Gi-yun woke up with a pounding head. The unfamiliar ache made him wonder, Is this what a hangover feels like?
Shuddering at the sensation of his marrow rattling inside his skull, he pressed hard on his throbbing temples, then groped for a bottle of water. He drank the lukewarm liquid that was warmed by midsummer heat like nectar, and last night’s dream-like memories returned.
Yes, a dream. No goblins had appeared, and he hadn’t flown through the sky, yet what happened last night was no less unreal.
If he had to choose the single biggest event, it would be that he nearly fell to his death from a high-rise rooftop. Since he’d ended up alive and unharmed, what came after felt even larger—like running into someone he never imagined meeting….
He let his eyes rove around the room. The furnishings were as sparse as ever. Only the pile of cash on the table, huge by his standards, proved that last night hadn’t been a dream.
348,250 won: the money left after taking the subway home with what the man had given him. He’d blithely ignored the advice to take a taxi. Gi-yun had never ridden one.
He stroked the bills with care. The paper, stiff like the man’s attitude, slid smoothly under his fingertips.
As if the money were a conduit to memory, he toyed with it for a long while. Then, on impulse, grabbed his phone. The moment he typed the man’s three-syllable name into the search bar, every possible bit of information popped up, profile first.
Gong Seung-jo.
No exam-taker failed to know that name. Top English lecturer at AT, the No. 1 private-education brand, he was also famed for becoming the youngest star instructor in the shortest time after entering the academy world.
Gi-yun knew him, too. That’s what he’d meant by “knowing him one-sidedly.” He’d even taken Gong’s lecture until he’d had to drop it for certain reasons and every minute of the lecture showed why the man was famous.
Even non-examinees sometimes recognized him, thanks not only to a glittering career but also to looks that seized attention at a glance. Though perpetually “too busy” to appear on any broadcast other than his lectures, his face was still filmed or screencapped in class and spread far and wide. Early on, that led to the misunderstanding that he was coasting on good looks alone.
That talk was long past. Turned out he excelled in nearly every respect; looks were merely one of many distinctions. Thus, it hadn’t taken long for the harsh remark “He’s hawking his face like a celebrity” to flip into praise like “It’s a pity his superb teaching is hidden behind his looks.”
Now, firmly entrenched at No. 1, there was nothing pitiable about him. The fame attached to that outstanding appearance was just another ornament.
Staring at the profile photo online, Gi-yun could see why rumors once claimed his popularity owed more to looks than skill. The body and face were unquestionably superior. Usually, profile shots were so doctored that you might not recognize the real person, but his photo looked exactly like him. No “the camera flatters him” rumor would stick.
Still, meeting him in person felt different from the image in Gi-yun’s mind. In photos, he looked intellectual and cool-headed which were qualities that enhanced trust, not coldness per se. But Gi-yun remembered the attitude the man had shown him last night:
“They say there’s no cure for stupid. Is that thing above your neck just for decoration?”
A response as dry and chilly as a gust that blew away midsummer heat. A disdainful gaze in which contempt and pity mixed 99 to 1…. Of course, Gi-yun had been at fault, so he had nothing to say even if he had ten mouths.
He gloomily fingered the bills that were, perhaps, born of that scant pity.
Stuffing me with cash and throwing me out. If you’re going to pity someone, do it with money, the saying went.
Well, he had received genuine pity. The man’s words stung yet gave him no room for resentment.
Just then a text arrived from an unfamiliar number—area code 02.
[Notice: Application for On-Site TA Position — Gong Seung-jo English Lab]
Gi-yun blinked rapidly at the subject. The very name he’d been thinking about flashed before his eyes; he was flustered.
“Ah….”
A businesslike message with no sender named but it didn’t take long to realize the man had taken his number and was now granting poor, pathetic him yet another chance.
Star lecturers often hired teaching assistants to handle chores. For a No. 1 like Gong, it went without saying. Nothing odd, then, that he was recruiting, nor that the timing came just after exams ended.
Gi-yun clicked the link. The conditions were excellent: a salary, all of Gong’s lectures and textbooks free, even study space if needed. If he kept studying for next year’s exam, he couldn’t ask for better.
As if bewitched, he filled out the application. Not long after submitting, the lab contacted him to come in. From that moment, he agonized over what to wear as if facing his first blind date. Fortunately (or not), his wardrobe was so meager that the decision ended quickly.
On interview day, he donned the most respectable shirt and long cotton pants he owned and left home. The lab was close to the station. He rode up to the top floor of a building that felt oddly familiar. The immaculate interior, verging on obsessive neatness, seemed to mirror its owner’s character.
“Eun Gi-yun? This way, please.”
A man who introduced himself as the manager led Gi-yun to a conference room. He half-hoped Seung-jo might appear but saw no sign of him. Though the job was at the academy, the interview site wasn’t the academy building: this lab was a separate business entity Gong had founded and ran.
It’s common—inevitable, even—for famous lecturers to keep multiple TAs. A few, whose workload outgrows what TAs can handle, go further: they form corporations and hire full-time staff.
Hence the lab in Gong’s name. Besides managing his schedule, it developed, produced, and vetted every textbook, lecture handout, passage, and question published under his brand. Everyone here was staff, not temp TAs.
So Gong was both lecturer and publishing-house CEO. In effect, he himself was a walking enterprise. Every employee here, including TAs, existed to support the work of a single man—which meant he earned enough to pay all their salaries and then some.
“The key for an on-site TA is punctuality and diligence,” the manager said. “The boss values those traits above all.”
“Yes.” Gi-yun answered meekly.
TAs fell into two groups: on-site and research. On-site assistants helped during live classes; research assistants helped write questions, review content, answer online student queries, and manage boards. Since Gi-yun had failed the exam, they wouldn’t saddle him with research duties.
“You’ve got a laptop at home, right? There’s paperwork, so it’s best to carry one. Most doc tasks are remote, but sometimes you’ll need to come to the office.”
“Um, I’m sorry, but I don’t have a laptop….”
His voice shrank with each word. He owned neither laptop nor desktop. He had watched lectures on a second-hand tablet bought when he’d started studying—cheap, low-spec, several years old, but fine for streaming video.
“Could something else work?”
He hadn’t expected that lack to matter. Do I have to trudge home in defeat? Maybe he could add a Bluetooth keyboard to the tablet? Seeing desperation flood his face, the manager smiled kindly.
“No need to apologize. Let’s just have you use a spare office PC. We’ve got empty desks anyway.”
The manager seemed set on hiring him. It’s no wonder, for just days earlier Seung-jo had mentioned Gi-yun and told him, If he doesn’t look totally hopeless, take him. No reason to defy that.
He did wonder why the boss, who rarely involved himself in hiring, had singled Gi-yun out. But the manager liked him too: mature for his age, visibly desperate yet trying hard not to show it. It was endearing, really.
Tense, thinking this was the formal interview, Gi-yun answered diligently as the manager lobbed a few perfunctory questions and then slid some paperwork across the table.
“This is the employment contract. Everything I explained is in there. Read it carefully, then sign here.”
The moment he saw the salary, Gi-yun’s eyes grew huge.
“You’re paying this much?”
It exceeded his rough guesses. If he got paid this well and listened to lectures for free, how did the place make money? There were surely several TAs. Did they all get this? Was Gong some sort of philanthropist?
At his trembling question, the manager chuckled. True, the figure was a bit higher than standard for on-site TAs, though not by a wide margin.
“The work’s not as easy as you think. On-site TAs don’t use much brainpower, but the hours can be rough, so plenty quit. Like I said—diligence.”
“Yes.”
“It’s in the contract, but you know you mustn’t share pay details, right? Different TAs do different duties and hours, so amounts may vary.”
“Understood. Thank you, sir.”
“No need to thank me. Once you’ve checked everything, just sign here too.”
“Yes. I’ll work hard.”
He’s only seen me at my worst. I’ll make sure he sees my diligence from now on, Gi-yun vowed.
After bowing repeatedly, he stepped into the hallway. The floor was too high to take the stairs, so he waited for the elevator.
The view outside the window felt strangely familiar. Tilting his head, he pulled up the photos he’d snapped while drunk the other night—they showed the 63 Square in almost the same frame.
A prickling intuition rose. Instead of going down, he rode one floor up to the roof. The door was closed but not locked. Hesitating briefly, he opened it and the midday sky garden he’d longed to revisit spread out before him.
“So this was his own office building….”
Likely the man had worked here late that night, stepped out for a cigarette or air and happened to witness him.
Realizing their encounter was no grand coincidence or fate, just a mundane overlap, Gi-yun descended the stairs wearing a sheepish smile.
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