The meeting began with formal introductions. Team A sat nearest the clients, while Team B had been placed along the wall. Yo-han's name card stood beside the hired interpreter, three seats away from Tae-joo.

A senior planner from Team A connected his laptop to the screen and began presenting Tae-joo's new campaign. He spoke about visible status, premium aspiration, and the growing appetite for luxury among young Korean consumers while the interpreter translated his remarks into Japanese.

Tae-joo remained at the head of the table. Whenever a car, watch, or champagne bottle appeared, he interrupted to mention the manufacturer and price, leaving the Team A planner to continue once he had finished.

The Japanese executives remained polite.

When the presentation reached the private helicopter, the oldest man at the table interrupted.

After listening, the interpreter said, "He says the campaign is very glamorous and may be suitable for another hotel."

Tae-joo appeared pleased and instructed her to explain that the glamour could be reduced without changing the central message.

The client answered at greater length. His voice remained courteous, but the woman beside him stopped taking notes.

The interpreter hesitated before claiming that they merely preferred a quieter version.

Yo-han knew that was not what the man had said.

The Team A planner moved to the next slide and repeated Tae-joo's assurance that the images could be softened while the aspirational direction remained intact.

The client interrupted again.

This time, the interpreter waited even longer before saying that they would consider it.

"No," Yo-han said. Everyone turned toward him. "That isn't what he said. You didn't summarize his answer. You changed it."

The interpreter became pale.

Tae-joo put one hand on the table and told Yo-han to translate it properly.

Yo-han addressed the client in Japanese, apologized for the misunderstanding, and asked permission to clarify his concerns.

The man answered him directly.

As the conversation continued, Yo-han listened without interrupting. The client explained that Sakura House had spent fifty years removing signs of money from the guest's view. Service corridors were hidden. Payments were handled without presenting bills in public areas. Staff never spoke a guest's name where others might hear it. Their definition of luxury was not being seen.

Yo-han translated every part into Korean.

The room felt different when he finished.

Tae-joo attempted to claim that the original campaign already reflected some of those principles, but the oldest client turned to Yo-han and asked in Japanese who had created it.

"My team and I did," Yo-han answered in Japanese.

The interpreter translated his answer into Korean.

Only then did Tae-joo add, "Under company direction."

The interpreter conveyed his comment to the client, whose attention had already returned to Yo-han. He asked to see the original deck.

The copywriter from Team B carried her laptop to the front of the room. After the Team A planner disconnected his own device, she connected hers to the screen and opened their presentation.

When the first slide appeared, Yo-han remained beside her and presented in Japanese. He explained the empty rooms, the closed garden, and the absence of people in most of the images. The campaign did not ask guests to prove anything. It offered them a place where proving things was no longer required.

The clients listened. Their questions came one after another, all directed toward Yo-han.

By the end of the meeting, they approved Team B's campaign for development and requested that Yo-han lead the next presentation in Tokyo.

Tae-joo thanked them as though the outcome had been his plan from the beginning.

—

After the clients left, Team B stayed behind to collect the materials. The copywriter disconnected her laptop, placed it in her bag, and left with the others when Tae-joo asked everyone except Yo-han to clear the room.

The door closed.

"You got the account," Yo-han said.

Tae-joo removed the gold pin from his tie and placed it inside a velvet case. They had already possessed the account, he explained. The clients had merely been negotiating, and Yo-han had done well enough as an interpreter. He should stop standing there as though someone owed him praise.

Yo-han gathered the printed copies of Team B's deck. His hands were moving enough that several pages slipped out of alignment when he tried to stack them. "I didn't interpret. I led the meeting and saved the account you were about to lose."

Tae-joo closed the velvet case. "You're useful, Yo-han. That's all," he said. "And that's always been your mistake. Every time someone finds a use for you, you convince yourself you've earned a place beside them."

Yo-han placed the papers on the table and tried again to straighten them.

Tae-joo picked up one of the pen boxes the clients had politely left behind. "You can learn Japanese, Chinese, English, or every other language you find in a book," he said. "You can buy good suits, memorize table manners, and spend your salary trying to look like you belong here. None of it changes where you came from. You'll still be the man we bring in through the service entrance when the people at the main table need something fixed."

Yo-han could feel the movement in his legs now. He rested one hand against the table, hoping Tae-joo would assume he was reaching for the papers. "Where did I come from, Tae-joo?"

Tae-joo walked to the door but did not open it. "You came from a house that threw you out. Then you married into another family, and they sent you away too. At some point, a man has to consider whether every door is really the problem, or whether people keep closing them for a reason."

Yo-han's fingers slipped from the edge of the table. "My wife…" he said and sighed. "…cheated on me."

"That is the story you tell," Tae-joo said. "You tell everyone she betrayed you, just as you tell everyone your mother misunderstood you and your family mistreated you. There is always a version where Lee Yo-han did nothing wrong and everybody else failed him. Maybe Hye-ri is right. Maybe you really do turn everything into drama because the alternative would require admitting that you are the one thing all these disasters have in common."

Yo-han tried to answer, but no words came.

Tae-joo opened the door. "Go home. Your team has had enough embarrassment for one day." Then he walked out.

Yo-han remained beside the chair, unable to trust his legs. Through the glass wall, he could see people returning to their desks while Tae-joo crossed the department without looking back.

His phone began ringing inside his pocket. He took it out. The clinic's number appeared on the screen. For one terrible second, he thought something had happened to Yulie. His thumb moved toward the answer button, but the call ended before he could touch it.

A message arrived a few seconds later.

Yulie ate a little this morning. She is doing well. You can visit after five.

Yo-han read it twice. His hands still would not stop.

The senior planner appeared at the conference room door and asked whether he was all right.

"Take over for the afternoon. I have somewhere to be," Yo-han said.

When the planner offered to drive him, Yo-han refused and left the printed deck on the conference table.

Back at his desk, he reached for his own laptop. It slipped against his palm, prompting the planner to step forward, but Yo-han pulled it closer to his body. "I'm fine."

Rather than carry it home, he put the laptop back on his desk. After taking his coat from the chair, he walked toward the elevators. Nobody tried to stop him again.

The elevator took too long. Yo-han pressed the button a second time even though the light was already on. When the doors finally opened, he stepped inside and selected the parking level.

His reflection in the mirrored wall looked normal from a distance. The suit still sat properly on his shoulders. His tie was straight. Nothing about him explained why he needed one hand against the railing to remain steady.

On the parking level, he walked past two rows of cars before realizing he had gone the wrong way.

"Fuck."

Turning around, he searched for his keys. They were in his coat pocket, but his fingers passed over them twice before he managed to take them out.

The car answered the remote with a flash of its lights.

By the time he reached it, his breathing had become uneven. He opened the driver's door, lowered himself into the seat, and pulled the door shut.

The silence inside the car lasted only a few seconds.

Then Yo-han started the engine. He knew exactly which bar he was going to.