a/n: welcome to the first chapter of the edited busan boy!

the first few chapters are more similar to what we've seen before, but there's some edits you may or may not catch. and if it's your first time here—welcome! thank you for reading ❤️

i've also been exploring these anime food gifs (as seen above) and man...people really know how to animate food. you're gonna be seeing more of these LOL.

with love,

krissy

+++

PRESENT DAY

To: Seo Minseok

OCTOBER 11, 2018

8:49 PM

Milania — Open link

You said you wanted Italian, right? I found this place. 5 stars. My treat :)

6 pm?

Read at 4:25 am

OCTOBER 12, 2018

12:03 AM

Why do you always leave me hanging? I miss you

Read at 4:25 am

7:03 AM

Hey, meeting got canceled. I can pick you up from the airport?

Delivered

5:03 PM

Or not

Did you land safe?

6  pm at the Italian place? I have a gift for you, too

Delivered

+++

"SUNBAE (senior)?"

My head snaps up from my phone. Three pairs of eyes stare at me expectantly.

Two design team leads sit at the conference table of our creative office's meeting room, armed with a spillage of pens, papers, laptops, and adapter cables. We're the creative team that supervises art direction on EA South Korea's latest game release, Retribution. 

Clad in a striking marigold coat, Lee Hyerin stands elegantly at the projector across the room, a presentation on polished costumes neatly wrapped up—and awaiting feedback.

Im Bongsoo pushes up wide-rimmed glasses as his nimble fingers fly nervously across his keyboard, unleashing a barrage of meeting notes. Hyerin shoots me a knowing look as I slide my phone away and nods eastward at soft-spoken Han Seolhee.

"Seolhee had an idea that could streamline our concept," she prompts.

I blink and gesture toward Seolhee with my chin. "Eoh."

Seolhee straightens with a flush. "Well, sunbae, I was just thinking...I mean, we've been hearing about how we've deviated from the stereotypically dark themes of costumes to be more bold...and I was just wondering how we could incorporate elements of our costumes into gameplay. You know, ways to really make user interactions pop out at you."

"Mm," says Bongsoo, pointing with his pen. "That's interesting."

"Which user interactions?" I push.

"Even different elements in combat, you know..." She sifts through a load of papers. "Adding a pop or explosion of color with the use of armor could be a small detail that heightens user experience while tying the piece together—"

"Accent colors, yeah," finishes Hyerin, nodding with eyes wide. "Yeah, we could talk to the engineering teams about that."

"Oh!" Bongsoo straightens so excitedly his chair wobbles. "I've been thinking about this shade...where is it...let me pull up the hex code..."

The discussion continues its adventure through our sun-bathed office space.

EA South Korea's meeting rooms are lined with floor-to-ceiling glass panels that welcome expansive views of Gangnam's gleaming high-rises and mist-veiled traffic. Our creative team is on the seventeenth floor of the building, while execs are up on the twentieth. A few other teams take up the two floors in between. We're relatively small and actually quite segregated—but the rush of adrenaline preceding Retribution's release has us all entangling as people fire off last-minute ideas.

Like ours, I guess.

They promoted me to Creative Director six months ago, which is just a really fancy term for a manager that supervises the character design team. It's management, which means greater art direction...but less art, and higher stakes.

Honestly, it was Minseok's restless work ethic that inspired mine. My workaholism happened to produce an endless string of promotions. Even before the previous Director moved up the career ladder, I was a point person. Need to locate old files? Ask Nari. Can't troubleshoot 3ds Max errors? Ask Nari. Best karaoke to hit after company dinners? Ask Nari.

But today, my mind is miles away. Hyerin can probably tell. We're old colleagues, and I've digressed during lunch breaks, with varying degrees of irritation, about the steep decline of my relationship with Minseok. Lukewarm at best. Ice-cold at worst, when he's off at his neurology conferences.

Like now.

"Sunbae." Bongsoo's brows skyrocket eagerly. He's wiggling his pen. "What's the move?"

I raise my brows. The world zooms back into focus. "Hm?"

"Well, we're making some big changes here. We'd have to notify the engineering leads, right?"

I nod. The gesture is a green light. Instantly, they spring into action, gathering up papers and recording last details. "Bongsoo, you have the notes, so let the leads know what we're up to," I tell him. "Seolhee, I want more sketches from you, a grasp of the style and the direction where you want to take this. Can you do that?"

"Yes—"

"And Hyerin, I want you researching with Seolhee."

"Roger that." The projector clicks off, and she returns to her seat with a flourish of her coat. "Oh, that's right," she adds, looking up. "We have a new intern applying for character design. He made it past round one with human resources. I set up a time with him. The name's Jung Junhee, fourth year at SNU."

"Really?" A new name always piques curiosity with me. "I'll join you."

The room breaks. Voices rise, laptops snap shut, papers are stuffed into folders, and pens scratch out final notes. A smile warms my face as a chorus of encouragements bounce off the walls. Just as I rise to my feet, my phone buzzes.

1 Message from Seo Minseok

Minseok: Ok

Just like that, my moment of focus dissolves. I imagine Minseok, seated at a business class plane seat, with his head tipped back in exhaustion. The kind after a long day of training that overtakes his whole mind, making every word go in through one ear and out the other. Is he burnt out? Why is he like this?

Hyerin pauses as the conference room empties out. "You still meeting him tonight?"

I look up, distracted. "Hm?"

"The ass—oh, I'm sorry." She shoots me a look. "Your boyfriend."

I purse my lips, then wiggle the phone in my hands and shoot her a dry smile. "He sounds really thrilled."

Hyerin sighs, watching me piitfully. For a minute, I can't take my eyes off her—she stands in this halo of light, holding the laptop to her chest, so calm and well-mannered. Irritation bites my chest. Do you understand how I feel?

My reflection in the glass is a stark contrast to hers—stubborn posture, dark clothes, sharp almond eyes. A perpetual frown creasing my brows. Charcoal black hair, not that pristine light-brown everyone sports on Garuso-gil. Everyone in the world Minseok lives in, at least.

"Just be careful," is all Hyerin says. Then she leaves me behind to stew in my doubt.

+++

EOMMA LOVES Seo Minseok.

To put this into perspective, eomma worships him as if he's her own son, which is saying a lot, because it's almost impossible to garner her praise. I say almost only because Minseok is that one outlier.

There are...many reasons why.

First, he's a prospective neurosurgeon. Self explanatory, right?

Which leads me to my next point—he's wealthy.

And wealthy not only from his own career but from his family's. His brother, who I've gathered remains taboo to speak about, was crazy rich before he died. His father is Seo Jaeseok, a district attorney based in Yongsan-gu, who has garnered even more respect for himself through a dozen connections with esteemed politicians. I met him once, which was somehow reassuring and unsettling at the same time...but that's another story.

This isn't to say Minseok himself is too shy to make his own connections, either. The guy somehow transforms into a magnet that overshadows me when he steps out into public. He has the looks for it, too: a jaw that looks as if it's been chiseled by stone; broad shoulders that accentuate dark, classy clothes; a tie that's always tugged a bit loose at the neck. He's the perfect image of refined arrogance and effortless charm. Everyone loves him. Except for my brother, but my brother hates everything, so that doesn't count.

In other words, I must be insane for uttering a bad word against him.

Minseok's graduate program regularly sends a whole cohort of medical students to China for a week-long neurology conference in Shenzhen, right on the border of Hong Kong. The last time we spoke over the phone was three days ago, for five minutes, when his voice was half-drowned out by announcers and applause. That was when he made the promise of calling me back later that night.

He never did.

Now, he sits at our table in Milania, dark coat draped across the back of his chair, sweater sleeves rolled to his elbows. His watch gleams in the candlelight. The artificial scent of his cologne rolls off him in heavy, overbearing waves.

He's already opened my gift. The newest installment in his favorite video game franchise lies abandoned on the far corner of the table. His eyes follow passersby outside the floor-length window, absent.

I watch quietly. Our hands are intertwined at the center of the table, but it's starting to feel as if he's holding my hand out of obligation.

"Minseok-ah." A bud of frustration forms in my chest. "What's wrong?"

His gaze snaps to mine. "Huh?"

"I don't know." I pull in a breath through my nose and lean back. "You seem distant."

He nods, then shifts in his seat with a wayward glance at his phone. "Tired," he answers, lips stretching into a smile. "Let's eat quick, yeah?"

I press my lips together. The waiter brings us red wine.

Dinner passes with little talk. Minseok sits in front of me, but the look in his eyes is very clear. His mind is in China.

Seo Minseok was one of the first people I met at SNU when I moved to Seoul for school after graduation. He was popular, athletic, and smart. A teenager's dream, right? We met in Calculus II and hit it off—though I can't for the life of me remember what we talked about—and he wound up tutoring me almost every night. Minseok was the reason I didn't fail my hardest courses. When we became close, his friends invited me to his soccer games; after he quit, they invited me to his conference speeches and research trips. And so dating him felt like familiar ground. I don't even remember when or where the lines began to blur. It just felt so easy, like fate, the inevitability of how intertwined our paths were. Everything went without a hitch. A smooth ride, like a boat sailing into a quiet sea. Perfect.

We've had each other for years. For years I never questioned it, was too afraid to. After all, any long-term relationship has its waves. Boring times. Down times. Sometimes I wonder if his arrogance is why I feel frustrated, restless, silenced. But it doesn't matter, because even as I consider confronting him about it, watching him twirl pasta and pause with familiar boyishness as he waits for it to cool—that small detail, even now, makes my stomach turn with guilt.

My phone buzzes.

2 Messages from Lee Hyerin

Hyerin: If his head is still in China like last time...I have soju at my place.

Hyerin: A lottttt of soju.

I roll my eyes.

Milania's soft piano music fades as we step out into the autumn night. Minseok presses his lips together, breathes in, then looks down at me with those piercing dark eyes. I realize, with a start, that this is the first time he's truly looked at me.

"Do you need a ride home?"

I blink, so stunned by how unfeeling he is I can't help but laugh. The wind whips hair into my face as I look up at him. "That's it?"

He narrows my eyes, as if my laughter bothers him. "What?"

"I mean, I thought we'd do more than just eat. You've been gone for so long—"

"Nari," he interrupts. My heart stings at the way his eyes widen, as if he's talking to a child. "I'm tired. Okay? I have papers to finish. Notes to go over. And I have class tomorrow. I get that you lucked out and you get to bring me all these free video games because you're a fancy creative director, but some of us are still busy. Okay?"

The words are a slap to my face. My frustration roars to center stage. "What's wrong with you?"

His mouth freezes open, annoyed. "What—"

"You've barely even looked at me all night," I shoot back, incredulous. "What's wrong? Is it the gift? Should I take it back? I just wanted—"

"Nari." His eyes flash. "I'm tired. I don't want to talk right now. What part of that can't you get?"

I open my mouth, but he turns away first, walking off with a sharp jangle of his keys. He probably expects me to follow, as he usually drops me home. I consider walking away. I could take the subway home. But as he strides towards the curb where his silver car waits, I'm glued to place, so stunned by the anger pounding through my veins.

How many times has this scene played out? Silence, followed by an outburst, followed by more silence, only to be softened by a kiss or two when we reach my place—I'm sorry, Nari, I've just been so tired...You get it, right? Did I think it would be different this time? Still, my body operates on its own and follows him to the car, driven purely by habit.

Not that the car is much better. The moment I close the door, I realize I've trapped myself in suffocating silence. Thick air fresheners permeate every inch of space. Even the soft rumble of his engine sets me on edge, and I have a sudden flash of us years ago, when we were students, of our laughter mingling during moonrise and his handsome smiles, reserved just for me. The echo of the memory haunts me.

All of it, gone. He puts the car in reverse, and I glimpse my face in the side mirror—my full lashes, the almond tilt of my dark eyes, the thick waves of hair that tickle my neck, the glimmer of jewelry there. Why did I think silence on the phone would translate to a warm reunion face-to-face? Get used to it, Nari. It's easier that way.

Easier for who, though?

As the car slides out of the parking spot, something cold and metallic bumps against my foot. My annoyance peaks. I fish it out, about to put it in his cup holder, thinking maybe it's a portable charger from his trip. But it's not.

It's mascara.

I use mascara. But this one isn't mine. It's a silver tube, thin and expensive, bearing a brand two hundred dollars more than I could ever afford. It gleams in the streetlight as if it's smiling at me.

His smiles. The world tilts.

"Stop the car."

"What—" My voice takes him by such surprise he slams the brakes. His car bounces, and he swears under his breath. "What?"

I swallow. Minseok looks over and freezes. My eyes meet his.

For one terrible moment, he just stares at me. Silent.

"Seo Minseok." Heat rises to my face. "Do you take me for a joke?"

No answer. His hand slips off the gears as his eyes slide ahead. To my shock, something like a laugh leaves him, this sickening huff of a breath that tells me, somehow, that my presence is a nuisance.

"Nari..." he begins.

"Don't," my mouth says. Suddenly, I can't get away fast enough. "Don't say anything." I snatch my things, slam the door, and storm out into the air.

But not before his footsteps follow. A car door slams, the engine still alive.

"Yoo Nari!" he shouts.

No—

"Nari, stop. Nari—"

A hand latches around my arm. I jerk free and spin around, ice cold.

He's furious. Why is he furious?

"This isn't my fault," he argues, chest heaving. "It was never me from the beginning, you know. So don't you run off and act like—"

"It was never me from the beginning? This isn't my fault?" I roll my eyes, breathless. "What, did going to your conference fuck up your morals? Get out of my face."

"Hey," he snaps. Eyes wide. "Who's the one who's stubborn as shit, huh? Who keeps shoving their job in my face when all I want is for you to open up to me, hm, who can't go a night without—without drinking soju or somaek with your buddies....I mean, what do you expect from me, Nari, when you give me nothing to work off of? Do you want me to keep sleeping with you to make all your problems go away?"

My eyes burn. "Piss off."

His voice lowers, drawn tight like an outraged spring. "Who's going to want to be with you when you live like this?"

The words stun me into silence.

"Yeah," he goes on, nodding. Face twisting. "Think hard about that, why don't you?"

With a furious huff, he storms into his car and floors it so hard it dissolves into traffic with a shriek.

I'm left abandoned on the curb.

Wind bites my legs. Why did I wear a dress tonight? Right—I remember staring earlier in the mirror and wondering if I'd be with him tonight if things went well, as if closing the distance between us would prove that everything was fine.

Think hard about that, his voice echoes. Something black curls around my chest. Squeezes. I can't even digest what I heard. It's hard to breathe. Don't be pathetic. Come on. You're better than this. And then—

You should have said something. Suddenly, all my fury bubbles up, springing free of the shock that caged it earlier. Anything. Saying anything would have better than nothing.

Another breeze blows. I pull my coat tighter over my body and start walking, blind with frustration. A couple with linked arms passes by, eyeing me pitifully. The wind carries their voices to me.

"Yeobo, let's get something hot to drink. It's really cold today."

"Yeah? White chocolate mocha from Coffee Bay, right? You like those."

A groan accompanies laughter. "Ah, I need to work out..."

I wrinkle my nose and stride in the opposite direction toward the subway.

Underground, crowds entangle on their way to different stations. Suddenly, trying to focus on a thought feels like trying to shout over a raging crowd. So I don't think. I move, ignoring the rush of blank emotion pounding in my chest.

My fingers tap out a message.

To: Lee Hyerin

Still have that soju?

Delivered

Almost immediately after, Minseok's voice rings in my ears. Who can't go a night without drinking soju with your buddies?

Stupid, I fuss, pushing the thought firmly away. Emptiness settles in its place.

The subway blurs past me. No answer buzzes on my phone. When I push my fingers through my hair, I realize they're still shaking.

Minseok's scowl flashes. Who's going to want to be with you when you live like this?

I fumble for some confidence to counter him. For some reason, I think abruptly of my appa.

Strange, how the memory of my dad resurfaces at times like this. A stroke took his life when I was one, so I don't really remember him. But I remember his presence. I remember how he made my mother feel. I remember what the house felt like when he was alive, the way his memory still sinks with weight into each corner of our house in Busan. In the wildflowers on the tables. In the ghost of family in the air, like seeing the ripples of something golden that fell into cool water.

Now, as I stare absently at my reflection in the train window, I feel shame rise up my neck. I really can't go a night without drinking, can I? I have a flash of myself in Minseok's apartment, seeking out his hand in the dark. Who keeps shoving their job in my face when all I want is for you to open up to me? In the glass, I see my cheeks rosy with red wine. My hair, tangled from the windy cold. My eyes, bloodshot with exhaustion. Puffy. Did I cry?

Someone once told me that our features are canvases of our bloodlines. I imagine that somewhere in my features, folded into the lines of my face, my dad's smile lives in me. Beautiful.

But the longer I look, the longer something else becomes clear. My dad isn't here anymore. He left.

And for all the times I drew Minseok close, I was still the one who was left behind.