“Not yet served.”
Giyun flinched and tried to stop him. His face burned with embarrassment. Reading a self-introduction out loud in front of its author—what a rotten taste.
“Nothing but useless padding. You don’t even have the basics of writing. Is this your first time writing a self-intro?”
Seung-jo lobbed the jab, bored and blunt. Since it was indeed his first, the blow didn’t land too hard. Eyes that had been skimming the pages indifferently halted on something on the next sheet. His gaze narrowed slightly.
“What’s this.”
“…Sir?”
Wait. Why are there multiple pages? He’d definitely only submitted a single page.
“You started my course last year and then quit?”
Giyun’s eyes went wide as saucers. He hadn’t written that on the application. How on earth did he find that out? Terrifying man.
“Switched from Gong Seung-jo to Shin Woo-min, then to Brandon Hwang. A real circus.”
“…”
“Do you think your lousy English score is the instructor’s fault?”
A sneer disguised as a question. Heat flared in Giyun’s cheeks.
“What exactly didn’t you like about my class.”
“Well…”
“If I don’t suit you that much, how are you going to function as my TA? If you want to quit, just say so. We can tear up the contract.”
“No, I don’t want to quit. I’ll do well. I can do well.”
He pleaded, urgent. Getting fired after one day? Unthinkable.
“I think your lectures are the best, sir.”
“Try wetting your lips before you lie.”
He knew the unsaid tag—after you bailed, that is. But determined to obey, he stuck out his tongue and ran it over his lower lip. Watching that, Seung-jo’s expression curdled.
“Are you kidding me?”
“I’m not. Really. I want to work as your TA.”
With a resolute look, he pressed his lips together.
Sigh. Seung-jo let out another deep breath, as if he’d lost the will to argue.
“Raise your English score first. What is this, a 70? A seventy.”
“Y… yes, understood.”
He wanted to say his recent Seoul City score was an 80, but this wasn’t the time. And it wasn’t like an 80 would impress him either.
“Even if the job doesn’t take much brainpower, my TA getting a score like that is unacceptable.”
“Yes, I’ll keep it in mind.”
Seung-jo said nothing more, waving a hand instead to tell him to leave. The gesture was steeped in bone-deep fatigue.
This isn’t it. I must have gotten on his bad side.
Giyun wasn’t the type to switch instructors lightly.
Civil service prep has a lot of subjects and in any exam, obviously, the student’s will to study matters more than the teacher. Switching costs money and adapting to a new teaching style takes time—he knew that. So one teacher per subject, no switching once chosen. That was the principle he set, having neither time nor money.
If not for Seung-jo, he’d have kept that principle to the end. At the start, he’d had no time to “compare instructors,” so he simply picked the front-listed so-called No. 1s for each subject. Naturally, English meant taking Seung-jo’s class.
His lectures were excellent for many reasons and uniquely compelling. No reason to switch. He even found himself wishing the man would teach his other subjects, too.
It was only later he sensed something was off. While reading an administrative-law case note, he heard Seung-jo’s voice; before sleep, closing his eyes, he started seeing his face. And whenever he thought of him, a corner of his heart inevitably fluttered.
He could blame it on never seeing anyone socially because he only worked and studied, or that the only face he saw all day was the instructor on the screen but that excuse had a hole. When other teachers’ videos ended, he could barely recall their faces. Only Seung-jo stayed etched in his mind.
An alarming feeling tried to sprout. How could I feel that toward another man?
But thinking back, he’d never really liked girls either. He’d never dated properly in school, not even crushed on a celebrity. On the rare occasions someone confessed or hit on him, his first worry was how to turn them down.
He’d told himself he wasn’t “qualified” to date because he had no money and no room in his heart. Truth was, nothing pulled him from the start.
A new crisis had arrived, of a different kind. At this rate his exam prep would be ruined by him.
He had to pass the next year. For that, feelings like these were a luxury. It was not the time to wrestle with an unusual sexual identity, nor to be giddy with a belated first crush, nor to nurse the pain of unrequited love.
It was time to study like a machine and pass. To survive without starving, stand on his own as a respectable one-person household.
Feelings that couldn’t bloom had to be cut at the root. After much thought, he changed instructors. Out of sight, out of mind—and thankfully, he stopped thinking about him.
His pick to replace Seung-jo was Shin Woo-min—longtime former No. 1 who’d been knocked to No. 2 by Seung-jo’s meteoric rise. The lectures were generally fine, but Shin had a problem: an inferiority complex toward Seung-jo.
“You all know this, right? I’ve been teaching over twenty years—over ten just in the civil-service market. Add up everyone who’s taken my classes and you’re looking at hundreds of thousands at least. Impressive, yeah? I know. But lately I’ve been feeling disillusioned with this job. Is it because enrollment’s down? Hardly. If anything, the opposite.
People even say there are more civil-service examinees than SAT takers now. The problem is, as the market blows up, more and more instructors jump in just chasing money without knowing the field. I can’t stand it. Honestly, how do you entrust your future to these one-day-old puppy teachers? Because, folks, a teacher is like wine—the longer it ages, the more stats and know-how it accumulates. As you know, I even graduated from the Ivy League, and I’ve spent over twenty years in this business…”
An inferiority complex that began and ended the same way—exploding. He never said “Gong Seung-jo” aloud, but anyone could see who the sniper’s target was. The comet that had shot to No. 1 had knocked him down so hard that, once he started chatting each class, Shin poured his utmost into slandering Seung-jo—hammering on the one point he outdid him in: years of experience.
“You might think this sounds like excuses. It’s not. In life sometimes you’re first, sometimes you’re second. Sure, I’m Ivy-educated, but who’s first every day? The crucial point is this: a lecturer should compete on teaching ability—once you try to sell your face, you’re done. What is this, showbiz? Didn’t I say lecturers are wine, not celebrities? I’ve been aging for over twenty years…”
Unable to endure Shin’s endless spiel, Giyun shut the video off. At this rate the man would slip from No. 2 to No. 222. Blinded by jealousy, Shin seemed more obsessed with Seung-jo than with teaching. He probably thought of him every night before bed and dreamed of him, too.
He had chosen another instructor to stop thinking of Seung-jo, yet Shin kept bringing him up, and it was useless. In the end, he dropped that class, too.
Listening to the lesser-known Brandon Hwang, he finally regained a little peace of mind. But the lectures were generally rambling, with too much irrelevant small talk, and he drifted away; his English score stalled.
The fact that this was the story behind his two instructor switches—this, Seung-jo must never know. He could never tell.
He’d grown somewhat used to the TA work. The manager had said it wouldn’t be easy, but compared to the labor he’d done so far, this was nothing. The office document work was substantial, but manageable.
Thus his repeat year in Noryangjin flowed along calmly. On weekdays he reported to the academy; weekends he worked at the convenience store. His TA pay covered living expenses for now, but who knew about next year? He wanted to save as much as possible. One year of burn the boats studying was more than enough.
For subjects other than English he took only the bare minimum. Having taken all the basic courses last year, he had the fundamentals. Now he aimed to increase passes through the core texts and secure as much solo study time as possible.
Whether he truly wanted to become a civil servant, he wasn’t sure. He didn’t even know exactly what the job entailed after passing. With the state as employer, at least wages wouldn’t be delayed… He grimly recalled his high-school convenience-store job, when wage delays sent him back and forth to the labor office. He never did recover it all.
That was about the level of meaning: a stable job where his livelihood wasn’t threatened. For someone like him, for whom standing alone wasn’t a choice but a necessity, nothing mattered more. Whatever it was, if he could carry his one person’s share in society with dignity, that was enough.
He had to bring his younger sibling to live with him before they became an adult, too.
He wanted to find meaning in preparing for a future better than today. If he passed, in every way he’d at least be better off than now. Asking whether this path was truly the future he wanted—that was a luxury. How could anyone do only what they want and live—especially someone like him.
Perhaps this, too, was a kind of escape.
“Giyun, is there chocolate there?”
In the classroom, emptied like an ebbing tide after the lecture, Young-hyeon asked. While tidying the board, Giyun turned, checked the lectern, and nodded.
“Yes.”
“Let’s eat. My sugar’s crashing.”
Snacks were piled on the lectern—things students had left before class “for the teacher”—but the person himself always acted like he hadn’t seen them, so they sat there unopened.
Please don’t leave items here.
That was all Seung-jo said. As if someone had mistakenly left their baggage there—those “items” on the lectern had nothing to do with him.
It was like this every class. According to Young-hyeon, the gift barrage was fiercest early in the term; once people realized he never touched any of it, it faded on its own. Come to think of it, it had decreased since the start.
What kind of heart does it take to pay good money for a class and then spend more to bring the lecturer something? He was broke, yet he could kind of understand.
The ice in an iced Americano had melted to nothing over four hours; it looked watery.
Condensation beaded on the plastic cup, dampening part of the lectern. Listlessly, he wiped it up.
Leftover snacks usually went to the TAs, but instead of happily scooping them up, he tended to look at them with sad eyes—as if empathizing with the treats that hadn’t received Seung-jo’s attention. As if he were one of those snacks.
Even if he was one of Seung-jo’s on-site TAs, that didn’t make him unique or special in the slightest. Because demand for his live classes overflowed, there were several on-site TAs per class. There was even a manager who oversaw all TAs. Even if he “worked for” Seung-jo, it was perfectly possible to never exchange a word and that’s how it was.
It would be strange to resent your employer for not chatting just because the work itself was fine. So he tried not to mind. Still, sometimes his subconscious surged and he’d feel a kinship with some watery coffee on the lectern, like now.
All because life was a little more livable lately. Now that he worried less about money, useless thoughts flooded in at once. Shaking his head, he handed the chocolate by the coffee to Young-hyeon.
“Here you go.”
“Thanks. You should have some too.”
“I’m fine.”
He didn’t say I’m too sad to eat it, but declined obliquely.
“Why not? Eat. It’s good.”
Oblivious to his feelings, Young-hyeon pushed the chocolate at him anyway. The chunk plopped into his mouth. He almost felt a flush of self-contempt for eating it but the moment the chocolate touched his tongue, it was so sweet every negative feeling faded.
“…It’s really good.”
The chocolate slowly melted. The sweet-bitter harmony oozed over his taste buds. It was happiness.
If you can’t be satisfied with small things, you’ll be unhappy. His life was especially like that. By that measure, compared to last year, he had countless things to be grateful for now.
For one, earning while studying was efficient. He made nearly as much as when working only, too. And on these recent scorchers with heat advisories day after day, he should count himself blessed to be in an academy and office blasting AC.
Last July he’d trekked forty minutes on foot to the public library every day for a seat stamp. His rooftop room had no air conditioner. It still didn’t.
Another perk: his lunch came from Seung-jo’s company. There was an employees-only cafeteria in the building. By policy, TAs also received badges and meal tickets free. The taste and quality were leagues beyond the prep-district joints nearby. Thanks to that, he ate far more nutritiously than last year. Sometimes, if lucky, he even saw Seung-jo there though never at the same table.
In short, the slight improvement in his lot was all thanks to Seung-jo. Even if the man had never once been warm to him, it was by his kindness that Giyun could run his daily life.
“Hyung, about the teacher.”
“Yeah?”
“Does he normally help people a lot?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, like students in tough circumstances…”
Even with his hedging, Young-hyeon understood instantly and answered.
“Probably? He even runs a scholarship foundation in his name. Plenty of students here have gotten help.”
“A scholarship foundation…”
He murmured, rolling it on his tongue. Come to think, he had heard that.
“Sometimes people snark that it’s image-making. Ridiculous. As if they had an image to make. They should try donating once in their lives before they talk.”
He didn’t know the exact numbers, but it was obvious the man’s income was massive. Whether it sprouted from noblesse oblige or not, he was a mature asset-holder willing to return part of his income to society.
“Honestly, my dad was sick until he passed at the start of this year.”
Young-hyeon spoke about himself, flat and matter-of-fact. Hearing it for the first time, Giyun’s mouth fell open. Unsure how to console him, he hesitated.
With a shake of his head saying ‘it’s past, don’t worry about it’,Young-hyeon continued.
“He sent a funeral wreath and even a million won in condolence money. I couldn’t come in during the services, and he still counted the time as paid. Think about it. If he cared only about public image, would he bother with stuff like that for me? It wouldn’t even make the news.”
“…Right.”
“I’m still grateful. I should’ve steadied myself and studied even harder after that, but I failed this time… I feel bad.”
“…”
“I’ll pass next year. I’ll pay him back.”
He stood with fresh determination. Rising with him, Giyun finished wiping the board. The talk clarified things. No, things had always been clear; he’d just been twisting them.
He was someone who easily extended charity. That’s why he’d decided to help a stranger like him. If he weren’t that kind of person, Giyun wouldn’t be here now.
He’d just caught a bit of the noblesse oblige the man practiced. He should have been happy to be lucky but felt hollow. Knowing he’d have done the same for anyone in that spot left him oddly heavy.
What had he been hoping to hear that left him like this? Why had he wanted a reason for the kindness? Had he wished for favor, not charity… something for him alone? Who did he think he was…
The aftertaste of chocolate turned bitter.
After cleaning the room, he headed straight to the office for the document work specified in the contract. Usually, he dropped by before or after academy hours to handle his tasks. Just as the manager had said at the interview, a spare work PC at an empty desk had been assigned to him.
“Hello.”
“Oh, welcome, Mr. Eun.”
By chance his seat was near Research Team 1. After a small greeting to the neighbor, he cast a furtive glance down the empty corridor and then sat quietly.
Before entering, he had checked the CEO’s office. The door was firmly shut, and he had no way to know if anyone was inside. Rumor had it the man was such a workhorse he barely went home, but even inside the company you rarely ran into him.
His arrival times were often outside normal office hours, and even when he came in, he rarely left the CEO’s office. He didn’t even always come here as other offices existed and because the salaried director handled day-to-day operations in his stead, there was little need for him to show his face.
The boss bore the company’s weight, but you almost never saw him in person. For that reason alone, everyone praised him: he didn’t roam around interfering in employees’ work. The only one who regretted not seeing him was, clearly, Giyun.
Mid-task, thirsty, he stood. A nearby employee addressed him the instant he rose. It was Park Sang-bin, a rank-and-file member of Research Team 1.
“Where you headed, Giyun?”
“The break room.”
“Coffee run?”
“Just grabbing water…”
“How about coffee together?”
Which meant: please make me coffee. Before he could answer, Assistant Manager Kim So-hee scolded Sang-bin from the next desk.
“Mr. Park, didn’t I tell you not to make Mr. Eun run errands?”
“Come on, ‘errands’? I’m just saying he can use the break room as much as he wants.”
“What a load of nonsense.”
“Assistant Manager, why is it always me?”
Their tones sharpened; the air prickled. Flustered, Giyun tried to calm them. He wasn’t even an employee—almost someone working on sufferance—and he didn’t want to be the cause of office drama over nothing. He wanted to work quietly and collide with no one.
“It’s fine—I was going to make some anyway. What would you like, Assistant Manager?”
“See? He says he’ll do it.”
Assistant Manager Kim shot Mr. Park another glare. He averted his eyes.
“I’m fine, already had one.”
With a sigh that said I still don’t like this, she waggled the empty cup on her desk. With an awkward smile, he headed to the break room.
As spacious as the office felt for the headcount, the break room was big and roomy, too. Fully kitted out with a kitchen good enough to film cooking videos, and shelves always packed with drinks and snacks.
There were two coffee machines: a fully automatic and a capsule machine. Since he constantly made coffee for Sang-bin, he knew the latter insisted the capsule coffee was weak and had to be made with the automatic. The order never changed: two-shot iced latte with 2.5 pumps of vanilla. Two was lacking, three too sweet. At this rate, come winter he’d be asking for latte art. Conveniently, there was even a milk frother so maybe not such a wild guess.
He couldn’t say he never thought, ;What nonsense’, but he let it slide. Compared to the nightmare customers at the convenience store, this was tolerable.
He worked the automatic as taught. After making Sang-bin’s coffee, he pulled himself an Americano from the remaining beans. Rich aroma filled the room.
About to head straight back, he hesitated and set the cups on the table. Confirming the room was empty, he took a cookie from the rack. Even though he’d been told to help himself without hesitation, not being a full-time employee made him self-conscious.
He sat at the big table in the center and took a sip. It felt like a nice café. He didn’t know coffee, but it tasted toasty and fragrant. He bit into a chocolate-chunk cookie—ridiculously good. It would pair well with the chocolate from the classroom.
Suddenly he felt he was indulging in luxury. To save money, he’d lived on day-old convenience-store bentos and cup noodles after night shifts. Even now, that hadn’t changed much. Even if he could have lunch in the company cafeteria, that was only some weekdays, and only one meal.
He’d lucked into a TA spot for now, but it was temporary. If he didn’t pass, life would revert. He had to keep that in mind.
And here he was, living easy, brewing coffee… Mr. Park could do that; he shouldn’t. Even if it was just a brief breakroom escape, he couldn’t get used to this vibe, this taste. It didn’t fit his reality.
He stood, cleaned the crumbs meticulously, and left. Handing Mr. Park his coffee, he was about to sit when Assistant Manager Kim lobbed a remark completely divorced from his reality.
“Mr. Eun, want to come to the team dinner tonight?”
“Team… dinner?”
He repeated, startled. The word was foreign to him.
“Our team does one a month, and it’s today. But the team lead says something came up and she can’t go.”
“Sorry, got a call from daycare, my kid’s sick.”
“Five, right? Oh no. What’s wrong?”
“Fever again. Anyway, I need to clock out and pick them up, so how about you go in my place, Mr. Eun? We booked for a headcount. It’d be a waste.”
Apparently the team lead herself had suggested it. As she hurriedly packed up to leave early, he watched her, blinking.
“But I…”
“It’s fine. You’re basically staff. You’ve helped our team a few times.”
He couldn’t hide his discomfort. He was grateful they thought well of him, but he felt it wasn’t his place. Assistant Manager Kim kept coaxing.
“Ah, worried it’ll get in the way of studying? Don’t worry, we’re not drinking. We’re going to a great restaurant.”
Before he knew it, he’d been roped into Research Team 1’s dinner. At quitting time, the team lit up and headed out. He hadn’t even finished his tasks, but people urged him up, and he left without even packing properly.
They drove to a five-star hotel buffet. At the entrance, his eyes went wide. He’d never been to a hotel or a buffet, so a five-star buffet was, of course, a first.
“We missed last month’s dinner because we were swamped, so the subsidy piled up. We’re going big this month.”
Assistant Manager Kim, corporate card in hand, grinned triumphantly—pearly whites gleaming.
His fluttery nerves lasted only until they crossed the lobby; once inside, he visibly shrank. Compared to everyone else, his outfit looked especially shabby. Coming from a neighborhood full of examinees made it feel even worse.
He wished he hadn’t come. Braving his embarrassment, he caught up to Assistant Manager Kim and whispered.
“Um, ma’am.”
“Mm?”
“My outfit… is this okay?”
She glanced at his clothes and replied like, What kind of thing is that to say?
“What about it? It’s not pajamas.”
“Even so…”
“There’s no dress code. It’s just a restaurant. We’re paying to eat—don’t worry about that.”
And it wasn’t even his money. He knew it was an inferiority complex, but the shrinking feeling wouldn’t go away. Seeing him still deflated, she patted his shoulder and pointed to Mr. Park, standing a little ways off.
“Look. See Mr. Park’s shirt?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a 400-thousand-won shirt.”
“Gasp…”
“Doesn’t look it at all, does it?”
After a beat, he nodded honestly.
“Right. The model is what matters.”
“…Sorry?”
“Even if you wore a burlap sack, your face would shine. You’re fine.”
Which was a roundabout way of saying he was wearing a burlap sack? He clutched at his T-shirt’s chest like covering it. It was clean, but maybe from too many washes it looked even more worn. Avoiding eye contact with the host at the door, he entered the restaurant.
Once inside, he forgot about clothes for a while. Inferiority complex or not, his mouth hung open at the sight he’d never seen.
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