The office building elevator always smelled the same.
Coffee. Expensive perfume. Air conditioning.
And something like tension that had already been ironed flat.
Han Joon-seok stood on the right side.
The safe position.
Not blocking anyone.
Not looking like he expected to be prioritized.
His work jacket was neat. All buttons fastened.
Work bag in his left hand.
A thin folder in his right.
His watch said he wasn't late.
But in a place like this, not late only meant still salvageable.
The elevator doors opened.
Inside, four people stood in a clean line.
Dark suits. Slim bags. Expensive watches.
Two suited men noticed him first. They stepped aside instinctively.
"Please," one of them said.
Han Joon-seok nodded politely.
"Thank you."
He stepped in—careful not to inconvenience anyone. The doors closed. The smell of cheap instant coffee clinging to Han Joon-seok's clothes collided with the sharp citrus perfume filling the narrow elevator.
Inside, the mirror reflected faces that didn't want to reflect anything.
There were unwritten rules.
Don't talk too much.
Don't look too much.
One of the men glanced at him again.
His gaze dropped to Han Joon-seok's chest.
To the badge.
The lanyard color was different. In this building, badge colors were caste.
Blue for permanent staff.
Yellow for vendors.
And his—red—for Trainee.
The change in expression was subtle.
But clear.
The man's face stayed polite.
His eyes did not.
Han Joon-seok was used to it. He stared at the glowing floor numbers.
The man shifted his body slightly, making space.
Not out of courtesy—
but to keep distance.
"Which floor?" the man asked flatly.
"Twenty-three," Han Joon-seok replied.
The man pressed the button without looking.
No please this time.
The elevator ascended.
A woman in the corner glanced again.
At Han Joon-seok's shoes.
At the folder in his hand.
Then she looked down, pretending to check her phone.
When the number twenty-three lit up, Han Joon-seok stepped out.
He gave a brief bow to those inside.
The elevator doors closed.
The office corridor was bright and quiet.
White lights. Thick carpet.
Footsteps perfectly muted.
Han Joon-seok walked toward the staff area.
He passed glass doors labeled with long department names.
He didn't work there.
He was just passing through.
Still, people looked up.
Sometimes because of his face.
Sometimes because a face like that didn't seem possible for facilities staff.
In the work area, a young staffer stood rigid in front of a computer.
"What's wrong?" Han Joon-seok asked.
The staffer turned quickly.
"The screen went black. There was a small 'pop' sound."
Han Joon-seok set down his bag. Opened the side panel of the desk. Checked the cables.
"The outlet's hot," he said.
He unplugged it.
Changed the connection.
Pressed the power button.
The screen lit up. The staffer let out a long breath.
"Thank you. I already called IT, but—"
"They're probably in a meeting," Han Joon-seok cut in lightly.
He tidied the cables. Closed the panel.
"If it makes that sound again, don't use it," he added.
The staffer nodded quickly.
Relieved.
At another desk, a printer beeped shortly.
Paper jam.
Han Joon-seok walked over.
Opened the cover.
"Don't pull it too hard—the roller will break," he said softly as he eased the jammed paper out.
No one replied. In this office, what mattered was that the problem was solved.
He returned to his desk. Opened his folder. Checked the schedule.
His long, clean fingers—ones the Talent Hunter team once said were better suited to holding a perfume bottle in a commercial—were stained with black ink.
He preferred the smell of ink to blinding studio lights.
Ink felt real.
From the corridor, two women walked past. Neatly dressed. Their shoes made no sound. Their badges were different levels.
One of them glanced at Han Joon-seok, then whispered to her friend—not quietly enough.
"Why was he transferred anyway?" she said.
"Who?" her friend asked.
"That one—the trainee track."
Her friend looked at Han Joon-seok.
Her eyebrow lifted slightly.
"Seriously?"
The first woman nodded.
"He'd be perfect as a model. And instead he's working as staff."
Her friend covered her mouth briefly.
Not to hide laughter—
to suppress a comment that could kill a career.
They walked on.
Han Joon-seok heard everything.
He didn't look up.
He had once "walked into the wrong interview room."
That day, he'd come to apply for Facilities & Administrative Staff.
He carried a folder.
He wore the same shirt.
He waited in the same chair as everyone else.
Then a staff member called his name.
"Please come in."
Han Joon-seok entered.
The room was too bright.
Too clean.
Too many small cameras in the corners.
Three people sat in front of him.
Not general HR. They looked like people who evaluated faces, not CVs. The name Park was printed on the folder in front of them.
Han Joon-seok assumed it was normal. Many things in this world didn't need to make sense to keep running.
"Have you worked in front of the public before?" Park asked.
Han Joon-seok thought for a moment. He remembered standing outside convenience stores, handing out flyers in the snow.
"Often," he answered honestly.
"Can you work under pressure?" the man on the left asked.
"Yes."
Park wrote: High Confidence, Public Experience.
"Are you flexible with hours?" Park asked again.
Han Joon-seok answered honestly.
"I can work overtime."
They exchanged looks, then nodded—as if it were the best answer possible.
"And cameras?" asked the man on the right.
"Are you comfortable?"
Han Joon-seok nodded.
"If necessary."
Park nodded, writing something down.
They asked if he could smile "more casually."
They asked his height.
Park smiled faintly.
"We'll be in touch."
A week later, the contract arrived. The title was long. The word trainee sat in the middle.
Han Joon-seok read it slowly.
Then signed.
Because the contract had a salary number. And that number was more stable than many things in life.
The first day of training was a neatly organized hell.
Cold room.
Lights too bright.
The AC loud.
The trainer's name was Kang. His face looked tired, but he still had energy to be angry.
"Posture," Kang said.
"Look at the camera. Don't be stiff."
Han Joon-seok stared at the lens.
"Is this part of a staff job?" he asked.
Kang closed his eyes briefly. Then opened them again.
"You're a trainee. Don't complain."
Han Joon-seok nodded.
"Sorry."
Kang sighed.
The problem was, Han Joon-seok couldn't pretend properly.
He couldn't act like life was a stage.
He only knew how to complete tasks.
And that gave Kang a headache.
An hour later, Kang left the room. Then returned with Park.
Everyone listened when Park spoke. People called him a talent hunter. Han Joon-seok called him the man who walks fast.
Park scanned Han Joon-seok from shoes to hair.
"You…" Park paused.
"What did you apply for yesterday?"
"Facilities & Administrative Staff," Han Joon-seok replied.
Park closed his folder.
"Then why are you in the trainee program?"
"I was contracted," Han Joon-seok said.
Park looked at Kang. Kang stared at the ceiling, as if asking the AC for answers.
Park spoke quietly but firmly.
"We need to find a solution."
Kang nodded quickly. Park turned to his team.
"Does HR know?" he asked.
Someone shook their head.
"Finance?" Park continued.
Silence.
Park took a breath.
Slow.
Deep.
"If HR finds out we routed this wrong, they'll cut our heads off first," he said.
Someone laughed nervously. Park tapped the table.
"We can't cancel the contract. Finance will demand an explanation."
He looked at Han Joon-seok again, speaking more to Kang than to him.
"We'll move you to a function that makes sense. Still under the program."
Kang looked relieved, like someone who had just walked out of a meeting with the CFO.
Park added—this time sounding almost joking, but not entirely—
"And make sure HR doesn't feel like we're being scammed."
Kang swallowed. Park looked back at Han Joon-seok.
"And if anyone asks—say you were recommended."
Han Joon-seok nodded.
"Understood."
Kang turned.
"Recommended by whom?"
Park didn't answer and walked away.
Behind him, Kang whispered,
"Why do you always say 'understood'?"
Han Joon-seok looked at him.
"Because it's an instruction," he replied.
Kang covered his mouth.
From that day on, Han Joon-seok had two statuses.
In the system, he was a trainee.
In reality, he was facilities staff reassigned to a "special role" so everyone could survive.
Lunchtime arrived.
In the building cafeteria, the smell of warm food rose like small comfort.
Han Joon-seok took a tray.
Kimchi. Soup. Fish. Rice.
He sat alone at the corner table.
A place that disturbed no one.
He opened his phone. A message from the school came in.
"Indoor shoes: please bring them tomorrow."
Han Joon-seok exhaled softly. He took out a note and wrote slowly:
Indoor shoes.
He tapped the screen. Called.
"Mom, please find plain white shoes for Seo-jun. The cheapest ones."
The voice on the other end sounded shocked and immediately started scolding.
"Why are you calling only now?!"
He covered the phone with his hand, muting the office noise.
"Yes, Mom. I'll transfer the money. Don't use your pension."
Pause.
"No, plain ones."
Another pause.
"Thank you."
He ended the call.
Someone was already standing in front of him.
"Your kid?" the man asked casually.
Han Joon-seok nodded.
"New school?"
"Yes."
The man nodded slowly, staring at Han Joon-seok's badge a little longer than necessary.
"If you need anything, let me know."
Han Joon-seok nodded.
"Thank you."
The man walked away.
Han Joon-seok didn't ask why. In this office, help was rarely free—but it always came with a friendly face.
He opened KakaoTalk.
The group name was short. 3-2 Parent Room.
He hadn't even entered yet.
Hadn't typed a greeting.
But the notification was already there.
"Welcome, Father of Han Seo-jun."
Han Joon-seok held his breath. He typed briefly:
"Thank you. I am his father. Please guide me."
He sent it.
Then stared at the screen a second longer.
The phone vibrated.
A photo—from one of the school moms that morning.
The school gate.
A mother and her child.
And himself—
fitting in perfectly.
A short message followed.
"Is this the father or the older brother?"
"If it's the brother, please pass along greetings from my younger sister."
Han Joon-seok stared at the screen for a long time.
At his own image on it.
There, he looked like a perfect man with a small, happy family.
He unlocked the screen again.
Typed.
Deleted.
Typed again.
Then he decided to turn off the screen and return to work.
—To be Continued—