In novels or dramas, how do characters who get on the protagonist’s bad side usually get dealt with? Take In Juhan for example—he’d fold a person up like origami and bury them in the ground. No, he’d probably be too lazy for that and just drop them off a building roof.
Even if it’s not that extreme, they usually get handled one way or another. Fired from the company, or exposed for their misdeeds and slapped in cuffs.
One way or another, you pay for standing against the protagonist. If Cha Gyeoul were the author of Falling Blossoms, he thought he would have written the current situation like this:
[Cha Gyeoul looked every inch the secretary to In Juhan—he seemed to have a serious character flaw. He couldn’t accept goodwill as goodwill, just like his boss. Birds of a feather flock together; that is how human relationships work.]
“Ngk!”
While he was still scrambling for an excuse, laughter sounded from above his head.
“Ah, our Secretary Cha, you’re really funny.”
Gyeoul rubbed his neck, embarrassed. It was the second time he’d heard that recently. The first had been from In Juhan; this time it was from In Seongje.
‘What exactly do those brothers find funny…?’
Given that he considered himself utterly removed from anything like “fun,” he understood that compliment even less.
‘Wait, is it even a compliment?’
“I’m kidding. I was being rude, yes. But I gave you an expensive musical ticket and even sat side by side to watch it with you, so I thought you’d at least have dinner with me.”
‘He said it was just a spare ticket…!’
But the face of the murmuring In Seongje changed in an instant. He deflated, looking exactly like a big dog that had come home drenched in rain.
“…I don’t even have anyone to eat with. Sigh… should I starve?”
‘Were those friends from earlier not people but beasts?’
“I’m hungry, this is a problem.”
Gyeoul kept the rebuttals in his head and let something entirely different come out of his mouth.
“Fine. Dinner… is on me.”
If someone wanted a single meal that badly, there was no reason to fight to the death over it. It was also true he’d had a good experience thanks to that musical ticket. If he was the proverbial black-haired beast, the least he could do was buy dinner.
“Let’s go eat something expensive, come on.”
…He suspected he’d misspoken.
“This place is famous as a hotspot. Nice vibe, right?”
Gyeoul decided to remember that In Seongje was not a man who talked nonsense. As if intent on honoring the talk of “eating something expensive,” he brought Gyeoul to a Western restaurant whose existence he hadn’t even known about.
“G-great… yes….”
The interior was very upscale, and the tables were spaced wide enough that you could talk without being disturbed. In the quiet, calm atmosphere you could read a sense of leisure. The kind of place where people with the time could sit for two or three hours and enjoy their food.
“But, Team Leader.”
“Yes?”
“Is this really a hotspot…? At these prices?”
Even a single bottle of water was thirty thousand won, so he’d spare you the rest.
“How do I explain this… Mm. Among the people around me it’s famous as a hotspot….”
Gyeoul understood him at once. Meaning, a place trending among the so-called well-off. Not among ordinary people like Gyeoul.
“Shall we order?”
In Seongje abruptly changed the subject, and Gyeoul pretended not to notice and nodded.
“May I take your order?”
“We’ll have the filet de boeuf Rossini. Medium rare.”
“Certainly.”
When In Seongje finished, the server turned toward Gyeoul.
Scanning the menu carefully, Gyeoul gave up choosing and asked the server,
“Do you… happen to have a vegan option? Something with no meat or seafood at all. I’ve got allergies….”
“We don’t have a separate menu prepared, but among the pastas, the tagliatelle al pomodoro e crema can be made with plant-based protein instead of seafood or meat.”
“Oh then the tala— Tilapia… that one.”
Gyeoul went with the dish the server recommended, and emphasized once more that he was vegetarian. When he finished ordering and looked up, In Seongje was staring straight at him.
“…What is it?”
‘Does he think I’m making a fuss over a single order? Still, it feels weird to explain “I really can’t eat it” like I’m pleading my case.’
“That must be uncomfortable.”
“Sorry?”
It was an unexpected remark.
“Every time you eat out, you have to say the same thing over and over, right?”
“Ah… I’m okay now. I’ve lived like this my whole life, and I don’t eat out that often anyway….”
“Even so. It’s always hard when you’re different from others.”
Hearing his voice, something welled up from deep in Gyeoul’s chest. It felt, somehow, like he knew Gyeoul’s past and was comforting him. He was fine now, but as a kid he couldn’t count the times it had been uncomfortable and hard. Not being able to share food with others meant fewer chances—and less time—to grow close.
“Ah, how about working with my brother?”
In Seongje abruptly changed the subject. He must have noticed Gyeoul’s mood sinking. Gyeoul didn’t want to wallow either, so he went along.
“The Director is….”
Working with In Juhan felt like walking on thin ice every single day. In a darkness so thick you couldn’t see an inch ahead. One misstep and you’d lose your life, so you could never let your guard down.
“It’s great… really great.”
But Gyeoul lied again. You couldn’t bad-mouth your boss behind his back. In Juhan’s image was already ragged like a burst dumpling in soup; he had no intention of sticking a spoon in and stirring.
“Really? What’s so great?”
As if hearing something fascinating, In Seongje’s eyes lit up. It was probably just a tossed-out question to keep the conversation going, but for Gyeoul it was the hardest question in the world. He had to run his brain at full power.
“…The Director lets me experience all kinds of things I didn’t know.”
Like how, if the other party won’t listen, you pull out the chainsaw first; or how, if they won’t open their mouth, you put their fingers to the cutting block.
“He also teaches me lots of ways to strengthen bonds between employees.”
Using the slush-fund case as leverage, he’d strapped an iron shackle to Gyeoul’s ankle.
“Oh! And best of all, he’s kinder than he looks.”
“Sorry? What was that?”
“Kind….”
For reference, the In Juhan in Gyeoul’s mind was a slaughter-happy lunatic, a lump of greed and a monster. Compared to that, he was kind.
“Um… Secretary Cha.”
“Yes.”
“…Are you being threatened? Did my brother get something on you?”
Gyeoul found himself rolling his lower lip between his teeth.
‘I deliberately stuck to nice things—how did he know?’
Whatever scene In Seongje was picturing, it was apparently a very bad memory. His expression looked like the moment you toss bitter powdered medicine into your mouth only to realize there’s no water.
“I feel like the word that least suits my brother is kind….”
“H-ha ha… Really? He’s a really good person, truly….”
“I wish I could show you what your face looks like right now, Secretary Cha.”
“Sorry?”
“Nothing. Here’s our food. Let’s eat.”
It was perfect timing—he had nothing left to praise.
The appetizing scent of tomato cream sauce made him suddenly hungry. Maybe it was his imagination, but even the aroma smelled expensive. He twirled the pasta around his fork and put it in his mouth.
The moment he ate, the rich acidity of tomato and the smooth, nutty cream spread across his mouth, and the noodles, cooked just right, were springy with the sauce soaked in. The plant-based protein, eaten with the sauce, had excellent flavor and texture. It was so good—easily the best pasta he’d ever had—that his fork wouldn’t stop.
“Slow down, Secretary Cha. You’ll give yourself indigestion.”
At the sound of In Seongje’s voice, he came to and saw his own plate more than half empty. The steak across from him had only a corner cut away.
“Sorry. I ate too fast, didn’t I….”
“I don’t mind. I’m just worried about you, Secretary Cha. Drink some water. Ah, I’m going to step out and take a call.”
As he said, Gyeoul took a sip of water and paused his meal. At the very least he wanted to match his pace to In Seongje’s. It was one of those times he sat fiddling pointlessly with his phone.
Suddenly the room felt a little stuffy. It felt warm, and the air felt stale. After a little longer, every breath he swallowed and exhaled felt like forcing its way through a clogged tunnel. Like he’d sprinted at full tilt, the air his lungs could swallow felt far too little.
“Haa—hah! Ha….”
Something was wrong.