Director Joo Myung-gon burst through the door.
The taut tension from the production floor seemed to cling to his back.
Still fuming, Joo Myung-gon met Yoojin's wide eyes as she looked up at him from the table.
His expression faltered. He forced himself to swallow the anger that was still swelling inside him and dropped heavily into his chair.
How should he explain this?
After hesitating for a moment, he finally spoke.
"Yoojin, don't worry too much. Strikes happen often in Vietnam. There are bad actors who go around industrial zones stirring things up."
"Bad actors?" Yoojin asked. "Aren't strikes usually organized by labor unions?"
"Vietnam has a lot of industrial parks," he said. "There are people who incite workers behind the scenes, spreading rumors and turning factory after factory into strike sites. Today, it's our turn, according to the production manager. The managers didn't know either. Someone drew a star in pencil on the bathroom wall. The day a star appears is the day the strike starts."
Yoojin nodded slowly.
"Then… how long does the strike usually last?"
"If it's short, one day. If it drags on, three."
"But the supplier is coming tomorrow to check the defective fabric."
"We'll have supervisors or managers open the rolls. That part can be handled. The real problem is delivery deadlines."
He let out a harsh laugh.
"Why does this have to happen during peak season?!"
Finished goods had to be delivered by the promised date. Brands planned their entire distribution schedule around it.
If deadlines were missed, the boxes would have to be shipped by plane instead—and air freight costs were brutal. Airplanes were meant for people, not cargo.
Joo Myung-gon's face twisted with bitter self-reproach. A strike was technically an external factor, but as the general manager of Factory No. 3, responsibility still rested on his shoulders.
After a moment, as if he had made up his mind, he picked up his phone and called someone. From the look of it, it wasn't the Seoul sales team. Sales and overseas factories operated as separate entities, their profits and losses strictly divided.
He had promised that Yoojin's defect-claim trip wouldn't be affected, but this was an issue that still needed to be shared with headquarters.
Yoojin couldn't be the one to bring up the strike at Factory No. 3 first. Executive Director Park Jin-hee, Manager Lee Hyuk, Manager Kim Se-hee, Senior Yoon Sun-young, Assistant Kang Jin-wook—mentioning it carelessly would only give them an excuse to target Joo Myung-gon.
Still, she felt she had to tell Dongha.
She opened the messenger window and double-clicked his name. Their conversation had stopped that morning.
[Dongha, are you busy?]
The message quickly switched to Read. His reply came lighter than before, as if his mood had eased.
[Busy. Very. Funny how much work there is when my fellow intern isn't here. lol]
[Sounds rough… hang in there. ToT]
[Yoojin, just come back tomorrow night. Is there really a reason to stay until Wednesday?]
[That's not up to me. The whole business trip schedule's already shared.]
Dongha read it. A short pause followed before his reply arrived.
[I don't even know why I'm still in the office if you're not here.]
Yoojin blinked slowly.
Every time Dongha pushed forward like this, the feelings she thought she had numbed only shook harder. She knew he wouldn't send words like that lightly. With Dongha, every line carried sincerity.
Somewhere along the way, his words had begun to hang heavy weights on her emotions—each sentence pulling her closer. He had once been just her middle-school classmate, a ballerino she admired from afar.
When had things changed into this?
The office air-conditioning blasted cold air, yet her face and body felt faintly warm.
Yoojin forced herself to focus on the tense atmosphere caused by the strike.
Nearby, Joo Myung-gon was speaking into the phone in an oddly coaxing tone, completely unlike his usual harshness.
"Yeah? Director Nam, help me out, will you? You know me. I'm always precise when it comes to numbers."
Yoojin let out a quiet sigh and typed another message to Dongha.
[Don't use me as an excuse to skip work. You're an office worker—stay in the office.]
No reply came.
Her fingers moved again, faster this time.
[Actually, I messaged because something's come up here.The trip might get extended.There's been a strike at Factory No. 3 in Vietnam, and production has stopped.They're handling it right now, so I'm only telling you in advance.Before Director Joo shares it with HQ, I think it's better not to mention it to anyone else there.]
Each message turned to Read. Then Dongha called.
That was awkward. Taking a call in front of Director Joo wasn't an option.
She glanced at him. He waved her out.
Yoojin stepped outside toward the outdoor restroom area.
"Yeah, Dongha."
— A strike? Are you okay?
His voice was tight with concern.
"They're just sitting at their sewing machines. No shouting, no fighting."
— Really?
"You were imagining Korean-style strikes, right?"
She had too—news footage full of clashes and chaos.
"Here, they just sit quietly. Maybe it's a cultural thing?"
As she spoke into the phone, a sudden chill crept up her spine.
She turned around.
Workers who had been sitting on the production floor were now standing together in the open yard, as if they had followed her out. Not just production workers—men from the cutting and materials teams were mixed in too.
They were smiling at her, whispering among themselves.
It felt as if every worker in the factory was watching her.
Fear surged up her chest.
Yoojin screamed.
"Ah—!"
— Yoojin!
At the sound of her scream, the striking workers lifted their shoes in one hand and hurled them into the air.
It was three in the afternoon.
*
As dusk began to fall, Joo Myung-gon, Yoojin, and the local female staff member—Jjimse, no, Lin—sat together at an old seafood restaurant in Ho Chi Minh City's District 4.
Unripe mango slices, seasoned salt, chili, lemon, cilantro, and morning glory covered the table.
"You're the first female employee who's ever screamed at the factory," Joo Myung-gon said, teasing.
Yoojin shot back, still flustered.
"I was really scared. I actually screamed."
"I didn't know how the strike would unfold either."
Embarrassed, he shrugged and poured Saigon beer into her glass.
"Still, having a beer with our female staff on a Monday evening—it's nice."
His face finally relaxed.
Yoojin raised her glass with both hands. He laughed.
"No, we do it the Vietnamese way. Mot, hai, ba, yo—then cheers."
"What does that mean?"
"One, two, three, cheers."
"Oh."
It was just past five, and the restaurant was still quiet. Yoojin smiled brightly—early evening beer wasn't bad at all.
"Mot, hai, ba, yo!"
They clinked glasses.
The light beer slid smoothly down her throat.
"Try the unripe mango with salt. It's good with drinks."
She bit into it, surprised by the sweetness.
"I thought it'd be sour. That's interesting."
As grilled shrimp and scallops arrived, Yoojin spoke as if confessing.
"Director Joo, I only told my fellow intern about the strike. I was worried the trip might get extended. I didn't tell anyone else before you."
He smiled easily.
"That's fine. Everyone knows strikes happen in Vietnam."
"But still—"
"Yoon Dongha, was it? During the video meeting, I almost forgot to complain when I saw the two of you."
Yoojin laughed awkwardly.
"We're middle-school classmates."
Joo Myung-gon's eyes widened.
"That's quite a connection. Middle-school classmates, intern peers, working together at Samho Apparel."
"It really is."
Thinking of Dongha, Yoojin's eyes curved into crescents. Then she turned to Lin, feeling guilty for speaking only Korean.
"By the way… why is Lin's nickname Jjimse?"
Joo Myung-gon asked Lin in Vietnamese.
The girl giggled and pointed to her head.
"She says her head is small, like a sparrow."
"What?"
"Lin's not very smart," Joo Myung-gon said bluntly. "Slow too. But she's kind. That's why I keep her close."
Then his expression hardened again.
"Sometimes," he added, lowering his voice, "this place can turn frightening if you don't know how people move."