HMN C6

Chapter 6

He glanced over—and sure enough, the guy stood there, hands in his pockets, looking down at him. Only then did he clear his throat and rise.

“Uh, so—”

Before Daeyoung could say anything, the man abruptly thrust out his phone. Caught off guard, Daeyoung took it and shot him a sidelong look.

“Number.”

The curt tone made it twice as obnoxious. His brow twitched, but Daeyoung keyed in his digits without flinching. He tapped the call icon; his own phone lit up. Like it or not, they’d now established a line.

“Name.”

“…Ahn Daeyoung.”

“Hah.”

A scoff.

You bastard. Daeyoung glared, eyes wide, but the man stood there blank-faced, as if he hadn’t just sneered. Heat bubbled up his spine.

He wanted to save the contact as “Jerk, capital J” right in front of him, but however clownish he found the guy, he didn’t quite have the gall.

“…What’s your name, then?”

Of course he knew it already. Everyone knew why he was called the Pepper Prince of the business department. The man tipped his chin slightly, as if weighing the intent.

“If you don’t know my name in our department, you’re an outsider.”

As if to say, You don’t even know who I am? The nuance was insufferable; Daeyoung’s lip curled on instinct. Regardless, an answer came.

“Go Chiwoo.”

“Pfft.”

A deliberate, barbed snicker. It wasn’t that he didn’t know the Pepper Prince; he’d just decided to laugh at the name anyway. How is a person named “Go Chu”? He toyed with the line in his head, the kind that tickled the cheekbones into a grin.

He swallowed a fake cough and smoothed the smile away. The man’s lips had tightened into a slant. What—so he could laugh at Daeyoung’s name, but not the other way around?

Thwack.

Before he could add another word, the man slid his phone into his pocket and left the lecture hall. What a prick. Daeyoung’s fist curled as he glared at the broad back as if to scorch it.

Still, looking on the bright side, that meant he’d landed a hit. Maybe he should keep it up all semester—stick close enough to catch him in a humiliating moment or two. Returning the same sneer at the perfect time would be cleansing.

“Did you do it here?”

Out in the hall, Wonjung asked about the class the second they crossed paths. The banked embers inside him hadn’t cooled; he zipped his bag shut.

“Yeah.”

“Not dropping?”

“We’ll see.”

That was all he had to say. He stole a glance down the opposite end of the corridor and headed for the stairs.

“Let’s eat.”

“Cafeteria?”

“Go.”

Dinner repeated itself nightly; lunch was the only shot at nutritional variety. Maybe pork cutlet. He muttered to himself as they headed toward the student dining hall, exchanging greetings with a few familiar faces along the way. Each time someone mentioned “that video,” Daeyoung looked ready to breathe fire, and Wonjung had to pat his back to soothe him. But by the time the TA from earlier said, “Your name’s Ahn Daeyoung, right? The kid from the video,” the moment they stepped inside, Daeyoung’s face was beet red—no amount of patting would help.

“Ugh, I’m swamped—what do you mean, a club meeting.”

By the time they found seats, he was wrung out. He scooped a heap of white rice, then shook his head. Across from him, Haegyeom set down his curry spoon and slow-clapped.

“Wow, trust a silver-spoon kid to be different.”

As he recalled, Haegyeom joined more clubs and circles than anyone. He’d chalked it up to job anxiety, but the “silver spoon” jab needed correcting.

“How am I a silver spoon.”

“At that level? In this day and age? Come on. If my dad were a hit restaurateur, I wouldn’t bother with English debate or job-prep study groups either.”

He was already on edge; arguing felt exhausting, so he just shook his head. He’d never planned to broadcast what his parents did, but before his military leave, the guys had cooked up a trip—and scouting Daeyoung’s hometown for attractions had been the mistake. The “famous restaurant” they found online required a dawn start, and he’d carelessly said, “You can just go anytime.” He’d ended up exposing the family place without even going on the trip.

“Got any leads on a part-time?”

As always, Wonjung provided the emergency exit from an awkward topic. Chewing a bite of cutlet, Daeyoung shook his head again.

“Nothing perfect. I’ll just apply farther out. I can commute on a city bike at dawn.”

“That’ll destroy your body.”

“Age is a trump card. I’ll live.”

He waved it off and kept chewing. Wonjung pulled a napkin and wiped the sauce off the rim of Daeyoung’s tray. Another inch and it would have smeared his sleeve.

Wonjung figured Daeyoung had a strangely mixed temperament. At times he seemed childish, careless, feather-light—but then he would think in odd, steady ways. Every exam period he’d moan, Is this what youth and college are, seriously?—and still pull solid grades. He’d scrimp on living expenses, haul chicken breast in zip bags at month’s end, and work part-time rather than take an allowance from well-off parents.

“Ah, damn. Stained it.”

Of course, the default mode was overgrown kid. Even after Wonjung wiped one side, he managed to smear sauce on the other sleeve like clockwork. This time, Wonjung only shook his head.

“Didn’t you join a club freshman year?”

“Ah, that, what was it?”

“Film.”

“Right.”

Film, of all things. He had zero interest, but he’d signed up on a whim with Wonjung back when they were clueless freshmen. He’d shown up exactly once. He’d never gone back—hadn’t even set foot in the club room.

“Didn’t they kick us out?”

“Not yet. Min-hye pings me sometimes.”

“Ah, Min-hye.”

Now he remembered why he’d joined something he didn’t care about. Wandering through a massive, loose-knit department as a new student, the only person he’d really befriended was Wonjung, who dragged him to the club fair. There, he met Wonjung’s friend Min-hye, who introduced the club. She was so easy to like that after a few words, he signed up on the spot.

“What kind of club is this, a pyramid scheme? They rope everyone in.”

“They want us to show up now that you’re back. Gotta recruit freshmen.”

“Ugh…”

He gulped water with an expression of genuine dread. That was the downside of doing things via acquaintances—when he wanted to back out later, someone in the middle made it awkward.

“Hey, you know what?”

Done lamenting, Haegyeom, who’d been scrolling on his phone, suddenly ducked his head and tapped Daeyoung’s shin under the table. What’s with him, Daeyoung thought, until the stare snapped up and the whisper followed.

“Yesterday, Shin I-rim from Phys Ed confessed to Pepper—and got rejected.”

After taking body blows since the semester began, Daeyoung couldn’t care less. But when he added, “Prince behavior, right?” his brow pulled tight.

“Stop calling him ‘prince.’ It’s gross.”

Some things needed saying. Calling a person “prince” was cringey as hell; he explained as much every time he heard the nickname, to no effect. He knew where it came from, of course.

Go Chiwoo was called “prince” for a variety of reasons. He was handsome and supposedly from money, but the crux was his personality.

From day one he’d been famous for face and height, but personality toppled everything. Two classmates from his high school scoffed at the mere mention of him, calling him a “friendless pariah.” People dismissed it as ugly jealousy—how could anyone talk that way about a guy so obviously superior in build and looks?—but the truth surfaced fast enough.

About a week after matriculation, classmates angling to get close to him invited him to lunch. The student union was nearby, so they pointed to the cafeteria; he ignored them without a blink. One, flustered but persistent, chased him down and finally wrung out a reply.

“Why would I eat food you’ve spit on?”

His face had been stone, his tone the same. He never ate at the student cafeteria before or after.

About then, the testimony from his high school cohort began to look true. In public, he clammed up. On the rare occasion he spoke, the temper in it snapped like sparks; soon the consensus was that silence suited him better. Good looks charm only so many times. In less than a month, he’d shaken off every classmate and stood stubbornly alone. With a nose in the air and a sanctimonious aura, and hands unsoiled by anything, the nickname “prince” stuck. Lately, the whispers had less to do with his looks and everything to do with the talk behind his back.

Footnotes

1. “Pepper Prince”: In Korean slang, 고추 gochu literally means “chili pepper,” but it’s also a common euphemism for the male genitalia; the nickname plays on both the face-value “spice” and the sexual innuendo.