The classic Hyundai Sonata glided quietly into the underground parking of a residential building in Samseong-dong. It wasn’t a luxury complex or a high-end tower — it was a one-room studio building, sober, immaculate, and deliberately discreet. The kind of place mid-level agencies typically rented to house their talents during the training period.
Once the engine cut off, Tae-shik was the first to step out. With his usual purposeful stride, he walked around the front of the car and opened the door for Sol-woo, who was already moving to get out of the passenger seat.
Before the young man had both feet on the ground, Tae-shik spoke in a low tone — instructive, firm, almost a whisper:
"Sol-woo-ssi, from now on, you sit in the back seat."
Sol-woo paused, looking at the manager with mild curiosity. Tae-shik adjusted his posture and continued with gravity:
"If someone photographs us in the future, or the press catches us on the street, having you in the front could bring unnecessary complications. In this country, the media and the forums are relentless about protocol — they’ll analyze everything from hierarchy to posture. We can’t afford to be careless. An artist always rides in the back."
Sol-woo absorbed the lesson immediately. He understood perfectly well that in Korean society, appearances and etiquette weren’t a mere formality — they were a form of public armor.
"Understood, Mr. Manager. I’ll keep that in mind going forward," Sol-woo replied with his characteristic composure, stepping out of the car.
In the elevator, the soft hum of the lift accompanied their ascent while Tae-shik walked him through the building’s specifics.
"This type of residence is designed specifically for the privacy of its occupants," the manager said in an even tone. "As you’ll notice, the elevators connect directly to the underground parking — so you won’t need to pass through the lobby or any public areas. Your apartment is mid-tower, on an intermediate floor. Mine is directly below yours, so I can be there immediately if you need anything."
Sol-woo listened to each instruction in silence, absorbing the stream of information. Despite having grown up in an affluent and influential American family, he had never experienced this level of monitoring and protocol in his everyday life — back there he’d been raised like anyone else. Now, all at once, he was being asked to adapt to living as a kind of adult-child under the industry’s guardianship.
"Mr. Manager," Sol-woo asked with genuine curiosity, "will you be the one buying my groceries and whatever else I need?"
Tae-shik held his gaze for a few seconds before answering with complete firmness:
"Exactly. You can’t just wander around freely. Even right now, when you’re practically unknown to the general public, people on the street can photograph you simply because of how you look and carry yourself. In the future, those images on social media could work in your favor — or become a headache. And when you grow as an artist, you’ll have your own staff handling those tasks, not just me. So start getting used to it."
Tae-shik’s tone wasn’t cold or authoritarian. He spoke with the clarity, authority, and care of a father guiding a son. Sol-woo appreciated that transparency enormously.
The elevator doors opened on their floor. They walked a few meters down the quiet hallway and stopped in front of the main door. Tae-shik handed him the access card.
"You open it. From today, this is your home. What happens from here on depends entirely on your own effort. If you need anything, just call me — I’ll be upstairs in seconds."
Sol-woo nodded, half-expecting the manager to step inside with him to look the place over. Instead, he watched the imposing man turn toward the stairwell, giving him his space.
Sol-woo slid the card into the electronic lock. The green light blinked with a soft beep. He pushed the door open.
Inside was an immaculate, functional, modern studio apartment. Nothing extravagant — the perfect refuge for one person: neutral-toned walls, a small kitchen stocked with the essentials, a wide wooden desk lit by a warm desk lamp, a built-in wardrobe, and at the far end, a neatly made bed facing a large window with a view of the city below. A clean, bare space, ready to be filled.
Sol-woo walked to the small sofa in the living area, dropped back against it, and let out a long breath toward the ceiling. Saying he wasn’t happy would be an outright lie. This new independence — the rhythm of this life — genuinely excited him.
Slowly, he started organizing his thoughts. He decided he’d call his mother in a bit to let her know he’d settled in. Without wasting more time, he got up, opened both suitcases in the middle of the room, and began unpacking — taking ownership of his new space piece by piece.
The hours passed like that. Sol-woo arranged every corner of the apartment, putting clothes and belongings in their places until everything was exactly where it should be.
Satisfied, he sat back on the sofa and dialed his mother’s number.
She picked up on the first ring and, with that firm but affectionate manner of hers, went straight in:
"You left without saying goodbye to me? The nerve of you."
Sol-woo, slightly embarrassed, let out a quiet laugh:
"Mom, relax — it’s not like I’ve gone far. I’ll send you my address in a minute. I’m doing really well, I promise."
On the other end of the line, she felt a contradictory mix of sadness and happiness. Sadness because she hadn’t been able to spend more time with him after six years apart — she’d wanted more days with him at home. But she understood that her son had made his choice with conviction, and she didn’t want to be irrational about it. And the happiness — seeing that spark in him filled something deep in her.
Hiding her emotions behind a mock-scolding tone, she answered:
"Send the address to your uncle too. If you need anything, he’ll be keeping an eye out — don’t you dare feel embarrassed about asking us for help. You’re starting from scratch and you’re going to need enough money."
Sol-woo, moved by his mother’s unwavering attention and care, answered with genuine warmth:
"Mom, I don’t need much money for now. And you remember that working as my father’s assistant in my spare time — I managed to save a decent amount. I’m actually planning to send half to you and keep the other half to exchange into won for my expenses."
She reacted immediately:
"Don’t you dare give me a single won. I have more than enough. You need that money — especially for everything you’re about to face. Take care of yourself properly. I don’t want to see my son being looked down on on television or on social media."
Sol-woo smiled at her unconditional protection and answered calmly:
"Then just wish me luck, Mom. For you, I’ll put a lot of time into the acting classes too. Who knows — maybe sooner than you think, you’ll be watching your son in major dramas and films."
His mother backed him completely, her voice vibrating with emotion:
"Good, good... That’s exactly what I want. Give everything you have and fly high, Sol-woo. Your mother will always be watching."
As she said those last words, she couldn’t hold it together anymore. A tear of deep emotion slid down her cheek — and not wanting her son to hear it, she ended the call abruptly.
Sol-woo heard the line go dead. He knew exactly what had just happened on the other end. Sitting on the sofa, he pressed the phone lightly between his hands — having a woman like that as his mother, failing her simply wasn’t an option.
He got up, walked to the large window, and looked out at the city lights below. A tide of joy, responsibility, and a boundless nostalgia settled over his chest, quietly preparing him for tomorrow.