A firm advocate of keeping separate personas for work and home, Yeseul is both the successful associate editor of Han Weekly and the frazzled owner of a highly strung cat. When a younger man moves in next door to her crammed-neighborhood villa then...
"Scent of life that could be disgusting or not, and the cold parks pretending to be warm."
RM < Seoul >
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| SEOUL |
In a concrete building where its window measure from the floor to its ceiling, the air-conditioned partitioned space hardly feels like a warzone. Without the sweltering heat and the ardent shouts of a battle cry, Admiral Yi Sun Shin may even believe this place to be a paradise.
Residents of each desk are armed in bright outfits, sophisticated cuts, and flamboyant taste. Baby blue and patterned grey shirts are popular among the men, while the ladies lean towards bold and complex formal designs, all in the name of preventing a clash of outfits.
For both genders, heed is given to their head of hair, adding up to the crisp look they ran after. In place of combat boots, there are brogues, black cap-toe oxfords, loafers, stilettos, peep-toe heels, pumps, high-heeled boots. For a lady's finishing touch, likening their face to a canvas is imperative, with strokes of color above the eyes, cheeks, and over the lips.
With the armor complete, they are judged fit for battle. While the outcome remains unseen, half the battle has been won.
The society today has never been shallower, magnifying and scrutinizing the standards of beauty, luxury, and fame, while diminishing the values of old.
Kindness, generosity and patience have no place in this office. Traits of the opposite grow and flourish with all signs of life.
These were the simple rules known to all who decide to put their foot forward.
To make it all the way to the top of the pyramid, one does not play nice. Neither does one reveal their weaknesses.
Lee Yeseul is no exception.
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| BUSAN |
Jeon Jungkook is an exception.
Like how the leaves on the tree sways to the breeze of the midsummer night, his friends and classmates are falling slowly but surely into the rhythm of life.
With only a high school diploma and four laboring years of military service to his name, the young man convinced his parents that he'd make a living somehow. He had to, if he doesn't ever want to spend another day at the heartless barracks.
At the mere age of twenty-five, he never imagined a future so gloom; but receiving the fifth job application rejection in a day had been the final straw.
The voices in his head reminded him of his ill choices. You should have just stayed in school. Why did you show up at the singing audition? Seven years of your youth wasted in training. Another four spent serving a country who doesn't even appreciate you now. Loser, where lies your future?
Releasing a quivering breath, he reclines with a slouch onto the leather seat of the Mercedes-AMG GT S. The veins on his arms seemingly harden under the lights from the neon signboards, and then he picks up the gear, stomping his foot forward on the accelerator.
He was both a person who cared too little and cared too much. But he couldn't help it. As the auto charges ahead, the thrill of the turbo engine jolted his senses, turning tiny heads of club goers on the street towards his fancy ride.
The drunkard's screeching yell in the backseat may have reminded him that he was nothing more than a designated driver, but it was clear that he'd missed being alive.
He had been living without passion, and living without passion is like being dead.
The city which made him feel alive, the city which once betrayed him, why was it calling for him now?
