• •

Seoul glittered beneath the glass walls of the hotel ballroom, the city stretched out like scattered light across the Han River. Inside, soft music and laughter blended into something warm and artificial at the same time—the kind of noise that only existed when people who used to know each other were forced to pretend time hadn’t changed anything. Six years. That was how long it had been since graduation. Long enough for distance to turn into curiosity. Long enough for memory to blur. Long enough for people to rebuild themselves into versions no one from school would immediately recognize. The reunion had the usual rhythm. Small clusters of former classmates formed and reformed as they traded stories about university, careers, relationships, and lives that sounded slightly more impressive than they probably were. Compliments were exchanged easily. Laughter came quickly. Everyone performed some version of who they had become. And at the centre of it all—without trying—was Yn Kim. Back in high school, she had been the kind of girl everyone knew. Pretty, socially effortless, surrounded by people without ever needing to reach for them. Not cruel, not distant, just naturally placed in the middle of things. The kind of presence people noticed before they understood why. Six years later, that hadn’t changed. If anything, it had settled into something sharper. When Yn entered a space, attention followed almost automatically—not loud, not dramatic, just instinctive. Conversations didn’t stop for her. They softened. Shifted. Reoriented. A group of former classmates had already gathered around her, laughing, asking questions, filling the air with familiarity that felt slightly rehearsed. Across the room, another arrival went unnoticed. At first. The doors opened quietly. No announcement. No shift in atmosphere. Just a man stepping into the ballroom like he had every right to be there. For a few seconds, no one reacted. Then someone looked up. Paused. Looked again. A ripple moved through the room—not sudden, but certain—as recognition failed and curiosity replaced it. Because nobody knew who he was at first. Not until the name tag caught the light. Jake Sim. The name landed differently than expected. Somewhere in the room, a voice slipped out before it could be stopped. “...When did he get hot?” It spread quickly after that. Because it wasn’t just one person thinking it. It was everyone. Jake Sim used to be easy to overlook. The quiet one. The boy who sat at the back of class, always with a book, always just outside the flow of conversation. Thick glasses. Low presence. The kind of student people remembered only when they were reminded. Now, he didn’t disappear into rooms anymore. He settled into them. Tall. Well-built. Sharp in a way that didn’t feel aggressive—just complete. There was no performance in the way he stood, no effort in the way he moved through the space. Confidence sat on him naturally, like something earned rather than claimed.