CHAPTER 4

Sleepy head

The hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of Jongno’s nightlife were the only things filling the silence of The Elixeria.

Lee Shi-woo hadn’t intended to close his eyes. He had only meant to rest them for a second, to escape the throbbing rhythm of his bandaged hand and the heavy weight of the "Hidden Masters" file on his screen. But the warmth of the restaurant—the lingering scent of roasted garlic and the steady, rhythmic sound of Chief Kang Min-ho cleaning the prep station had acted like a sedative on his frayed nerves.

Min-ho paused, a white cloth in his hand, and looked at the corner. Shi-woo was out cold. His head was resting on his left arm, his messy hair fanning out over the counter. In sleep, the hard, defensive lines of his face had softened, revealing a boyish vulnerability that made him look younger than his years.

Min-ho’s first instinct was to shake him awake and kick him out. “This isn’t a hotel,” he’d usually say. But he looked at the white gauze on Shi-woo’s right hand and remembered the blood on the brick wall.

He felt a sharp tug of something not kindness, he told himself, but perhaps the empathy he thought he had buried years ago.

"Chief? Should I wake him?" Ji-hoon, the part-time server, whispered as he grabbed his jacket to head home.

Min-ho didn't even look at the boy. He grabbed his own coat and headed for the stairs that led to his small apartment above the shop.

"No. Let the idiot sleep. Just wake him up when you lock the main gate. If he’s still here when I come down for breakfast, I’m charging him rent."

Min-ho disappeared upstairs without a backward glance, leaving the young designer to dream in the dark.

At 2:00 AM, the sharp rattle of the front gate jolted Shi-woo awake. Ji-hoon was standing there, looking apologetic. "Hey, Designer-ssi. Time to go. The Chief went up hours ago."

Shi-woo sat up, his neck clicking painfully. He felt a surge of hot, prickly embarrassment the kind of "anger-shame" that usually made him shut down. He had shown weakness in front of the one person he needed to impress. He packed his laptop with jerky, hurried movements, avoiding Ji-hoon’s eyes.

As he walked out into the cool night air, his phone vibrated in his pocket. It was a message from Sora.

Sora: “I saw the Director today. He’s so impressed with the Tech project! I told him you’re working hard on the Chief. I believe in you, Shi-woo-ya. You’re the only one I can trust. Eat well!”

The anger that had been bubbling in his chest cooled instantly. The words “believe in you” and “only one I can trust” acted like a balm on his bruised ego. For a man who felt like a ticking bomb, her words were the cooling water. He stood in the middle of the empty street and smiled at his screen, feeling a renewed sense of purpose. He would get that signature. For her.

The Weekend arrived

Shi-woo’s own life was a reflection of his internal state. His condo in Mapo was sleek, minimalist, and lonely. On Saturday, he drove to his parents' house on the outskirts of Seoul. It was a modest home, always smelling of his mother’s fermented soybean stew.

He sat at the table, his bandaged hand tucked under his thigh to hide it from his mother's sharp eyes. He listened to his family chatter, but he felt like a ghost. His mind kept drifting back to the orange glow of the restaurant and the files, harsh words of the Chief.

Suddenly, his phone buzzed. It was an unsaved number, but he knew the area code. It was Jongno.

> Unknown: “Don’t come to my shop if you are not well. I saw your hand. Anyways, I’m not going to sign. Don’t waste your efforts and don’t ruin my atmosphere. Stay home.”

Shi-woo stared at the screen. The bluntness of the message should have made him explode. Any other person telling him to "stay home" would have triggered his silent rage.

But as he read it, he felt a strange, stubborn heat rise in his chest.

He didn't text back. He wouldn't give Min-ho the satisfaction of an argument. He simply looked at the message and whispered to himself, "Let's see about that, Chief."

To Shi-woo, a "no" wasn't a rejection anymore; it was a challenge. He put the phone face down on the table, a small, defiant smirk playing on his lips. He wasn't doing this just for Sora anymore. He was doing it because for the first time in years, someone had looked past his "polite designer" mask and seen the fire underneath even if that person was a cynical chef who claimed not to believe in anything.

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