At Incheon International Airport, a young man stepped off the plane dragging two dark leather suitcases. He wore a black wool turtleneck with a clean, straight fall — the kind of understated piece that quietly announced old Newport money. Nothing flashy, yet his presence was impossible to ignore.
At nineteen, he stood well over six feet, with a lean frame and broad shoulders that occupied space without trying. His face was a precise combination of clean angles and predominantly Korean features: a sculpted jaw, high cheekbones, and jet-black hair falling in thick strands across his forehead. He looked like he’d been lifted from a magazine editorial — minus the makeup and the artifice of idols. Just genetics.
But what truly set him apart was his gaze. At first glance, his eyes appeared a deep brown, almost black. Under the direct glare of the airport’s fluorescent lights, however, they revealed their true shade: a hazel rimmed in mystery — a golden center encircled by a ring of smoky olive green. The kind of eyes that made people wonder whether he was entirely Korean.
He checked his watch: 8:00 a.m. exactly. He pulled out his phone and scrolled through his messages. His maternal uncle, Kang Min-ho, had written twenty minutes ago: Sol-woo-ya, running late. Traffic is bad on the Gimpo Bridge. Wait for me at Exit 4. Don’t move.
He pocketed the phone and started walking. Incheon Airport hummed at that hour — business travelers in sharp suits, flight attendants rolling carry-ons in formation, exhausted families dragging sleepy children. Despite the early hour, foot traffic was dense, moving with that constant, ordered flow particular to Asian airports.
He crossed the main lobby to a Western-style franchise café and stopped at the counter.
The woman behind the bar — mid-forties or so — looked up and froze for half a second. The kind of involuntary pause people make when they run into someone unexpectedly attractive and don’t know how to hide the impact.
He noticed. He didn’t react.
"Good morning," he said, his voice low and unhurried. "A strong Americano, please. No sugar."
The woman blinked, snapping out of it.
"Of course, right away," she answered with a nervous smile as she typed into the register.
Aigo... he’s gorgeous. Is he a celebrity? she thought to herself, glancing away toward the cups so she wouldn’t look obvious.
While she prepared the coffee, her nerves got the better of her and she nearly spilled it across the counter. He caught the cup just in time.
"I’m so sorry," she said.
He gave a slight shake of his head.
"No problem."
He took the coffee and sat at a nearby table. Opened his phone. March 21st. He pulled up the chat with his father. No new messages. The last one was his, from three weeks ago: I’m going to Korea. Do you want to talk before I leave? No reply.
Too proud to even write back? he thought.
He closed the chat and opened SoundCloud. His latest acoustic demo had twenty plays. He smiled — the bitter kind. At the counter, the woman caught that smile and stared for a long moment.
Ten minutes later, while he scrolled through the app, another message arrived from his uncle: Where are you? I told you to wait at Exit 4. You’re not here.
He typed back quickly: On my way.
He stood, returned to the counter to leave payment, and walked at a steady pace toward Exit 4. People watched him as he passed, openly. In South Korea, aesthetics mattered more than almost anything else, and a young man with that face and that height drew attention without asking for it.
Outside, his uncle Kang Min-ho was waiting beside a car parked in the pickup zone.
"You’re late," his uncle said when he saw him.
"The coffee," Sol-woo replied, holding up the paper cup.
Min-ho shook his head, but couldn’t hold back a smile. He popped the trunk.
"Get in. I’ll take you to your mother’s."
In the car, Sol-woo rode in the passenger seat, watching through the window. Six years since he’d last been back to Seoul. The city looked beautiful. He’d always liked Korea, but he’d never quite managed to put down roots — he’d grown up in the States under his father’s rigid hand and only came back during holidays to see his mother.
As he watched the urban landscape pass, his uncle broke the silence.
"Sol-woo-ya... What are you planning to do? What did your father say about you coming here?"
"I don’t want to think about that. My father wants me to study Law."
Min-ho glanced at him from the corner of his eye while he drove. His voice dropped to something warmer.
"It’s fine to take a break. You’ll be alright here in Korea — with your mother and me. You’ll figure it out. And if your father wants to force the issue, let him come. I’ll be here to greet him personally."
Sol-woo looked at him. He knew exactly how stubborn his uncle could be. He just nodded.
Min-ho turned on the radio to fill the space. The SBS Power FM announcer’s voice came through the speakers:
"...BTS continues to climb the Melon digital charts this week ahead of their upcoming comeback..."
His uncle glanced sideways at him. No reaction on his face — but Min-ho knew music had been Sol-woo’s obsession since childhood. The headphones always on, listening to everything from Western rock to Chinese ballads.
"Do you know who they are?" he asked.
Sol-woo nodded.
"Found them on YouTube. They mix melodic pop, electronic, and alternative rock. Good sound."
His uncle smiled, pleased to see him so informed.
"Kid, if you wanted to, you could take over the entire entertainment industry here. Look at you — you got your mother’s looks, but your father’s bitterness. You should stay."
Sol-woo turned back to the traffic crawling across the bridge.
"Would you support me if I decided to go after a future like theirs?"
His uncle went quiet. He could tell it wasn’t a question to joke around with.
"I would. Even if the entertainment world isn’t really my thing... if it’s yours, I’m with you. And so is your mother."
Sol-woo let out a short, slightly sardonic laugh.
"I’d have to think about it a thousand times over. When my father finds out, he’ll make my life hell."
Min-ho spoke plainly:
"What does your father matter? You’re nineteen. That same indecision is going to leave you doing neither one thing nor the other. Let me tell you something — you have to move forward. You can’t keep living in Thomas’s shadow."
Sol-woo nodded in silence. He knew it. But knowing it was easier than doing it. He’d grown up in a strict family where he never lacked for anything material, but where his dreams had always been shut down. Deep down, he didn’t want to study Law — but he didn’t want to carry the weight of disappointing his father either.
What was he supposed to do?
Lost in his thoughts, the drive felt short until they pulled up to his mother’s building.
The building was old, built sometime in the nineties. Two stories, a facade of red brick worn down by time. The ground floor held a small shuttered commercial unit, the metal shutter rolled down, a For Rent sign taped to the glass. An exterior metal staircase, slightly rusted, climbed to the second floor — flanked by pots of dried-out plants and a pair of abandoned old shoes.
His uncle parked along the narrow street in Mangwon-dong. The neighborhood was quiet at that hour. Just the distant rumble of a delivery motorcycle and the occasional bark of a dog.
Sol-woo stepped out of the car, grabbed his two suitcases, and looked up. The kitchen window was cracked open, and through it drifted the comforting smell of tofu soup and fermented kimchi.
His mother must be cooking.
He climbed the stairs, the metal steps ringing under his weight. At the landing, he stopped in front of the dark wooden door. The doorbell was broken. A small piece of paper held with tape read simply: Kang.
He knocked.
From inside came the sound of quick footsteps.
The door opened.
And there she was: Kang Eun-ji. A white apron dusted with flour, her hair pulled into a loose bun, and a smile that lit up the hallway instantly.
"Sol-woo-ya!" she exclaimed, eyes filling with tears.
He looked at her — and for the first time all day, he smiled. A real one.
"Hi, Mom."