“You took my only daughter to a motel, and everyone saw it—what do you think Mr. Im must feel, you damn fool? Do you still not understand that Mr. Im will never give his daughter to you? You’re barking up the wrong tree, wasting your strength on a lost cause!”
I wasn’t there, but I knew without seeing that Han I didn’t drag Morae anywhere—they went together. Though both phrases arrive at “they went to a motel,” their implications differ hugely.
“Who went begging that old man for Morae? Morae isn’t his to give away—how can you give away soone else’s child?”
“Cut the naive crap! Does a family like ours simply hand over their daughter to the likes of you?!”
Grandfather believed that the family’s objection was solely social standing, but the true issue was more complex. Neither Grandfather nor the other villagers knew Morae was an Alpha. In this town, only Han I and I were aware of her status.
Alphas occur roughly one per thousand people and are concentrated in wealthier, better-educated regions. By statistics, our three-thousand-person port village should have around three Alphas—but in reality, only two or three existed, none of them differing much from Betas biologically.
Most people never even glimpsed a Golden Alpha—the powerful pheromones and extraordinary fertility portrayed in dramas and films. If such Alphas did erge here, they inevitably used their advantage to succeed elsewhere, then left for the city.
In this small fishing village—dominated by Betas and an aging population—neither Alphas nor Ogas are favored. Female Alphas and male Ogas face especially intense discrimination, seen as repulsive mutants.
Morae’s family hid her status for that reason. I didn’t know exactly how strong her Alpha traits were, but conceptions between a female Alpha and a male Beta like Han I were almost impossible. That impossibility fueled her family’s opposition: if she ever paired with a male Oga, soone in the family might even commit suicide.
I could at least imagine their desire for her to lead an unblemished, conventional life—but the real problem was that Morae herself wanted a life with Seo Ihyeon. The next problem was that her family was absolutely certain she would co to regret her choice—confident enough in soone else’s future to stake their certainty on it, when I couldn’t even speak a single word about my own.
“Look at your younger uncle—you insisted on this wedding despite both families’ objections, and now look at the ss. Why waste your effort on the impossible? You’re not so fortunate that you can afford such fights—you old man can barely haul nets anymore, aren’t your own sons enough?”
That outburst was so far removed from the real issue that I covered my ears—but Grandfather continued tearing open every old wound in our family.
“Why bring up your younger uncle? Jesus Christ, speak sense!”
Han I—striking at sothing with a basin or bucket—cursed.
“Listen up, you fool.”
Grandfather’s tone suddenly turned tight and ragged, no longer the roar of past anger but a strangled whisper—as if the real truth were about to erge.
“If you don’t do as I say, Mr. Im will show you what he’ll do to you. For his daughter, he’s capable of breaking you without flinching. He’s only been holding off because he didn’t want his daughter to shed tears—but mark my words: cut ties with her today. If you still can’t bear it, go serve on a deep-sea trawler for a year. Do it. You son of a bitch!”
Mr. Im—called “teacher” though he held no such title—was Morae’s father and the area’s principal creditor. He had just delivered his ultimatum. Grandfather, terrified of what he’d heard behind the Fisheries Cooperative building, could only mutter as if his spine froze.
Although the fight subsided montarily when Han I stord out, that was only the beginning. They wouldn’t stop. Mr. Im would try to separate M orae and Han I; Grandfather and Uncle would force Han I back to the boats. In their minds, that was human duty—and Morae’s and my happiness, the path to avoid disaster.
Exposed to Grandfather’s continuing curses and the conflict between the two older n, I sat dazed in my room. When I first arrived, it had been a ss: clothes, manga, surf magazines strewn everywhere; my desk piled with unopened textbooks.
A few days later, I began organizing—stacking magazines by publication date, sorting clothes by season and color, arranging textbooks by consonant and vowel order. Whenever Han I ssed it up, I tidied again.
The only thing I never touched was the single photograph Han I had taped to the wall: two tiny silhouettes surfing on a crimson sea at sunset, palm trees backlit on the horizon. Torn from so magazine, it had guarded that spot since I arrived five years ago.
Han I used to say he’d live sowhere like that one day—never naming who would join him, but it was understood it would be Morae. They’d never imagined life apart even for a mont.
I focused on the faded corners of that photo and whispered its place na: Bali...
Yet even as my mind floated to tropical waves, Grandfather’s curses shifted back to our family—soaking us both in bla and sha. I worried for Morae, but dared not send even a single ssage lest it give her family another excuse.
■ ■ ■
“Seo Ihyeon. Seo Ihyeon, wake up.”
I don’t know when I’d dozed off, curled on the bare floor in the clothes I’d worn to the harbor. Han I shook awake; I saw his eyes glinting in the dark—an unnatural light.
Only the sodium lamp above the gate cast a faint glow in the deep night. The house was silent, and I sensed rain—the absence of sound, but a different scent in the air.
“Pack only what you need.”
In a low voice, Han I spoke quickly.
“Morae’s waiting at Jaeyun’s office. We’ll take my car to Seoul from there.”
Jaeyun owned the surf school where Han I had taught before enlisting and occasionally returned to teach post-discharge. Since high school, we’d made a plan—our final escape if things ever beca hopeless. Though it felt strange that they had included from the start, they treated my involvent as a matter of course.
No one told to help fish anymore, and no one pressed to stay with a beloved; that emptiness beca my reason to escape. Though I had no reason to remain, I had no reason to stay.
The plan began half-jokingly in high school—laughing on the beach, conspiratorial like an absurd B-movie. But now, packing our ager backpacks, Han I and I moved with purpose. There was nothing in this place precious enough to carry. From striped drawers, I grabbed two T-shirts and so underwear. I stuffed my favorite manga volu into my pack and zipped it closed.
Han I paused in front of the photo, tore it from the wall, folded it in half, and tucked it into his jacket pocket.
Our three-room house faced the sea in a row, renovated years ago but still built on the bones of a hanok. We nudged the sliding door open, stepped onto the cented stone porch, and felt again the damp drizzle—cooler than usual, a chill that prickled the nape of the neck.
Avoiding the gate, Han I gestured to climb the low wall instead. But as we moved toward it, the front door slid open behind us. We froze and turned slowly.
Our father stood in the dark, hand on the door handle, silent.
We stood in the rain, backpacks on, no umbrellas, past midnight—an obvious declaration that we planned no leisurely walk. My heart pounded; sweat broke across my brow. In that mont, my focus was not on escaping, but on his lips—the sa lips that had offered hope and disappointnt in endless cycles until I gave up hope altogether.
“Let’s go, Ihyeon.”
Han I placed a hand on my shoulder—no rush, but knowing exactly what I felt. We chose to open the gate instead of scaling the wall.
The unlubricated iron gate creaked open in the sea breeze. Han I slipped through first, then I stepped over the threshold, casting one last backward glance—more reluctant than Lot’s wife leaving Sodom.
Where are you going? Don’t go.
But our father said nothing.
■ ■ ■
The ornate vintage display cabinet was packed to capacity. Absent the client, we should have arranged everything exactly as in the reference photos—but those photos were little more than a chaotic jumble, no matter how you looked at them. Despite the value of the collectibles, their display was abysmal.
Had the client been present, we’d have simply taken guidance on style—but today he was absent, as he’d been for moving out and moving in. His only instruction: take care of it however you see fit.
There was one exception: the paintings—handle with extre care, above all else, he’d insisted at signing.
The new apartnt faced Yeouido’s skyline across the Han River, boasting not only expensive decor but an extraordinary collection of artwork. One room was devoted solely to storing paintings, wall to wall.
I wondered if the owner painted himself, but there were no brushes or easels—likely a passionate collector or industry insider. I hadn’t seen so many paintings at once since the murals at my grandfather’s house.
“Can you believe this actually happens?” barked the team leader behind , likely reading so sensational online news. He and four others had nearly finished their sections and now sat on protective carpet, waiting.
Today, in place of the aunt who normally handles kitchen and bathroom, I was covering for her—she’d gone to care for her grandson who had just turned a hundred days old. I’d perford decently in school but never pursued college or an office job, so this moving-job gig, though half-forced, paid well and offered flexible days.
“What now?” asked another mover. The team leader recited the news with righteous anger:
“So Alpha got drunk and caused a scene in a taxi—the driver dropped him off sowhere random, and the drunk wandered until he ran into an Oga. Of all days, her cycle hit early—so the boss, feeling «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» charitable, sent her ho early with dication.”
By that point, we all understood the train wreck: an Alpha’s hormones, an Oga vulnerable, a series of tragic coincidences—too absurd for fiction.
The younger colleague, louder still, condemned Alphas as beasts: “They look handso, they’re smart, but hormones control them. Not human.”
The team leader lanted economics: “Betas like us but especially Alphas and Ogas need money—otherwise they lose dignity and turn savage. New ds cost a fortune...”
“Just count your blessings you’re not the victim,” the second colleague advised.
That echoed my own incredulity: reality can be stranger than any scripted drama.
“Is the kitchen done?” the team leader asked .
“All set.” I adjusted an 18th-century porcelain doll I’d angled slightly.
“Client arrives in ten minutes—finish up and then let’s go ho.”
Monts later, the client rushed in—apologetic, offering dinner money in an envelope. Polished yet relaxed, he inspected only the doorways, not even opening the painting room.
Waiting for the elevator, my coworkers praised him for giving dinner money—and for being a reliable client, not difficult at all.
“Living alone here, he must be affluent. Even a lease on an apartnt this size costs around fifteen hundred million won.”
“Really?” The youngest mover’s eyes widened. Fifteen hundred million won was a sum beyond my comprehension—a fortune equivalent to billions in my mind.
“Got dinner money, lottery luck’s on our side!” joked one.
But just as the team leader opened the envelope, the front door’s lock clicked behind us. We froze.
“Wait!”
The client called us back.
“Who organized this kitchen?”
Our faces fell—had we broken or lost sothing? Carefully, the team leader stepped forward.
“Aunt was absent today, so I handled it.”
The client, looking at our feet rather than faces, smiled warmly.
“Oh, that’s not it... I’d like to hire you. Your working style is exactly my taste.”
My lips parted in confusion.
“Sorry, I phrased that oddly. I’m so busy I can’t keep my house organized, and I need soone who doesn’t stress about it... I’ve been searching for the right person, and when I opened the kitchen cabinets...”
Trailing off mid-sentence, he scanned inside my baseball cap’s brim and spoke my na precisely:
“Seo Ihyeon?”
I looked up at the client’s face—soone I’d long ago forgotten, buried backstage in my life, now thrust back into the spotlight.
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