*POV: Seo Ji-won
Day 0 – Thursday Evening**
Setting: Gallery MIRO, Samcheong-dong, Seoul
The gallery smells like white wine and ambition.
I hover near the entrance of Gallery MIRO, trying to look like I belong here. Around me, Seoul's creative class mingles in carefully curated outfits—black turtlenecks, architectural jewelry, designer sneakers that cost more than my monthly subway pass. Conversations drift past in a mixture of Korean and English, punctuated by thoughtful nods at the enormous abstract canvases lining the white walls.
Yu-jin appears at my elbow with two glasses of wine. "You came! And you wore a good blazer. I'm so proud."
I accept the wine gratefully. "The good blazer" is a vintage Burberry I found at a Hongdae thrift shop, the one piece of clothing I own that makes me look like I have my life together. I paired it with straight-leg black jeans and white sneakers—gallery casual, I hoped.
"So," Yu-jin says, eyes sparkling with curiosity. "You said you need to meet someone for work. Are you finally writing something interesting, or is this another 'Ten Ways to Organize Your Desk' situation?"
"I pitched an article this morning. 'How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days.'"
Yu-jin chokes on her wine. "You what?"
"Experimental journalism. I'm going to deliberately sabotage a relationship to expose dating double standards and—"
"Oh my god, you're actually doing the movie plot. Ji-won. Ji-won, look at me." Yu-jin grabs my arm. "This is either genius or completely unhinged."
"Editor Kim approved it. I have two weeks to deliver."
"Which means you need to find some poor unsuspecting man tonight and systematically destroy his interest in you." Yu-jin looks around the gallery with a new purpose. "Okay. Okay, I'm in. Let's find you a victim."
"Don't call him a victim. That sounds predatory."
"You're literally planning to manipulate someone for content. That's the definition of predatory." But Yu-jin is grinning, already scanning the crowd. "What's your type? Artsy? Corporate? The guy over there in the gray suit looks promising—"
"I don't have a type. I just need someone who'll actually agree to date me."
"Please. You're smart, attractive, and employed. Men will agree to date you. The question is who's going to make the best article subject." Yu-jin narrows her eyes, tactical. "You need someone conventionally attractive enough to be believable but not so hot that readers think you're bragging. Someone with a real job, not a struggling artist who'll fall apart emotionally. Someone confident enough to handle your weird behavior without immediately running away."
She's right, which is annoying. I need someone who'll stick around long enough for me to properly sabotage things, but not someone who'll be so hurt by the experience that I'll feel like a monster afterward.
"What about him?" Yu-jin nods toward a tall guy near the wine table, deep in conversation with someone I can't see. "Investment banker vibes. Probably has his life together."
I study him. Navy blazer, perfect posture, laughing at something his companion said. He's handsome in a catalog way—generic features, nice smile. Exactly the kind of person who'd make a safe article subject.
"Too safe," I decide. "He looks like he's never done anything interesting in his life."
"You're not marrying him, you're losing him. Safe is good."
"Safe is boring. If the article's going to work, there needs to be some actual chemistry. Otherwise, it just reads like I'm being mean to a stranger for no reason."
Yu-jin sighs. "You're overthinking this. Just pick someone and—oh. Oh no."
"What?"
"Don't look now, but the hottest man in Seoul just walked through the door."
I look. Obviously I look.
Yu-jin wasn't exaggerating.
He's tall—maybe 182 centimeters—with dark hair styled in that effortlessly tousled way that probably takes twenty minutes and expensive products to achieve. Sharp jawline, broad shoulders, wearing a perfectly fitted black turtleneck and gray slacks that somehow make him look both artistic and expensive. He moves through the gallery with easy confidence, nodding at a few people like he's been here before.
"Absolutely not," I say immediately.
"Why not? He's perfect. Look at that face. Readers would eat that up."
"He's too perfect. That's the problem." I watch as he accepts a wine glass from a server, and even that simple action looks like it should be in a cologne ad. "Someone who looks like that has women approaching him constantly. He probably gets bored after two dates. I'd never make it to ten days."
"Or," Yu-jin counters, "someone who looks like that is used to women falling all over him, which means your purposely terrible behavior will be refreshingly different. You might actually intrigue him."
I'm about to argue when the hot guy's gaze sweeps across the gallery and lands, briefly, on me. Our eyes meet for half a second before I look away, heart inexplicably racing.
"He looked at you," Yu-jin hisses. "That's a sign."
"That's eye contact. It happens in public spaces."
"Go talk to him."
"I'm not—"
But Yu-jin is already pushing me forward, physically propelling me toward the wine table where Mr. Perfect is studying the label on a bottle of red. I stumble slightly, catch my balance, and find myself standing directly next to him.
Up close, he's even more annoyingly attractive. I can smell his cologne—something clean and woody that probably costs more than my monthly skincare budget.
"The Malbec's better than the Cabernet," I hear myself say.
He looks at me, and his eyes are warm brown with actual depth to them. "Yeah? You've tried both?"
"I've tried three glasses of Cabernet. Trust me, stick with the Malbec."
A smile tugs at his mouth. "Three glasses? Should I be impressed or concerned?"
"Impressed that I'm still standing. Concerned about my tolerance for mediocre wine."
He laughs—actually laughs, not that polite chuckle people do at galleries. He reaches for the Malbec bottle. "I'm trusting you on this. If it's terrible, I'm holding you responsible."
"I accept full responsibility for your wine choices. It's kind of my thing."
He pours himself a glass, and I notice his hands—long fingers, neat nails, a simple watch that looks understated but is probably worth more than my laptop. Everything about him screams "has his life together" in a way that's both attractive and slightly intimidating.
"I'm Min-jae," he says, extending his hand.
"Ji-won." His hand is warm, his grip firm without being aggressive. We shake for exactly the appropriate amount of time, but when we let go, I'm hyperaware of where his skin touched mine.
Get it together, I tell myself. He's a potential article subject. Nothing more.
"Are you a friend of the artist?" Min-jae ask, gesturing toward the paintings.
"Friend of a friend. You?"
"Same. My colleague's wife knows her. I'm mostly here for the free wine and to look culturally sophisticated."
I smile despite myself. "At least you're honest about it. Most people here are pretending they understand abstract expressionism."
"You don't think those chaotic brush strokes and color fields represent the internal fragmentation of modern existence?" He's smiling now, eyes crinkling at the corners.
"I think they represent someone having access to a lot of red paint and unclear artistic direction."
Min-jae laughs again, louder this time, and a few people glance over. "Okay, that's the most honest thing anyone's said all night. Are you an artist?"
"God, no. I'm a writer. Which is just a different kind of pretentiousness."
"What kind of writer?"
This is where I should lie, or at least deflect. But something about his direct gaze makes me want to be honest. "The kind who writes articles about coffee shops and beauty products while pretending she's working on something important."
"That sounds like most writers I know. They all claim to be working on novels."
"I'm not working on a novel. I'm working on—" I catch myself. I can't tell him I'm working on an article about losing guys in ten days while I'm actively trying to pick him up. "Something different. Experimental journalism."
"Sounds intriguing."
Before I can respond, someone bumps into me from behind—a woman backing up to get a better angle on one of the paintings. I stumble forward directly into Min-jae, and my wine sloshes over the rim of my glass onto his pristine turtleneck.
"Oh my god." I grab napkins from the table, mortified. "I'm so sorry, I—"
"It's fine," he says, but there's a dark red stain spreading across his chest. "Really, it's just—"
"It's not fine, that looks expensive and I just ruined it." I'm dabbing uselessly at the stain, which only makes it worse. "I'll pay for the dry cleaning. God, I'm such a disaster."
Min-jae gently takes the napkins from my hand. "You're not a disaster. It was an accident. And honestly?" He looks down at the stain. "I was getting tired of looking too put-together. This makes me seem more human."
"You literally needed a wine stain to seem human?"
"Apparently." He grins. "So in a way, you did me a favor."
I don't know if he's being genuinely gracious or just extremely good at diffusing awkward situations, but either way, I'm grateful. "I still feel terrible."
"Then make it up to me." Min-jae pulls out his phone. "Give me your number. You can pay for dry cleaning by letting me take you to coffee."
My heart does something complicated. This is perfect—exactly what I needed. A confident, attractive guy asking for my number. Article subject acquired. Mission accomplished.
So why do I suddenly feel guilty?
"Coffee," I repeat.
"Or tea, if you're anti-coffee. Or juice. I'm flexible on beverages." He's watching me with open interest, like he actually wants to see me again, and not just because he's being polite about the wine stain.
I think about Editor Kim's deadline. Two weeks to deliver an article that could change my career. This is what I pitched. This is what I committed to.
"Okay," I say, taking his phone to enter my number. "Coffee sounds good."
"Tomorrow too soon?"
"Tomorrow works."
He texts me immediately so I have his number, and when my phone buzzes in my bag, I feel a small thrill that I absolutely should not be feeling.
"Café Onion in Seongsu-dong?" Min-jae suggests. "Six PM?"
"I'll be there."
"Great. And Ji-won?" He's backing away now, heading toward the exit despite the wine stain on his shirt. "For the record, the Malbec was excellent. You have good taste."
I watch him leave, then look down at my phone where his contact is saved: "Kang Min-jae." Even his name sounds like it belongs to someone who has his life together.
Yu-jin appears immediately, practically vibrating with excitement. "Oh my god. Oh my GOD. Did you just—"
"I got his number. We're meeting tomorrow."
"That was the smoothest accidental wine spill I've ever witnessed. And did you see his face? Ji-won, that man is INTERESTED."
"Good. That's what I need."
But Yu-jin's looking at me carefully now, her expression shifting from excited to concerned. "You're actually going to do this. You're going to date that gorgeous man just to write about losing him."
"That's the assignment."
"And you're okay with that? Because he seemed... nice. Like, genuinely nice."
He did seem nice. That's the problem. I was expecting someone bland or slightly arrogant—someone who'd be easy to write about objectively. Min-jae was neither. He was funny and self-deprecating and gracious about the wine stain, and when he smiled at me, I forgot for a moment that I was supposed to be hunting for article material.
"I'm fine," I say firmly. "This is my job. He'll be fine. People date casually all the time. We'll go on a few dates, I'll be progressively more annoying, and he'll lose interest. No harm done."
Yu-jin doesn't look convinced, but she doesn't push it. "Well, for what it's worth, you picked well. If you're going to manipulate someone for content, at least he'll photograph well."
We stayed at the gallery for another hour, drinking wine and pretending to appreciate art, but I can't stop thinking about Min-jae. The way he laughed at my terrible art critique. The warmth in his eyes when he looked at me. The fact that he asked for my number not because I was falling all over him, but because we had an actual conversation.
When I finally get home to my tiny Yeonnam-dong apartment, I sit on my bed and stare at his contact in my phone. I should be excited. I should be planning Day One of my sabotage strategy, mapping out exactly how I'll escalate from "interested" to "clingy nightmare."
Instead, I'm thinking about how his hand felt when we shook. How his laugh sounded genuine. How he made a wine stain seems like not a big deal.
My phone buzzes. A text from a number I don't recognize, then I remember—it's him.
**Min-jae:** Made it home. Had to change shirts. Currently debating whether to frame the wine-stained turtleneck as a memento of the evening.
I smile despite myself.
**Me:** Please don't. That's serial killer behavior.
**Min-jae:** Good point. I'll just never wash it instead. Much more normal.
**Me:** Definitely more normal.
**Min-jae:** See you tomorrow, Ji-won. Looking forward to coffee with Seoul's most honest art critic.
I set down my phone and opened my laptop. I should start documenting. That's what Editor Kim expects—detailed notes from the beginning.
I created a new document: "How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days - Field Notes."
Then I stare at the blank page.
*Day 0: Met subject at gallery opening. Name: Kang Min-jae. Age: approximately 30. Occupation: unknown, but works in the creative field based on comments about colleagues. Confident, attractive, good sense of humor. Asked for a number after the wine spill incident. First date scheduled for tomorrow.*
The description feels clinical. Incomplete. I think about adding more—the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, the graceful way he moved through the gallery, the fact that he made me forget I was on a mission—but that's not relevant to the article.
This is just an assignment. He's just a subject.
Tomorrow, Day One begins. And I need to be ready to start systematically dismantling his interest while documenting every moment.
I close the laptop and lie back on my bed, staring at the ceiling.
How hard could it possibly be?