October 3rd, 2024 (Monday) - Seongbuk (Seoul), 10:17 AM
---
"Did you watch it?"
"Saturday? They streamed it on SOOP. Our group chat blew up."
"It was Kang Ji-hoon sunbae, third-year piano, right?"
The campus café at Korea National University of Arts hummed. Steam hissed, and grinders thumped. Espresso and warmed milk braided with the sweet butter of morning pastries. Outside, Monday sunlight slid across the ginkgo, gold dust drifting over stone paths, but inside the glow came from phones—Naver headlines and YouTube thumbnails of the KBS–KEPCO finals looping on screens. A freeze-frame caught a lifted hand above the keys; comments crawled underneath.
"Wait—"
"Isn't that her?"
"Yeah… Han Ye-seul."
Whispers lifted the moment Ye-seul stepped through the sliding doors. The soft chime and a wash of cooled air couldn't blunt the voices or the blue glow of phones tilted her way. She paused at the threshold, fingers adjusting the strap of her compact black leather bag—a small, automatic gesture that bought her a breath to assess the room. Twenty-odd students scattered across tables, most with their attention divided between coffee cups and glowing screens. A few heads had already turned.
"Su-sunbae, congrats on the win…!"
A first-year hovered at her elbow, voice small and wavering. The girl's hand clutched a well-worn copy of Chopin études, edges softened from use. Ye-seul recognized the type—a scholarship student, probably, carrying her scores everywhere like talismans.
Ye-seul turned, arranging her expression into something warm but not quite open. The white silk ribbon at her collar stirred with the movement, catching light. Her black heels clicked once against the white marble before she stopped.
"Ah, thank you." The smile she gave was neat and polite, calibrated to acknowledge without encouraging. "Are you enjoying your first term?"
The question, deliberately kind, did what she intended—the girl's shoulders dropped half an inch. "Y-yes, sunbae. Your Scarbo was incredible. I've been trying to learn the first page for two months and—"
"Sunbae, I watched the stream!"
"You looked amazing on TV, Ye-seul!"
More faces gathered, drawn by the first-year's breach of the invisible barrier. A few held out phones for a quick selfie, screens already angled to catch the best light. Others stayed back, peeking over cup lids with the careful neutrality of those who wanted to watch without being seen watching. The café smelled of coffee and sugar and, underneath, the faint chemical sweetness of hair products and the stale edge of all-nighter breath.
"Come on. She's the chairman's granddaughter."
The voice came from the corner table—a third-year composition student Ye-seul vaguely recognized. His name escaped her, but she knew the type: talented enough to resent, secure enough to let it show.
"Must be nice when your last name plays first chair."
A girl beside him laughed—too loud, performing for the room. "I heard the judges were already decided before anyone touched a key."
"The result might have been different if they hadn't disqualified Ji-hoon."
The mutters carried far enough to land. Ye-seul's spine straightened by a degree—trained reflex, her mother's voice in her ear about posture under scrutiny. She kept her smile in place and bowed once, the movement economical, then angled toward the counter with the deliberate calm of someone who had learned early that reaction was permission.
"One mocha latte, please."
She eased past shoulders with an apologetic nod, each step measured. The barista—late thirties, hair pinned tight enough to pull at her temples, the tired efficiency of someone working a second job—tapped the order in without looking up. Grinders thumped. Milk hissed. Warm coffee air wrapped Ye-seul's face, and she fixed on that instead of the way phones had turned toward her like flowers tracking the sun.
"Sunbae, did you know he was going to do that?"
Her head tipped a fraction. The question came from a second-year—earnest face, no malice in it, only a curiosity edged with the kind of hunger for proximity to drama that turned quiet lives into spectator sports.
"Kang Ji-hoon sunbae," another voice added, this one belonging to a girl Ye-seul had seen in music theory lectures. "You were right before him, right? Did he tell you? Was the dropped final chord on purpose?"
"Sunbae, tell us!"
The first congratulations had thinned to nothing. Phones edged closer, little recording lights blinking red. Ye-seul took a small step back until the bar pressed cool against her spine, the edge catching just below her shoulder blades. Her hand tightened around her wallet, leather warming under her palm, then loosened deliberately. The tell would show if she wasn't careful.
"I—excuse me," she said softly, but the circle kept leaning in, tightening like a noose made of attention.
In truth, she wanted to defend him. The words were right there, sharp and ready: It was artistic. You needed to see his face. He was saying something none of you were listening for. But the words lodged in her throat, blocked by the simple fact that she didn't understand it herself. Not really. The missing chord had felt like an ending and a question at once, and she'd walked away from Kumho with a trophy that sat heavy in ways she couldn't name.
"Sunbae! My champion is here!"
The voice landed bright and fizzy, cutting through the gathered bodies like a spotlight swinging onto a new subject. Lavender drifted in ahead of it, clean and sweet—expensive perfume, the kind that cost more than most students' monthly stipends. Heads turned toward the entrance.
"Ah, Su-jin." Ye-seul's smile softened into something more genuine, relief bleeding through the careful control.
Black lace-up boots clicked to a stop on the white marble—designer, the kind Su-jin rotated through like a capsule wardrobe. She slid in front of Ye-seul with the ease of someone used to taking a frame, her body language all confidence and calculated charm. A fitted black top flashed before a cropped white hoodie fell back into place, the outfit looking effortless despite being obviously curated. Glossed hair caught the light, winged liner sharp enough to cut, phone already in one hand with a glitter case that probably had fifteen thousand Instagram followers of its own. Trend stacked on trend, each piece saying _I belong here_ loud enough to drown out any doubt.
She planted herself between Ye-seul and the nearest phones, chin lifted enough to make clear this wasn't a request. "Why are you crowding my sunbae?" The brow knit was neat and intentional, practiced in mirrors until it looked spontaneous. "If you're dying to know, go ask that weirdo Ji-hoon directly. Don't circle her like she's your content."
Her voice carried—designed to. A few students shifted, suddenly uncertain. Su-jin's gaze swept the room, landing briefly on each face before moving on, the way a teacher might catalog troublemakers. Her chin tipped toward the corner table where the earlier mutterers sat.
"And you over there—she won fair and square, got it? Watch the stream again. Try playing at that level before you talk." The words came wrapped in brightness, but underneath was steel. Su-jin had perfected the art of the smile that didn't reach the eyes, the friendly warning that wasn't friendly at all.
The edge in her voice snapped something in the room. Conversations thinned, then slid elsewhere. A few faces pinched—the composition student looked like he wanted to respond, but his companion touched his arm, shook her head. Not worth it. Not with Su-jin, who had more followers than most of their professors and whose approval could turn a classmate into a name or keep them safely invisible. Chairs scraped back, and the ring unknotted. The espresso warmth moved back in, and the café's ambient noise rose again to fill the space.
"Good morning, sunbae." Su-jin's smile reset instantly, switched on like a light, all the steel vanished beneath practiced warmth. Her hand found Ye-seul's arm, squeeze brief and reassuring.
"A-ah… good morning, Su-jin."
"Window seats? Sun's good today." Su-jin's fingers wrapped around Ye-seul's before she could answer, bracelets clicking together—three thin gold bands Ye-seul recognized from a boutique in Gangnam. Warm metal pressed against Ye-seul's cooler skin. "I need to congratulate you properly." She was already steering them toward the glass, moving with the unconscious certainty of someone who expected space to open for her.
"W-wait, Su-jin—coffee first."
Ye-seul slipped her hand free—gently, not wanting to offend—and drew a slim wallet from her compact black bag. The leather was matte, soft to the touch, worn at the edges to a quiet softness. She stepped to the counter and bowed slightly to the barista, who'd already finished the latte and was setting it on the pickup counter.
The register pinged. Card, tap. A quiet thank-you, and the cup was in her hand, porcelain warm against her palm as she crossed to the windowed corner where Su-jin had already claimed the best table, bag set down to mark territory.
---
"Congratulations on the KBS, sunbae!" Su-jin beamed, sliding into the seat across from her. She angled herself into the light with the unconscious precision of someone who'd spent years learning her best angles, shoulder and chin tilting just so. The sun caught her profile, and for a moment she looked like the perfectly curated Instagram posts she spent her evenings crafting—golden hour captured at noon through sheer force of will. Café chatter ran on around them, but her bright tone cut clean through it, claiming attention without asking for it.
"Thank you, Su-j—"
"Sunbae, even I was shocked." Her voice skimmed over Ye-seul's thanks, rolling forward with enthusiasm that might have been genuine or might have been performance art—with Su-jin, the line blurred. Her hand was already in her bag, movements practiced and quick. The glitter case flashed as she produced her phone, fingers flying across the screen. Two quick flicks and she turned the familiar Instagram interface toward Ye-seul, image already queued up.
"Kumho lighting was perfect. Ten thousand likes overnight. Can you believe it?" Her thumb moved in small circles on the screen edge, a habitual gesture, checking notifications even while talking. "That's like our whole department a hundred times over." She laughed, bright and practiced, the sound carrying just far enough to remind nearby tables of her presence. "The comments section is insane. Someone called you 'the ice princess of Korean classical,' and it got two thousand likes by itself."
"A-ah…" Ye-seul gave a small, wry smile, eyes taking in the tiny hearts under the photo. Her own face looked back at her from the screen—caught mid-bow, stage lights turning her black dress to liquid shadow, the Steinway's curve cutting the frame. Professional-quality photo, probably taken by one of the event photographers whose images always seemed to end up on Su-jin's feed within hours. She wondered, not for the first time, how Su-jin managed that trick.
"I'm serious—you need socials." Su-jin slid her phone face down on the table between them, keeping one finger resting on its edge to maintain contact. She leaned in until bracelets clicked against the table's surface, clean lavender notes cutting through the coffee smell. Her eyes held the particular intensity of someone about to make a pitch they'd already rehearsed. "New people, new gigs, or flex a little. Show everyone what the Han name means when it's earned, not only inherited, you know?"
A pause, calculated. "I could set everything up. Professional bio, highlight reels from your performances, maybe some behind-the-scenes practice shots—nothing too intimate, only enough to seem approachable. You'd gain five thousand followers in a week, easy. Ten if we time it right with your next competition."
"You know that's not for me, Su-jin." Ye-seul sipped her mocha, letting the sweet-bitter edge ground her. The chocolate tasted expensive—real cocoa, not powder. "KakaoTalk is enough."
"Eh? Waste." Su-jin's fingers closed lightly over Ye-seul's free hand where it rested on the table, the touch warm and slightly damp. Her voice dropped half an octave, shifted from performance to something more intimate. "One post about the win. Nothing major. Say yes, and your hoobae handles everything. Photo selection, captions, posting time—I've got it down to a science. Deal?"
Ye-seul recognized the tone—the same one Su-jin used when trying to convince professors to extend deadlines or when persuading venue managers to let student groups practice after hours. Friendly pressure wrapped in concern, hard to refuse without seeming ungrateful.
"I'll pass, Su-jin. Maybe later. Not now."
A pout formed, perfectly executed—bottom lip pushed out slightly, brows drawing together with theatrical disappointment. The expression held for two seconds before dissolving. Then the smile reset, bright again, as if a switch had flipped. "Okay, okay. Your call, sunbae. But you're missing out on some serious leverage for your career." She withdrew her hand, picked up her own cup—something iced and pale green, probably the matcha latte she'd been posting about all month. "When you're ready, though, I'm here. First consultation's free." A wink, playful, straddling the line between serious and joking.
A quiet smile touched Ye-seul's mouth. With Su-jin, help always came braided with something promotional. At least her masks were visible.
Phones chimed in sync, sharp pings that cut through the café's ambient noise like alarm bells. Not just theirs—all around the room, devices lit up simultaneously with push notifications. A spoon paused mid-clink somewhere behind them. Someone's chair scraped. A cool draft slipped under the door, carrying the sound of voices rising outside.
"Sunbae, look at this." Su-jin's hand was already on her phone, the device unlocked before the chime finished. Blue light lit the lacquer on her nails—gel manicure, probably done that morning before campus. She turned the screen so they could both read.
> Emergency Academic Notice — Effective immediately, and following the incident at the KBS–KEPCO Final, all regular Monday classes are suspended pending internal review. Masterclasses and departmental evaluations will proceed as scheduled. Attendance will be recorded.
> Students must refrain from contacting or responding to the media. Any interviews or statements require prior approval from the University Legal Office and Public Relations Team. Unauthorized contact may result in disciplinary action.
> Korea National University of Arts
Su-jin's face, for once, showed something unguarded—genuine surprise bleeding through the careful construction. "They've never canceled classes," she said, voice dropping its bright edge. "Not even on typhoon days when half the windows were rattling." She scrolled down, checking comments already accumulating under the official post. "So one stunt, and the whole school bends."
She let out a breath, eyes still on the notice. For a moment, her mouth twisted, the same tight line Ye-seul had seen after juries when someone else's name was called and hers wasn't. Su-jin's finger moved quickly through responses, liking a few, ignoring others with the quick efficiency of someone who treated social media like a second language.
"There goes my afternoon," Su-jin continued, setting the phone down with more force than necessary. "I had History of Western Music. Finally, a class where I don't feel completely outmatched." The admission slipped out before she caught it, vulnerability showing for half a second before being swallowed again. Her smile returned, but thinner. "At least you're excused from whatever boring lecture you had lined up, sunbae."
"Su-jin…" Ye-seul kept her cup close, hands wrapped around the porcelain. The warmth bled into her palms. "Ji-hoon is still your sunbae."
A flicker crossed Su-jin's face—there and gone so fast Ye-seul almost missed it. Something complex: irritation and guilt and defensiveness braided together. "You always shield him, sunbae." The brightness thinned, showing edges. Her fingers found her phone again, turning it over and over against the table, a nervous habit she usually suppressed. "Why spend energy on 'Machine' Ji-hoon? He barely looks at you. He isn't even—"
She clipped the rest and smoothed her bangs with two fingers, resetting her expression. The unfinished sentence hung between them: _He isn't even grateful. He isn't even worth it. He isn't even playing the game right._
"Whatever." The word came out tight. Su-jin took a long sip of her matcha, eyes sliding toward the window.
The steam wand hissed again behind them. Someone laughed at another table and stopped short, as if remembering the notice. The café's energy had shifted—excitement curdling into something more anxious. Students were gathering bags, checking schedules, whispering about whether masterclasses were mandatory if regular classes were canceled.
"Anyway… I guess that leaves only the masterclass." Su-jin's smile returned, a touch stiff, not quite reaching her eyes. "Haah. I wish they'd cancel that too." She leaned back in her chair, arms crossing loosely. "Two hours of a visiting professor telling us everything we're doing wrong while demonstrating things we'll never be able to replicate. So inspiring."
"Masterclasses are useful, Su-jin." Ye-seul said it gently, without judgment.
"For you, sunbae." Su-jin's gaze slid to the bright pavement outside, where the sun hammered the ginkgo trees to gold. A few leaves detached and spun down, catching light. "For normal students like me, it's like watching a two-hour rom-com with no plot. Beautiful people doing beautiful things that have nothing to do with your actual life."
She picked at her cup's lid, lifting and pressing the small tab. Click, click. "I practice five hours a day and still can't make Chopin sound like anything but a well-executed homework assignment. You practice for five hours and win national competitions. That's not a technique gap, sunbae. That's—" She stopped herself, jaw tightening. "Never mind."
The sentence died there, unfinished. Around them, the café continued its motion—orders called, cups exchanged, the low soundtrack of student life.
"Su-jin-a…" Ye-seul began, not sure what she could say that wouldn't sound like platitudes. _You're talented too_ would ring hollow. _It's not a competition_ would be a lie.
But before she could find the words, the café door slid open with enough force to draw attention.
---
The café door barely slid open before a figure pushed through, breathing ragged from what must have been a sprint across campus. A wash of cooled air flattened his already mussed hair and left a damp edge on the collar of his checkered oxford—the cheap kind from Uniqlo, not the tailored shirts some students wore. The small score case in his hand was stuffed full enough to strain the zipper, pages visible through the gap. It shook once as he caught his breath, one hand braced against the doorframe.
He nudged his round frames higher with his middle finger—the gesture automatic, practiced from years of the glasses sliding down a nose made slippery with sweat and concentration. Despite the disarray, certain details spoke of care: a thin steel watch sat clean on his wrist, no scratches on the face. His brown leather shoes showed recent polish, the kind of maintenance that suggested respect for objects even when personal appearance frayed at the edges.
Lee Min-jun. Fourth-year, composition track. Ye-seul knew him mostly by reputation—the quiet one who spent more time in the electronic music lab than practice rooms, whose pieces turned up on student programs while he stayed in the back row. Ji-hoon's friend, maybe his only real friend, though Ye-seul had never seen them together anywhere in public.
His gaze swept the café in one efficient movement and locked on Ye-seul. No hesitation, no small talk. He cut straight for their table, weaving between chairs with single-minded purpose. Students moved aside instinctively, responding to the urgency in his stride.
"Han Ye-seul-ssi, have you seen Ji-hoon?" The warm, low baritone came clipped from the sprint, words compressed to their essential shapes. "He's not picking up. Practice rooms are empty. Recording studios—I checked three of them—nothing."
"Ah, Min-jun sunba—"
"Lee Min-jun, do you not knock before barging in?" Su-jin cut in, her voice suddenly sharp, the friendly sunbae act dropping like a mask she'd forgotten to maintain. "Haven't you heard of basic manners?"
Min-jun's head turned toward her then, as if noticing her for the first time. His expression shifted—something that wasn't quite disdain but close, the look of someone who'd categorized and dismissed in the same motion. "It's a café," he said, tone flat with barely suppressed impatience. "Not your living room. Public space. And if it's about Ji-hoon, it's important." His eyes returned to Ye-seul, Su-jin already erased from his attention. "And it's sunbae to you, hoobae." The last word landed with deliberate emphasis, a small cruelty wrapped in formality.
"Hmph." Su-jin's jaw tightened, color rising in her cheeks. She looked away sharply, bracelets going still against the table. Her fingers found her phone, thumb moving across the dark screen without unlocking it, a busy little motion that didn't match the still set of her mouth. The hurt showed for anyone paying attention, but Min-jun had already turned away.
Ye-seul steadied her cup—the mocha had gone lukewarm, oils separating slightly on the surface—and touched Su-jin's wrist briefly, a small gesture of solidarity, before she spoke to Min-jun. "I haven't seen him since that night, sunbae." Her voice stayed neutral, not choosing sides. "After the performance. We spoke briefly outside the hall."
"You were the last with him." Min-jun's attention focused with uncomfortable intensity. He leaned in slightly, hand pressed against their table. The score case thumped against his leg, pages rustling inside. "Did he say anything? About where he was going? How he was—" He stopped, recalibrated. "Did he say anything that seemed… off?"
She shook her head slowly, feeling the weight of the question. Her heel went still under the chair, foot flat against the floor. "We didn't speak for long. He seemed…" She searched for the right word, the one that wouldn't betray confidences she wasn't sure she had the right to. "Present. More present than usual, actually. But he didn't mention plans."
"I see." Min-jun pinched the bridge of his nose, thumb and forefinger pressing hard enough to leave marks. His jaw worked for a moment before he let out a measured breath. "If he contacts you, message me right away." It wasn't quite a request.
"Of course, sunbae."
"The masterclass is in Hall D at two o'clock. Don't be late."
He was already turning, score case knocking lightly against his knee with each step. His free hand had pulled out his phone before he'd taken three strides, thumb already moving across the screen—checking messages, calling again, alerting their entire year group if he had to.
"Thank you, sunbae." The words chased his back, but Ye-seul wasn't sure if he heard. The café door opened and closed, leaving a momentary wash of cooler air and the fading image of Min-jun's figure breaking into a jog the moment he hit the path outside.
For a moment, the only sound between them was the faint hiss of milk frothing behind the counter. Su-jin's fingers had stopped their nervous movement. When Ye-seul looked over, her hoobae's face had smoothed into careful blankness, the kind that took effort to maintain.
"I swear, sunbae," Su-jin said after a beat, irritation pulling at her voice like thread unraveling from a seam. "If that's not eccentric, nothing is. Zero social skills. Who crashes someone's coffee like that?" The words came out too fast, too bright, trying to cover something underneath.
"Su-jin-a." Ye-seul gave her wrist a small squeeze, thumb pressing gently against the pulse point. Warm skin, bracelets shifting. "He's worried."
"Everyone's worried about that broken Machine." Su-jin's volume rose a shade, enough that a few nearby tables glanced over. She caught herself, pulled back, but the frustration bled through. "It's always Ji-hoon this, Ji-hoon that. Meanwhile, you grind for months, win the whole thing, and your moment gets swallowed because of one stunt. One—" She stopped, swallowed whatever else she'd been about to say. "It's not fair to you, sunbae. That's all I'm saying."
The words sat between them. Outside, through the window, students were gathering in small clusters, checking phones, pointing at buildings. The notice had spread. Groups began drifting toward the main halls, pulled by curiosity, obligation, or both.
Silence rested over their table for a beat, not quite comfortable but no longer sharp. Around them, the café had started to empty—students checking the masterclass schedule, heading toward Hall D early to claim good seats or simply because sitting still felt wrong when everything had shifted. The energy had changed from weekend ease to weekday anxiety.
"Anyway, sunbae—" Su-jin's voice brightened with visible effort, smile snapping back into place like a door closing on a messy room. "Gangnam after class? I saw this new café near Garosu-gil, super pretty, perfect lighting. We could—"
"I'd like that." Ye-seul returned the smile, gentler than Su-jin's, less performance. For once, she held the look a heartbeat longer than necessary, letting the sincerity show.
Su-jin blinked, caught off guard by the directness. Her smile softened into something more real, the carefully constructed mask slipping enough to reveal the girl underneath.
"Yeah?" Her voice came quieter, almost tentative.
"Yeah."
Outside, Min-jun's steps struck the stone path, quick and even, already fading into the distance. Somewhere across campus, a bell chimed—one hour until the masterclass. Inside the café, two young women sat in a pool of autumn sunlight. Both shifted once, as if to pull away, and then stayed where they were.
The steam wand hissed one more time, and the world turned.