Cha Se-ryun — her name had been chosen by her grandfather, a former Minister of Justice, who hoped his precious granddaughter would grow into a sophisticated woman, just like her name, Se-ryun means.
But Se-ryun had inherited her mother's tendency to gain weight easily and her short stature, while from her father she had taken the rugged seaside features — the broad bones, the rough voice, and the fiery temperament of a man born by the ocean.
She was, however, irresistibly charming — a living collage of both her families' dominant genes — and she was adored by her classmates and even teachers.
The girl who carried the bloodline of the legal world and the strength of the sea naturally stood out at the arts middle and high school; there was no need to explain why she was impossible to miss.
Students born with fragile, artistic temperaments would instinctively avert their eyes from her piercing gaze.
Even the school's pretty uniforms, which Se-ryun loved, lost their elegance beside her overwhelming aura.
Yoojin, on the other hand — who was always seen by her side — had a small, delicately featured face, and legs that made up nearly sixty percent of her body.
At 165 centimeters, with a long slender neck and perfect posture, she was a ballerina shaped by heaven's own hands.
People who passed her on the street would whisper, She must be a dancer, and glance back for another look.
Naturally, everyone wondered why Yoojin and Se-ryun were inseparable. And the real mystery was that all of Se-ryun's close friends were not only beautiful, but also intelligent and kind-hearted.
Perhaps for that reason, Se-ryun longed to be admired by men, just like her friends were — to meet someone she liked and fall in love.
She was aware of her own flaws, and so she tried even harder than anyone else to find, meet, and keep a boyfriend. But it was never easy.
If only her looks were the issue — but her manner of speech was rough, her actions impulsive.
Whenever she liked someone, she charged straight ahead without hesitation, and the boys almost always ran for their lives.
The number of men who recoiled after she blurted, on their very first meeting,
"Let's eat! I'll buy you drinks!" — and then confessed her love that same night — was beyond counting.
Because of that tender heart of hers, Yoojin often ended up comforting Se-ryun after each rejection.
She would softly stroke her friend's back while Se-ryun sobbed, fragile and pitiful, despite her tough exterior.
Behind Se-ryun, students in school uniforms and teachers continued to offer condolences.
"We're so sorry for your loss."
Yoojin silently scanned the familiar faces — classmates buried in her distant memories.
Some had gone on to the arts high school with her; others had fallen away in the fierce competition.
Inside that world, rivalry had been constant, but here in the funeral hall, it melted into sincere sympathy.
"Yoojin, are you okay?"
"This must be so hard…"
Even those who had never been close offered comfort, and Yoojin found it strangely soothing.
"Thank you for coming. My father would have been glad. Please, eat before you go."
She smiled awkwardly, and the students moved toward the nearby tables.
Then she saw him standing behind them — the ballerino, Yoon Dong-ha.
Her longtime rival and partner — the dancer who, in the life she'd left behind, had performed on a level far beyond her own.
His dark brows were thick, his violet-tinted black eyes fixed on her. His sensuous lips parted slightly, as if to speak her name.
Yoojin gazed back at him, recalling their first encounter.
It had been at the entrance ceremony of the arts middle school. Out of the entire dance department, only five were boys, and among them, Dong-ha — a ballet major — was the smallest and frailest.
At that time, few boys competed in ballet competitions, so his background was sparse.
During their first practice, his fundamentals were shaky; unlike Yoojin, who had trained since age six, his balance wavered constantly.
In the beginner's class, Yoojin couldn't help but correct him — pressing his toes and soles into proper position on the barre, guiding his posture as she lifted her chin and flowed through en bas, en avant, à la seconde, en haut.
Dong-ha glanced sideways at her, checking his form in the mirror and adjusting himself accordingly. Standing side by side each day, they practiced relentlessly, as if locked in silent competition to see who could perfect their form first.
Their training eventually diverged — male and female dancers use different muscles, after all — but their hours in the studio only grew. By their third year, Dong-ha had reached Yoojin's level.
He had also shot up past 180 centimeters, his features sharpened into something almost foreign, drawing fans who waited outside the school gate.
He entered the same arts high school, and by his second year, multiple universities — including Yoojin's alma mater, Korea University — had offered him full scholarships.
Yet he chose Russia, the homeland of classical ballet.
Everyone expected him to join the Bolshoi, but he took a different path — modern dance.
He joined Rosas in Belgium, one of the most avant-garde companies in the world.
Yoojin remembered the last time she had seen him — in an online video years later.
He had grown taller, broader, his body carved with muscle. Onstage, dressed only in black tights, his sculpted torso gleamed under the lights.
To the unpredictable, lyrical melody of a violin, he moved like a marionette caught between tension and freedom — his body trembling with emotion as it sliced through the air.
As his movements intensified, his muscles rippled to maintain balance, every fiber alive with passion.
When the music softened, he froze — jaw tight, face set, refusing to be swayed by anything. Then, slowly, deliberately, he walked offstage.
The audience held its breath, silenced by the force radiating from his body. Yoojin, watching from her screen, felt the same awe.
And then realization struck — she covered her mouth with both hands.
Dong-ha's choreography was a reinterpretation of Swan Lake — the very duet they had danced together in their third year, Act I Pas de Deux, where she had performed Odette's part.
She remembered how he had lifted her effortlessly, how her face had flushed as she balanced on his palms mid-air. Dancing with him had always felt like magic — like flying.
Now, his solo transformed that same choreography into something new — masculine, experimental, and heartbreakingly beautiful. The passion, the loneliness, and even the quiet happiness of waiting — all expressed through movement.
It was dazzling — and painful.
Yoojin sighed. She was trapped in the gilded cage of Gangrim Group and classical ballet, while Dong-ha, radiant and unbound, shone like light itself.
As she lingered in that memory, the department head and her homeroom teacher approached.
The department head — a plump woman in her forties — had once been a soloist in a regional ballet company before turning to teaching after childbirth. Most former ballerinas followed that path.
Her homeroom teacher, too, was a woman — a physical-education graduate who had majored in ballet pedagogy at Korea University. Because she wasn't a professional performer, the students often looked down on her; she couldn't share the stories of the real stage that they craved.
Yoojin, now a world-class ballerina, had far more stage experience than either of them.
Thinking of their shallow lectures, she almost smiled bitterly.
The teachers offered brief condolences, then glanced around the hall.
Yoojin's chest tightened — she recognized that look. They weren't here just to pay respects. They were here as envoys of the Gangrim Cultural Foundation.
"Where's your mother?"
Yoojin's expression stiffened.
There mustn't be any more sponsorships. No more chains.
"She's exhausted… resting in the general ward with an IV."
"Ah, I see…"
The two exchanged uneasy glances, silently confirming their intent. Finally, the department head spoke.
"Yoojin, dear, why don't you sit for a moment?"
Yoojin complied, and a simple meal was quickly brought to the table. Her classmates kept a polite distance, but she could feel their eyes fixed on them.
"This," the department head said, placing a white envelope on the table, "is from Chairwoman Hong In-hee. She wanted it given directly to your mother — not placed in the condolence box. Could you deliver it yourself?"
The envelope bulged with bills. Yoojin didn't need to open it to know.
It was bait — the hook from Gangrim Cultural Foundation, cast once again by Hong In-hee.