River's driver was already waiting outside his apartment building. The same black sedan, the same silent man behind the wheel who had been driving him for two years. River had never asked the man his name.
"Good morning," River said as he slid into the back seat.
The driver nodded but didn't speak. This was their routine. River appreciated the silence. Soon enough, his day would be filled with noise - kitchen chaos, staff meetings, phone calls that never seemed to end.
As they drove through Seoul's early morning streets, River watched ordinary people starting their day. A woman in a convenience store uniform unlocking her shop. An old man sweeping the sidewalk in front of his small restaurant. A mother walking her child to school, both of them laughing at something.
When was the last time River had laughed like that?
The car stopped at a red light next to a street food vendor setting up his cart. The smell of hotteok - sweet pancakes - drifted through the slightly open window. River's stomach growled, even though he wasn't hungry. His body missed simple food the way some people missed old friends.
"Driver-nim," River said suddenly. "What do you eat for breakfast?"
The driver looked at him in the rearview mirror, surprised to be asked a personal question.
"My wife makes me kimbap, sir. With pickled radish and egg. Same thing every morning for fifteen years."
"Do you get tired of it?"
The driver smiled - the first time River had ever seen him smile. "No, sir. It tastes like love."
River felt something twist in his chest. When was the last time he had eaten something that tasted like love? Everything he ate now was either his own cooking - which had become work instead of pleasure - or expensive restaurant meals that tasted like business deals.
The light turned green, and they continued toward River's restaurant.
River's restaurant, "Nuri," occupied the top floor of a gleaming building in Gangnam. The name meant "world" in Korean, which his marketing team said represented his global vision. But sitting in the elevator riding up to the 23rd floor, River felt like his world was actually getting smaller every day.
The elevator opened directly into his restaurant. At 6:30 AM, the dining room was empty and dark, but River could already hear sounds from the kitchen. His staff arrived early to prepare for lunch service.
River walked through the dining room, past tables set with crystal glasses and silverware that cost more than most people's monthly grocery budget. The view from the windows was spectacular - all of Seoul spread out below like a glittering carpet.
But River barely looked at it anymore. Beautiful views, like expensive ingredients, had stopped meaning anything to him.
He pushed through the kitchen doors and was immediately hit with the familiar chaos. Steam rising from pots. The sharp sound of knives on cutting boards. Orders being called out even though they wouldn't serve customers for five more hours.
"Good morning, Chef!" his sous chef, Kim Jung-ho, called out. Jung-ho had worked for River for three years and still greeted him with enthusiasm every morning.
River envied that enthusiasm. He tried to remember when he had felt excited to start cooking each day.