이 포스팅은 쿠팡 파트너스 활동의 일환으로, 이에 따른 일정액의 수수료를 제공받습니다.
# Chapter 37: Preparing to Burn
Haneul wasn’t drinking her ramen broth. Instead, she sat in a plastic chair, watching Saea. Each time Saea lifted noodles with her chopsticks, Haneul’s eyes followed. It was the way someone observes an animal they’re feeding—a gaze of concern, a diagnostic gaze.
“Do you really think that’s love?”
Haneul asked. Saea answered while chewing her noodles.
“Who said it was love?”
“You didn’t. But he did. Kang Riou. ‘I’ll protect you,’ ‘I want to make you mine’—that’s the language of love, Saea. But to me, it looks like something else.”
Saea drank the broth. It was scalding hot, burning her mouth. The pain eclipsed everything from that day—a moment where sensation simplified, where thought became impossible.
“What do you think it is?”
“Control. And an attempt to call it love. I’ve seen a lot of it in Gangnam. Fathers do it to their sons. ‘It’s for your sake,’ they say. And I know what happens to those sons later.”
The fluorescent light hummed overhead—an old fixture. Saea listened to that humming and wondered if it too was someone’s choice. Had the building’s owner selected this light because they liked it? Or was it simply cheap?
“What exactly did Dohyun say? Word for word.”
Haneul asked. Saea thought of Dohyun’s messages. He texted often—frequently, but always briefly, in that MZ generation style. Yet within those short words lay precise observation.
“’Why are you like this lately, noona? Your face is blank. And that guy keeps calling, but you always answer. Just say you like him if you do. Why do you keep avoiding it while still picking up? What is that?’”
Saea replicated Dohyun’s voice perfectly, even his intonation. Haneul nodded at hearing it.
“Seventeen years old and already sees everything. And you? What did you tell him?”
Saea didn’t answer. She kept eating her ramen. The broth was cooling, the oil beginning to show. That was ramen’s true nature—delicious when hot, but disgusting once cold. Not all food was like that. Some things tasted fine when cooled. But not ramen.
“Saea. I’m asking you sincerely. What are you doing right now?”
Haneul’s voice changed—quieter. A quiet voice was more dangerous than a loud one. It was the tone of an ultimatum.
“What does it look like I’m doing?”
“Self-harm. Slow self-harm. Starting with a finger, then eventually everything. And in the process, you become completely dependent on that person—Kang Riou. Then he’ll be happy. His father will be happy. And you… you’ll disappear. Slowly, quietly.”
Saea set down her ramen bowl. The plastic scraped against the table—a small sound, but loud in the empty break room.
“It was my choice.”
“Does that make it okay? A prison you chose isn’t a prison? Saea, you signed that contract because you had to feed Dohyun, because you had to take care of your mom. But now? What about now?”
Saea looked at Haneul’s face. The face of a tattoo artist. Always smiling. But not now. Saea knew how rare that expression was.
“Do you know what Kang Riou told me? Why he quit piano in Berlin. His father got him a third-place finish, and that third place ruined his life. It destroyed his confidence. So now he wants to protect me from experiencing that. He wants to heal his trauma through me.”
Haneul sighed.
“That’s not healing—that’s replication. Locking someone up so they don’t receive the wounds you received. What’s that? Love? No. That’s fear. And that fear suffocates other people.”
Saea looked at her fingers—her own fingers, a session vocalist’s fingers, fingers that sang other people’s songs. They were trembling. When had it started? At some point, without realizing it, her fingers began to shake. Like Kang Riou’s. Like that pianist’s.
“What should I do?”
Saea asked. It was a genuine question—the question of someone with no answers, someone with no options.
“First, you need to reread your JYA contract. All 45 pages, from beginning to end. You need to know exactly what you lost and what you gained. After that, you need to put distance between you and Kang Riou.”
“Distance?”
“Yes. He’s monitoring you, so why do you keep taking his calls? Why do you keep meeting him? Why?”
Saea couldn’t answer. She didn’t know why. That was the real problem—she didn’t understand why she needed Kang Riou. Love? Dependence? Fear? Hope? It was all mixed together. And in that mixture, Saea was slowly dissolving.
“Haneul, I… I can’t be alone. I’m afraid when I’m alone. I’m afraid of that company. I’m afraid of that contract. So I need someone beside me. Someone to protect me.”
Haneul took Saea’s hand. A tattoo artist’s hand. It was warm—warm like Kang Riou’s hand. But it was a different kind of warmth. Not the warmth of domination, but the warmth of togetherness.
“Then I’ll be beside you. You’re not alone. Never. And you need to renegotiate the contract with that company. Not alone, but with someone. Or with a legal advisor.”
“A legal advisor? I don’t have that kind of money…”
“You do. I’ll help. And also…”
Haneul touched the area below Saea’s collarbone with her finger—where the tattoo was. The shape of a matchstick. Something Saea had done a few days ago.
“This. What is this? Why a matchstick?”
Saea didn’t answer. She didn’t know herself—why a matchstick, why she’d asked Haneul, “Can you make it look like a matchstick?” It was just an impulse in that moment, a feeling like something burning. She wanted to express it. So a matchstick. Not a flame, but a match. The thing before the flame.
“Does it have another meaning?”
“I don’t know. I just did it on impulse.”
“A match can’t burn alone. A match only has meaning when it burns something else. But you? You’re trying to burn yourself. For other things. That’s the essence of a match—consuming yourself to illuminate something else. But you, Saea, you’re burning for other things. For Dohyun. For your mom. For Kang Riou. And now for JYA. When are you going to burn for yourself?”
As Saea listened, she understood how much she had endured. And that she had endured it all for others alone.
The fluorescent light continued humming. Saea listened to that sound. It was like her heartbeat—beating continuously, but eventually, someday, it would stop. When would that be? Soon? Or far away?
“What are you doing tomorrow?”
Haneul asked. An ordinary question, but heavy for Saea right now.
“The convenience store. And then…”
“And then what?”
“I’ll probably get a call from Kang Riou.”
“Don’t take it. Don’t take it tomorrow.”
“But…”
“No ‘buts.’ Just give yourself one day. One day to breathe. And during that day, reread the contract. You need to understand exactly what it means. Only then can you move forward.”
Saea nodded. But even as she nodded, she knew the truth—that tomorrow she would take Kang Riou’s call. She wouldn’t be able to refuse. Because without that call, she felt like she wouldn’t exist. And that feeling terrified her most of all.
Haneul stood up.
“What about this evening? The convenience store?”
“Yeah. Six PM to 2 AM.”
“Then I’ll come by around ten. And you should be reading those contract pages until I get there. At least twenty pages.”
“Okay.”
Saea answered. But that answer was a lie. She wouldn’t read the contract that evening. Instead, she would wait for Kang Riou’s call. And when he called, she knew she would answer.
Haneul left the break room. Saea was alone. The ramen bowl sat on the table, already cold, oil floating on the surface. Saea looked at it and thought: everything warm eventually cools. And when it does, you have to reheat it. But reheated food never tastes as good as it did the first time. Yet you eat it anyway. Because you need to eat to survive.
3:15 PM. Saea returned to the register—the convenience store register. A weekday afternoon at GS25. A place where nothing changed. But Saea had already changed. Slowly, imperceptibly.
6 PM. Saea put on her uniform—the blue GS25 uniform. That color made her transparent. Customers didn’t see Saea. They paid, left money, and went. Saea was just part of the system. Part of the convenience store. Part of the machinery.
7:42 PM. Kang Riou’s first call came.
Saea didn’t answer. She remembered Haneul’s words: “Don’t take it. Just one day.”
But the phone kept ringing. It rang, then stopped. Five minutes later, it rang again.
Saea shoved her hand in her pocket. She felt the phone vibrating. The sensation was like her heart pounding outside her chest.
8:15 PM. Kang Riou’s eighth call.
The register had grown busy. Evening rush. Office workers came in, buying convenience store meals. Meals for one. Saea watched their faces and wondered: Were they waiting for someone too? Or had they grown accustomed to being alone?
10 PM. Haneul arrived.
Saea saw her. The tattoo artist’s face. Still not smiling.
“How many?”
“What?”
“Calls. From him.”
“A lot.”
“How many?”
“I didn’t count.”
Haneul sighed.
“Did you read the contract?”
“I couldn’t. There were customers and…”
“That’s a lie. There aren’t many customers at this hour. So what did you do?”
Saea couldn’t answer. She couldn’t say exactly what she’d done. Time had just passed. Time spent not taking Kang Riou’s calls. And that time had been painful—like holding your breath.
“Okay. Read it now. I’ll be right here.”
Haneul sat down beside Saea on the register chair—an uncomfortable chair. But she sat there, watching Saea as if she might run away.
Saea took out her phone. The contract, saved to the cloud. A PDF file. 45 pages. She started reading from page one.
“Terms of Exclusive Artist Contract between Kang Minjun (hereinafter ‘Company’) and Na Saea (hereinafter ‘Artist’)…”
Saea read. And as she read, she understood what she had signed.
Clause 3. Copyright Transfer. “All musical works created by the Artist during the contract period shall have their copyrights transferred to the Company.”
Clause 5. Exclusive Rights. “The Artist is prohibited from engaging in musical activities with other companies without prior Company approval.”
Clause 7. Compensation. “The Artist shall receive 5% of sales revenue upon album release. However, production costs, marketing expenses, etc. shall be borne by the Artist.”
Saea continued reading. Pages turned. Page 2. Page 3. Page 5. Page 10.
Then, on page 10, Saea stopped.
Clause 15. Contract Termination. “Should the Artist wish to terminate this contract, they must pay the Company a penalty of 1 billion won.”
1 billion won. Saea read the number again. And again. 1 billion. Her lifetime salary. Her parents’ lifetime salary. 1 billion won.
“You see it?”
Haneul asked.
“Yes.”
“What do you think it is?”
“A prison.”
Saea answered. And in that moment, she understood how deeply she’d fallen. It wasn’t a trap of love—it was a trap of law. And inside that trap, Saea was slowly dying.
Another call from Kang Riou came through.
This time Saea tried not to answer. But her hand moved of its own accord.
“Hello?”
“Saea. Why won’t you answer?”
Kang Riou’s voice came through. That voice was warm. But Saea knew now what that warmth was. It was the fire that warmed a trapped person so completely they could never leave.
“I was just… busy.”
“What could be so busy? Working at the convenience store?”
“Yeah.”
“Saea. What are you doing right now?”
Saea looked out the window. The night of Hapjeong-dong. Neon signs. Shadows of people. Everyone was walking their own path. And Saea was walking hers too. But she no longer knew if it was her choice or someone else’s compulsion.
“I’m reading the contract.”
Saea answered.
Silence. Silence flowed through the phone line.
“What did you see?”
Kang Riou’s voice had changed. More careful now.
“1 billion won. The penalty.”
More silence.
“Saea, that’s…”
“What?”
“That’s to protect you. So a bad company doesn’t steal you away.”
“Oh. So I’m safe then. Completely.”
Saea’s voice carried sarcasm for the first time. Kang Riou detected it.
“Who told you that? Haneul?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter. Saea, you’re being influenced by someone else right now. I’m trying to protect you…”
“Protecting me or locking me up?”
Saea said it. And the moment those words left her mouth, she felt Kang Riou’s silence. A deep silence. The silence of a wound.
“Let’s meet tomorrow. Let’s talk properly.”
“No.”
“What?”
“I don’t want to. I can’t meet you tomorrow.”
“Then when?”
“I don’t know.”
Saea hung up. Her hands were shaking. Like Kang Riou’s hands. Like that pianist’s hands.
Haneul said nothing. Instead, she took Saea’s hand. And in that warmth, Saea understood something for the first time.
She was being prepared to burn.
Like a matchstick.