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# Chapter 29: The Threshold of Gangnam
Gangnam Station sat deeper underground than anywhere else in Seoul. Eight levels down. It felt like the entrance to another world entirely. The station announcements displayed English subtitles. The perfume rising from people’s clothes carried a different price tag. Every advertisement on the platform belonged to a luxury brand. Seo-ah took the escalator toward Exit 11. It didn’t feel like climbing one step at a time—it felt like the world was pushing her upward.
The moment she emerged onto the street, she couldn’t breathe.
Gangnam was the opposite of Hapjeong, where she lived. The height of the buildings, the pace of people’s footsteps, the distance to the sky—everything was different. The tree-lined street was meticulously trimmed. Every café window gleamed. The pedestrians walked as though performing for an invisible audience. Seo-ah opened her hands. Her fingernails were chipped. Dark marks from the convenience store barcode scanner stained her knuckles. She shoved her hands into her pockets.
7:58 PM. Kang Ri-woo appeared exactly at eight.
He wore a gray cashmere coat. It looked light, he might have said—but that lightness itself felt heavy. The coat didn’t merely cover his body. It declared something about who he was. Seo-ah looked down at her black padded jacket. She’d bought it last winter. The stuffing had already shifted to one side.
“Hello,” Ri-woo said first. His voice remained calm, yet something else threaded through it. Victory? Apology? Seo-ah couldn’t tell.
“Hi.”
“Let’s walk a bit further.”
Ri-woo took her wrist. His hand was warm. Seo-ah couldn’t remember when his hand had become warm. Had it always been? Or had she simply needed to remember it that way? As she followed him, she felt like she was drowning. The world’s pace slowed. Voices became muffled. Her own legs moved as though they belonged to someone else.
Ri-woo led her to a café. Gray exterior walls. Minimal signage. Glass that reflected like mirrors. Inside was shocking—completely empty. A staff member stood behind the counter, but not a single customer occupied the seating area. 8:10 PM, during business hours.
“This place?”
“A friend runs it. Nobody comes at this time.”
Ri-woo walked toward a table in the back. He seated her across from him, then sat down himself.
“I brought you here for a few reasons.”
He placed his hands on the table. His fingers were long, time accumulated on his skin like sediment. Seo-ah’s hands, by contrast, bore only movement—doing things, caring for people, perpetually in motion.
“First, I want to apologize. When I told my father about you, I thought I could protect you. But reality wasn’t that simple. What my father heard wasn’t ‘a talented new artist.’ It was ‘something that needs to be controlled.’”
Seo-ah said nothing. As she listened, she realized she’d lost something. She still hadn’t submitted the contract, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that Min-joon—Ri-woo’s father—now knew she existed. And the moment he knew, she was no longer safe.
“I see.”
“Second, your contract situation has become complicated. Officially, they still want you. Your music is good. But unofficially… they’re going to try to freeze you out. Because you’re a variable that could influence me.”
“Me?”
Seo-ah was stunned. She’d never imagined having any influence over Ri-woo. He lived in Gangnam. He was the son of JYA Entertainment’s chairman. He had warm hands. She lived in Hapjeong. She worked at a convenience store. She couldn’t submit the contract. The distance between them was too vast.
“You’re my deviation. The most dangerous kind, from my father’s perspective. If I help you, I’m defying him. And that destabilizes the company structure. So he’ll never let you go. Not until there’s a way forward.”
Ri-woo paused, studying her for a long moment. The dark circles beneath his eyes ran deep—as though he hadn’t slept in days.
“Third. This is the most important part.”
He reached into his jacket and pulled out something. A white envelope. Seo-ah stared at it, confused.
“What is this?”
“Do-hyun’s academy fees. Your mother’s medication. And…”
He placed the envelope on the table.
“Everything needed to protect you. Lawyer’s fees. Legal consultations. Everything you’ll need to endure this.”
Seo-ah looked at the envelope and felt tears approaching. But they didn’t come. Instead, her face burned. As though fire was burning inside her body. This wasn’t gratitude. It was fear.
“What happens if I take this?”
“Things get complicated,” Ri-woo answered simply. It was the most honest response possible.
“What do you mean, complicated?”
“If I help you, my father monitors me more closely. And you become a target too. We both become pieces on my father’s chessboard. But… there’s no other way.”
Ri-woo’s hand moved again. This time, searching for hers on the table. He placed her hand inside his own. It was warm. Always warm.
“I trust you. And I won’t give up on you. Even if it’s complicated, dangerous, even if it hurts us both.”
Seo-ah felt how small her hand was inside his. As though she’d always been small. Or perhaps he made her small. She couldn’t understand the difference.
“There’s one more thing.”
Ri-woo spoke again.
“Do you know Park So-jin?”
“No.”
“A new JYA artist. Someone my father recently debuted. I have something to show you.”
He pulled out his phone and played a music video. Korean lyrics. A soft melody. A clear voice. But Seo-ah knew this song.
Exactly because she’d written it.
Seo-ah’s face went pale. She pulled her hand from his and grabbed the phone. She paused the video. Played it again. Paused it again. As though she could prove the song was written by someone else, anyone else.
“Who’s credited as the composer?”
“Producer Park In-cheol. Composition team.”
“This is my song.”
Her voice trembled.
“I know. I know, my father knows, In-cheol knows. But the world doesn’t.”
When Ri-woo said this, Seo-ah felt anger for the first time. Not anger that turned to tears. Not anger that became words. This was fire burning inside her body. Like a match girl lighting matches, growing warm while simultaneously disappearing—Seo-ah realized that the more she felt this anger, the smaller she became.
“Why did you show me this?”
“To wake you up. You don’t realize what you’re losing. The contract is just paper. The real problem is your music disappearing under someone else’s name. And my father will keep doing it. While controlling you.”
He took the phone back.
“This isn’t your first song. You might not know, but your music has already been sold in multiple places. Without your name.”
Seo-ah felt the world shift beneath her. Songs she’d stayed up all night creating. Songs she’d wanted to sing in her own voice. Songs that were proof of her existence—they were living and breathing under someone else’s name.
“What am I supposed to do?”
“First, take the envelope. And don’t submit the contract. After that…”
He paused.
“After that?”
“After that, we figure it out together.”
Ri-woo took her hand again. Seo-ah couldn’t pull away, but couldn’t leave it either. She simply sat there. Under the fluorescent lights of the café. In the deep underground of Gangnam. In a world where her music lived and breathed under someone else’s name.
“Can I say one more thing?”
Ri-woo asked quietly.
“What?”
“You’re angry right now. That’s good. Because anger can become action. But think about who that anger should be directed at. It could be me. It could be my father. It could be In-cheol. Or it could be yourself. Where do you want it to go?”
Seo-ah couldn’t answer. The reason was simple: she didn’t know. Should she be angry at the people who stole her music? At the system that exploited her? Or at this man who claimed to protect her while dragging her deeper underwater?
“Go home now. You have work tomorrow. And Hae-ul will worry.”
Ri-woo stood. Seo-ah followed. They left the café together, walking to Gangnam Station. They didn’t speak a single word on that walk. Just walked. His warm hand and her cold hand, together.
At the top of the subway stairs, Ri-woo stopped.
“You go down. I go up. We have to go in different directions.”
“When will we meet?”
“I don’t know. Until my father makes his next move. Until then, stay quiet. And…”
Ri-woo looked at her. Something desperate flickered in his eyes.
“And never forget you’re not alone.”
He released her hand. Seo-ah descended the stairs. She didn’t look back. If she did, she’d want to climb back up. Sitting in the subway car, she touched the white envelope in her pocket. It was heavy. Not with the weight of money, but the weight of responsibility.
Her phone rang. Hae-ul.
“Where are you? Still in Gangnam?”
“No. I’m on the subway.”
“That guy?”
“We parted ways.”
“Good. Let’s meet later then. What are you doing?”
“I don’t know. I think… I’m going home.”
“Not home. Come to my shop. I have something for you.”
Hae-ul hung up. Seo-ah picked up the envelope again. What was inside? Just money? Or something else? She didn’t open it. She wasn’t ready.
The subway continued moving. From Gangnam to Hapjeong. From deep underground to shallow underground. Seo-ah saw her reflection in the window. That face held no anger. No sadness. No emotion at all.
Only emptiness.
Like a match already burned out.
Hae-ul’s shop sat deep in an alley behind Hongdae. It took fifteen minutes to walk from Hapjeong Station. 9:30 PM. The shop still had its lights on. Hae-ul was tattooing someone’s arm. When Seo-ah entered, Hae-ul didn’t stop.
“Sit.”
Seo-ah sat in a chair in the corner. And waited. Until the customer left.
“There. Done.”
The customer stood. Something in red script was etched on their arm. Seo-ah couldn’t read what it said. The customer left, and Hae-ul sat across from her.
“Did something happen?”
“No.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Then take this.”
Hae-ul handed her something. A small design sheet. On it was drawn a match. Very meticulously. Very beautifully.
“What is this?”
“A tattoo design. For you. Want one on your shoulder?”
Seo-ah looked at that drawing and felt tears coming. But still, they didn’t fall. Instead, she embraced Hae-ul. Without words. Just held her. And Hae-ul accepted that embrace.
“Let’s fight together, okay? You’re not alone.”
Hae-ul whispered.
Seo-ah heard those words and realized she wasn’t alone. Ri-woo was there. Hae-ul was there. Do-hyun was there. Her mother was there. And most importantly, her music still lived inside her. Even if it was sold under someone else’s name, even if someone else sang it, her voice remained hers.
The flames of Gangnam were beautiful. But the flames of Hapjeong burned hotter.