The Seoul rain had officially escalated from a melancholic drizzle to a full-blown aquatic tantrum, mirroring the tempest brewing in Taeseok's soul. His lukewarm coffee, a testament to his spiraling focus, sat abandoned like a forgotten contender in a boxing ring, while the stack of Project Phoenix documents threatened to topple over, much like his precarious career at Zenith Corp. The office's humming fluorescent lights seemed to mock his misery, their sterile glow a far cry from the roaring energy of the stadiums he now had to conquer.
Director Park's voice, delivered with the gentle nuance of a charging bull, still echoed in Taeseok's ears: "Get Jung Hyun. Untainted, pure, the perfect face. Everyone else is a bunch of marketing nincompoops. Don't you screw this up, Taeseok." The italicized emphasis hung in the air, thick with the unspoken threat of unemployment. Taeseok had been tap-dancing on the edge of professional oblivion for months, each failed campaign a clumsy pirouette closer to the void. The disastrous celebrity chef who'd preferred knives to endorsements, the influencer who'd influenced nothing but a PR nightmare – they were all badges of his recent incompetence. Project Phoenix, the seemingly impossible task of signing the famously elusive boxer Jung Hyun, was his last, ludicrously improbable shot at redemption.
He eyed the glossy folder again, the name JUNG HYUN emblazoned like a championship belt. The "Iron Fist of Seoul," the undefeated titan, the man whose punches could apparently rearrange facial structures but whose lips remained stubbornly sealed against any commercial affiliation. His refusal to endorse anything had only amplified his legendary status, making him the white whale of the marketing world. And guess who was Captain Ahab in this soggy, caffeine-deprived scenario? Yours truly.
A sigh, heavy with the weight of impending doom and stale coffee fumes, escaped Taeseok. It wasn't just the Everest-sized challenge of getting Jung Hyun to sign on the dotted line that had his stomach doing acrobatic maneuvers. It was Jung Hyun himself.
He reluctantly flipped open the profile. The headshot was… well, devastatingly handsome. Sharp eyes that hinted at a mind as quick as his fists, a jawline that could probably cut diamonds, and that faint scar above his left eyebrow – a tiny imperfection that somehow made him seem even more human, and therefore, more unsettlingly familiar. The tailored suit couldn't hide the coiled strength beneath, the aura of a man who could knock you out with a dismissive flick of his wrist.
And that man was Kim Junghyun, the gawky, fiercely competitive teenager who had once shared stolen kisses and lukewarm ramyeon with a younger, less jaded Park Taeseok.
A wave of nausea washed over Taeseok, colder than the Seoul rain. Fifteen years. Fifteen years since he'd last seen that face, albeit softer, boyish. Jung Hyun was a global phenomenon now, his features sharpened by fame and the brutal demands of his sport. Taeseok, on the other hand, felt like he'd been run over by a particularly grumpy subway train. His once-bright optimism had dimmed to a flickering bulb of anxiety, his youthful charm replaced by a permanent expression of mild bewilderment. He'd gained a respectable (read: slightly worrying) amount of weight, and the hair that had once been styled with youthful exuberance was now making a strategic retreat. Surely, surely, Jung Hyun wouldn't recognize him. They were practically different species now: a majestic fighting eagle and a… slightly damp pigeon.
Still, the memory of those stolen moments, the electric thrill of their clandestine meetings, the quiet intensity in Jung Hyun's young eyes – they flickered in Taeseok's mind like a faulty neon sign. He'd vanished from Jung Hyun's life with the grace of a startled squirrel, a hasty, ill-explained departure fueled by a cocktail of teenage angst and perceived insurmountable obstacles. He'd convinced himself it was for the best, a noble sacrifice. Now, staring at the face of the man who had become a national icon, that decision felt less noble and more like a particularly spectacular act of self-sabotage.
Taking a deep breath that tasted suspiciously of desperation, Taeseok found the contact information for JHC Management, Jung Hyun's notoriously impenetrable agency. Their reputation preceded them: they politely (and sometimes not so politely) brushed off endorsement offers from companies that weren't practically printing money with the athlete's face already on them. Zenith, while a respectable corporation, was venturing into new territory with their sports gear line, and they certainly weren't in the "already printing money with Jung Hyun's face" category.
He dialed the number, his fingers drumming a nervous rhythm on his desk. A crisp, professional voice answered. Taeseok, channeling his most confident (and utterly fake) tone, requested to speak to whoever handled endorsement inquiries for Jung Hyun. After being transferred twice and subjected to a series of increasingly probing questions, he finally found himself speaking to Mr. Kim Min-joon, a man whose voice sounded permanently unimpressed.
"Zenith Corp.?" Mr. Kim echoed, his tone suggesting he'd just encountered a particularly unpleasant smell. "We've received your proposal. Mr. Jung Hyun is not currently seeking any endorsement opportunities."
"I understand," Taeseok said smoothly, the lie tasting like ash in his mouth.
"However, we believe our new line of athletic wear aligns perfectly with Mr. Jung Hyun's image and dedication to peak performance. We've prepared a uniquely compelling proposal that I believe warrants his personal consideration." He cringed internally at the cliché.
Mr. Kim remained unmoved. "Mr. Jung Hyun's focus is solely on his training and upcoming international fights. He does not engage with brands." This wasn't a rejection; it was a declaration of universal truth.
Taeseok, however, was running on fumes and the sheer terror of unemployment. He wasn't about to back down easily. "Perhaps if I could send over my business card and a brief executive summary? Just so Mr. Jung Hyun is aware of our interest?" It was a long shot, a pebble tossed at a heavily fortified wall.
A sigh that could curdle milk traveled through the phone line. "Fine. Email it to the address on our website. Don't expect a response."
The call ended with a decisive click that felt like the slamming of a very expensive door in Taeseok's face. He slumped back in his chair, the adrenaline of the call already fading, leaving behind a residue of hopelessness. Still, he meticulously crafted an email, attaching his most professional-looking business card – Park Taeseok, Senior Marketing Manager, Zenith Corp. – and a concise, yet persuasive, summary of their proposal. He even threw in a few buzzwords like "synergy" and "authenticity," hoping they might somehow penetrate the champion's ironclad disinterest.
Days crawled by, each unanswered email a tiny stab of despair. Taeseok started mentally drafting his resignation speech, complete with dramatic sighs and pointed glances at Director Park's smug face. He even considered what kind of ramen he could afford on unemployment.
Then, on a particularly gloomy Wednesday afternoon, his phone rang. The number was familiar, JHC Management. Taeseok's heart hammered against his ribs. This was it, the final, polite brush-off.
He answered, trying to sound nonchalant. "Park Taeseok speaking."
"Park Taeseok-ssi, this is Kim Min-joon from JHC Management." Mr. Kim's voice, which had previously held the warmth of an iceberg, now had a distinct edge of… bewilderment? "Regarding your proposal for Mr. Jung Hyun. He… has agreed to a meeting."
Taeseok's brain short-circuited. "He… he has?" The words came out as a strangled squeak.
"Yes," Mr. Kim continued, sounding utterly baffled himself. "It's highly unusual. He's turned down Aditdas, Niks, everyone. But for some reason, he said he'd be willing to hear you out." A pause. "Tomorrow, 10 AM at his training facility. Be prompt."
The line went dead. Taeseok stared at his phone, dumbfounded. Jung Hyun wanted to meet? After years of rejecting multinational corporations with bottomless pockets, he was agreeing to meet with a desperate marketing manager from a mid-tier company?
He immediately called Mr. Kim Min-joon back, desperate for clarification. "Mr. Kim, are you sure? Did Mr. Jung Hyun say… anything specific about why he agreed?"
Mr. Kim sighed, a sound of utter exasperation. "He didn't elaborate, Park Taeseok-ssi. He just said he'd consider it. Trust me, I'm as shocked as you are. Just be there. And for the love of all that is holy, don't screw this up. I've never seen him agree to anything like this."
As Taeseok hung up, a nervous laugh bubbled up from his chest. He'd gotten the meeting. Against all odds, against all logic. It seemed Jung Hyun was as oblivious to their shared past as Taeseok had hoped. The thought was a strange mixture of relief and a dull ache. Good. He wouldn't have to confront the ghost of his youth. He could just be a professional, secure the deal, and finally breathe easy.
Now came the truly terrifying part: facing the Iron Fist of Seoul, the man he used to know as just Hyun, and pretending their past was nothing more than a faded, rain-soaked memory. He had a feeling this was going to be a much more brutal fight than any he'd ever witnessed in a boxing ring.
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