DD 1.6 Alienation 1

The probability of winning the lottery first prize: 1 in 8,145,060.

The probability of dying from falling in the bathtub: 1 in 801,923.

The probability of dying in a plane crash: 1 in 1,000,000.

The probability of dying from a lightning strike: 1 in 4,289,651.

Experts estimate that 1 billion people will die from smoking in the 21st century, yet most people who cannot quit smoking purchase a new cigarette and light it with a baseless, almost gambling-like belief that they will not be one of those billion.

Things that feel like they won’t happen to me.

The habit of feeling excessively fearful about certain things and preparing for them meticulously, while at the same time placing one’s future entirely in the hands of fate with a boldly optimistic belief about other matters, was not the failing of one person alone but an age-old contradiction of humanity itself.

Today, which feels like it will repeat forever, does not seem like it will lead to the future, no matter how much time passes.

A fifteen-year-old boy cannot concretely picture himself at twenty or thirty, and a twenty-three-year-old youth cannot imagine himself at forty or fifty, reaching middle age.

While rationally understanding that such a day will eventually come, a situation arises where imagination fails to realize a concept that reason has accepted.

One accepts turning fifteen into sixteen naturally, but one does not feel the reality of becoming thirty or forty, or of one’s skin, unable to defy gravity, forming deep wrinkles, making oneself no longer young.

Consuming each day while pretending not to know the single certainty of fate—that one will eventually lose today’s self, as if one could live eternally in the present state, as if it were the distant, distant future, almost a hundred or a thousand years away. Perhaps that is the content of an ordinary human life.

If we define that as ordinary for convenience, then Lee Hyun’s parents could be considered individuals who deviated somewhat from the ordinary.

Lee Hyun’s father, from a fishing village, was an honor student with excellent academic performance and a gentle disposition who never caused his parents any worry. He entered a prestigious university, and his student days were filled with expectations that he would earn a living that would benefit the family.

However, even a gentle-seeming person can possess inner passion. Although gentleness and having no personal conviction are entirely unrelated concepts, the prejudice that a child who never insists or raises their voice must have no burning desire worth sacrificing everything for was a frequent misunderstanding.

His passion lay in painting.

Until the age of twenty-three, when he confessed his past deceptions to his parents, no one in the family knew he had dreams about painting; he had hidden his passion so thoroughly.

Perhaps it was not due to his thoroughness but rather extreme indifference or a self-deception that only saw what one wanted to see, which inadvertently turned his passion into a secret.

Having been accepted into a renowned university as expected, he moved to Seoul alone. Concealing the truth from his parents, he submitted a leave of absence immediately after enrollment and registered at a preparatory art academy.

Except for the time spent on part-time tutoring to cover his minimal living expenses, he devoted almost all his time to painting. Before and after classes, he would find empty classrooms at the academy and paint whatever came to mind. He was happy just to be able to receive formal practical instruction, and in the moments he was absorbed in the process of lines becoming planes and planes becoming three-dimensional forms, he felt a freedom as if only the subject and himself existed, detached from all other relationships.

Lee Hyun’s mother, on the other hand, was in the opposite situation.

Her great-grandfather was an artist whose major works maintained auction prices in the range of 1 billion won even fifty years after his death, making him a significant figure in modern and contemporary Korean art history.

Her father was a painter and art critic, and her mother was a poet with a deep understanding of various arts, including painting. She grew up surrounded by art. Whether by genetic predisposition or environmental factors, she naturally became interested in painting. Unlike Lee Hyun’s father, she had the support of her parents, who welcomed this interest, and she easily entered the painting department of a prestigious university’s art college, having gone through middle and high school art programs. It was the department her father had desired at the university he had wanted.

However, her passion was in comics.

And her parents held a strictly negative stance towards all forms of art considered “minor arts.”

Unlike Lee Hyun’s father, she did not hide her passion throughout her middle and high school years. However, her parents, even while pouring her comic books, which she had collected one by one since the second or third grade of elementary school, into the bathtub and dousing them with water, tried to confine comics to being merely her hobby.

They tried to alleviate their anxiety by the fact that she was enrolled in the painting department of the university they had longed for, forcing her to become a Western-style painter who would represent Korea, following in her great-grandfather’s footsteps.

Environment shapes people. They believed that after a period of youthful wandering, she would enter the noble world of art, having received guidance from famous professors at a leading university.

This foolish self-deception, seeing only what one wants to see and believing only what one wants to believe, occurred everywhere, regardless of one’s level of wealth.

Contrary to her parents’ wishes, she established a comic book club with a fellow student she met in that very department and focused more on club activities than her studies. The fellow student, who had already joined a comic book circle in middle school and published personal zines since her sophomore year of high school, became the club president, and she became the vice president.

The fellow student, who believed her background from a prestigious art university would be helpful for her future activities as a comic artist, had already declared her intention to live as a comic artist and was independent, so her financial situation was not very comfortable.

While working as an instructor for the middle school division at a preparatory art academy near the university to cover living and material expenses, she observed her fellow student juggling studies and club activities. This allowed her to objectively see her own weakness in not being fully devoted to her dream. And she began to compensate for it.

She significantly increased her painting time and seriously prepared for contests. She refined her plots and studied books and movies to add depth to her characters.

Since she didn’t need to work part-time, she handled most of the club’s practical tasks in place of the president. She also frequented the art academy where the president worked, building friendships with supervisors and directors, and occasionally worked as an assistant instructor to earn additional income.

There, she met a man known among the academy students by the nickname “Drawing Julien.”

He was someone who spent over ten hours a day at the academy, drawing an immense volume of work. He had a handsome appearance, so much so that the vice-director jokingly said new students enrolled just to see him, but he had not the slightest desire to use it to enjoy his youth.

And after talking with him, she discovered he was also someone who wanted to defy his parents’ expectations for the sake of that university department, which felt like a cumbersome anchor around his ankle.

From the perspective of one person wanting to discard something that another person desperately desired, the two could be said to be in opposite situations, yet they were similar in their yearning for something beyond a life imposed upon them.

Sharing information, understanding each other, and exchanging positive influences, the two quickly grew close.

She looked at his paintings, and he gave her honest critiques of her comics. Most of the time, spent together with the club president, gradually became time for just the two of them. It was not the impulse of youthful ardor that urged them to desire not only each other’s passion but also each other’s bodies, minds, and futures.

They could not imagine anyone other than each other as a colleague to support their aspirations, a lover to lean on during beautiful nights, or a lifelong companion.

If they hadn’t had each other.

Perhaps he would have returned to his original university and studied to become a civil servant or join a large corporation, burdened by guilt towards his poor parents who went fishing from dawn with hands that never lost their fishy smell.

Perhaps she, too, exhausted by the unending conflict with her parents and the unfamiliar hardship of daily life, would have chosen the path leading to a predetermined, safe future. She desired comics more, but she didn’t dislike painting.

If they hadn’t had each other, such decisions would have been entirely possible.

Because they had each other, they were able to support themselves without giving up, and their resolve did not waver. They were able to remember that life is finite, and that the end does not cease to exist just because one cannot imagine it.

Choosing each other as spouses at a socially young age, they had to give up everything they possessed, whether much or little, and turn away from the hopes of others that they carried. It was by no means an easy task, like shedding a bothersome burden. Disappointing parents was perhaps one of the most feared things for humans.

The two often joked about the fact that both her wealthy family and his family, for whom hardship was a natural part of daily life, were united in their opposition to the marriage, despite their vastly different circumstances.

These were events that took place before Lee Hyun was born.

For Lee Hyun, his mother’s weekends spent at a villa with family, her annual three or four overseas trips to appreciate outstanding works of art from East and West firsthand, and his father’s high grades even while sharing a room with his brother before moving to Seoul, and eating blemished fish that couldn’t be sold due to their poor marketability as side dishes year-round, were all just “old stories” he gradually heard as he grew up.

He had never met his maternal or paternal grandparents, but he never questioned it or felt a sense of lack.

Regardless of the content of these “old stories,” Lee Hyun could find no trace of regret or resentment in his parents when they told them. They were parents who always listened to his feelings and expressed their trust and affection for each other, making the young Lee Hyun feel jealous.

For Lee Hyun, his mother was represented by the image of her sitting at the living room table or the desk in the small room used as a studio, with the radio on, drawing comics. That was his mother.

His father, who worked at a nearby mobile phone factory for only thirty hours a week and devoted the rest of his time to oil painting with the goal of becoming a full-time artist, was the father Lee Hyun knew.

The studio they shared together seemed like their own secret base to the young Lee Hyun, and regardless of their warm affection for him, that space felt like it was exclusively for their communion, excluding him.

Lee Hyun rarely threw tantrums, but he strongly disliked it when his parents were in the studio together. So, during the day, his mother would use it, and after work, his father would use it alternately.

This rule was established before Lee Hyun even entered elementary school. At the time, both parents found Lee Hyun’s jealousy endearing and would sometimes deliberately hide in the studio to make him cry.

As Lee Hyun grew into the upper grades of elementary school and then middle school, and began to express the world he saw through his drawings, gradually emerging from his parents’ shadow and building his own identity, he began to want to be between his mother and father less often. However, whenever those around them envied them, calling them a couple still like lovers, Lee Hyun’s heart would grow heavy.

Yet, it was a flaw of common depth, present in every household, and Lee Hyun himself felt deeply satisfied and grateful compared to his peers for his parents’ optimistic and gentle personalities and their educational approach that respected his will.

The verdant freshness of the small jungle created on the balcony of the old villa.

The old pop songs that flowed low all day from the radio his mother played.

The day’s sunlight, slowly trailing its hem from the bookshelf to the sofa.

The posters made with his mother’s illustrations and the smell of oil paints.

They were peaceful days that seemed like they would continue forever, without an end.

In the summer when he was sixteen, Lee Hyun won a special award at a contest hosted by a large gallery, and Lee Hyun’s maternal grandparents invited the three of them to dinner.

It was the first meeting in about seventeen years since Lee Hyun’s mother had declared she would become a comic artist and left home, almost as if she were kicked out.

Although the competition was controversial regarding its legitimacy due to its unconventional nature—with no age limits, no distinction between amateurs and professionals, and no restrictions on subject matter or style—its influence could not be denied, as the hosting gallery was one of the top three in the country.

Furthermore, regardless of the controversy, artists who won awards in this competition, if they were amateurs or newcomers, instantly became popular artists, receiving exhibition proposals or opportunities to sign contracts as full-time artists. For established artists, their value could increase by as much as four or five times.

The contest, then in its seventh year, was known for attracting prestigious and formidable judges. Notably, Sukhee Kim, a second-generation Korean-American Oriental painter with international influence, highly praised Lee Hyun’s work and left an impressive review. Later, she personally purchased Lee Hyun’s artwork, further fueling the buzz.

Of course, Lee Hyun’s young age of sixteen also contributed to drawing the art world’s attention. Across all seven years of the competition, Lee Hyun was the youngest award recipient and the only teenager to win in the abstract art category.

While the art world is a field far removed from public interest, it was not an issue known to the general public. However, for a while, the gallery frequently received persistent requests from various media outlets for interviews, including photographs.

After consulting with Lee Hyun, his parents requested the gallery hosting the competition to keep the artist’s real name and personal details confidential. About a month later, when a Hong Kong publisher contacted them wanting to use Lee Hyun’s painting for the cover of a new work by a world-renowned novelist, all dealings were handled through the gallery. Thanks to these measures, Lee Hyun was able to protect himself from becoming a victim of the media.

In any case, the grandparents’ dinner invitation came immediately after Lee Hyun’s award was announced. That evening, Lee Hyun remembered his mother raising her voice for the first time in a long time while on the phone with someone.

Although his mother reluctantly agreed to the dinner invitation after his father’s lengthy persuasion, she still had not accepted them. She roughly pulled Lee Hyun’s hand and hid him behind her as his parents, upon seeing Lee Hyun, began to cry and reach out to embrace him. It was the first time Lee Hyun had seen his mother act that way.

A few days later, she quietly visited Lee Hyun’s bedroom and told him that, regardless of her own feelings, if he wished to interact with his grandparents, he was free to do so, and that it was entirely his decision. Although he nodded in agreement, his grandparents were, after all, people who had suddenly appeared in his life.

However, this much he seemed to understand.

Although his mother spoke of his parents with a tone that suggested they were pleasant memories, now insignificant, whenever she mentioned “old stories,” deep down she resented, sometimes hated, and still loved her parents.

Lee Hyun could vaguely empathize with his mother’s feelings, who, while accusing them of contacting them for selfish reasons upon hearing of Lee Hyun’s award, was also inevitably weakened by the seventeen-year reunion and those tears, simply because they were her parents.

Starting with Lee Hyun’s award, the latter half of that year seemed to be a time when the family’s past efforts and hardships began to bear fruit.

His mother’s parents did their best to prove that they were not accepting the three of them solely because of their grandson Lee Hyun’s artistic talent.

They were much older than his mother remembered, and they humbly admitted that all the things they had once considered so important were ultimately futile illusions, mere face-saving gestures that offered no help in completing a happy life.

The decision of whether or not to accept her no longer rested with her parents. It was her choice whether or not to accept her parents’ feelings, and everyone was making small, careful efforts.

That autumn, the longest serial work of her career as an artist, which she had been serializing for about 10 years, came to an end. It was an unusual feat in the current comic industry, where provocative material and short-form webtoons dominated the market, and it was achieving considerable commercial success, receiving praise for its high-quality conclusion despite its long serialization period.

In November, her work won the Grand Prize at an event hosted by the Ministry of Culture, Sports and Tourism and the Korea Creative Content Agency.

Although she had won many awards, big and small, this one felt different in its weight and significance. While the award was not a direct proof of her passion or the completeness of her work, it was comforting to think that someone had watched and acknowledged her long struggle.

The awards ceremony was on the second Monday of December, about two weeks before Christmas.

Unable to attend the ceremony due to inflexible work hours, Lee Hyun’s father had prepared a small plan to congratulate her instead.

He knew that while she wanted to accept her parents’ efforts, the complex emotions she had harbored for a long time were hindering her. He could tell, if no one else could, that she was eager to share the news with her parents as soon as she heard about the award. Yet, at the same time, she hesitated to contact them, unsure if they would be pleased about an award for a comic, not a painting.

First, he secretly contacted her parents and informed them of the award. As he had expected, they were overjoyed over the phone. No, they were practically ecstatic.

He proposed that they all celebrate her together on the evening of the awards ceremony, and they readily accepted and thanked him for the suggestion.

At the time, due to her father’s exhibition, they were briefly staying in Europe, but they immediately contacted their travel agent, adjusted their return flight dates, and canceled their remaining hotel reservations, incurring significant fees. All for the sake of congratulating their daughter who had won an award for ‘just a comic.’ Willingly.

Lee Hyun’s father believed she deserved all this happiness.

She did not begrudge giving up many values that her parents’ wealth and status could have easily provided. Instead of simply stepping onto a life already planned and presented by others, she chose to live a life as a process of self-discovery.

Once a young woman in her early twenties, her eyes sparkling with passion, she was now approaching forty and on the verge of entering middle age.

She was someone who fully deserved congratulations and support from her aging parents, who regretted their own pasts; from her husband, who was a steadfast colleague, a sweet lover, and an ardent fan; and from her adorable son, who showed abundant talent influenced by his parents.

He booked a more luxurious restaurant than he usually frequented. He planned to pick up Lee Hyun after school and go to a restaurant near the express bus terminal, and she had agreed to meet them there directly after the awards ceremony. That morning, she had joked with a cheerful face that she didn’t know how many years it had been since her last hotel buffet, and that she would fill her stomach with king crab and Peking duck. She had no idea that her parents were flying in from Berlin to celebrate her award.

The simple plan was for her parents to arrive at the restaurant first and be seated, and then the three of them would meet in the lobby downstairs and go up together. Once seated at their reserved table, her parents, who had just arrived from Berlin, would present her with a bouquet of flowers along with their congratulations.

However, due to weather issues in Berlin, the flight’s departure was delayed, and by the time Lee Hyun’s grandparents arrived in Incheon, it was about an hour later than scheduled. They began heading into the city.

Fortunately, although the awards ceremony ran longer than expected, it was inevitable that Lee Hyun’s grandparents would arrive later than her if they had to travel to the hotel in Gangnam.

Lee Hyun’s mother was already on her way by taxi. Hearing the news that the entire subway line 2 was delayed due to a malfunction on the train at Seongsu Station, she opted for a taxi, which she rarely took.

Lee Hyun’s father changed the plan. He changed the restaurant to a location where Lee Hyun’s grandparents, upon arriving at the airport, could arrive even slightly earlier than Lee Hyun’s mother.

He called her and asked if she would like to change the venue to the Thai restaurant that the family frequented, and she agreed, saying it was a good idea. It would be even more meaningful as it was where the three of them had celebrated when Lee Hyun won an award.

“Shall we go through the No. 3 Tunnel, or head towards Seoul Station?”

As they changed destinations, the driver asked, and she replied, “Seoul Station,” simply because she disliked stuffy tunnels.

As the taxi heading towards Samgakji from Tongil-ro in front of Seoul Station was about to pass the waiting line, the light changed just in time. The driver grumbled that if the car ahead hadn’t dawdled at the previous light, they wouldn’t have had to wait, but she was in a generous mood.

Wham’s “Last Christmas” played on the radio. Humming the warm, nostalgic tune softly, she leaned back against the seat.

For about a month since hearing the award news, she had been contemplating how to spend the substantial prize money, and she had finally made a decision while sitting in the audience waiting for the award. A museum tour in Europe for the three of them during Lee Hyun’s winter break.

She planned to suggest it to her husband and son over dinner. Thinking of their surprised and delighted faces made her smile as if she could already see them.

“Huh? What’s that? What’s happening?”

At the driver’s startled voice, she instinctively looked straight ahead.

Vehicles that had received the signal from Hangang-daero were moving in a gentle curve towards this Tongil-ro. And then, in the next moment, a blue 1-ton truck was speeding towards the line of vehicles from Sejong-daero, entering her field of vision.

It was a roar that made everything around her seem to stop.

It wasn’t just a loud noise. It was a sound of a completely different nature than the everyday noises of construction sites or cheering crowds at sporting events, a sound deeply mixed with the scent of violence and misfortune.

Both the taxi driver and she witnessed the blue truck ramming into a mid-sized sedan. It was a charge that could only be seen as intentional self-destruction.

She covered her mouth with both hands, and screams erupted from the driver’s mouth in succession.

The silver sedan, struck on its rear right door, changed direction and was pushed backward, crashing into the back seat of her taxi along with the truck that had hit it. The taxi driver was severely injured, and she died instantly.

From the moment she looked forward at the driver’s shout, everything had happened within 30 seconds.

■ ■ ■

I opened my eyes in an unfamiliar place.

It wasn’t the room where I write at Manager Han’s house.

I was lying in bed, and the sheets and bedding covering me were all clean and comfortable, so despite being in an unfamiliar place, I didn’t feel threatened.

I had no memory of how I got here or how I fell asleep, so it took time for my consciousness to fully function.

My body was temporarily unresponsive, like right after waking from sleep paralysis. With a strange sensation as if a section of my memory had been erased due to amnesia, I moved my fingers and toes little by little under the feather-light duvet, which was filled with air.

The bed was fixed to the wall at the head, with space on both sides. To the left of the bed was a window covered by curtains. Since there were curtains, I could assume there was a window beyond them.

It was raining. Perhaps because the window was soundproof, there was almost no sound of rain. Only the air felt different. A subtle moisture floating in the air. Perhaps that ability had developed in me during the five years I spent by the sea.

Yes, I was helping with the filming of ‘Old Future’ at the CEO’s house.

After a long while, my thoughts reached that point.

And then I realized I was crying.

I couldn’t tell if I had been crying in my sleep, or if my brain had started working properly and new tears were flowing as memories of the painting I encountered in the living room and the sealed, deformed pain that was drawn out through that painting resurfaced.

The tears that ran down wetly beside my temples stung. As I became aware of it, new tears began to flow again.

His living room. My painting hung on the large, minimalist sofa. It was the painting that had won a special judge’s award at a contest hosted by a major gallery when I was sixteen.

My mother and father loved me without lacking anything, to the point where my friends envied them, and they never pressured me to achieve good grades or dictated my future career.

Instead, I had to decide everything myself, and I was responsible for it. If I wanted their advice, my parents would offer it, but the decision was mine. From choosing the topic for a performance assessment to deciding whether to take the entrance exam for a middle school for the arts or attend a general middle school.

Unlike my friends who found common ground with their peers by using rebellion against parents and the older generation as their driving force, I had no one to rebel against. How could I rebel against those who didn’t force anything upon me?

I could understand my friends’ complaints about parents who cut their allowances for poor grades or refused to buy trendy clothes for being delinquent, but I found it difficult to deeply empathize as someone who had experienced similar situations.

Instead, my mother and father prioritized each other. There was a strong bond between them, and they deeply understood, respected, and admired each other. Their passion for each other had long since faded, and unlike couples who lived on affection for their children and a sense of community, their situation was different.

The world did not revolve around me, nor did my parents’ lives revolve around me. What revolved around me was only my life.

That was the raw face of life that I naturally learned through my parents’ upbringing.

No one else could take responsibility for the consequences of my choices, and nothing would change by blaming or resenting my parents. No matter how much my parents loved me, they couldn’t turn back time. They couldn’t take my exams for me, nor could they paint for me.

My choice, which prevented me from forming a perfect bond with my peers or my parents, was painting.

Painting was my language.

Technique and color were my words.

As the techniques and colors I could wield increased, my words and grammar became richer and more precise.

My mother and father never advised me on my paintings, and only offered help when I asked technical questions, so by the time I submitted my work to the contest, my paintings were not influenced by any particular artist, style, or art world trend.

To put it nicely, it was original; to put it badly, it was a painting without roots. Some media outlets that viewed my award negatively even mentioned the crisis in contemporary art, where ‘orthodoxy’ was being threatened.

But it didn’t matter, as I wasn’t painting with the goal of gaining recognition from the mainstream art world. The reason I, who had rarely participated in art competitions for young people, decided to submit to that contest was because it was an experimental competition that judged solely on the value of the work itself, regardless of age, fame, or style.

I didn’t want to win an award. Since painting was my language, I wanted to communicate with the world, with someone, through that language. I wanted to know if the language I used had the function to communicate with others.

The opposite concept of alienation is perhaps connection. Connection is when individuals feel comfort and belonging in each other based on similarity, and the reassurance of not being alone.

Beyond that stage, connection expands to the other person. Understanding, accepting, and deeply relating to the other person, to the point where one can give up their life for the other with the belief that my affairs can lead to yours, and your affairs can affect me – that is the ultimate state that can be reached through connection.

The two figures in the artwork, intimately bound like conjoined twins, contrast with the chaotic background densely filled with various geometric patterns.

The stability and bond that tie the two figures in the center are as strong as the unstable and bizarre energy of the surrounding background.

Unlike literature, irony is difficult to express in art. By depicting two people bound by connection at the center of the work, the artist is actually appealing for alienation. Considering the artist’s young age, this can be considered a bold choice.

The expressive style, which combines traditional painting techniques with pop art imagination, is somewhat rough, yet it is filled with the fresh energy of a new artist.

Unlike loneliness, alienation is always a relative concept. Alienation is the emotion that arises when one is rejected and ostracized by others. It is an emotion that cannot be felt alone. Looking at the work, one will recall the longing, jealousy, and alienation that everyone has probably experienced at some point in their lives, regarding beautiful, warm, and loving things. Furthermore, one can find solace in the fact that the ugly emotions they had hidden were not their own private shame, and thus can ‘connect’ with the artist’s ‘alienation’ and ‘connection.’

The judge’s review of the special award by Teacher Suki Kim was enough.

It was as if she had translated what I expressed through my painting into actual words.

At that moment, my world expanded, from home to outside the home, by one step. It was the first experience of realizing that a boy who had only craved his parents’ attention and tried to define his worth solely by his relationship with them could also find communication and connection in other relationships.

However, when I encountered that painting again unexpectedly, what greeted me was not the memory of empathy and understanding.

It was the childish jealousy towards my mother and father that I had poured into that painting. No, that was nothing compared to what followed.

My mother’s accident, which shattered everything by striking me from above before my first precious sense could properly take root.

And then, my father, who had completely ‘alienated’ me from a world without my mother.

The terrible events that had arrived one after another, as if they had been prepared in advance and were waiting at the door, sprang out from within that painting and pierced my entire body. It was a merciless monster wielding a sword with four arms, six legs, and three necks.

I thought it had dulled over time, as things naturally do, even if unwanted, but that wasn’t true.

Faced with the naked past, exactly as it was, I was still just a vulnerable sixteen-year-old, completely unprepared.

Tears flowed. But they were mechanical tears.

They were not tears as an emotional release, welling up and gushing from the shaking foundation of my existence. They were merely a physical reaction, tears that flowed and flowed without bringing any relief or resolution.

I took a deep breath while lying down and exhaled slowly. I raised my still stiff arm, wiped my tears, and slowly sat up, looking around the room.

It seemed to be a space solely for sleep; the room contained only a bed, a nightstand, a single armchair, and a small table beside it. Instead of a pendant light hanging in the center, small indirect lights were illuminated along the ceiling’s edge. Although the brightness was adjusted very low, it was enough to distinguish everything in the room. A tray with a glass of water and a cup was placed on the nightstand.

The mere fact that someone had turned on the lights and prepared water, thinking of me waking up, gave me a little strength.

As I kicked off the covers and placed my feet on the floor, I realized I was wearing pajamas. I instinctively felt my chest and stomach. Had I changed into them myself and gotten into bed? I tried to recall, but the last scene was me saying, “Because I drew it,” to him at the entrance of the living room.

My legs lacked strength, so I slowly loosened my entire body with stretching. Despite suffering no physical blows, my bodily functions were faltering. It was outside the realm of everyday experience.

I tidied the bed, slipped on indoor slippers that someone had clearly brought for me, and carefully left the room.

The short hallway that unfolded before my eyes was, as expected, unfamiliar. It was a place I didn’t know. Walking to the end of the hallway led to a small hall furnished with a tall bookshelf and an armchair, with a railing in front of it. Beyond the railing was empty space.

It was quiet inside. Only the faint sound of rain. I walked towards the railing. I was on the second floor. From the railing, I could look down at the living room on the first floor. Fortunately, this was his house, as I had expected. At least I hadn’t woken up in a completely unknown place with my memory wiped clean.

Unlike the bedroom, where the lighting was dimmed, the living room was brightly lit. The sun seemed to have set long ago. It was completely dark outside the floor-to-ceiling window.

He was sitting on the sofa, drinking something. Even from a distance, he looked lost in thought. The figures of Juhan Hyung and Yooni Noona were nowhere to be seen. And the painting that had hung on the sofa was also gone.

Was it all a dream? Like what happened to Alice in ‘Wonderland’?

Of course not.

Where my fingertips traced along the railing, there was a staircase. White stairs, designed to look as if they were floating in mid-air, with gaps between the steps, led down. By the time I reached the entrance to the living room, he had turned his gaze this way.

What was clear was that he had been by my side during the period my memory was erased. He must know what I said and what I did. That made interacting with him at this moment even more difficult and awkward. I felt like I had been caught with a fatal weakness by someone to whom I least wanted to show my vulnerability.

Unable to approach easily, I stood at the living room entrance, resting my hand on the wall. He set down the on-the-rocks glass he was holding onto the table, stood up, and walked towards me, opening his mouth.

“You should have stayed in bed longer.”

As if he hadn’t spoken for a long time, his voice was low and hoarse. After speaking, he cleared his throat a couple of times as if to loosen it.

“Um… I’m sorry. Earlier… I wasn’t hungry but I forced myself to eat a hamburger… I guess that didn’t agree with me. I’ve been tense since yesterday, and I think I drank quite a bit of beer too… I’m not usually weak, so I don’t know why it happened so suddenly… Did I collapse?”

In my attempt to seem fine, I ended up rambling more than usual. But I didn’t want him to think the cause of this incident was mental. If he, who was so direct, started probing with questions, I wouldn’t have the courage to tell the truth or the composure to fabricate a lie.

He stopped just about a step away from where I was standing, frowning. Then he clicked his tongue.

“You’re not feeling well, so there’s no need to try and lie.”

“…….”

“I won’t ask anything.”

Lowering his gaze to look around my shoulder, he slowly stroked his chin with one hand, the other still tucked into his pants pocket. His face looked complicated. And his reaction was unexpected.

“I’m telling you this because you seem anxious about not remembering, but you didn’t lose consciousness. You were showing symptoms of hyperventilation, so I took care of you, and although I helped you, you walked to your bedroom on your own. There was no… pathetic display like you might be worried about.”

He was trying to reassure me that there was no pathetic display, but his face, still looking towards my shoulder, was stiff with some kind of anxiety or suspicion.

A sudden chill ran through me, and I slid my hand down my arm from where it rested on the wall.

“I’m sorry… I caused so much trouble…”

His gaze moved from my shoulder up to my face.

“I know you don’t think of me as overly sentimental, but I’m not so heartless as to think someone who is unwell is a bother… So don’t worry about that. I told Yooni and Joo-han that you suddenly felt unwell and needed to rest inside.”

I mumbled thanks and nodded, and his expression lightened slightly.

“I have egg porridge, so eat a little and sleep more.”

He started to turn his back towards the kitchen, but I grabbed him urgently.

“No. I’m fine now. I should go.”

He turned back, and this time his expression was more than just a frown. His eyes were sharp. His face looked as if he had been hurt because of me. He turned back completely, stood in front of me, crossed his arms, and looked down at me.

“Seo Yi-hyun, you don’t remember what happened to you, do you?”

“…….”

“You know intellectually that even if you’re in agony, you won’t die from hyperventilation. Even if you know that well, watching someone who is suffering as if they’re about to die and desperately clinging on… honestly, it’s not a pleasant experience. If you really hate causing me trouble, then stay here and rest today so I can be at ease.”

He added that he had told the manager the same thing – that I had suddenly felt unwell and needed to lie down, and was now sleeping soundly. He seemed to know exactly what I was worried about.

The fact that he had brought Phantom to its current position and was running it successfully meant he was a great man, socially successful, but unfortunately, at this moment, I felt more keenly than ever that he was ten years my senior.

Judging by his expression and tone, he seemed to have made up his mind not to let me leave today. It wasn’t always polite to refuse kindness.

He looked down at me for a moment from beneath his furrowed brow, then sighed as if regretting his harsh words and approached. He placed his hands on my shoulders and bent down to look closely at my face. His hair, which had a slight dampness as if he had showered while I was asleep, lay neatly.

“Your health is the priority right now. Let’s not think about anything, not worry about anything. Like flipping a switch in your brain and turning it off. Can you do that?”

I didn’t quite understand what it meant to turn off the switch in my brain, but his calm gaze and tone made me nod.

He smiled faintly, then squeezed my shoulders firmly before letting go and stepping back.

“You might not have an appetite, but eat a little. For your own sake.”

He said this as he turned his back again and walked ahead. For my own sake. Mulling over those impactful words, I moved my still stiff legs and followed him.

Crossing the living room, which I hadn’t set foot in, and turning a corner, I found the kitchen. He sat me at the dining table and warmed the pre-prepared porridge, transferring it to a bowl.

When he asked if I wanted to eat in the room, I shook my head. With a slightly reluctant, worried look, he placed the tray in front of me. It was a cute… colored egg porridge with finely chopped carrots and zucchini. A small dish of stir-fried anchovies mixed with almonds and salt completed the tray along with the porridge bowl.

Did he make it himself while I was asleep? Chopping the zucchini and carrots? Delivery systems are so good these days, it could have been ordered, but it wasn’t the situation to ask if he made it himself.

I picked up my spoon, the bowl of porridge in front of me. My mouth felt numb, as if anesthetized, and I could barely taste anything, but the porridge went down smoothly.

His gaze, as he sat next to me across the counter and watched me eat, would normally have been burdensome, but now it was comforting. I couldn’t deny that I was feeling weak.

“Whether it’s mentally or physically, when you’re having a hard time, it’s best to try and maintain your usual routine as much as possible. If you skip meals because you have no appetite, the gloomy creatures inside us find a place to emerge. Eat something, even a little, to show them that we haven’t given up on ourselves. That’s important.”

It was a convincing statement. Not breaking the usual pattern. Enduring while maintaining the same appearance. It held more practical power than words like “Cheer up” or “Time will heal.”

I paused for a moment and looked at him. His words were not mere formal comfort. He was clearly speaking from his own experience of enduring and overcoming difficult situations.

When I nodded, he smiled silently. It was a smile that seemed to praise me for doing well.

“Uh… where are you going?”

I must have looked flustered. My gaze, looking up at him as he rose from his chair, was undoubtedly shaking unstably. But I didn’t have the luxury to worry about appearances right now.

“I’ll get you a blanket.”

Following his gaze towards my hands, I saw my spoon trembling.

“It’s okay. It’s not because I’m cold…”

I said I was fine now and that I should go, but even for a brief moment, I didn’t want to be alone. However, I didn’t have the courage to say, “I don’t want to be alone, so please don’t leave.”

Hmm. He gave a troubled expression, gnawing on his lower lip for a moment, then, instead of going to get a blanket, he took off his sweatshirt and offered it to me.

“No, I’m really… not cold.”

When I tried not to take it, he took the initiative. The sweatshirt’s neckline slipped over my head in an instant.

“You are cold. You’re not feeling well, and it’s raining outside, so your body temperature is dropping, and Seo Yi-hyun, you can’t even feel that right now. Listen to a healthy person.”

It would have been awkward to take off the sweatshirt again after he had put it on me. I put down my spoon and slipped my arms into the thick sweatshirt.

The sweatshirt, which fit him well, was a bit loose on me. It was unavoidable given the difference in height and build. Because he had been wearing it, the sweatshirt held his warmth. How much reassurance a person’s warmth could provide. Even from someone with whom I felt a slight fear of being alone, someone I found awkward.

He sat down again, his face contorted as if trying to suppress a laugh, chuckling repeatedly. Having someone laugh beside me was as helpful as body heat. If I had returned to my room at the manager’s house, I might have been completely consumed by the ‘gloomy creatures inside me’ he mentioned and dragged into darkness. I had to admit it.

I ate about half the porridge and put down my spoon. He didn’t force me to eat more. I stood up to clear the tray, but he stopped me.

“Do you want to wash your face?”

Returning after putting the tray in the sink, he tapped his cheek with his index finger and asked. Only then did I remember my face, still wearing makeup.

“I’ll stay with you, so…”

I wanted to say it wasn’t necessary, but in this state, this house without him was just an unfamiliar space that made me more anxious. Putting aside my unnecessary pride, I nodded.

He led me to the room where I had woken up. It had a bathroom attached. Though I didn’t know for sure, the bathroom had a simple yet exotic atmosphere, reminiscent of a resort in a vacation spot.

While I brushed my teeth about three times slower than usual, and washed my face and feet, he leaned against the doorframe of the open bathroom. Even knowing that, I checked several times through the mirror and by turning my head to confirm he was there. Each time, he offered a faint smile to reassure me.

Wiping the water from my face with the new towel he handed me, I slowly headed back to the bedroom. The room was dimly lit with indirect lighting, just as it had been when I left earlier.

Standing awkwardly in the empty space of the room, with only the bed as a large piece of furniture, I fiddled with the towel in my hand. He approached and took the towel.

“Your bangs are wet.”

And with a gentle touch, he lightly patted the moisture from my bangs.

Through his interactions with Shushu, I knew that his direct words and indifferent expression weren’t his whole being, but I had never considered that his gentleness could be directed at me. While the hostile feeling I had recently experienced was gone, it still wasn’t exactly friendly.

Was it because I was sick? Was that why he was treating me so well?

It would be difficult to treat someone who had desperately clung to you in agony with indifference. The him I knew wasn’t that much of a cold-blooded person.

“Sleep in this room. I can sleep in another room.”

“…….”

Though I didn’t say anything, my expression must have conveyed that I didn’t want him to leave. I wondered if he was deliberately saying something mischievous, knowing that. Perhaps it wasn’t a completely wrong assumption, as I heard him chuckle softly from above my head.

“You’re acting like a different person because you’re sick.”

It’s not that I’m exactly sick.

No, maybe I am sick. I am very sick, but I don’t know where or how much I’m hurting, and I’m not trying to find out. But he, too, seemed like a different person because I was sick.

He bent down, tilting his head slightly to meet my eyes.

“You don’t want me to go? You don’t want me to go, but want me to get into bed and sleep with you?”

After saying that, before I could react, he let out a self-deprecating laugh and straightened up. Watching his back as he walked past me to the bed, pulled back the covers, and adjusted the pillow to prepare for sleep, I finally realized that what he had said earlier was a suggestive joke. It wasn’t that I was naive, but rather that my perception of everything was dulled right now.

“I’ll stay on the sofa until you fall asleep, so lie down.”

I owed him more than I could express in thanks or apologies today. In my current abnormal state, the best way to be less of a bother was to simply follow his instructions.

“Isn’t the sweatshirt uncomfortable? Do you want to take it off and sleep?”

I stopped as I approached the bed and looked down at the clothes I was wearing. I recalled the warmth and reassurance I felt when this shirt was put on me. The bed was warm enough when I woke up, but now I didn’t want to take it off. I shook my head.

“Alright, then.”

He backed down simply.

I climbed onto the bed on my knees and settled in. He covered me with the white, fluffy duvet that seemed to hold air.

Looking up, he was looking down at me from a higher vantage point than when he was standing. He had many questions, but his expression showed he was swallowing them with difficulty. In the dim light, his eyes, which seemed even paler than usual, traced my face as if pressing down on every part of it.

“Close your eyes.”

At his words, I closed my eyes.

Right now, he must see me as a twenty-two-year-old coward who needs someone to accompany her to the bathroom and stay by her side until she falls asleep. But without any room for excuses, that was the truth.

“Sleep well.”

I sensed him stepping back. Through my closed eyelids, I could feel the room growing darker.

The sound of him sinking into the plush sofa. The faint sound of rain and the occasional rustling of garden trees in the wind and rain. And in the darkness behind my closed eyelids, the ‘gloomy creatures inside us’ were starting to stir again.

How did that painting end up in this house?

Teacher Sukhee Kim had expressed her desire to purchase the painting immediately after the contest results were announced, and after discussing it with my parents, I conveyed my wish to gift the painting to her. However, the Teacher purchased the painting for a sum that was considerable to my parents and me at the time.

Of course, a collector is free to trade a purchased painting as they please. Just because the painting is here now doesn’t mean I think the Teacher treated it carelessly. No, even if that were the case, it wouldn’t diminish the sense of connection I felt through the Teacher’s critique at the time.

That I wasn’t alone. That someone was receiving the signals I was sending.

“Representative.”

“Yes, I’m here.”

His voice held a hint of playfulness, but it was low and soft.

“Did you… like that painting?”

“…….”

Tears welled up again. My temples felt hot. But these were just mechanical tears. Fortunately, the room was dark and at a distance, so I didn’t think he would notice. Pretending to shift, I tried to turn to the other side, but his voice, calm yet clearly vibrating through the darkness, reached me.

“Seo Yi-hyun.”

“…….”

“Shall I make you forget everything?”

I felt him stir from the sofa, and then the other edge of the bed sank heavily. Just like when we took photos in the garden that afternoon, his knees were entering the space on either side of my legs.

Slowly, I lifted my eyelids. He was deep between my thighs. His gaze, looking down at my still-wet eyes, seemed slightly angry. I knew he wasn’t angry, but there was an emotion in his eyes that was difficult to pinpoint, something other than anger.

Did he like that picture? I tried to find the answer to my question in his eyes, but my consciousness was scattering because of his fingertips touching my face.

The hand that had been tracing my jawline moved up my face, wiping away the moisture at my temples. His pale irises seemed even fainter in the darkness, like a ghost about to vanish. Yet, the warmth transmitted from the hand wiping away my tears was that of a living person.

That hand traced down my cheek and lightly grasped my chin. His tear-soaked thumb brushed my lower lip, then slightly flipped it, touching the inner membrane.

I felt a heavy weight between my legs. His body covered me, pressing down. His lips, so close they seemed about to touch, carried the sweetness left by strong liquor on his breath.

“I’ll make it so you can’t think of anything, so nothing matters…”

His lips, whispering hotly, seemed about to kiss me, but instead, they brushed my cheek and moved deeper, embracing my neck.

For a moment, I closed my eyes. It felt like losing my balance and falling off a surfboard, swept away by a giant wave of his scent.

He lightly bit and released the soft skin below my ear, where it met my neck, using only his lips, and then he pulled back the blanket. The warmth and weight of his body pressing against me became more direct. Just as my body tensed, about to recoil from the unfamiliar sensation, a foreign breath escaped his lips. It was a short, sobbing sound.

His lips touched my ear, and with a hot, moist breath, his wet tongue delved inside. Reacting to my response, he pulled my head closer, burying his lips deeper into my ear. He kissed the surface of my ear repeatedly as if kissing, tracing the curves with his tongue, and whispered in a low, viscous voice.

“Do you like it when I do this to your ear?”

“Ngh….”

Each syllable felt like a soft feather tickling inside my ear, and I tilted my head back, grabbing his shoulder in front of me. His body, which had only been pressing down, twisted at the waist, beginning to rub against me slowly, his entire body moving.

This time, my breath grew ragged. My lower half was clad in thin pajamas, while he wore thicker training pants. Both were soft for indoor wear and utterly insufficient to hide the bulk of his arousal.

He pressed his groin tightly against me, rubbing subtly, and then, with his right knee, he pushed aside my left inner thigh, burrowing between my legs to find his place. A heavy mass of flesh was felt between my legs, now naturally spread apart. Judging by its soft texture, it was clearly not yet erect, but his penis possessed an unbelievable volume. My gaze was drawn down so shamelessly that I couldn’t help it.

As if sensing the direction of my gaze, he chuckled low by my ear. Even his laughter felt like an caress. I flinched, biting my lower lip, and he lightly scraped my ear with his front teeth. It was a playful, biting motion, but instead of laughing at his teasing, my breathing grew rougher.

He didn’t impatiently strip my clothes away to press bare skin against bare skin. He slowly heated me up, letting our bodies rub together through our clothes. But it wasn’t a detached movement. The pressure of his hips lowering and then thrusting upwards, stimulating his arousal hidden within his underwear, had a suggestive quality.

His right hand, which had been playing with my hair, lightly brushed down my cheek and ear, tracing my neck like playing keys, and then, as if displeased, he tugged at the neckline of my sweatshirt.

“Shall I take it off?”

At such close proximity, with his lips against my ear, any word became a sexual whisper. A shiver ran through me, and I tightened my grip on his shoulder. My hand’s force made his t-shirt slip. He looked down at me, then kissed my cheek, very close to my lips, before straightening up and tossing his t-shirt aside.

Having removed his top, he grabbed my wrist, pulling my arm above my head, and then grabbed the sleeve of my sweatshirt, pulling it upwards. It was an odd method, but the shirt came off. He looked down at me and smiled. He was probably laughing at my disheveled hair as the shirt came off.

When he wore his wetsuit, I thought his physique was sleek, but his upper body was much more solid than I had expected. The muscles were large, yet their boundaries were clearly defined, and the thickness of his shoulders and torso was considerable. His body was by no means clumsy, but contrary to my thought that he was slender for his height, he was remarkably muscular. Compared to him, my own body felt immature, still in the process of growing. In the dim light, shadows formed between his chest muscles and abs, making the contours even more distinct.

Perhaps it was because he had shed his clothes and revealed his bare skin. His scent intensified. Like his current posture, pressing down on me from above, it was a strong, pervasive scent. I inhaled deeply without realizing it. Wanting to be more intoxicated by that scent.

He tossed the removed sweatshirt onto the floor and then pushed back between my legs, his body overlapping mine. As our bodies touched again, he had become the scent itself.

Gasp, gasp… gasp… My breathing rhythm completely broken, I opened my eyes wide and my hands and feet trembled. I twisted and clutched the sheets, then grabbed his bare shoulder.

Shhh, shhh. Like soothing a frightened child or one who is about to cry themselves breathless, he stroked my face in a low voice.

“Breathe out slowly… It’s okay. This isn’t hyperventilation. Don’t be scared. Close your eyes.”

His warm, large palm covered my eyes. My vision was blocked, but I wasn’t scared. Following the slow downward movement of his palm, I closed my eyelids. I was anxious, not knowing why my body was reacting this way, but it wasn’t the kind of fear that felt like a threat to my safety.

It wasn’t fear, but rather desire. A fierce, irresistible desire. I felt a trembling desire for his body, which was slowly rocking its hips from side to side between my legs, rubbing against me.

“Just focus on how you’ll answer my question.”

His hand, which had moved down past my lips and neck, slid into the V-neck of my pajamas. They were loose for sleeping, so the neckline was very wide. His hand swept down over the skin of my chest, cupping it entirely as if to gauge the volume of the muscles.

“How do you feel?”

The first question was difficult to answer. He changed the direction of his inquiry.

“Are you uncomfortable?”

This time, I shook my head. Several times, vigorously.

Just as I was adapting to his weight lying on top of me, I was slowly adapting to the weight of his scent. The area between my legs, pressed against his arousal, grew hot. I knew I was rocking my hips myself, but I had lost the control to stop the movement out of shame.

His fingertips, which had been broadly stroking my chest, tapped my hardened nipples from below, upwards.

“Then, does it feel good?”

“Hngh….”

My hips shot up. This would probably be the answer.

Using his thumb and forefinger, he grasped my areola from the outside, encompassing the entire nipple, and squeezed and twisted as if trying to extract something from within.

“Haa, haa….”

Incredibly, I responded to his touch, my breath catching.

I repeatedly lost and regained my grip on his shoulder, and then, with a thirst for him to rub my lower body more intensely, I pulled him closer, embracing his neck. He was only squeezing my nipples, but my entire body felt twisted, my core coiling.

“I won’t do anything you don’t want, Seo Yi-hyun. If you feel bad, you can tell me right away. You’re not scared, are you?”

I nodded. Several times.

Soon, his face burrowed into my neck, rubbing against my cheek and lips, pressing his body even closer. His hand, emerging from my neckline, began to unbutton my pajamas.

The very real sensation of my clothes being removed made me open my eyes, which I had closed. He was nibbling at the area below my chin, where my neck met my collarbone, while skillfully unbuttoning the buttons with his right hand. Due to his position, it felt as if he were nestled against my chest. With every pass of his hand, my breasts, swelling and contracting with the excitement and stimulation, revealed bare skin.

Pushing the open front of my pajamas aside, his lips slid down. Dragging them heavily across my skin as if crushing them, he moved lower and lower.

He bit my collarbone with his teeth, drew chaotic lines on my upper chest, and his dry lips brushed over my nipples several times. Unfamiliar sensations, ones I had never experienced even through self-gratification, sensations that could only be felt through contact with another person, pressed in on me without pause.

Impatience surged, and my toes curled inward. My back arched with the desire for him to suck strongly, not just brush against me. He glanced up at me, then rubbed the tip of his lips against my nipple. Deliberately. Just enough for skin to brush against skin.

“Hee, hngk….”

I bit down hard on my lower lip and clutched the back of his neck. His gaze, fixed on me, was also different from usual. It felt as if I were hallucinating a reddish tint in his pale blue irises; he too was flushed red.

He extended his tongue and touched the base of my erect nipple once. My entire chest vibrated, and I rubbed my head against the pillow, pushing my hips up. When I tilted my chin up, his scent felt like it was choking me.

He poked my nipple again with the tip of his tongue and said.

“Bite it for me.”

His voice was thick with emotion.

Pulling the back of his neck that I was holding, I gathered the chest muscles with my other hand and pulled the nipple forward. I adjusted its position and placed it directly into his lips. Unbelievably, I did these things without hesitation.

As my nipple was caught between his lips, he immediately sucked strongly. Hngh. While twisting and arching my body with pleasure mixed with pain, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his lips, running my fingers through his hair.

He continued to rub his arousal between my legs, tilting his head down to suck my breast. My body was twisted because of this, but he seemed unbothered, even caressing my side and lower abdomen with his right hand.

He had told me to speak if I felt bad. But I didn’t dislike his hand tracing circles around my navel, making me curl inward. I didn’t feel like pushing away his face, which was biting and sucking my nipples, nor did I feel repulsion towards the weight of his body pressing down on me, rubbing against my lower half.

My arousal, exposed to stimulation by another person for the first time, was immediately responsive. I had never considered it might be a same-sex arousal, but I had also never thought it couldn’t be.

Though I had only vaguely realized it, when I considered my recent reactions to him, it wasn’t strange that I felt no resistance to this kind of act with him.

As he rubbed his lips against my nipple, as if kissing me passionately, each time he sucked strongly, making my cheeks deeply dimple, I gasped for breath like someone being strangled. He looked up at me. When I bit my lower lip hard to suppress a moan, he reached out and pulled my lips away. Then, as if he couldn’t see, he traced my lips with his fingertips.

His fingers traced the surface of my lips, brushing and touching various parts of my upper and lower lips, and one of his fingers, which had been winning the touch, gently pushed between my teeth, and I bit down on it without realizing it. From below, he detached his lips from my chest. Looking down, I saw saliva, not yet swallowed, stretching like a thread between his lips and my nipple. He then moved his mouth back to my nipple, breaking that thread, and crawled up my neck.

Following my lower body, which had been rubbing against him, my upper body now touched him completely, with no gaps. While kissing my neck, he explored the inside and outside of my lips with his fingers. As a part of his body entered my mouth, his scent filled me entirely, melting my brain into a pulp.

The sense of smell, when repeatedly stimulated, easily adapts and quickly becomes numb to the same scent. Even though his scent was intense, it was strange that it felt stronger than at first.

But I couldn’t dwell on the reason. My brain was completely saturated. Unable to think of anything, so nothing mattered. It was as he had said. The stimulation was so intense that it numbed the hyperventilation I had experienced in the living room, even the pain from resurfaced memories.

Our hardened genitals were almost painful when pressure was applied. Each time he rubbed and pressed, they now bounced off each other, slipping past. Sparks flew from that misaligned sensation.

“Hngh… Haa….”

He kissed various spots on my neck, rubbed his lips against the inner membranes, lightly bit my skin between my teeth, and then sucked strongly, repeating these actions. He then buried his nose and lips completely and took a deep breath. In the vastness of his breath, which felt like it was pulling my entire body in, I completely swallowed his index finger, which had been tracing my teeth.

He was unusually tall for Korea. Considering the height difference between us, he was certainly well over 190 cm. Proportionate to his height, his fingers were naturally long and thick. Though it felt like I had swallowed deeply, I had only sucked on two segments.

He lifted his head and looked down at me, still lying on top of me, sucking his finger. His eyes were full of curiosity, seriousness, and deep lust.

I held the lower part of his palm with both hands and pursed my lips, pressing on his finger. He looked down at me with reddish eyes and slowly pushed his middle finger into my mouth. It was only two fingers, but with two segments, it was a size that was difficult to keep in my mouth. He didn’t take his eyes off me as I struggled, repeatedly biting and releasing his fingers. His broad, thick shoulders rose and fell, expanding and contracting in my field of vision.

He fumbled along my side and pulled down my pajamas and underwear. The pajamas, pulled by one hand, slid down askew. As my arousal was revealed, shame finally struck me. I pulled his hands away with both of mine, removing his fingers from my mouth. He kept his gaze fixed on my lips, parting them with a hint of regret. Every breath he exhaled felt like particles of his scent.

Turning my head away to avoid his gaze, I frantically grabbed my pajamas. His arousal, pressed against my lower abdomen, was glistening even in the darkness.

“I’m… wet…”

“……”

Had I said something strange? He stopped all movement abruptly, making me anxious.

My arousal, exposed to external stimulation for the first time, was leaking pre-ejaculate to the point where my underwear was soaked. I was ashamed of my wet underwear and his slippery arousal. My logic, barely clinging to reason, felt the sting of shame at the fact that my legs had to be exposed to him.

As I tried to pull my pajamas up again, he firmly slapped my hand away and pressed his lower body tightly against mine, preventing my hand from reaching. Covering me entirely from my groin to my lower abdomen and chest, he breathed heavily through his nose, pressing against me with his entire body.

It wasn’t just pressing; it was an caress, his body rubbing against mine. My pajamas, unbuttoned, opened wider, and his bare skin slid smoothly over mine.

“Will you say it one more time? Here.”

He turned his head, rubbing his ear against my lips, and demanded. His hip movements, stimulating my lower body, quickened. The fact that he was aroused excited me. Embracing his head, I exhaled my feverish breath into his ear. He slid his face further in, and his lips touched my ear. We pressed our lips to each other’s ears, rubbing our chests together, revealing our arousal. Shame was once again receding into the distance.

“Tell me. What has happened to Seo Yi-hyun’s lower body right now? What is it like, now?”

The damp voice made my insides tingle. He had become the scent itself, pressing down on me. The aroma rendered all my judgment powerless. I tilted my head slightly, exhaling a candid breath into his ear.

“…I’m wet.”

“……”

His shoulders stiffened for a moment, then he let out a low curse and bit my ear as if to chew it off. He thrust upwards, his firm thigh pushing as if to slide beneath my hips, stimulating me rapidly.

“Where are you wet? Why are you wet?”

His breath, clearly showing his arousal, was dizzying by my ear. His waist, rocking against me, swayed as if he were already penetrating.

“Where are you wet?”

“There… down there….”

“Down there… your knees? Or your feet?”

“……”

“Where are you wet that you’re dying like this? Huh? Tell me.”

I couldn’t resist the urge to whisper that forbidden word into his ear. I wrapped my neck around him more tightly, rubbing my lips against his ear.

“Pe…nis. I’m wet.”

Just uttering the word, even in a voice barely audible to him, sent a surge of desire through my entire body. Even from him, who had only heard the word, I felt a more intense arousal than before.

He licked my ear with his tongue, ceaselessly teasing me below.

“Good job. Once you spit it out, it’s not so bad, is it?”

Even his whispered praise made my stomach churn. I had said a vulgar word and received his praise. But as he said, once I had spat it out, it didn’t feel vulgar or bad. I even felt a sense of liberation. Just by hearing the word from me, he was swelling and embracing my body with excitement.

He slid his hand under my lower back, grasping my buttocks firmly in his palm and shaking them.

“But it’s not just there that’s wet, is it?”

“……”

The hand that had been gripping and twisting my buttocks slid between my legs. The middle finger, buried between flesh, found the entrance instantly, as if it could see it.

“Ugh, there!”

As his finger traced circles around the entrance, threatening to plunge inside at any moment, I tried to push away his shoulder and sit up.

But his shoulder didn’t move. He was concentrating, frowning, his fingertips fumbling around my anus as if searching for something. He withdrew his hand from below, brought it to his nose and mouth, and even tasted it with his tongue. I tried to snatch his hand away, telling him to stop, but once he had confirmed what he was looking for, he looked down at me and smiled softly.

“No, I won’t. We promised. I won’t do anything you don’t want.”

He kissed my cheek, right next to my lips, as if to reassure me, and then pressed down on my body again. His lips slid down my cheek and reached my ear, whispering hot secrets once more.

“Mine is the same. It’s wet too.”

He took my hand and guided it between our bellies. As he said, his penis was completely wet and slick. But more than that, I couldn’t help but be surprised by its overwhelming size. Touching it with my hand, I knew it was far more substantial than I had gauged from feeling it against my lower abdomen.

Perhaps it was an innate characteristic of a Golden Alpha. I didn’t know much about the size of other people’s penises, especially when erect, but I knew that his, throbbing hotly now, was outside the realm of common sense. Unconsciously, my gaze fell explicitly below. He smiled, kissed my ear, and brushed my wet hair from my forehead.

“I don’t mind if you look closely.”

He shifted his body, which had been covering me completely, to the side, separating our pressed bellies and chests, and guided my hand deeper. My fingertips touched thick pubic hair. His penis was heated to the root. Though not clearly visible due to the dim lighting and the shadow cast by his body, I could gauge its weight and thickness from its silhouette and feel alone.

It was erotic. For the first time in years, I thought that about another person’s body. His penis seemed to embody all the sexuality in the world. It felt like a body designed solely for sexual acts, performing no other function.

A heavy shadow jutted out from his groin, pointing towards my lower abdomen. It wasn’t just thick and long; it was so hard that even though he was lying almost on his side, it didn’t droop but maintained its angle. In his hand, and guided by him, I gently stroked his penis.

“Mmm…”

As if savoring the touch, he let out a sweet groan from his closed lips. His high-bridged nose rubbed against my right cheek. Releasing my hand, he slid his hand up from my inner thigh and cupped his penis.

I rubbed his penis against my own, which was erect and stuck to my lower abdomen. Mmm… A pained groan escaped my lips too.

“Do more.”

He kissed my temple and urged me on. I held his, he held mine, and we rubbed the two pillars against each other like a sword fight. The amount of pre-cum was so immense that it flowed down my hand holding his penis and dripped onto my lower abdomen.

Whether it was my imagination or not, it felt like a scent vibrated between our legs. It wasn’t sweet, or subtle, or fragrant… It was different. It was a scent that stimulated lust, aroused desire, and made my insides boil. It pricked my nerves like needles, made my crotch heavy, and sent a tingling sensation from my fingertips to my toes…

“You like my perfume, don’t you?”

From his embrace, as he lay beside me, I nodded several times. My mind was not my own, due to the prolonged erection. For me, who had no experience with sexual acts other than masturbation, even his breath by my ear or the hardness of his penis in my hand was excessive stimulation, leading to climax.

“Just focus on that scent.”

It felt more intense than ever before. The powerful scent, as if I had accidentally spilled an entire bottle of perfume, overwhelmed not just my sense of smell but my entire being. No, it wasn’t just one spilled bottle of perfume. I was submerged in a bathtub filled with that perfume. I was sinking to the bottom of a swimming pool filled with that perfume.

I thought I was sinking, but my body floated up.

He wrapped an arm around my back and lifted me. I was sitting on his thighs as he knelt on the bed, legs spread wide. His arms supported me without me needing to exert any strength in my waist. In fact, I couldn’t even if I wanted to.

My legs naturally spread on either side of his waist, and our penises were trapped between our lower abdomens. With one arm, he crossed my back diagonally, and with the other, he wrapped around my waist, cupping my buttocks, and used the strength of his lower body to push me upwards.

The pressure of his arms pulling me in compressed my penis, and the force of his thighs pushing me up ground our penises against each other. Whenever I started to slide down, his waist would thrust me up again. The vivid intimacy, far more intense than when we were rubbing against each other lying down, made me pull his head, which was biting my collarbone, closer.

Everything was completely different from masturbation. It wasn’t masturbation, which would end emptily once arousal led to climax. It was the friction against my penis, his lips and tongue wandering over my chest, the twisting and thrusting of my buttocks, and the touch of his fingers stroking in circles…

He was awakening every single cell that made up my body, making each one tremble. My lower abdomen felt a sharp pull, causing a pain so intense that I was feeling it with extreme sensitivity.

It was my first time having sex with someone else. And I had never imagined I would react like this.

“What… what is this….”

He must have done something to me. Otherwise, my own whispered vulgar words into his ear, the impulse I felt holding his penis, and my own strange actions of wriggling and rubbing my penis against his lower abdomen couldn’t be explained. I was trying to blame him.

My sentences had become so complex that I couldn’t speak them. I felt like a fool, and my body was completely focused only on the act with him, to the point of fear.

He looked up at me with eyes that, having lost their usual dryness, gleamed with radiance. He merely bit his chin; he offered no reply.

“It’s… not perfume, is it?”

He tightened his embrace around me, his waist curving in a circle, rubbing our penises together. My legs were spread, my groin pressed so tightly against his torso that we couldn’t get any closer. Just looking at the contact and friction made the feeling of climax build heavily at the tip of my penis.

“It’s strange… It’s strange.”

Even as I said it was strange, I pushed my toes back, pressing my legs harder against his body. He, who had been biting his chin, rubbed his nose against my lips and moved my hips in the opposite direction of his waist’s rotation. As the angle of our penises rubbing against each other changed, the feeling of climax surged once more.

“If Seo Yi-hyun were… a Beta… then this would be perfume.”

“Hng, hngh, sob…”

This time, he tightly embraced my waist with both arms. Holding me firmly, like fastening a seatbelt, he thrust rapidly as if to wring the moisture out of me.

“Say something else. Not that it’s strange. How do you feel now?”

“Good. I feel good…”

Holding and running my hands through his hair, I mumbled incoherently, trembling as if thrown into a washing machine on a dehydration cycle. I felt like I could say anything he wanted, completely detached from my usual self.

Even though it was just being pressed and rubbed against my wet lower abdomen, the sufficient pressure and hot friction felt like penetration into some tight space, shooting me upwards.

The climax, which I reached without him even touching me, solely through the force of his movements and the pressure of our lower abdomens, was accompanied by unbelievable confessions of pleasure.

As I poured into his ear my sexual excitement for his thick penis and the obscene sensation of all the slippery fluids we had released… and as I heard his even more scandalous whispers in response to my confession… what I saw at that moment felt like heaven, and also like a hell boiling with lewdness. Whatever it was, it was an extreme. It was not pleasure within ordinary bounds.

He shook me, half-standing on his knees, as if to wring out the last drop of moisture. Enveloped by the scent and arousal, I trembled with a pleasure that was almost destructive.

When he laid me down on the bed, I was completely taken. My core felt hollowed out, my bones melted, and a wave of weakness washed over me. My body sank heavily, as if to be buried in the sheets.

“I’ll make it so you can’t think of anything, so nothing else matters…”

His promise came true. I could forget, I could escape. Unbelievably, just by… sexual intercourse.

Whether I had lost consciousness or fallen asleep for a moment, I suddenly opened my eyes to the moisture touching my skin. I was lying face down on the bed. Something warm was touching my back – a warm, wet towel.

His un-flaccid penis twitched and swayed in the dim light. Facing the evidence that the remnants of desire still lingered within his body, the urge to touch it again stirred, but fortunately, I had no strength left. I couldn’t even move my lips, let alone my fingers, to call him.

Though I wasn’t confident in the accuracy of my memory, it seemed he hadn’t ejaculated. Only after everything was over did I realize that from beginning to end, the act had been thoroughly focused on me, to make me comfortable.

Returning to the foot of the bed, his hand, which had been wiping the intermingled bodily fluids from my inner thighs, suddenly stopped. The mattress tilted, and the next moment, a warm, wet palm gently stroked my buttocks. The lingering arousal immediately ignited, but I could only groan and curl up slightly, still lacking strength.

His hand, which had been massaging my buttocks a little, slid between my legs. His slightly firm fingertips, like a doctor examining a patient, meticulously felt through the valley where flesh met flesh, as if searching for the cause of the illness.

“Ugh, mmm…”

His hand withdrew, and a moment later, his lips touched me. My stiffened back writhed on the mattress. Turning my head to look down, I saw him lying face down between my legs, his face buried in my buttocks. The sensation of his wet tongue licking around my anus made me bury my face in the pillow again.

My buttocks involuntarily spasmed in the prone position. He patted my flesh a couple of times, as if to reassure me, saying it was okay.

His tongue, moving cautiously as if to confirm something, gradually gained viscosity and began to moisten my anus with a sexual nuance. It continued for a long time, like persistent courtship.

He stuck out his tongue, vigorously rubbing his entire tongue over my anus, then took my entrance into his mouth and sucked several times like a kiss before lifting his face from my buttocks.

“It doesn’t make sense… This doesn’t make sense.”

I couldn’t be sure, but that’s what it sounded like. This doesn’t make sense. He muttered in a dazed voice, while finishing wiping my groin with the wet towel.

It was an incomprehensible day. I had already experienced what it was like to have a single day that overshadowed hundreds. I never thought I would experience such a day again. A day that changed the direction, speed, and color of my life.

Someone dragged me mercilessly into sleep.

To be continued in Diamond Dust Vol. 2