POV: Kang Min-jae
Day 0 – Thursday Afternoon
Setting: PRISM Creative Agency, Seongsu-dong, Seoul
The campaign boards look perfect.
I step back from the presentation wall, adjusting the leftmost mood board so it aligns with the others. Three concepts for Luminé Jewelry's Valentine's campaign, each one distinct but cohesive: "Eternal Moments," "Modern Romance," and "Love, Unfiltered." Clean typography, aspirational imagery, taglines that sound profound without being pretentious. Six weeks of work distilled into sleek visual packages that should make James Woo, Luminé's CEO, forget that I'm thirty years old and look like I walked off a cologne ad instead of out of design school.
That's the problem, really. I've been at PRISM Creative for five years, worked my way up to creative director, led campaigns that won awards—but half the industry still sees me as "that good-looking guy from the Kang family." My father's an acclaimed architect. My mother teaches art history at Hongik University. People assume doors opened for me because of my face or my last name, not because I spent four years doing grunt work on campaigns I never got credit for.
This Luminé pitch is different. James Woo specifically requested me after seeing my work on the Hanjin Department Store rebrand. This is my campaign, my vision, my chance to prove I earned this position.
"Min-jae!" Tae-hyun's voice cuts through my concentration. "Stop obsessing. They look great."
I turn to find my colleague—and closest friend—leaning against the doorframe of the presentation room, coffee in hand. Park Tae-hyun is a thirty-one, senior copywriter, and the only person at PRISM who's known me long enough to be completely unimpressed by my appearance. We met during my first week here, when I was so nervous about being taken seriously that I wore glasses I didn't need and spoke an octave lower than my natural voice. He saw through it in about thirty seconds.
"They look great now," I say, making one more micro-adjustment. "But what if Woo wants something completely different? What if he hates all three concepts?"
"Then you'll dazzle him with your charm and good looks and he'll approve them anyway." Tae-hyun grins. "Relax. You've got this."
"That's exactly what I don't want. I don't want him approving anything because of—" I gesture vaguely at my face. "I want him to approve because the work is excellent."
"The work is excellent. Also, you're having an existential crisis about your looks again, which means you didn't sleep enough. Did you stay here until midnight?"
"One AM," I admit.
Tae-hyun sighs. "You know Mi-sun thinks you need a girlfriend."
"Your wife thinks everyone needs a girlfriend. She's been married for three years and decided the rest of us should suffer too."
"It's not suffering. It's nice. Coming home to someone, having plans that don't involve work." Tae-hyun's expression softens the way it always does when he talks about his wife and their six-month-old daughter. "You should try it."
I turn back to the mood boards, straightening a corner that doesn't need straightening. "I date."
"You go on first dates that never turn into second dates because you get bored or busy."
"I don't get bored—"
"Last month you went out with that gallery curator. She was smart, attractive and liked basketball. You never called her back."
"We didn't click," I say, which is true but also incomplete. We didn't click because halfway through dinner I realized she was more interested in my family connections than in me. She asked about my mother's position at Hongik three times and mentioned her gallery's funding problems twice. By dessert, I could see the calculation in her eyes.
It's not her fault. I look like someone who can open doors, so people expect me to open them. But I'm tired of wondering if someone likes me or likes what I represent.
My phone buzzes. I check it immediately: James Woo's assistant confirms our meeting for next week. The pitch that could change everything.
"See?" Tae-hyun says. "You're confirmed. Stop stressing."
"I'm not stressing—"
"You've adjusted that mood board four times in the last thirty seconds."
I force myself to step away from the wall. Tae-hyun's right. I'm spiraling, which I do when stakes are high. My therapist calls it "productive anxiety." My mother calls it "your father's perfectionism gene."
"Come on," Tae-hyun says. "Team meeting in five. And please try to look less terrifyingly perfect. You're making the rest of us look bad."
The PRISM Creative main office is everything you'd expect from a Seongsu-dong agency: exposed brick walls, industrial lighting, standing desks with dual monitors, a coffee bar that would make most cafés jealous. We're housed in a converted warehouse, all open space and creative energy, the kind of place that makes clients feel like they're buying into something innovative.
Our team gathers in the collaboration zone—a pretentious name for a corner with nice chairs and a whiteboard. Besides Tae-hyun and myself, there's So-yeon from design, Jun-ho from digital, and our creative lead, Director Choi, who's technically my boss but mostly lets me run my own projects.
"Good work this month, everyone," Director Choi starts. "The Hanjin campaign is performing above projections. Min-jae, your Valentine's pitch with Luminé is our highest priority for Q1. How are you feeling about it?"
"Confident," I say, because that's what you say in team meetings even when you're internally catastrophizing. "I have three strong concepts. The meeting is scheduled for next Friday."
"Woo's a tough client," Director Choi says. "He turned down four agencies before coming to us. What's your strategy?"
This is the part I've thought about obsessively. "Authenticity. Every jewelry campaign sells aspirations—perfect couples, perfect moments. I want to pitch something that feels real. Romance isn't always cinematic. Sometimes it's small moments, imperfect situations, choosing each other anyway."
So-yeon nods enthusiastically. "I love that angle."
"It's risky," Jun-ho points out. "Luxury brands usually want escapism, not reality."
"Which is why it'll stand out," I counter. "Woo built Luminé on the idea that fine jewelry should be accessible, not just for special occasions. The brand's entire philosophy is 'everyday luxury.' This campaign extends that to romance—real love, not fantasy."
Director Choi considers this. "It could work. But you need to sell him on it. And that means you need to believe it yourself. Do you understand real romance, Min-jae? Not the advertising version—the actual thing?"
The question catches me off guard. "I... yes? I've been in relationships—"
"Have you?" Tae-hyun interjects, and there's something mischievous in his tone that makes me nervous. "Because from where I'm sitting, you haven't had a relationship lasting longer than three weeks in the five years I've known you."
The room goes quiet. So-yeon looks uncomfortable. Jun-ho suddenly finds his notebook fascinating.
"That's not fair," I say carefully. "I've dated plenty—"
"You've gone on dates," Tae-hyun corrects. "That's different from actually being in a relationship. Dealing with someone past the fun first-date phase. The awkward getting-to-know-you part. The part where you have to show up even when it's inconvenient."
My jaw tightens. "What's your point?"
"My point is, maybe you don't understand real romance any better than the aspirational campaigns you're criticizing." Tae-hyun leans back in his chair, grinning now like he's enjoying this. "In fact, I bet you couldn't make a relationship in the last ten days if you tried."
Something hot and defensive flares in my chest. "That's ridiculous."
"Is it? Name one relationship you've had that lasted the past two weeks."
I open my mouth. Close it. Try to think of an example that won't prove his point.
"See?" Tae-hyun looks around at the others. "He can't even name one."
"Because I've been focused on my career," I snap. "That doesn't mean I'm incapable of—"
"So prove it." Tae-hyun's grin widens. "I bet you can't sustain a relationship for ten days. Real dates, consistent communication, actual effort. No ghosting, no 'too busy with work' excuses. Ten days."
The challenge hangs in the air. Around the table, my colleagues watch with varying degrees of amusement and concern. Director Choi pinches the bridge of his nose like he regrets scheduling this meeting.
"This is juvenile," I say.
"But you're considering it," So-yeon observes. "I can see you considering it."
She's right. I am considering it, which is stupid because it's a childish bet that proves nothing. But Tae-hyun's words needled something sensitive: the idea that I don't understand real romance, that I'm all surface, that my campaign pitch is hollow because I've never experienced what I'm trying to sell.
"What are the terms?" I hear myself ask.
Tae-hyun's eyes light up. "Ten consecutive days. You have to go on at least three real dates—not coffee meetings, actual dates. Daily communication. And it has to be a relationship, not just someone you're casually seeing. You have to introduce her as your girlfriend."
"And when I succeed?"
"When you succeed, I'll publicly admit in the next all-hands meeting that you are, in fact, capable of human connection beyond surface-level charm." Tae-hyun pauses. "And you get creative control on the Luminé campaign. No notes from me, no second-guessing. Your vision, executed exactly how you want it."
That gets my attention. Tae-hyun is brilliant but notorious for offering unsolicited feedback. Having his explicit approval to run the campaign my way would be valuable.
"And if I fail?"
"You buy drinks for the entire team for a month. And you have to admit that maybe, just maybe, you rely a little too much on your looks and not enough on actual substance."
The words sting because there's truth in them. Because it's the fear I carry constantly—that I'm decorative, not essential. That if I weren't Kang Min-jae with the right face and the right family, I'd be nobody.
"Fine," I say. "I accept."
Tae-hyun blinks. "Really?"
"Really. Ten days. Three dates. Daily communication. Introduce her as my girlfriend. I can do that." I cross my arms, hoping I look more confident than I feel. "In fact, I'll start this weekend."
"This weekend? You don't even have anyone in mind."
"I'll figure it out," I say with more certainty than I possess. "There's that gallery opening tonight—Mi-sun's friend is exhibiting, right? You mentioned it last week."
"Yeah, but that's—" Tae-hyun pauses. "Wait. You're going to pick up a girlfriend at an art gallery? That's very you."
"It's practical. The kind of woman who goes to gallery openings is probably intelligent, culturally engaged, and open to conversation. Better than a dating app."
So-yeon raises her hand tentatively. "Can I just say that this feels ethically questionable? You're essentially planning to use someone as a prop to win a bet."
She's not wrong, and guilt flickers through me. But I push it aside. "I'm not using anyone. I'm dating someone for ten days. People date casually all the time. This is just... dating with a specific timeframe."
"And a secret agenda," Jun-ho mutters.
Director Choi stands up, clearly done with this conversation. "I'm not endorsing this bet. But since you're both adults who apparently have too much free time, I'll leave you to your own devices. Min-jae, focus on the pitch. Don't let whatever this is distract from the actual work."
"It won't," I promise.
After the meeting dissolves, I return to my desk, trying to ignore the nervous energy thrumming through my body. Ten days. Three dates. How hard can that be? I'm good at first impressions. People like me—at least initially. The trick is maintaining interest past the first date, which admittedly hasn't been my strong suit.
My phone buzzes. Tae-hyun's texted the group chat: *Min-jae's going to the gallery opening tonight to find a girlfriend. Place your bets on how spectacularly this will fail.*
So-yeon: *I give him three days max.*
Jun-ho: *Two days. He'll get busy with work and forget to text.*
Tae-hyun: *I'm the one who made the bet and even I think he's doomed.*
I ignore them and pull up the gallery information on my phone. Samcheong-dong, contemporary art, opening at 7 PM. I should go home, shower, change into something that looks effortlessly stylish but not try-hard. First impressions matter.
But more than that, I need to figure out what I'm actually doing. I can't just approach a woman at a gallery and say, "Hi, want to be my girlfriend for ten days so I can win a bet?" That's a one-way ticket to a drink in my face.
No. I need to meet someone naturally. Have a conversation. Find a connection—or at least the appearance of one. Ask for her number. Suggest a date. Let it build organically, except compressed into a ten-day window instead of the usual ambiguous timeline of modern dating.
I can do this. I've been on hundreds of first dates. I know how to be charming, interesting and attentive. I know what questions to ask, how to make someone feel. The fact that this time I have an ulterior motive doesn't change the basic mechanics.
Tae-hyun appears at my desk. "You're actually going through with this."
"You made the bet," I point out.
"I know. I'm starting to regret it." He sits on the edge of my desk. "Look, I was giving you a hard time, but I meant what I said. You're great at surfaces. At making people like you immediately. But you disappear before anything gets real. And I think... I think you do it on purpose. Because if you never let anyone get close, they can't be disappointed when they discover you're human."
I stare at my keyboard. "That's very insightful. Did Mi-sun tell you to say that?"
"She helped me phrase it. But the observation's mine." Tae-hyun's voice softens. "I'm your friend, Min-jae. I want you to be happy. Actually happy, not just successful. And that requires letting people in."
"I let people in," I protested weakly.
"You let them in the foyer. Not the actual house." Tae-hyun stands. "Anyway. Good luck tonight. Try to meet someone you actually like, not just someone who makes you look good."
After he leaves, I sit in the quiet of my desk space, surrounded by campaign materials and mood boards and the evidence of my professional competence. Tae-hyun's words echo uncomfortably.
*You disappear before anything gets real.*
Is that what I do? Or have I just not met anyone worth staying for?
My phone buzzes again, this time with a calendar reminder: *Gallery Opening – 7 PM – Samcheong-dong.*
I have four hours to go home, make myself presentable, and figure out how to meet someone who'll agree to date me for ten days without realizing she's part of a bet.
Ten days to prove I'm capable of more than surface charm.
Ten days to win creative control on the most important pitch of my career.
Ten days to show everyone—including myself—that I'm not just the good-looking guy from the right family.
I shut down my computer and grab my jacket. On the way out, I pass the presentation room where my campaign boards still hang. "Modern Romance. Love, Unfiltered."
By next Friday, I need to pitch authentic romance to James Woo. Which means between now and then, I need to understand what that actually looks like.
I guess I'm about to find out.