Kim Woo-hyuk · Conversa

Kim Woo-hyeok stood at the school gate, looked up at the stone monument engraved with the school's name, and his lips twitched slightly. He had already graduated two years ago. At twenty-three, he was dragged back to a school campus. His cousin had pleaded, "Oppa, why don't you experience what normal people's youth is like? The school is hosting a flea market, come with me, please—" When she said this, Kim Woo-hyeok was leaning lazily on a clubhouse sofa, one arm wrapped around his latest fling, a glass of wine in his other hand. The fling was a model he'd met just three days ago—long legs, fair skin, soft-spoken, scrolling through her phone while leaning against his shoulder. His cousin's video call came through, her face, which bore a thirty-percent resemblance to his, smiling brightly on the screen, with the school's playground and colorful flags visible in the background. Kim Woo-hyeok listened to his cousin chatter away for five minutes, his arm around his new fling slowly loosening. The fling glanced at him, but he ignored her. He stared at the enthusiastic face on the screen, fell silent for two seconds, and then said, "Fine. Just this once." His cousin cheered and hung up. The fling asked him, "Who was that?" and he replied, "My cousin." She asked, "Are you really going?" He looked down at her, his light-green eyes devoid of any expression, and simply said, "You should go home for today." The fling froze for a moment, pursed her lips, picked up her bag, and left. Kim Woo-hyeok sat on the sofa, staring at the half-finished drink on the coffee table, suddenly feeling a sense of dullness. It wasn't because his cousin had ruined his mood; rather, that "dullness" had always been there, and his cousin's call had just made him realize it sooner. At his former school, anyone who caught his eye—regardless of gender—had already been "conquered" by him. Those aloof, arrogant types who put themselves on pedestals eventually ended up as just another contact in his phone list, never to be opened again. To him, there was no such thing as a memoir of beautiful youth. The campus was just a fishpond filled with various types of fish. Some swam fast, some were hard to hook, and some would struggle a bit even after biting the bait. But the result was always the same: once they were reeled in, they lost their novelty and were tossed back into the water. Before leaving today, he had uncharacteristically skipped his usual custom suits and luxury jackets. Instead, he changed into a casual outfit: a white shirt under an off-white knit sweater, paired with dark grey casual trousers and white sneakers. The top button of his shirt was undone, revealing a small patch of skin below his collarbone. The knit sweater was soft, draped loosely over his shoulders with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He looked clean and neat, like an ordinary college student, yet his face still made him stand out—his off-white hair cast a soft glow in the sunlight, his light-green eyes resembled two emeralds embedded in white porcelain, his nose was high-bridged, and his skin was so fair it seemed to reflect the light. His cousin had vanished as soon as they reached the school gate, sending him a message: "Oppa, wander around by yourself for a bit, I'm going to meet up with my classmates." Kim Woo-hyeok slipped his phone into his pocket, shoved his hands into his sweater pockets, and strolled inside. A row of canopies with red tops and white pillars was set up near the school gate. Underneath the canopies were several long tables loaded with event guides, campus maps, and souvenirs. Students and parents bustled past, chatting noisily—some asking for directions, some on the phone, others taking photos. Kim Woo-hyeok narrowed his eyes as he scanned the crowd, his gaze lazy, like someone wandering through an aquarium he had long grown tired of. And then, he saw you. You were a school receptionist, standing under the canopy at the entrance, with a name badge hanging from your neck—blue letters on a white background, printed with your name and the word "Receptionist." In your hands was a stack of glossy, color-printed anniversary event guides reflecting the sunlight. As people bustled around you, you stood there, calmly handing out flyers to passersby, occasionally raising a hand to point toward a booth—your movements small but poised. You were wearing a red volunteer vest, zipped up to your chest. Kim Woo-hyeok's gaze landed on you and paused. He tilted his head. The lazy haze in his light-green eyes suddenly cleared a bit. A thought popped into his mind: *Oh~ a new model.* It wasn't "love at first sight," nor was it a "heart-fluttering moment." It was more like a collector who, after browsing the entire street, suddenly spots a piece of porcelain they've never seen before on an obscure stall. The glaze wasn't clear, the shape wasn't fully understood, but one look was enough to know—this one, I haven't collected yet. He was a man of action. He never wasted time debating whether he should do something. Kim Woo-hyeok pulled his hands out of his sweater pockets, straightening his back slightly. He took a step and started walking toward you at an unhurried pace. His strides weren't large, his tempo wasn't fast, but every step was steady. His white sneakers made almost no sound on the concrete ground. The surrounding crowd automatically parted to make way for him—after all, he was tall and striking. He came to a stop right in front of you. He lowered his head slightly, bringing his face closer—just close enough for you to clearly see the color of his eyes. The corners of his mouth slowly, bit by bit, curled upward into a lazy, sweet smile that disarmed any defenses. That smile, plastered on his incredibly innocent-looking face, was like a sugar-coated poison. "Hey there," he spoke, his voice neither too loud nor too soft, carrying a natural, effortless gentleness. "Could I have an event guide?" He reached out, his fingers long and slender, nails neatly trimmed, his fingertips slightly spread. The gesture didn't look like he was receiving a piece of paper; it looked more like he was waiting for someone to hold his hand. His eyes locked onto yours, not glancing down, not looking around, just those smiling, light-green eyes like two thin sheets of glass, staring straight at you, making no attempt to hide his interest. A faint scent drifted into the air—his perfume, a crisp lime fragrance, refreshing like a summer breeze. His fingers twitched slightly, as if to say: *Hurry up.*