The number flashing on the screen—Seung-hyeon’s—felt strangely unfamiliar. Seon-woo hesitated for a moment before picking up the call.
“Hello.”
A few seconds of silence passed before Seung-hyeon finally spoke.
— Yes, Director. It’s Gwak Seung-hyeon.
His voice was exactly the same as always. But in this situation, the fact that he sounded normal only made it feel more bizarre. The very act of him calling first had already been unexpected—but to sound this composed? That was something Seon-woo could never have anticipated. His mouth went dry, and he couldn’t manage a single response. Then came Seung-hyeon’s next words, which were even more stunning.
— Earlier… I was flustered, and I left without saying anything. I’m sorry.
Seon-woo froze, still gripping his phone.
After Seung-hyeon had walked off like that with Jo Jeong-hee, Seon-woo had considered every possible outcome. In his mind, it was a given that Seung-hyeon was finally, truly upset with him. The only question was how he would react. He might brood silently behind the scenes, or he might openly display his irritation. He could pretend everything was fine but never treat Seon-woo the same again.
There was also the possibility that he’d break their agreement to help, maybe even report Seon-woo’s erratic behavior to the Chairman. But Seon-woo figured Seung-hyeon wasn’t the type to go that far—maybe this would just blow over. If luck was on his side, maybe Jo Jeong-hee had explained things well enough for Seung-hyeon to find some understanding.
But still—this? He hadn’t imagined anything like this.
The possibility of Seung-hyeon calling first to apologize had never even crossed his mind.
Was it really guilt that made him call? Or did he think upsetting Seon-woo was the bigger issue, and so he buried his pride to act like nothing was wrong? Either way, the guilt on Seon-woo’s end was the same.
With a quiet sigh, Seon-woo replied.
“What exactly are you sorry for?”
He didn’t wait for a response. He was certain that whatever Seung-hyeon said next would leave him speechless again, so he jumped in first.
“Earlier, it was actually me who—”
He wanted to say he was sorry.
But he couldn’t. His lips were sealed shut like a clam, refusing to open. Seung-hyeon, perhaps sensing that Seon-woo wasn’t finished, said nothing and waited in silence. Seon-woo kept mouthing words, struggling desperately to say I’m sorry. And when that failed, he tried to at least get out something like I was out of line.
But after a long, heavy pause, it was Seung-hyeon who finally broke the silence.
— Director.
His voice was calm and steady. Seon-woo began to wonder if perhaps Seung-hyeon hadn’t been waiting for his words, but was instead organizing his own thoughts.
And so, Seon-woo finally opened his mouth with a heavy tone.
“…What is it.”
His lips, which had refused to part when he wanted to apologize, opened easily this time.
He waited tensely to hear what Seung-hyeon would say next, but what came out of Seung-hyeon’s mouth was… quite unexpected.
It was completely out of the blue.
— Would you like to grab a drink?
It was the last thing Seon-woo expected to hear at a moment like this. He had been struggling to muster up an apology, and now he was just… dumbfounded. But Seung-hyeon wasn’t the type to say things without a reason, so Seon-woo instinctively assumed there must be some purpose behind it.
Mouth slightly ajar, he hesitated, searching for a response. He knew all too well that, according to the system’s logic, agreeing right now would be the wrong choice. And yet—
“…Sure.”
The words left his lips as if he were under a spell. And the moment he said it, regret came crashing in.
<Your Gwanggong Score has decreased by 2!>
Like clockwork, the notification appeared. Seon-woo sighed and shut his eyes.
***
By the time he arrived at the place they’d agreed to meet, Seung-hyeon was already there waiting. The moment he saw Seon-woo, he spoke up immediately.
“That’s weird.”
No “Hello.” No “You’re here.” Just: That’s weird. Seon-woo responded with a weary voice.
“What’s weird now?”
“It’s really weird…”
Instead of answering, Seung-hyeon simply repeated himself with a soft chuckle. When Seon-woo stared at him in disbelief, he finally elaborated.
“That you’re actually here right now.”
Seon-woo considered what to say, then chose silence instead. He had learned from experience that, when it came to preserving his Gwanggong Score, keeping his mouth shut was often the smarter choice. Since he gave no reply, Seung-hyeon simply smiled and walked ahead, leading them into the venue. The sign for the upscale bar shimmered in the low light.
Seon-woo had been sure that the next time he saw Seung-hyeon, he’d be met with a cold, angry face. But instead of any stern expression, the same familiar smile greeted him—so natural, so normal—that he found himself wondering if it was Seung-hyeon who was odd… or himself.
The moment they stepped inside the bar, the system chimed in again.
< Gwanggongs only drink in their own home or on hotel rooftop bars. Your Gwanggong Score has decreased by 1.>
But honestly, wouldn’t it be weirder if the Sub-Gong dragged the Gwanggong to a hotel rooftop bar? Seon-woo figured a one-point drop wasn’t worth stressing over and let it slide.
They settled into a secluded corner of the bar where outside noise barely reached them. Even in the dim atmosphere, their presence drew the occasional glance—just subtle enough to notice. Seon-woo kept his eyes fixed on the table, deliberately ignoring the curious stares.
For a long while, neither of them spoke. They just passed the bottle back and forth in silence. When they finally finished the first one, it was once again Seung-hyeon who broke the quiet.
“I thought I knew you well, Director.”
Another curveball—he started the conversation with something completely unexpected. Was he drunk? Seon-woo studied his face just in case, but there wasn’t the faintest hint of intoxication. He looked perfectly composed.
“But now… I feel like I don’t know you at all.”
There was a subtle nuance to Seung-hyeon’s tone. Seon-woo reflexively cleared his throat, unsure where to place himself. The question What kind of person did you think I was? rose all the way to his throat but didn’t make it out. Still, it was as if Seung-hyeon had read his mind.
“You’re not the type to lie, Director. Especially not about something so far-fetched like amnesia.”
Something so far-fetched, he’d said—and honestly, Seon-woo couldn’t blame him. He himself had thought the same thing. It was such an outlandish excuse that he was still amazed Seung-hyeon had believed it at all. Back then, he hadn’t said anything, but it seemed Seung-hyeon had indeed doubted it in his own way.
“But earlier, I wasn’t so sure anymore.”
It was vague, and Seon-woo needed a moment to decipher it. So, earlier… he’d considered the possibility that the memory loss wasn’t real? Because of how Seon-woo had acted around Jo Jeong-hee?
“I was angry, too…”
Seung-hyeon continued. And with that, Seon-woo felt a sudden, guilty pang. It would’ve been stranger if he hadn’t been angry—but hearing Seung-hyeon admit it still made Seon-woo feel all kinds of tangled inside.
“I’m sorry.”
Again, he ended with an apology. Seon-woo was at a loss for words. Was he supposed to justify his supposed amnesia with a long-winded explanation? Or should he just lash out like a proper Gwanggong? Normally, a situation like this would’ve triggered a system prompt—but tonight, oddly enough, the system remained silent. It just chipped away at his Gwanggong Score without offering any dialogue options.
Seon-woo imagined the standard Gwanggong responses he should be giving:
“You dragged me all the way here just to say that?”
“Are you saying you dared to doubt my word?”
“What do you want me to do—get on my knees in front of your mother because I lost my memory?”
With these snarky answers running through his mind, Seon-woo finally opened his mouth—slowly.
“You believe me now?”
Seung-hyeon answered with careful deliberation.
“I do.”
Then he added one more line.
“It’s not that I doubted you. I just…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. Instead, he let out a soft laugh. Shaking his head slightly, he muttered, “Never mind,” and reached for his wine glass again.
Seon-woo watched him quietly.
Nothing was going the way he expected it to.
Maybe that was why—on impulse—he blurted it out.
“We should have a meal sometime.”
Seung-hyeon looked up, puzzled. The expression on his face clearly said, Huh?—so Seon-woo offered a bit more explanation.
“Your aunt… said I should join her for a meal sometime. So I figured… maybe we could do that.”
Seung-hyeon’s eyes widened. Seon-woo couldn’t tell whether it was the word ‘aunt’ coming from his mouth that startled him, or the suggestion itself. Maybe both. He lifted his glass and took another drink.
Just like when he’d accepted Seung-hyeon’s offer for a drink, Seon-woo regretted it the moment the words left his mouth. And this time, it was because of the system notification that came instantly on cue.
<Your Gwanggong Score has decreased by 4!>
<Current Gwanggong Score: 48>
<Due to low Gwanggong Score, a status effect is being applied…>
Even Seon-woo couldn’t understand his own actions anymore.
The system’s constant efforts to restrict his every move were suffocating. Anyone in his position would feel the same. But even if he hated how the system worked, there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. Stray from the predetermined path, and the Gwanggong Score drops. Let it drop too far, and debilitating status effects kick in, making even daily life a chore.
Originally, Gwak Seon-woo was just your average member of society—the kind of person who accepted reality as it was. He lived with quiet diligence, working within the limits he was given. Even when he suddenly found himself trapped in this ridiculous “Become the Gwanggong” project, it was that same adaptability that helped him come to terms with it relatively quickly.
So, even if he felt repulsed by the idea of becoming romantically entangled with Seo Eun-jae like the system clearly wanted, he still tried to follow the rules in other areas. If the system wanted him to treat Gwak Seung-hyeon with indifference—or even hostility—then that’s what he had planned to do. It was the safer choice. At the very least, it would stop the score drops every time they spoke.
If only Seung-hyeon hadn’t called today.
If only he hadn’t apologized first.
If only he hadn’t said, despite all his confusion, that he believed him.
Then Seon-woo would’ve gone through with it. He really would’ve.
“…Hah…”
But Seung-hyeon hadn’t done any of those things.
And that’s why Seon-woo couldn’t go through with it either.
He let out a slow, frustrated breath, pressing his palm against his forehead. Then he raised his head—and looked straight into Seung-hyeon’s eyes.
