Eun-woo had been to the Insadong antique district a few times before, but only to tag along with his father, browsing the open-air stalls that lined the alleys.
He'd never stepped foot inside the actual shops. Those places didn't deal in the cheap ceramic fragments his father favored.
Today, however, he bypassed the stalls entirely. He parked his bicycle directly outside the largest and most prominent establishment in the area: 'Myeongbo Antiques & Appraisals.'
The treasure in his backpack was, according to his research, worth over 250 million won. The stall vendors outside wouldn't have the capital, nor likely the expertise, to handle it.
Pushing through the heavy, ornate wooden door, Eun-woo stepped inside and couldn't help but pause, a silent question forming in his mind.
Is this really an antique shop?
The interior was nothing like the dusty, scholarly atmosphere he'd imagined. It was sleek, modern, and opulent. Recessed lighting illuminated pristine glass display cases. The walls were a deep, warm wood, and the air carried a faint scent of polished mahogany and subtle incense. It felt more like a high-end jewelry boutique or a luxury gallery than a place for old ceramics.
"Annyeonghaseyo. Welcome to Myeongbo Antiques. How may I assist you today?"
A female clerk in a smart, modern hanbok-inspired dress approached him, her smile professionally polished. However, upon registering that the customer was just a teenager in a school uniform, a flicker of disinterest passed through her eyes. This was a place where transactions often involved hundreds of millions of won. Still, her training held, and the boy was quite handsome, so she decided to humor him.
"Ah, hello," Eun-woo replied, getting straight to the point. "I was wondering, do you purchase items here as well?"
The clerk, whose name tag read 'Ms. Shin,' had been briefly entertaining a fantasy about the tall, good-looking student. His question brought her back. She maintained her charming smile. "We do, of course. But as you can see, we are a premier establishment. We only acquire items of… significant quality." She subtly emphasized the last word.
Eun-woo nodded, missing the nuance. "Don't worry, it's quality. Can you take me to your appraiser?"
He began walking further into the shop, taking the lead.
Ms. Shin watched his confident stride, gave a slight, curious shrug, and followed. "Right this way."
They hadn't taken more than a few steps when a portly, middle-aged man in an expensive but slightly ill-fitting suit, carrying a leather document holder, walked towards them from a back corridor.
Eun-woo's step hitched. Him again?
It was Joo Dae-sik, the neighbor he'd run into that very morning.
The coincidence made him wary. He'd heard the man's office was near here. Could he work here?
Ms. Shin's next words confirmed it. "Annyeonghaseyo, Director Joo. Are you heading out?"
The man—Director Joo—held his head high, his expression one of bored importance. He barely glanced at Eun-woo, offering only a curt grunt in acknowledgment to the clerk.
Eun-woo was perfectly happy to be ignored. He had zero desire to interact with the man.
However, Joo Dae-sik had taken only two paces past them when he suddenly stopped and turned. "Ah, Ms. Shin. Come to my office later. I have some… paperwork to review with you." His eyes finally drifted and landed on Eun-woo. A flicker of surprise, then distaste, crossed his face. "Huh? Song's boy? What are you doing here?"
Since he'd been addressed, Eun-woo couldn't pretend he wasn't there. He gave a minimal, polite nod.
Ms. Shin looked between them curiously. "You know each other, Director? This young man is here to consign an item. I was just taking him to the appraisal room."
"Oh? Consigning something?" Joo Dae-sik's eyebrows shot up, his lips curling into a condescending smirk. "What could you possibly be selling? Don't tell me it's those worthless ceramic shards your father hoards. If so, save yourself the time. I can tell you right now we have no interest in that kind of junk."
His voice was loud, carrying through the quiet, elegant space. A few other staff and a customer glanced over.
Eun-woo simply ignored him. He shrugged off his backpack, unzipped it, and carefully extracted the bulky, toilet-paper-wrapped parcel.
Seeing the inelegant bundle, Joo Dae-sik let out a derisive snort. "Aigoo… What in the world is that? Wrapped up like leftover kimbap. Anyone would think it was a national treasure." He shook his head, adopting a tone of paternalistic disappointment. "Kid, I told you this morning. If your grades are no good, stop wasting your parents' tuition money. Be practical."
As Eun-woo began meticulously unwinding the layers of paper, Joo Dae-sik's lecture grew louder, playing to the small audience that had gathered.
"Go get a job. Save up, buy yourself a used car—it'll be easier to find a girlfriend. Even if you can't afford something like a Porsche Cayenne," he said, puffing out his chest slightly on the brand name, "a sensible used Hyundai will do."
Eun-woo's lip curled in silent disdain. He still couldn't fathom how a man with such blatantly poor character had climbed to a director's position.
Finally, the last layer of paper fell away. The late-Joseon blue and white porcelain stem cup, with its elegant peony pattern, was revealed, resting on the crumpled paper on the reception counter.
The moment Joo Dae-sik's eyes landed on it, he burst into loud, mocking laughter.
"HA! Kid, this is your 'treasure'? Let your ajussi here give you some free advice: go educate yourself before you get scammed buying this rubbish." He gestured dismissively at the cup. "And here, of all places? We are Myeongbo. We have standards. You should at least try to pass off something with a convincing patina. Look at this!" He leaned in slightly, not touching it, his face a mask of contempt. "It looks like it came out of a kiln last week. Do you even know what period this style is supposedly imitating?"
Having been in the trade for over a decade, Joo Dae-sik was no master, but he knew enough. The cup Eun-woo presented lacked the subtle wear, the soft sheen of age, the minute imperfections of handcrafted old porcelain. To his eye, it screamed "modern replica," and a cheap, un-aged one at that. The fact that it came from the son of a known fragment-collector only cemented his certainty.
[To be continued…]