FBPP C27

Chapter 27

Seo Ji-han stood in front of a building with an annoyed look on his face. There was no signboard — just a slick-looking villa — and he looked up at it as he took out his phone.

010-xxxx-xxxx
“Please come down to the basement. If you can’t find the entrance, call me.”
PM 8:41

The guy who scratched his car turned out to be more of a public figure than he’d expected. The person who’d damaged the car had said the company wanted to handle official paperwork in person and, if it wasn’t too much trouble, would like to deliver it directly; he’d given this building’s address.

Ji-han asked Tae-hyun if he thought it was some kind of scheme. Tae-hyun replied that while it was a little odd for the person to step in personally rather than send the legal team, since Ji-han was a public figure it wasn’t impossible — and handling it quietly had its advantages, given they’d already exchanged private contact information.

He took the elevator down to the basement of the building. On a small silver plate about the size of a palm next to an otherwise blank door was engraved “♪No.5.”

“What’s your name?”
“Seo Ji-han.”
“May I check your ID?”

Do places usually check ID just to let you in? He could’ve just signed at a café and called it a day — all this fuss because the other guy scratched his car felt ridiculous.

“Okay, you’re verified. I’ll show you in.”

The place, bathed in a soft vermilion light, was a bar. Going down another flight of stairs inside revealed several doors firmly closed. An employee who pressed the intercom beside a door then placed their fingerprint on a sensor next to the handle.

“Enjoy your time.”

A man who’d been lounging on a sofa stood up. His gaze traveled up and fixed on the man who’d damaged Ji-han’s car, who was seated half a hand’s breadth higher.

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience. Please, have a seat.”

Even in that silky, almost honeyed voice, the words made Ji-han want to curse.

“No, the atmosphere’s nice.”
Bullshit.

The leather sofa was soft and deep. When Ji-han sat, the man who’d scratched his car set a yellow envelope he’d been holding on the table.

“Honestly, I don’t know that this was strictly necessary, but the company’s insisting. There’s been talk about how the accident got out…”
“Got out?”
Inside the yellow envelope were two concise documents — one for Ji-han’s records and one for the man’s company.

“Yeah. Word’s been spreading among reporters who go to the broadcaster. Some rumor’s already circulating, although no one’s named anyone concretely yet.”

What a crop of bollocks. Accidents happen while driving; if anyone was at fault, it was the Lamborghini being parked like trash more than the guy who bumped it.

“Originally I thought of sending the papers through your agency, but it felt better to come in person. …I felt really uncomfortable about it.”
No, sending it through the agency would’ve been better. Sure, the agency might hear that someone scratched Ji-han’s car, but that’d be easier on Ji-han.

“You must’ve been inconvenienced coming out. So this is just the signature, right?”
“Yes. Both copies.”

The man’s name… Kang Kyung-woo? So this was Kang Kyung-woo, the one who scratched the car.

“Kang Kyung-woo? Is that your real name?”
“Yes?”

If it was true, it was true — why the inflection? Ji-han raised his eyes.

The car-scratcher looked a little spaced-out. He fumbled at the corner of his mouth with a large hand, hesitating before asking.

“Uh, do you know me…? No, that’s not it. I transferred the repair money — did you not get it?”
“I turned my bank alerts off. Are you sure you’re the right person?”

Kang Kyung-woo blinked several times, took a wallet from his pocket, and placed an ID on the table.

Kang Kyung-woo. The face looked younger than it did now, but it matched. The birth date matched the paperwork.

Skimming the ID, Ji-han moved down to the paragraphs and read the long, detailed clause.

Everything read: 100% Kang Kyung-woo at fault; no contentious clauses. The date and place of the accident, the vehicle make — the line for the accident vehicle’s plate number, however, was left blank.

“Do I fill in the vehicle number here?”
“Yes. The dashcam didn’t capture the plate.”

Along with the repair estimate, the amount Kang Kyung-woo had deposited, the deposit date and the depositing account were listed, and the conclusion was clear: there would be no future legal or social claims over the incident. In other words — don’t sue, and keep your mouth shut.

Given that repaired cars can still develop problems — especially sports cars — the clause felt a little unfair. But Ji-han didn’t care about the car anymore.

He took the pen and signed both documents. The other party’s signature was already there.

See — it only took ten minutes to read and sign. So what’s the big deal bringing me out here?

The man who’d scratched the car packed up the documents and hesitated for a moment, then looked up as if checking Ji-han’s mood. He’d never looked people directly in the eye before, but now he was staring straight.

“If you’re not busy, I’d like to treat you to a simple drink or meal. Would that be okay?”
“A drink?”

Ji-han liked drinking. He could still get belligerent enough to show his real self when he’d had a few, but he wasn’t such a lightweight that it ruined his public image. That was why he could still maintain the refined pianist persona despite all the afterparties and booze.

Still — sitting side by side with the guy who’d made his life awkward, eating and drinking, didn’t appeal.

“Yeah. I’m sorry and I wanted to thank you too.”
Should he say he was busy and leave? But would it be rude to refuse the offer of goodwill like that? This guy had deliberately called him here — what if he was only trying to make Ji-han look bad afterward?

Ji-han glanced at his wristwatch, weighing his options.

“If it’s uncomfortable, you can leave.”
That made it worse. If the man had shouted in Ji-han’s face and been belligerent, Ji-han would have switched on a recorder and smiled on the way out. But this guy’s expression was genuinely apologetic — saying, “No, I’m uncomfortable, I’ll go,” felt awkward.

Ji-han did have some conscience. He called his sister a mess of a personality and often got called an asshole in game, and it might be his true nature, but he wasn’t the kind who’d throw an ashtray at a stranger’s offer of kindness.

Those pleading, almost dog-like eyes nudged his soft spot.

“All right. Let’s just have a quick drink, then.”
At that, the man’s lips spread into a smile. He was disgustingly handsome when he smiled. Why was he an athlete and not a model? What if his face got messed up?

“What would you like for snacks? We have most kinds of alcohol.”
“I don’t care. For snacks… fruit, I guess.”

He preferred vodka or whiskey, but wanted to keep his image intact.

“I saw the preview. Looks interesting.”
“It already aired?”
“Yes. As a first appearance, you were everywhere.”

So the guy did know Ji-han was a pianist.

“Are you into classical music?”
Ji-han was quite well known — he appeared on patriotic channels and was famous for being handsome, which only boosted his public persona. People often got famous in classical music through media appearances, or were known only to a narrow circle of aficionados.

But connecting the sweaty, disheveled Ji-han seen at the gym to the full-set, stylized performer on camera just from one collision in the gym basement was a stretch. At the time, the man had acted familiar in the broadcaster’s parking lot and even asked about his job before taking down a number.

“No, not really. I just had something to look into for work.”
What did classical music have to do with athletics? Nothing at all.

“I also saw a coffee ad on your Instagram. I have a good eye.”
A descendant of Genghis Khan, perhaps? Ji-han mocked silently. He still hadn’t forgotten the hassle this man had caused.

The intercom chimed and an employee returned with vodka, whiskey, and a fruit platter. There was a lot of variety.

“You’re going to drink all of that?”
Does an athlete drink this much? Maybe he’d retired.

“I need to stay in shape too, so I sip a variety of kinds.”
Ji-han refused the man’s offer to pour for him and filled a double-straight glass with whiskey. He disliked being poured for — not a prostitute.

Politeness had him ask anyway.
“What would you like? I’ll pour for you.”
“No, I prefer to pour my own.”
That raised his favorability a notch.

“Seo Ji-han… the pianist? I don’t know what to call you. Do you have a preferred form of address?”
The man used honorifics and was careful about titles even though he knew Ji-han’s age — that earned him a bit more goodwill. Too many people, when they realized someone was younger, immediately dropped into casual speech.

“Just call me whatever’s comfortable. I don’t really care.”
Abroad he might be Mr. Seo, but the default was just Ji-han.

“Then… I’ll call you Ji-han. I wanted to apologize properly — for bumping into you at the gym and for the car issue.”
“That’s fine. The bump was partly my fault, and you already apologized for the car, so there’s no need for more.”
“Well, there might be some unwelcome misunderstandings on your side.”
“Misunderstandings?”
Ji-han frowned as he downed his drink. That was one of the reasons he liked alcohol — even if his face soured, the taste was bitter and people understood. In truth, alcohol usually tasted sweet to him.

“Stalking and things like that.”
“Huh?”