HMN C22

Chapter 22

Hypnosis requires a medium. In this context, the medium is not merely an object—it is a gateway leading toward the hypnotic state. Every renowned hypnotist has, without fail, a personal medium. A passage from consciousness to the subconscious, and then into the realm of the unconscious mind…

Tap.

“Thank you.”

After reading only a few lines, Daeyoung closed the notes and set them beneath the necklace.

“That’s not for you to keep. Just have a look and hand it back.”

“So basically, you’re giving me the machine without the instruction manual?”

“You’re greedy.”

Her firm tone drew a sheepish grin. Before handing it back, Daeyoung quickly flipped through a few more pages. He didn’t believe in any of this nonsense—he was simply curious what kind of words were written there. Rustle. The paper turned.

It explained that hypnosis required a proper process. Swinging the necklace before one’s eyes mattered, but so did constructing an imaginative “path” leading into hypnosis. That must be why hypnotists often said things like walk through a wide blue field or open the door, now. Recalling old variety shows and dramas that had featured such “tricks,” Daeyoung laid the notes down again—just as his phone began to vibrate.

“Oh—Mom.”

—Son, will you be long?

“No, I just finished. I’m heading to the restaurant now.”

It sounded like the family restaurant was packed—it was Friday evening, after all. Shoving the necklace into his pocket, he pressed his helmet down tight and got to his feet.

“Thanks to you, Grandma, I’ll never suffer another unrequited love. I’ll get going now. Will you be all right on your own?”

“Go on.”

Even when she waved her hand sharply, the affection beneath it was clear. The yard of her home always smelled of something clean and faintly sweet, the scent of flowers persisting through every season. In spring and summer, the blossoms bloomed riotously; in autumn and winter, some trace of their perfume still lingered. Even now, though the frost hadn’t quite let the blossoms bud, the air carried a hint of greenery. After securing the box that had held the necklace to his scooter, Daeyoung turned to glance once more into the yard. She was lifting her watering can again. With a low rumble, the engine started, and he sped off toward the restaurant.

He didn’t see that the watering can in her hands was empty—or that she stood motionless for a long while, bathed in the dim yellow light of the porch lamp, her thoughts circling back to the strange necklace that had passed into the boy’s hands.

But Daeyoung forgot about it entirely. Shoved thoughtlessly into his pocket, it slipped from his mind the instant he reached his parents’ restaurant—where flames, knives, and customer orders flew in all directions. Business had doubled overnight, apparently thanks to a famous YouTuber who had visited the week before. From Friday through the weekend, customers had flooded in until he was pinned there, unable to rest for a second. Only late Sunday night, after closing, did he finally collapse onto a bed—limp and half-dead.

“Goodness, look at you lying flat out in the hallway.”

He hadn’t even made it to his room. He’d dropped right there by the shoe cabinet, forcing his parents to step over him to get inside.

“How do you do this work for decades, Mom?”

“What’s the big deal? You just do it—nothing magical about that.”

He couldn’t move a finger. His wrist felt as though the bone itself had melted; the palms beneath his three replaced bandages burned raw as if scorched. Though his father scolded him for blocking the doorway, Daeyoung just lay still, staring blankly at the ceiling. After a while, he stretched out an arm and pulled his bag closer.

“Already heading back to school? Why not stay the night?”

“I can’t. I’ve got class and volunteer work tomorrow.”

At that, an unpleasant face flickered in his mind. He might not have to see Go Chiwoo at the café for now, but the volunteer project they’d both committed to was imminent. Wherever he turned, he couldn’t quite escape him.

“Ugh, annoying.”

Grinding his heel into the floor, Daeyoung pushed himself up again.

“I’m leaving. The bus is about to go.”

“Take some side dishes with you!”

“Yeah.”

He hadn’t even taken off his shoes, but there was no refusing his mother’s offerings. That was half the reason he carried a big bag home each time. Carefully, he repacked the containers, slung the now-heavy bag over his shoulder, and left. After a week of labor, the weight felt five times heavier than when he’d arrived.

Nodding off during the return bus ride to Seoul, he stumbled into his apartment and, after a steaming shower, collapsed straight into bed—hair still damp. The last thing he remembered was the small potted plant on his windowsill. He must have been truly exhausted; he overslept the next morning and barely made it up in time for class, only to realize that he had never unpacked the food from his bag. Cursing himself, he stuffed the containers into the refrigerator like playing a frantic game of Tetris. His bag now reeked faintly of kimchi—a fitting start to what turned out to be a terrible day.

“You ever heard of time management?”

Shading his eyes from the sun with a palm, Daeyoung squinted irritably at the voice laced with mockery. He had forgotten to charge his smartwatch last night, so it had died completely, leaving him blind to the time. Checking his phone, he saw he was indeed a few minutes late. He had rushed straight from his morning lecture but had been held up by the subway transfer. Even with all his shortcuts, Go Chiwoo had somehow arrived before him—just his luck. The one consolation of the past week had been not seeing him at the café.

“My sincerest apologies. How terrible of me to keep you waiting all of three minutes, oh master of modesty.”

Sarcasm slipped off his tongue before he could stop it. It wasn’t an apology; it was barbed irritation. The thought of spending the entire day alongside this person was physically draining. Without waiting for a response, he strode ahead—he would not waste energy on him before the work even began.

The day’s volunteer assignment involved assisting with the city’s agricultural fair. The idea was to help rural farmers sell local specialty produce directly to consumers at low prices. In practice, however, “volunteer assistant” meant laborer. Though the tents were already set up, unloading crates from trucks and hauling them to the booths was hard labor. Even with cool spring air, Daeyoung was sweating within thirty minutes.

“Students! Over here, please!”

“Yes, sir!”

Having just dropped off a box of potatoes, Daeyoung straightened his back only for a moment before trudging back to the truck. The vest and gloves marking him as a volunteer were caked with dirt. Sorry, my wrists. Sorry, my back. My young body’s all you’ve got left to exploit. Clearly, he had chosen the wrong volunteer gig. No—maybe this punishment was reserved uniquely for him. Every time he searched for Go Chiwoo, scanning the crowd, he’d find—

“Oh my, such a tall and handsome student!”

—him. Surrounded, as always, basking in attention. While Daeyoung strained under the weight of onion nets and produce crates, Go Chiwoo lounged in the shade, sipping barley tea from a paper cup given by a beaming elder.

“I was born this way,” he’d reply, smirking.

That infuriatingly smug face—no trace of modesty, no attempt at humility. The way he tilted his chin upward ever so slightly, as if amused by his own charm—it drove Daeyoung insane. Yet every elder around him only laughed lovingly, clapping in delight.

Of course, that meant the harder work inevitably fell to him. Chiwoo stayed under the tents assisting with sales or arranging produce for display. Technically, both roles were necessary—but the contrast in difficulty was staggering. Do they all somehow know he’s a prince or something? Is that why they won’t let him lift a finger?

To top it off, even the green volunteer vest looked as if it had been designed for him—falling perfectly, not a speck of dust daring to cling.

“This is driving me nuts…”

With a grunt, Daeyoung slammed down another sack of onions and straightened up.

“You’re one of the volunteers, right?”

“Ah—yes, ma’am.”

“Here, take this.”

Massaging his aching wrist beneath the glove, he looked at the stack of boxes she indicated. The smell told him immediately—these were local specialty products.

“These are supposed to be sold tomorrow, but they left them here by mistake. They should go in that restaurant owner’s storage.”

“Ah…”

Again. Of course. More heavy lifting. Was this fate? Or was he simply cursed with a laborer’s destiny branded onto his back? With a resigned nod, he agreed.

“Which restaurant?”

“The eel house across the street. The owner will show you.”

“Thank you.”

Thankfully, there was a cart handy. Daeyoung stacked twelve crates on it neatly. Glancing around, he spotted Chiwoo again, now helping an elderly man write a booth sign. The old man patted his shoulder, exclaiming that even his handwriting was handsome, while the gathered group of grandmothers smiled and giggled at him like he was their own grandson.

“Don’t look. Don’t even look…”

Watching would only raise his blood pressure. Still, he tried to convince himself—the truth was, Go Chiwoo was no help anyway. If anyone deserved praise, it was him, Daeyoung, the one dragging a spoiled prince through volunteer work. I’m the real one here. Me, he muttered under his breath, gathering his strength for the next load.