in the backpack would’ve shattered. A chilling sensation swept through me, making me tremble.

“You okay?”

The man who pulled me into his arms asked gently.

“Ah…”

He lifted the backpack that nearly fell, zipped it up, and separated me from him. He picked up my cap, dusted it off, and placed it back on my head. I should say thank you, right? But when I looked up to speak, I was so shocked by his face that my mouth wouldn’t open.

Dreamland Magic Garden!

He looked down at me with a worried expression.

“Were you scared?”

I stumbled back, turned, and ran blindly. He was much taller now, but I recognized him instantly. That man was the Siwoo-hyung I once longed for.

“I’ll pay extra.”

“No, I said it’s not allowed.”

I was refused a duck boat ride. It was a two-person boat, so I couldn’t ride alone, and they said I was too young to ride without a guardian. I insisted I was sixteen, no, seventeen now, but the man didn’t believe me.

When Chairman Cha Hyeoncheol treated my small stature as a flaw, I didn’t care, but today I was angry. Lifting my cap to show my face clearly, I said, “I’m really seventeen.”

“Seventeen? You look like you’re just starting middle school. I’d love to let you ride, but it’s a safety issue. Go get your parents.”

I felt like I should plead, but I’d never asked for anything, so the words wouldn’t come. What should I do? I thought “stamping my feet” was just a literary expression, but it wasn’t. Before I knew it, I was anxiously shifting in place.

Then, the area behind me grew noisy.

“A duck boat at this hour? Ride it in the afternoon.”

“I told you not to come, Manager.”

“I’m not a kid, borrowing cash to ride a duck boat. How could I not follow out of curiosity?”

“Manager, aren’t you the kid? Always curious about everything.”

Turning toward the noise, I saw the man from earlier and someone called Manager Heo approaching. The man, bickering with the other, scanned the area, spotted me, and hurried over.

“You haven’t left yet? Good.”

No matter how I looked, he was Siwoo-hyung from Dreamland Magic Garden. As I stared at him dazedly, the owner of the water activity center, seeing a chance to secure a customer, quickly explained the situation.

The man—Earthling Siwoo-hyung—readily offered to ride with me. The person called Manager Heo muttered, “What’s with him?” and narrowed their eyes.

It took a bit of time to put on the life jacket because I refused to take off my backpack, but boarding was completed quickly.

Manager Heo tried to follow on a single-person duck boat, but the single ones, less popular and poorly maintained, looked shabby at a glance. Grumbling that it wasn’t pretty or cute, Manager Heo had no choice but to wave us off, telling us to be careful. Holding a cup of coffee they’d cheekily gotten from the activity center’s waiting room, they headed inside.

The creaking sound of pedaling echoed over the calm river.

I pedaled hard on the duck boat, moving far from the activity center’s information desk. Hugging my backpack tightly and pedaling, I glared at the man beside me and finally spoke, unable to hold back.

“Hey.”

“Hm, you’re feistier than I thought.”

What’s he saying?

“You got on without asking, so why aren’t you pedaling?”

“Me? I don’t know where you want to go, so I’m just sitting still. And without asking? I paid for this, not a free ride. Besides, you couldn’t have ridden without me.”

Every word was true. Annoying. Just like when he jumped into danger for Popo despite being a mere human. I ignored him and pedaled silently again.

I stopped at a suitable spot. I wanted to go further, but I was already out of breath. My defective body couldn’t even handle this easily. Panting, I looked around.

The slowly flowing river was the color of dawn settling in.

I hugged the backpack tighter. Could I do this without him noticing? Impossible. What then?

“Hey.”

As I mulled over my dilemma, the man spoke.

“The sea’s fine, but scattering in mountains or rivers is illegal.”

“…What?”

“I saw it when I zipped up your backpack. I was going to pretend I didn’t, but it kept nagging at me. So I followed. And I have something to give you.”

He pulled something from his pocket. A lighter. My mother’s keepsake.

“You dropped this. You look so small, carrying an urn and a lighter. Seeing both, I couldn’t not follow.”

I shouldn’t criticize Manager Heo for being nosy. The man mumbled and laughed softly. His lips curved up and down in a fleeting moment. I snatched the lighter from him, quickly lowered my head, and hid my face under my cap.

If he got on knowing everything, there was no reason to hesitate.

I opened the backpack and took out the urn, white porcelain with a golden lotus design.

They say nothing on a lotus is wasted—leaves, fruit, roots. It’s all useful, as medicine or food.

The woman who spoke of usefulness died after fulfilling hers. I opened the urn and stared inside, as if peering into her hidden emotions. But all I saw was her finely ground life.

I took the cigarette from the backpack’s front pocket. I tried to light it, but whether from inexperience or fear, my fingers wouldn’t cooperate.

“Don’t tremble.”

The man took the cigarette and lighter from my hand.

“I don’t know the story, but burn the cigarette later on land. A spark here could cause trouble. This duck boat’s made of flammable material, you know?”

Making a plausible excuse, he put the cigarette and lighter back in the backpack’s pocket. He turned forward again. At that moment, dozens of little egrets took flight. Though summer migrants, they were now more often seen in winter. His eyes followed the birds soaring through the air.

I tore my gaze away and scattered a handful of ashes onto the river. Kwon Suyeon. If not for her will, I wouldn’t have wanted to pollute the environment.

Time, unyielding, flowed like the river.

I stopped and pedaled again. The man glanced at me, checked the still-unemptied urn, and asked, “Why move?”

“If I scatter it all in one place caterpillar fungus, it feels like she’d stay here. I want her to see different places…”

“It flows anyway. It’ll reach the sea.”

I know. But it didn’t feel right. Without answering, I pedaled. As I worked hard, the duck boat suddenly sped up, cutting through the water. Looking beside me, the man was pedaling too.

This time, I asked, “What are you doing?”

He smiled and answered, “Going together.”

“…”

“You’ll get tired alone.”

Everyone experiences growing pains. A time when pain ushers in a completely different world from before.

For me, it was that day. The day I can’t even recall how I got home.

I don’t know how many days I lay suffering from the excruciating pain that engulfed my body. Tormented by high fever and agony, I fainted and woke repeatedly. The pain was so intense I lost sight and hearing, curling up, waiting for it to end.

In that unbearable torment, I dreamed.

The setting was, as always, a playground. Sitting on a bench, I watch a recurring scene. A peaceful family harms and breaks me. A crying child, comforted by parents, feels they’re not alone and chases a squirrel. The parents follow. Behind them, I rise from the bench and walk slowly.

Reaching the edge, I stand at the entrance, unable to move further. I remain in the playground, trapped in the dream, unable to find a home or a place to return to.

Then, dozens of little egrets take flight. Far off, one egret, soaring above the playground, spreads its ornamental feathers and looks down at me. The breeze brushing my body carries the scent of water. The distant sound of water slicing grows closer, and someone approaches.

Looking beside me, it’s the man. He looks at me too.

I ask, “Why did you follow me into my dream? What are you doing here?” He smiles and answers, “Going together.”

“…”

“You’ll get tired alone.”

It’s the first time someone asked me to do something together.

Like someone enchanted, I move my feet. The man walks with me. One step, another. It’s unbelievable. I’m walking with him through a place I couldn’t escape alone.

With one step, the loving family that was eating away at me scatters in the wind. With two, the oak-shaded bench crumbles. With three, the ice cream truck’s melody fades. With four, the giant playground that confined me turns to sand and collapses.

The entrance becomes an exit. Without looking back, I know. I’m no longer standing in the playground, where the young me was.

Ahead lies a maze of unfamiliar paths. I still can’t find the way home. Once again, I’m lost, unable to find a place to return to.

Then, “Go together. You’ll get tired alone.”

The voice offering companionship echoes from every path. Gathering courage, I step forward. A dust-colored egret, circling the air, follows me. When I want to collapse, the bird flaps its wings. When I want to stop, the man walks with me. His voice echoes endlessly.

Go together. You’ll get tired alone.

In the dream, wherever we went, we were together.

Thus, my nightmare ends at the playground.

Gasping, I woke, my heart pounding so hard it felt like it would spill out.

“Wonwoo, breathe slowly.”

Each breath burned my throat with pain. Clutching my chest in agony, a restraining hand followed.

“It’s okay. You’ll be fine soon.”

The unhelpful words were muffled by my ringing ears. My body ached as if beaten, from head to toes, every joint throbbing. It was similar yet different from the pain of an overdose of pheromone gland stimulants.

“It hurts…”

A sound slipped out as my consciousness blurred. Someone caught my body as I was about to faint.

“Wonwoo!”

A shout to keep breathing despite the pain rang in my ears. No. I wanted to lose consciousness. What kept me from it was a voice floating between reality and dream. Go together. The man’s smiling face came to mind.

At that moment, “Ugh…”

The suffocating pressure and crushing pain vanished at once. All senses opened, delivering overwhelming stimuli. Each cell seemed to awaken and respond. Instinctively, I touched my nape, fingers digging behind my ear. The source of pheromones, where trait-bearers release them. The tightly locked place pulsed like a heart beneath my skin.

Thump, thump, thump.

The strong rhythm enveloped my body. My ragged breathing calmed, and my surroundings came into view. A familiar room, bed, and a backpack on one side. Spotting it, I lunged without a second thought, burying my face in it like a crazed animal.

The backpack, without the urn, carried a scent I hadn’t noticed before. His scent—my person’s. A fragrance of water, blue sky, sand, and sun, indescribable in words.

Like it was my only oxygen, I inhaled deeply, enveloped in a thrill I’d never felt. With an elated heart, I hugged the backpack tightly, breathing in the faint scent until it reached the depths of my lungs.

The more I inhaled, the pain faded, and calm returned. A different world lay before me. Without an expert’s explanation, I knew instinctively.

I, once merely defective, had awakened as a true alpha.

“Your pheromone levels are high, and your gland activity is robust—excellent. You can truly be called a dominant alpha now. Congratulations. The chairman will be relieved.”

The doctor, saying this, looked like he’d shed a heavy burden. He patted my shoulder as I sat on the bed.

“Whether alpha or omega, dominant traits rarely experience manifestation pain during growth… Wonwoo, you’ve had a tough time.”

Betas, lacking pheromone glands, are irrelevant, but standard and recessive traits develop glands with the surge of sex hormones during secondary sexual characteristics, experiencing manifestation pain.

Not dominants. They don’t need to awaken separately. Most have active pheromone glands from birth, some even detectable as specific traits in the womb.

I was the same. Both preliminary and formal tests identified me as a dominant alpha. But without awakening, I was treated as defective.

The doctor, looking prouder and more moved than I was, praised me.

“As you know, manifestation pain is essentially the first heat cycle. Painkillers are less effective than pheromones from an opposite-trait parent or medical pheromones for pain relief. Of course, Wonwoo’s manifestation pain was so severe that even medical omega pheromones didn’t work. Yet you overcame it splendidly. It just came late, but it means you’re a very strong dominant.”

Omega pheromones… Was the ineffectiveness of medical omega pheromones really because I’m dominant? I doubted it. But I wasn’t foolish enough to blurt out vague guesses to the doctor.

“I’ll report to the chairman, so rest more, Wonwoo. Your body needs time to adjust.”

He patted my shoulder once more and left.

Click. The moment the door closed, I got out of bed. My eye level was subtly higher. I’d grown taller. In the bathroom mirror, my face and features had noticeably changed in those few days.

After washing, I turned on the computer and searched.

Dreamland Magic Garden Siwoo-hyung

Thankfully, I got satisfactory results in one try. At the top of the portal site was a brief profile of the person I sought.

He was two years older than me. Kang Siheon. I read and reread the three characters of his name. From now on, every “Kang,” “Si,” and “Heon” in this world would be his, at least in my world.

As if etching it into a secret corner, I dragged the mouse over the characters, calling them out.

“Kang, Si, Heon.”

My mouth opened for “Kang,” pursed for “Si,” and opened again for “Heon.” The shape and sound were perfect.

His profile listed the high school he currently attended.

Daehan High School.

Further searching revealed that, likely for attendance, he often showed up at school briefly. But nowhere mentioned him being an omega. In fact, his profile listed him as a beta. Some fan even speculated plausibly that he might be an alpha.

My instincts were certain he was an omega, but as time passed, I felt it didn’t matter what trait he had. I was gripped by the irrational thought that as long as he was Kang Siheon, any trait was fine. I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Thus, I came to understand the noun “force majeure.”

The defective became genuine.

Hearing this, Chairman Cha Hyeoncheol showed satisfaction for the first time. Summoning me to his study, he asked what I wanted.

“Tell me what you want.”

The pungent smell of ink always made me tense entering his study. To me, it was akin to a torture chamber—a scene of abuse painted with sadistic calligraphy and stark loneliness.

But now, I could recall another’s scent in this place. That alone made facing Chairman Cha fearless.

Looking straight into the old man’s snake-like eyes, I stated my desire.

“I want to attend high school. Daehan High School.”