Inside the elevator, he barely managed to keep a composed expression, but in truth, he was trembling so badly it was hard to control his body. Thankfully, once he stepped inside his apartment, there were no eyes on him—that was at least a small mercy.
Seon-woo hurriedly grabbed some clothes and rushed into the bathroom to shower. But there was something he’d forgotten in all the chaos from the cold. As he went to turn on the hot water to warm himself up, a notification popped up.
<Gwanggong cannot adjust the water temperature. Please shower with cold water.>
Even as he shivered uncontrollably, Seon-woo had no choice but to step under the cold stream. The moment the icy water touched his toes, he genuinely considered whether it might be better to skip the shower entirely and just dive under his blanket. But his personality wouldn’t allow it.
When the sunflower showerhead poured frigid water over his head, Seon-woo clenched his teeth to suppress any yelps like “Ack, cold!” or “Argh!” He fought through it with sheer willpower. Just as he was nearing the limits of his endurance, a welcome notification appeared.
<Your Gwanggong Score has increased by 3.>
<Your current Gwanggong Score is 50. Abnormal status has been lifted.>
<47 minutes remaining until full recovery from “Status Effect: Chills.”>
Should he be grateful that at least his score had gone up? Well, at least he didn’t have to throw a tantrum again trying to figure out what qualified as “proper Gwanggong behavior” like last time. That was something, he supposed.
Still trembling, Seon-woo hastily finished his shower and collapsed onto his bed. What he really wanted to do was curl up tight and burrow under the covers, but he held himself back—not wanting to undo the hard-earned progress on his score. Becoming a Gwanggong felt less like some grand journey and more like being a monk training under a waterfall.
Lying there under a pathetically thin blanket that did nothing to alleviate the cold, he waited. Forty-seven minutes had never felt so long in his life.
Exactly on the mark, when the 47 minutes were up, the trembling stopped as if someone had flipped a switch. He felt perfectly fine—like he hadn’t been freezing his ass off just minutes ago—and the sudden change was honestly a little unnerving. Apart from the existence of this system, life in this world wasn’t much different from reality… but moments like this drove home the fact that he was living inside a game.
Brushing off the sudden wave of reflection, Seon-woo grabbed his phone. He’d felt it vibrating a few times while he was lying there, so someone had clearly tried to reach him. But he’d resisted the urge to check until the status effect fully wore off.
There were five messages waiting for him. He’d assumed they’d be from Seung-hyeon, but that turned out to be a misjudgment. All of them were from Seo Eun-jae. He wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or disappointed.
Pushing aside the vague discomfort twisting in his gut, Seon-woo opened Eun-jae’s texts.
[Director, you left your wallet at my place.]
[Should I bring it to you? I figured you might need it right away…]
[Do you want me to come up to your apartment?]
[I’m heading over now.]
[I’m right outside your apartment.]
The moment Seon-woo read the message, he got up from his seat. He’d been wondering why Eun-jae had sent five texts—never imagined he’d actually come all the way here. About thirty minutes had passed since that last message saying he was in front of the apartment. Not a particularly long time, but not exactly short either—especially not in this kind of weather, waiting around outside.
Since there hadn’t been any further messages, it didn’t seem like he’d left yet. But what the hell was he thinking? Why just texts—why not a call? Guilt gnawed at him again at the thought of someone waiting outside for thirty minutes in the rain. Seon-woo hastily threw on a coat and opened the front door.
He went straight down to the first floor, but Eun-jae was nowhere in sight. Had he already left? Was that why he hadn’t called? But that didn’t quite make sense. This was Seo Eun-jae—he’d at least have left a message saying he was heading back.
Glancing around uncertainly, Seon-woo finally pulled out his phone and called him. The dial tone didn’t ring for long.
“Hello, Director?”
“Hey. I just saw your texts.”
“Ah…”
There was only a slow sigh on the other end, no further response. Growing a little frustrated, Seon-woo spoke again.
“Where are you right now?”
“I can see you.”
The reply came immediately, but it wasn’t exactly helpful. Seon-woo instinctively started to turn his head but stopped himself mid-motion. If he looked around too cluelessly, he’d probably get penalized again for not acting like a proper Gwanggong.
There was no way Eun-jae could’ve known that Seon-woo had frozen up awkwardly, but his timing was uncanny.
“Do you see the pavilion?”
This time, Seon-woo’s eyes zeroed in instantly. Eun-jae was sitting under the pavilion at the center of the apartment complex. It wasn’t close, and with the rain coming down, it was hard to say for sure if they’d made eye contact. But Eun-jae must’ve realized he’d been spotted, because he stood and waved both arms broadly.
Seon-woo hung up the call and widened his stride, walking briskly toward him. As the distance closed, Eun-jae stood up from his seat. Watching him bow his head in greeting as he approached brought back memories of how they’d parted earlier. It hadn’t been long—just a few hours ago—but the tension still lingered.
Replaying the strange moments that had taken place at Eun-jae’s house, Seon-woo felt his expression harden without realizing it. Eun-jae noticed and smiled.
“Director, what’s with that face?”
“……What about my face?”
“You look like you’re really not happy to see me.”
He’d been seen right through. It wasn’t that he disliked Eun-jae—but given the circumstances, it was hard to greet him cheerfully. Not that Eun-jae seemed to mind—he just laughed brightly.
“I can’t stay long anyway. I parked out front, but unless you live in this apartment complex, you can’t use the parking lot, right? I’ve got to get going before I get ticketed.”
For someone who supposedly couldn’t stay long, thirty minutes had already passed. If that was the case, then he definitely should’ve called. No matter how awkward their last encounter had been, Seon-woo would never intentionally leave someone standing out in the rain with no idea when—or if—he was coming.
The words that had been pushing up in his throat finally spilled out.
“You should’ve called. How was I supposed to know when I’d see your messages? Why just sit out here like this?”
Just then, a set of choices popped up, as if to elaborate on what he’d said. The timing caught him completely off guard.
▶ “So foolish.”
▶ “Without a word.”
Under normal circumstances, he would’ve chosen the second. It wasn’t like Eun-jae had said nothing—he had sent texts, after all—plus it wasn’t as harsh as the first one, and it still got the point across. But because the prompt had appeared so unexpectedly, Seon-woo reflexively picked the more aggressive response—one that didn’t quite match how he felt.
“So foolish.”
The words came out too smoothly, and no one was more surprised than Seon-woo himself. But Eun-jae didn’t seem fazed at all. In fact, even the system seemed pleased.
<Gwanggong Score has increased by 2.>
That was unexpected. Wasn’t he supposed to be trying to stay on Seo Eun-jae’s good side? No matter how inherently abrasive a typical Gwanggong was, one of the defining traits of his character was how he softened specifically around Eun-jae. Naturally, Seon-woo had assumed he should be picking gentler, more considerate words. The fact that a sharp remark had raised his score caught him completely off guard.
Before he could even process it, Eun-jae responded.
“I actually wasn’t going to come.”
It felt like an oddly timed confession. Seon-woo blinked, unsure if he’d heard right. But Eun-jae’s expression suggested he had. Bowing his head slightly, Eun-jae continued.
“I could’ve just given you the wallet tomorrow. It’s raining, and… well, I figured you wouldn’t be too inconvenienced without it for a day.”
“And even after I got here, I kept debating whether to call or not.”
Now that he was explaining, it all kind of made sense. And more than anything, it was hard to argue—Eun-jae was right. Not having his wallet for a night wouldn’t have caused Seon-woo any real problems.
Out of pure curiosity, Seon-woo asked,
“Then why did you come?”
Eun-jae gave a sheepish smile. He looked like he was searching for the right words before finally replying.
“I just… thought of you.”
That made Seon-woo avert his gaze. Something about the words, delivered so simply, made it hard to meet his eyes. Even after Seon-woo awkwardly turned his head, Eun-jae remained standing in place. It was difficult to face that gentle smile.
There was something almost pitiful in the way Eun-jae smiled—something subtle, something quiet. And every time Seo Eun-jae wore that look, the system would nudge Seon-woo, urging him forward.
<Seo Eun-jae’s smiling face makes your heart ache…>
It didn’t ache one bit, but it did make him flinch. What he felt was more like a tangled mix of guilt and discomfort. Seon-woo cleared his throat and spoke.
“You brought the wallet?”
Without a word, Eun-jae slipped his hand into his pocket and began searching. Soon, a sleek and clearly expensive wallet—undeniably Gwanggong-worthy—was pulled out and placed into Seon-woo’s outstretched hand. In the process, Eun-jae’s fingertips brushed against his palm.
“Oh—Director, your hands are freezing.”
Eun-jae’s comment came at just the right moment, almost too naturally. It was almost identical to what Seung-hyeon had said when he dropped him off earlier. The comparison triggered a jolt in Seon-woo’s expression, which Eun-jae picked up on immediately.
“Now that I look at you… why do you look so pale? Are you sick again?”
Again? He was supposed to be a Gwanggong, and yet here he was, already branded as fragile in Eun-jae’s eyes. Seon-woo shook his head, intending to say it was nothing.
But before he could speak, Eun-jae reached out and grabbed his hand. He didn’t meet Seon-woo’s gaze—just stared down at the hand he held. Seon-woo instinctively furrowed his brows but didn’t pull away.
<Gwanggong Score has increased by 2.>
As far as Seon-woo could tell, there was absolutely nothing “Gwanggong-like” about this interaction. He’d merely let Eun-jae hold his hand. It was exactly the same situation he’d had with Seung-hyeon—except then, his score had dropped. And now, just because it was Eun-jae instead, it increased. The disparity was absurd.
Since Eun-jae still had his head lowered, he didn’t see the confusion flitting across Seon-woo’s face. He only smiled faintly, a touch of melancholy in his expression, and said softly,
“I wasn’t going to come… but I’m glad I did.”
<Gwanggong Score has increased by 1.>
All Eun-jae had done was say something offhand, and Seon-woo had just listened—yet the score went up again. It was baffling.
Despite the creeping sense of doubt, there wasn’t much he could do except continue listening.
Then Eun-jae asked,
“You said… I’m not someone you really hate, right?”
There it was again. He’d answered that same question what felt like a dozen times already. If Eun-jae kept asking, did that mean he still didn’t trust Seon-woo’s words? Or… was it just that this part mattered that much to him?
Seon-woo gave an easy answer.
“I’ve said it plenty already, but—I don’t hate you.”
Should he have said something more? Added an explanation? But Eun-jae seemed satisfied with just that. He nodded.
“That’s enough.”
“……”
Seon-woo looked at his face for a moment. That quiet smile on Eun-jae’s lips was no different from usual—gentle and subdued.
