When Hyun-woo had arrived at the office, it had been cloaked in the silent hush of pre-dawn, the only sounds were the distant hum of the building's ventilation system and the soft glow of monitors. At 6:15 AM, long before anyone else would even consider arriving, Hyun-woo had sat alone at his desk. A fresh cup of coffee sat beside him, untouched, its steam long since vanished. His screen glowed with layered design mock-ups for the ambitious rebranding project, a meticulous array of concept visuals, clean lines, modern Seoul landscapes, and muted autumn palettes.

His mouse hovered over one particular layout, a striking subway shot, framed by the warm, golden hues of autumn trees. He paused, his gaze not on the aesthetic beauty of the image, but on a small, handwritten label tucked into the corner of the screen: “Option A – SJ Notes.”

He leaned back slightly in his chair, a subtle shift in his usually rigid posture. That handwriting. It was precise, clean, familiar in a way that pricked at the edges of his carefully constructed composure. He had long been familiar with her handwriting and its importance to her. He’d seen it in school notebooks, lying open on her desk, their pages filled with tight, efficient notes. Her handwriting was meticulous, almost architectural. The margins were aggressively annotated in red pen, a stark contrast to the neat black script. She had even written him a note in their English class once, slapping it down on the top of his open notebook: “Hyun-woo, fix that line spacing.” Her voice, crisp and confident, echoed in the silent memory, a phantom presence in the quiet office.

Back in the present, Hyun-woo exhaled slowly through his nose, his expression utterly unreadable. He selected the design file, his movements efficient and practiced. His edits were fast, precise, the digital lines shifting under his command. But even as he worked, his cursor, almost unconsciously, lingered for a fraction of a second on her small, handwritten label.

Moments later, the quiet of the office kitchen was broken by the arrival of Soo-hyun, his hair damp from a too-short morning shower. He chewed loudly on a granola bar, clearly still waking up, and stopped dead when he saw Hyun-woo already prepping his second cup of coffee, his movements as precise as a surgeon's.

"You’ve either slept here or you’ve officially become one of those high-functioning insomniacs," Soo-hyun quipped, leaning against the counter.

"Not now," Hyun-woo responded flatly, not even glancing at him.

"That kind of morning," Soo-hyun said, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. He took another bite of his granola bar. "You checked her feedback? Only an hour after we left too!"

Hyun-woo stirred his coffee, the spoon clinking softly against the ceramic. He said nothing, his back still partially to Soo-hyun.

"Thought so," Soo-hyun continued, undeterred. "I saw it too. She’s got taste. Sharp eyes." He chuckled, a soft, amused sound.

Hyun-woo finally turned slightly, looking at him directly, his gaze steady and unwavering. "We’re professionals." His voice was calm, measured, a firm boundary.

"Sure." Soo-hyun held up his hands in mock surrender. "Just... maybe take an extra coffee to the meeting today. For peacekeeping purposes." He paused, letting his eyes linger on Hyun-woo’s face. "Or armor."

Hyun-woo didn’t respond. He simply took his cup, its warmth a small comfort in his controlled grip, and exited the kitchen with his usual clinical calm. Soo-hyun watched him go, then shook his head, his smirk widening.

"This is gonna be SO fun," he muttered, flatly, to no one in particular, clearly anticipating the upcoming clash of professional titans with a dash of personal history.

Sunlight, pale and crisp, filtered through the tall glass windows of the meeting room, glinting off polished laptop screens and steaming coffee cups. The atmosphere was one of forced normalcy, a veneer of professional politeness. Neutral smiles were exchanged, polite nods given, and papers rustled as they were passed around. On one side of the sleek, modern table sat Seo-jin, Do-yeon, and Sang-wook. On the other, Hyun-woo and Soo-hyun, with Min-su confidently seated at the head.

The murmur of small talk faded, leaving behind a beat of loaded silence, thick with unspoken histories. The director cleared his throat, breaking the quiet.

"Alright. Let’s dive in, branding strategy, Phase One. Min-su, Hyun-woo, you’re leading this portion?"

"Absolutely," Min-su affirmed, a faint, almost self-satisfied smile playing on his lips. "Hyun-woo’s prepared several moodboards to get us rolling."

Hyun-woo tapped his tablet. The large monitor at the end of the table flickered, then filled with a series of clean, compelling designs. Modern architecture, stark reflective surfaces, and figures moving through city streets bathed in an almost melancholic autumn light flowed across the screen.

Seo-jin’s gaze, previously casual, sharpened the moment Slide 3 appeared. It was a shot of a street corner, drenched in the late afternoon light, a woman captured in motion, her coat billowing slightly around her. It wasn’t her, not literally, but it could have been. The color palette, the specific angle of the light, the very essence of the image was nearly identical to a photograph she had once taken herself back in university, a photo she’d posted to an old, long-forgotten blog. A cold knot formed in her stomach.

Hyun-woo’s voice, calm and measured, filled the room. "We’re leaning into the emotional identity of Seoul—less steel and skyline, more warmth, more... longing. Layers of memory." He spoke with unwavering confidence, his gaze sweeping the room, yet never once landing on Seo-jin.

The director hummed thoughtfully. "Beautiful framing. There’s a narrative running underneath, I like that."

Do-yeon, ever perceptive, her eyes narrowed slightly on Hyun-woo. "You like playing beneath the surface?" Her voice, though casual, held an edge.

Hyun-woo finally glanced at her. A flicker of something passed through his eyes, but it wasn't surprise. More like a brief, almost imperceptible acknowledgement.

Seo-jin cleared her throat, her voice carefully neutral, steady despite the tremor in her hands beneath the table. "I’d like to walk through the copy alignment later. Some of the visuals... feel personal. We want something emotionally accessible but still universal."

Hyun-woo nodded, his expression unreadable. "Of course. I’ll make sure they’re... neutral enough." His voice held a subtle emphasis on the last two words. Their eyes locked across the table, a moment taut with things unsaid, a silent battle of wills playing out beneath the guise of professionalism.

Min-su, sensing the charged atmosphere, leaned forward, a conspiratorial smile touching his lips. "You two make a compelling balance. Fire and glacier."

Soo-hyun, unable to resist, chuckled under his breath. "You should’ve seen it back in school. Sparks and spilled ink."

A tiny beat of stunned silence, as if the air itself had momentarily paused. Sang-wook, who had been sipping his drink, choked, spluttering faintly. Do-yeon, quick as a flash, kicked him gently but firmly under the table.

Seo-jin shifted in her seat, her jaw tight, tapping her pen against her notepad with a fast, controlled rhythm, a drumbeat to her rising agitation. Her hand, moving restlessly, brushed past a photo that had slipped from her notebook—her high school ID, a placeholder she’d forgotten to swap out. She quickly, almost frantically, slipped it beneath another folder, hoping no one had seen.

Hyun-woo noticed. His gaze, brief and precise, caught the movement. But he said nothing.

"Right," the director announced, mercifully breaking the strained quiet. "Let's take five, then pick up with feedback."

Seo-jin’s eyes flicked to Hyun-woo. He was already gathering his notes, his movements precise, almost surgical. Then, as if sensing her gaze, he looked up, and their eyes met again. Still. Measured. A moment of wreckage held in perfect restraint.

The meeting concluded, the air still thick with residual tension, despite the polite shuffling of documents and the dull clicks of laptops shutting down. The director, still reviewing his notes, tapped his pen against the table absently before finally looking up.

"There’s too much overlap between the branding visuals and the copy development," he stated, looking between Seo-jin and Hyun-woo. "We need more cohesion." He flicked through the latest revisions, his brow furrowed, then stopped. "You two should handle it directly. Fewer channels. Faster execution."

The air in the room shifted, a palpable change in pressure.

"I can adjust the tone and align it with the key imagery," Seo-jin offered, her voice steady, but carefully neutral, a diplomat trying to maintain peace.

"I’ll make sure the visual structure complements your adjustments," Hyun-woo responded, his tone equally composed, as if they were two seasoned diplomats sealing a treaty.

But Min-su, seated beside them, had already clocked the underlying tension, his eyes gleaming with amusement. He leaned forward, smiling faintly. "I like this arrangement. Streamlines the process. Right, Soo-hyun?"

"Oh, absolutely," Soo-hyun chimed in, his smirk barely concealed, an almost conspiratorial glint in his eyes. "No distractions. No excess channels. Just the two of them." He sounded far too pleased.

Seo-jin subtly pressed her fingers against the edge of her notebook, a quiet act of grounding, trying to maintain her composure. Do-yeon, watching this entire exchange unfold, exchanged a knowing glance with Sang-wook, who was visibly enjoying himself a little too much, a silent cheerleader for the brewing storm.

"Great. Hyun-woo, Seo-jin," the director continued, oblivious to the undercurrents. "You’ll lead the refinement together. Min-su will oversee progress."

Min-su did not need to oversee anything, and he did not hide this fact, a silent acknowledgment of the drama he anticipated. "More than happy to help where needed. Two professionals, merging visions. A delicate balance, wouldn’t you say?" His tone dripped with subtle provocation.

Hyun-woo remained unreadable, his face a perfectly blank canvas. Seo-jin exhaled, slow, controlled, the breath barely perceptible. She was trapped.

"Understood," Hyun-woo stated, his voice flat.

Seo-jin nodded, her movement too brisk, too firm, a tell of her inner turmoil. Soo-hyun leaned back, dramatically relaxed, settling in for the show.

The meeting room door clicked shut behind Seo-jin and Hyun-woo as the rest of the teams dispersed, their voices fading down the hallway. Just beyond them, Do-yeon lingered near a row of office lockers, scrolling idly on her phone but clearly not reading, simply waiting and watching.

Seo-jin adjusted the files in her arms, her tone clipped and brisk. "Let’s not waste time. My office works, we have all the reference materials there." She needed familiar ground, a sense of control.

Hyun-woo shook his head. "Neutral ground. No advantage to either party." His voice was calm, but firm.

Do-yeon lifted her gaze slightly, her brows pinching in a silent expression of "interesting." But she said nothing.

"Then where?" Seo-jin challenged, searching for an answer, but none came. He simply watched her, patient, measured, as if he already knew she wouldn’t have a suggestion, that she’d eventually concede.

Then, Hyun-woo spoke, his voice carrying a subtle authority. "There’s an exhibition at the Dongdaemun Design Plaza. Architectural evolution, varied influences. It’ll give some grounding."

Do-yeon’s lips parted slightly, just enough to show a flicker of curiosity, but she remained silent, an intrigued observer.

Seo-jin stiffened. A lesson then? Was he deliberately choosing a place that would challenge her, force her to recall a different past? "I know design." Her voice was sharp, a defensive edge in it.

"It’s not about knowing," Hyun-woo replied, his gaze unwavering, "It’s about remembering what you used to see."

A pause stretched between them, heavy with the weight of his words. Seo-jin watched him for a beat, weighing the implied challenge, the subtle accusation that she had forgotten. "Fine. Tomorrow morning."

He nodded. "Eleven."

And just like that, the discussion was settled—not because she agreed, but because he left no room for refusal, his plan already laid out, immutable.

There was an awkward pause, the air thick with unspoken friction. Seo-jin turned sharply, walking away first, her stride measured, deliberate, creating distance, a desperate need for space. Hyun-woo watched, but didn’t follow. This wasn’t his victory, not yet.

Do-yeon stepped forward smoothly, intercepting Seo-jin’s stride with perfectly timed ease, as if she had been waiting for her all along. She fell into step beside her, a natural extension of her presence.

"You’re late for our coffee run," Do-yeon said, her voice light, guiding Seo-jin away.

"I never agreed to that," Seo-jin muttered, grateful for the distraction.

Do-yeon glanced over her shoulder, back at Hyun-woo. He was still standing there, watching their retreating figures. She spun her head back quickly, a slight smirk on her face. "Yeah, but you needed a reason to exit. Not run out."

Seo-jin exhaled, shaking her head slightly, a small, genuine smile almost touching her lips. Do-yeon watched her carefully, but said nothing more, letting the conversation shift, just enough to let Seo-jin breathe, to escape the suffocating intensity of Hyun-woo's presence.

Behind them, Hyun-woo remained still, watching their retreating figures for a second longer than necessary. Then, he turned in the opposite direction, a solitary figure disappearing down the quiet hallway, leaving the echoing tension behind.