The air was finally crisp and cool against her skin—a welcome relief after two hours of mental fire she’d just concluded. Every new semester started like this: the illusion of a fresh, light beginning immediately crushed by the familiar, heavy weight of serious academic pursuit. It was her world, a rigorous, beautiful cycle she rarely broke.

Kim Jisoo clapped her hands once, drawing the attention of the thirty-or-so undergraduate students before her. "Alright, everyone. That brings us to the end of our lecture for the day. For our next meeting, please read page 307 to 373. We're going to talk about The Westphalian Paradigm and its modern ethical erosion. Specifically, we will discuss how early modern political philosophers develop the concept of 'sovereignty' and 'the social contract,' and how those philosophical concepts currently govern—or fail to govern—international non-state actors."

She paused, her gaze sweeping over the focused faces. "Your task is to write a minimum two thousand-word essay on the reading. And, as always, you guys know the drill: don't forget to weave your personal insights into the fabric of your argument. We'll discuss it together next week. And if you nail the analysis," she added with a slight, mischievous lift of her lips, "I'll probably tell you why this particular reading is my absolute favorite."

Various expressions greeted her last sentence. Some answered simultaneously with a cheerful 'yes, ma’am' but then she chuckled at somebody muttering 'seriously?' while carrying their thousand-page textbook—a reaction that suggested she had just assigned them the intellectual equivalent of wrestling a mythical beast.

As the students began to pack up their heavy books, Jisoo cleared her teaching equipment from the lectern, carefully putting her laptop into her satchel bag. A small, persistent group of students immediately flocked to her, needing a quick breakdown of the complex philosophical statements. She spoke quietly with them, patiently offering a brief review, helping them solidify their understanding of the concepts. She made her leave right after the last student had gone, stepping into the brisk autumn air and heading toward her office.

Waiting right outside her door, Gong Byul—the sharp third-year Law student from the university press—practically bounced with excitement, eagerly shoving the latest magazine edition into Jisoo's hands. It featured her keynote speech from the political science conference last month.

The press was basically rabid for an interview after the event. It wasn’t just her first big campus talk since she returned from the U.S. two years ago; it was the content—a deep dive into moral rights through the lens of Asian heritage—and the sheer fact that she was Professor Kim Jisoo. She wasn't just the newly appointed Head Deputy of the International Relations Office; she was the youngest professor specializing in Asian contemporary political philosophy, and ethics in the history of the Hanguk university system.

"Hey, please come in," Jisoo invited, already holding the magazine. She genuinely liked Byul’s work; the student possessed a sharp mind that translated into engaging, insightful articles.

Byul followed her, practically vibrating with excitement. "We sold out this month's first edition for covering you as the face of the month. SNU and Yonsei already pre-ordered a hundred and fifty copies just from the sneak peek online! We're printing five hundred more for KAIST, Hanyang, and Ehwa. We're so grateful to you—it officially broke the sales record of The Avengers: End Game issue."

Jisoo offered a rare, warm smile as she flipped through the pages. "That’s amazing news for the press, Byul. And the credit is yours, too. This isn't just a report; this is a seriously well-structured academic breakdown."

"Thank you, Professor," Byul beamed, her focus fixed on the technical praise. "I tried to use your arguments on Skepticism and Pragmatism to frame the urgency of the moral rights issues."

The two-page spread was dominated by one large photo of Jisoo delivering her speech. Two smaller shots accompanied it: one with the conference committee, and a third that immediately caught her eye. IIt was a killer candid shot taken from the edge of the stage. The photo, though capturing her profile, gave a full, clear view of the man in the audience—the one who spoke up during the Q&A session.

Jisoo had no idea why she was fixated on this guy. Maybe it was purely a matter of proximity; he was seated right next to Jo Yeongwoo.

The memory of Yeongwoo's timing was instantly infuriating. Just moments before she took the stage—facing all that high-stakes pressure—he’d chosen that exact, shocking moment to drop the bomb that he was divorcing his wife. As if Jisoo would care about his personal drama when she was about to talk international ethics. But he was just an exhausting distraction, and maybe that chaos was why she’d registered the man beside him so clearly.

Or maybe, it was something far more significant.

The man in the photo didn't make that face. As the moderator recited her long, intimidating resume—detailing her double summa cum laude degrees and her whole crazy career history—the audience reacted predictably: whispering, wincing, or making that stifled, impressed little noise. But this man? He was listening dead serious, nodding with a small, appreciative smile. It wasn't the look of a man freaked out or repulsed by her ambition. It was the look of someone who was instantly proud of her handful of achievements, as if he mentally declared her success was something to be totally celebrated, not feared. That alone was enough to earn her full, undivided attention.

When the floor opened for the Q&A session, a familiar face from her class raised a hand.

"Professor Kim, I'm Kim Jongho from your Contemporary Political Philosophy class, I hope you still remember me."

Jisoo offered a nod at his introduction, which quickly turned into an internal scoff at the overly familiar address. Whether the guy was trying to flirt or just being too casual, she usually didn't bother analyzing it. She just found the whole presumption pretty disrespectful, but she kept her professional composure.

Being the youngest professor gave her instant clout, and she was fully aware of her popularity in the department. She had a reputation for transforming dry, boring subjects—even the formerly unpopular The Western Heritage—into engaging, full-house discussions. Her trick was simple: making the classroom feel less like a lecture hall and more like a high-level study group where everyone had a voice. She achieved this by telling stories, cracking jokes, and involving the students in every subject, always prioritizing listening over dominating the conversation. She knew that the combination of her brilliant academic intelligence and her measured cynicism was the ultimate key to making even the most boring subjects incredibly engaging—and why she was so well-liked.

It was this casual, vibrant atmosphere—this moment of connection with her students—that set the stage for the true turning point, caught perfectly in the press photo.

"Your question, Kim Jongho?" she asked.

"Well, Professor Kim," he began, sounding slightly nervous but eager. "Your speech today on the failure of states to deliver on ethical promises makes me think about the centralized model. In our last Contemporary Political Philosophy class, we often discuss the ethics of State Sovereignty, especially as applied to China’s highly centralized system. My question is: Why do you think the Chinese government is so comfortable letting its students study abroad? Isn't their confidence in that centralized system a huge risk when exposed to the 'democracy and freedom' preached by the West?"

Jisoo couldn't help a fleeting glance at Yeoongwoo, who was smiling at the question—a coincidence, as they had discussed this exact point when she wrote a paper earlier that year. She then caught the look of the man next to him, who remained stoic but seemed to wait for her answer with keen interest.

"That's a fantastic question, Kim Jongho," Jisoo replied. "It really forces us to tackle the Western idea that 'democracy is the best medicine' head-on. Let's be real, why risk a brain drain if everyone found paradise and never wanted to come back? We need those smart minds and expertise."

She paused. "To answer it briefly: back in the day, like during the opressive Qing Dynasty, students came home ready for revolution. But we have to admit: the government today sees itself as the final result of a successful, massive, bottom-up people's revolution—a fight that took five generations. It views itself as inheriting the whole history of the Central Plains."

"The real issue," Jisoo concluded, "is simply whether they can deliver what the Chinese people want and get China back to the top spot of global civilization."

Jisoo took a breath, the complexity of the topic energizing her. "Sending students shows they're confident in their system—confident those minds will return, or at least eventually return when the environment is conducive enough. It’s not like we’re watching an exodus of political or economic refugees."

"Furthermore," she continued, "trying to restrict information only works if your society is actually closed, and it's futile when massive numbers of people are traveling and residing abroad. Besides, the so-called 'freedom of information' argument is magnified if you can't speak or read Mandarin anyway, because they already have totally capable alternatives like WeChat, Baidu, and Weibo. They do the job just fine."

"Look, I personally don't think swapping to Western-style politics fixes any of China's actual problems or speeds up their goals," she concluded. "Chinese people are just historically used to the state acting like a parent; that’s their whole Confucian heritage."

She concluded, "The mobility of the Chinese opens their minds to new ideas, which is probably way better than just relying on official news or fake news. Basically, the idea that the government is sweating over their return? That's a cliché that doesn't hold up."

Jisoo took a long gulp of water from the half-full bottle on the lectern. She watched the auditorium react to her deep dive, then placed the bottle down and interlaced her fingers on the edge of the lectern. It was a subtle signal: Come at me, academics.

It was only then that the stoic man next to Yeongwoo raised his hand. Jisoo immediately nodded, inviting him to finally speak.

"Hello, my name is Zhang Yixing," he said into the microphone, his voice smooth and low. "And as you can see by my name," he added a second later, "I'm Chinese." The seemingly obvious statement, delivered with such calm, inviting charm, immediately drew appreciative laughter from the audience. Jisoo watched, a soft, private chuckle escaping her—she appreciated the casual confidence of the opening.

"But I've been living here in Korea for about..." he paused for mock calculation, shutting his eyes as if conducting a complex mathematical equation, "A year and a half."

That theatrical gesture landed perfectly. It was relaxed, self-deprecating humor, signaling that despite his impressive demeanor, he didn't take himself too seriously. After eighteen months on the peninsula, he clearly knew how to navigate the room's formality while casually reminding everyone he was the smart outsider. He flashed a final, brief smile, acknowledging the applause before settling his expression back to serious engagement.

"Anyway, I have a few more thoughts on Kim Jongho’s question, if you don't mind?"

Jisoo immediately waved her hand, inviting him to proceed. Zhang Yixing then spoke, his gaze shifting dynamically between Jisoo and the student, Kim Jongho.

"I believe I am the type of person you are talking about, Brother." he began, addressing Kim Jongho. "I finished my BA and MBA at Harvard, so I think I can speak for the type of student who goes abroad and can definitely speak up for themselves."

He held the microphone closer with one hand, the charm instantly fading into candor. "Before I went to America, I genuinely believed their political model could fix most of our issues back home. But then I learned about Yu Liu and read her book, Details of Democracy, and everything America claimed started feeling pretty shaky."

Yixing’s argument was sharp and personal. "I read more of her stuff and learned that she was pretty anti-establishment after getting her doctorate from Columbia. Instead of using abstract political theories, she tackles huge ideas like 'democracy' and 'freedom' using vivid personal stories of ordinary people. That hit me harder."

He paused, letting his personal experience land. "I was in the US for about six years, and yes, I met all kinds of people and I liked the diversity and the open access to information. But honestly? That didn't stop me from becoming skeptical of the official stories the government pushed."

Yixing delivered his conclusion with pointed clarity, looking directly at Jisoo. "I tell you what, people living in China have a highly romanticized view of Western countries and Western people in general. The best 'cure' for this romanticism is to actually live in a Western country for a few years."

Jisoo offered a decisive nod, absorbing the information. A Harvard MBA residing in Seoul, speaking on Chinese politics—that was basically her entire professional life in one guy. She felt a familiar mental sharpening; she wasn't just observing a speaker now, she was anticipating a formidable intellectual opponent. This wasn't the usual flustered student or intimidated official; this guy's credentials matched his confidence, promising a debate, not just a question.

By this moment, Jisoo was fully aware that all eyes in the auditorium were now fixed on Zhang Yixing. He wasn't just answering Kim Jongho's question; he was its living, breathing counter-proof.

His effortless command was striking. He was calm, collected, and spoke with such assured confidence—he knew exactly what he was saying. Though she’d never met him before, the way he handled the microphone suggested he was clearly used to commanding attention. Crucially, he was undeniably attractive, and that intellectual depth of his immediately commanded both her respect and her undivided interest.

Yixing visibly tightened his grip on the microphone, his voice instantly dropping, turning razor-sharp. He wasn't debating theory anymore. "Look, one huge reason the Chinese government isn’t sweating overseas students? Racial and cultural discrimination is still a massive, persistent problem in the Western world."