A full week passed before the full truth behind the mysterious contract finally came to light.
The contract was just an accident, a sequence of unlikely events.
Two weeks prior, during a particularly chaotic evening shift, his newly hired executive secretary had brought a thick stack of papers into his office for end-of-day authorization. When Mr. Lee had tiredly asked what the document was, she had simply replied that it was documents Dr. Lee brought personally, directly from Mr. Park Jin-ho.
Having already signed dozens of specialized medical release forms, international clinic waivers, and experimental prescription authorizations organized through Jin-ho for Jin-woo's overseas treatment for the past months, Mr. Lee had asked no further questions. Jin-ho had always been extraordinarily generous with his resources when it came to Jin-woo. Well, who wouldn't be for his own child.
Trusting his old friend implicitly, Mr. Lee had stamped his personal seal onto the bottom line, handed the portfolio back, and instructed her to courier it right back to the Park estate.
He had no idea he was signing an irrevocable host agreement for an international exchange student.
Naturally, the immediate reaction was to void the agreement.
But when Ji-hoon thoroughly analyzed the five-page contract, he pointed out the trap.
"Canceling the contract isn't impossible, but the breach penalty is astronomical," Ji-hoon had explained during a family council meeting midweek. "The money itself isn't the problem. The real issue is Clause 14—an early termination on the host side results in the immediate forfeiture of all family board privileges at Kirin Arts High."
That settled it.
Losing their board privileges meant putting Ha-neul's standing and future at Kirin at direct risk.
There was no going back.
Over the course of the week, the tension slowly dissolved into quiet acceptance.
Ji-hoon was surprisingly enthusiastic about the idea, openly admitting he liked the prospect of having a younger brother around the house.
Ha-neul maintained her usual haughty, indifferent front, crossing her arms and claiming she couldn't care less as long as the newcomer didn't touch her study materials or bother her routine.
By Sunday evening, the four of them gathered in the main living room.
Ji-hoon plugged the USB drive straight into the massive flatscreen TV mounted above the hearth, selecting the file labeled [essay.mp4].
The screen flickered, and the video began.
A tall teenage boy sat in front of a grainy, low-resolution webcam in what looked like a modest, sunlit bedroom with different anime posters on the walls behind the boy.
He had a mop of messy, overgrown dark hair that looked like it hadn't seen a comb all morning, completely devoid of the slick, polished aesthetic typical for Kirin trainees.
He looked entirely average, almost out of place.
"Hi," the boy on the screen said in clear, slightly accented Korean, offering an awkward, hesitant wave toward the lens. "My name is Oleksandr Motuzenko. My friends call me Alex. I'm probably not the person you're looking for."
Ji-hoon snorted, covering his mouth to hide a sudden laugh.
It was completely absurd. The entire submission felt less like an audition for Korea's most prestigious arts academy and more like a hilarious anti-presentation—a masterclass in "How Not to Get Into Kirin."
Down on the floor cushions, Ji-hoon and Ha-neul found themselves glancing back at their parents every few seconds, quietly gauging their reactions.
Mr. and Mrs. Lee sat motionless on the sofa.
Their expressions were calm on the surface, but the rapid, shallow rise and fall of Mrs. Lee's chest betrayed the emotional hurricane raging inside her.
Seeing her subtle distress, Mr. Lee reached over, gently taking his wife's hand and wrapping his arm around her shoulders to pull her close against his chest.
As the video played on, San bluntly listed his total lack of classical music training, his complete ignorance of high-society etiquette, and his questionable dance skills with deadpan, self-deprecating humor. Despite the solemn mood, a few moments were so absurdly candid that the entire family couldn't help but let out collective scoffs and warm chuckles.
Yet, as Ha-neul watched as the dark-haired boy talked on the screen, a strange, unexplainable sensation washed over her. She felt a bizarre, immediate sense of resonance—as if she were watching someone she had already known for years.
Then came the final section of the submission.
San picked up a worn acoustic guitar resting against his bedpost, settled his fingers against the steel strings, and began to play.
He launched into a raw, stripped-down acoustic rendition of Imagine Dragons' Believer. Which proved to be false, since the song me and you knew as the "Believer" wasn't even released yet. It was San's own song.
His voice scraped through the TV speakers—deep, raspy, and unvarnished. It lacked the breathy, refined vocal control taught in Kirin's practice rooms, relying entirely on sheer grit.
The song reached its final lingering chord, and the screen faded to black.
Silence hung over the living room.
Mrs. Lee stared at the dark TV screen for a long, quiet moment. Slowly, she turned her head, exchanging a deep, meaningful look with her husband.
Tears shimmered in her eyes, but a soft, breathtakingly gentle smile touched her lips.
She offered a tiny, single nod.
"He's just like him..," she whispered.