The university campus was larger than he expected.
Not in size—Minjae had memorized the map two weeks before the semester began—but in movement. Crowds of students flowed like rivers, bumping and folding into one another. Laughter spilled over from clumps of friends. Conversations can be heard from passing students rushing over their designated classrooms. Others can be seen jamming with someone playing his guitar to kill time.
He stood near the edge of the central square, a shoulder bag slung over his body, eyes flicking across the scene like a strategist scanning a battlefield. Each group formed its own current—freshmen clustered near the information board, athletes converged by the fields, couples strolled hand in hand. He felt the pull of each tide, noted the convergences and divergences.
He wasn't nervous. Just… curious.
Here, he thought, I am nobody again. No vice-president title, no robotics accolades, no secret investments. Just an ordinary person from the crowd.
The scent of cherry blossoms and late-summer grass covered the campus as a breeze rose. He drew in a slow breath. The air felt unfamiliar him, as if he's more accustomed with the smell of burnt corpses from endless war in his past life.
"Room 312," he whispered as soon as he arrived in front of the dormitory room he's assigned.
He took a deep breath, clicked the door knob, and paused for a couple of seconds before entering.
Faint noise can be heard from his room mate unpacking his luggage.
"Hey! You must be Minjae. Yoo Minjae, right?" The newcomer glanced over his shoulder, eyes bright and welcoming. He was taller than Minjae by more than a head, with a baseball cap turned backward and an armful of possessions.
Minjae nodded once. "Yeah."
"I'm Taesung." He dropped a duffel bag onto the bed with a soft thud, then offered a hand. "Business major. Big into soccer. Hate anchovies."
Minjae tilted his head. "Economics," he replied. "No opinion on anchovies yet."
Taesung laughed, the sound warm and easy. "We'll figure that out together." He gestured at the extra luggage strewn across the floor. "Hope you don't mind—I brought way too much."
"Seems manageable," Minjae said, looking at the two desks, two closets, and a single mini-fridge tucked into the corner.
"Awesome." Taesung dropped onto his bed. "If you need anything, just holler. Seriously. I'm terrible at being alone."
"I'll keep that in mind," Minjae said softly.
And just like that, the first thread of friendship formed—not with ceremony, but with the ease of youth.
Their daily routines diverged, but coexistence was smooth.
Minjae attended lectures, notebook open, pen poised. He transcribed every slide, every chart, every off-hand remark from the professor. When the lecture ended, he lingered at the front row, asking quiet, precise questions.
"Professor, I'm curious—if we adjust for inflation using the Fisher equation, how might we model the impact of a sudden liquidity crisis on emerging markets?" he asked during one economics class.
The professor paused, chalk in hand. "That's an excellent question, Yoo. It's not often undergraduates dive into the Fisher relation so early. Let's explore that." The class shifted, chairs scraping softly.
He wasn't showy. He wasn't social. But he listened—and people began to notice.
Down the hall, students whispered, "Did you hear how he framed that question?" And someone else would reply, "Yeah, he's… different."
Ryu Hana—that one student in particular took interest in his antics. Sometimes, Minjae caught her glancing his way when he asked a question or offered a rare opinion. Her eyes were quiet, curious.
He didn't mind.
One afternoon, murmurs can be heard from the bored students in the lecture hall when their professor notified everyone about him running late.
She leaned forward. "You always ask questions the rest of us didn't think of," she said, voice low enough to sound private.
Minjae blinked. "Is that bad?"
"No," she said. "It makes the class more interesting."
He nodded, uncertain how to respond. The moment stretched, suspended. Torn between keeping his silence or acknowledging her remarks, he slightly opened his lips.
"Thank you." he whispered.
Satisfied with his reply, she took her notes and stood up. "See you on Tuesday." A faint smile can be seen as soon as she left.
As her footsteps faded into the hallway, Minjae realized he was holding his breath. He exhaled slowly, aware of the first flutter of warmth where human connection had touched him.
Outside class, Minjae had already resumed his small investments.
He kept them clean—legal, traceable, quiet. No thrill in quick flips. No desire for headline-making gains. Rather, he studied supply curves, demand surges, geopolitical strains—each headline a data point in his mental grid.
When early pandemic whispers surfaced in late 2019, he tracked freight schedules, shipping manifests, and pharmaceutical research publications. He observed how masks vanished from shelves, how panic buying skewed demand. By January 2020, he'd quietly moved capital into logistics stocks and select medical suppliers.
When the first wave of shortages hit, he already had a box of N95 respirators tucked in the back of his drawer. He gave a few to Taesung one morning, saying, "Got these last year on discount."
Taesung's eyes widened. "You're like… always ten steps ahead. What are you, psychic?"
Minjae shrugged. "Just careful."
During campus lockdowns, he took online classes from several Ivy League universities—for free, open courseware. He learned Python, statistical modeling, and behavioral finance. He logged in during off-hours, headphones on, typing code into empty notebooks.
He kept no schedule, no diary. Only mental grids that tracked risk, growth, and potential pathways.
When the spring tuition bill arrived, his parents gasped at the balance. "Did you get a scholarship again?" his mother asked over the phone.
Minjae glanced out his dorm window at the empty quad, gray skies overhead. "Something like that."
She laughed, relief shining in her voice. "We'll never have to worry with you around, huh?"
He smiled faintly, though she couldn't see. "I'm doing fine."
He didn't mention the profits he'd funneled into his account, or how he dissipated any digital footprints. He didn't need to.
Sometimes, he joined Taesung and his circle for dinner in the campus cafeteria. Taesung's friends were boisterous—debating soccer matches, complaining about professors, comparing part-time jobs. He kept his silence.
Minjae said little. But when he spoke, they listened.
"That Python script you wrote for the study group? Saved my life in that economics lab." One friend slapped his back.
Another peered at his laptop. "Got any tips for that stock portfolio app? Mine tanked yesterday."
He shared an algorithm pseudocode. A curve-fitting trick. They scribbled notes like disciples.
There was comfort in being invisible—until you chose not to be.
One late spring night, after an outdoor cultural festival, Minjae walked across the quad. He observed the bustling noises coming from stalls made by some club representatives. And as usual, he was not used to it.
Hana appeared at his side without warning. "Do you really have to be quiet when everyone is having fun?" she asked, while her playful attitude kicked in. "We wouldn't even notice if you suddenly disappeared at this rate."
He looked up at the moon, full and distant. The same moon he'd watched as a boy, when the world was smaller and still.
"Not necessarily," he said.
She stood in front of him, concerned of his well-being. "Minjae, there's more to life than just studying, you know."
He studied her face—the quiet confidence there, the warmth in her eyes. For once, he didn't feel the need to analyze or categorize. He simply listened to the rhythm of her words.
"There is," he replied after a moment. "Many things."
They stood there for a long moment, two shapes beneath the lanterns, silent currents converging quietly.
The campus, once a chaotic maze of unfamiliar currents, felt a little more navigable now. Not because he'd memorized every path or predicted every student's movement, but because he'd learned that patterns could shift—and people, too.
And in that subtle shift, he found a new sense of belonging.