The First Button
In my previous life, the hottest brand I had ever seen was, without question, Ultimate—the summit of streetwear, the final boss of collaborations. There probably weren't even ten countries with an Ultimate store. Probably.
If I could reach the founder ahead of everyone else and bring him in to open our first popup, it would do a great deal for the image of Design's Hyeongang. Not that I could say any of that to Jo Sudeok.
"He's probably in New York right now."
"Probably...?"
"Yes. Probably."
Jo Sudeok scratched his head, then picked the pen back up.
"Then some other detail, at least..."
"I heard he idolizes skateboard culture. You might find him in a park."
"I see."
"Yes."
"...?"
"That's all."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Oh, one more thing. There's a good chance he runs a clothing shop."
New York. Likes skateboarding. Might run a clothing shop. Said out loud, it left me oddly sorry.
What could I do? I had admired the brand called Ultimate. I could hardly recite the founder's life story on command.
"What if several people fit?"
"Then why not pick the one with the best eye?"
"Ah..."
"If it's too hard, you're welcome to give up."
"G-give up? As I told you, it is only when I am working that the strength comes surging through me..."
Having laid a weighty—allegedly—mission on Jo Sudeok, common decency said I owed him the larger picture. Had he read my look? Sure enough, he sat up straighter.
"We're going to build a new commercial district. For that, we have to draw young people in..."
You could install the finest brands in the world and it wouldn't matter if nobody walked through the door. I already had a plan for that. Both IPs were cultural ventures Hyeon-gang had developed itself, and the crowds they pulled in would be shown Ultimate first, then the brands Olivia had handpicked, one after another.
"Not bad, is it?"
"Not at all."
"As always, Professor, you'll have to fasten the first button yourself."
"If it isn't me... it can't be done, can it?"
I nodded.
"Then I'll see it through."
At that, I gave him a brilliant smile.
Meanwhile, Ralph Warren and Olivia made for the restaurant on the school grounds. An aristocratic school, they had called it, and the Western dining alone lived up to the name: traditional British cooking, and separate rooms for French, Turkish, Italian, Greek, and more.
"How about French?"
"You know I'll eat anything."
"True enough."
They took an outdoor table, and a server came over at once.
"May I explain the menu?"
The manner was so traditional, so restrained, that you rarely saw its like even in New York. Eating here felt like a class in itself. Warren's mouth had just begun to curl when the server went on.
"We don't keep a separate list of spirits. Will that be all right?"
"I'm her guardian. Surely a simple glass of wine..."
"I'm sorry, but no alcohol of any kind is permitted on the grounds."
Not even with a parent at the table? It seemed excessively strict, and yet Warren looked more than a little relieved. He glanced at Olivia.
"Slipping off the rails would be flatly impossible here, wouldn't it?"
"You think forbidding it actually stops anyone?"
"Fair point."
Once they had ordered, the server soon returned with the first course.
"The first amuse-bouche is crushed potato and caviar."
Caviar with nothing to drink. This is pure torture.
Warren leaned back in his chair.
"You want to go to design school?"
"Yes."
"Why not try studying instead?"
The words must have caught her off guard. Olivia's eyes went wide, and no wonder: in all her life, study had never once come out of Warren's mouth.
"Dad, what's gotten into you?"
"What's gotten into me? Design is something you can learn from me."
He wasn't wrong. Search every leading design school in the world and you would not find a professor with a career on Ralph Warren's level.
"From what I saw, that boy earlier looks bound for Oxford."
"Where did that come from?"
Warren was wearing a peculiar smile when the second appetizer arrived.
"Langoustine in a fruit sauce."
As the server set the plate down and withdrew, Warren spoke, taking his time.
"If you're going to university anyway, it wouldn't be the worst thing to study and come away with an Oxford diploma."
"You think Oxford is easy? They're fighting over first and second in the world."
"I'll make the acceptance gift a generous one."
"I don't need gifts."
"Not even if it's a Bugatti?"
"A Bugat... ti?"
"You asked him about the '38 Bugatti, didn't you?"
"I only asked. It was just... so strange."
She said that much. Even so—
And he ran straight off and told him?
Olivia was thoroughly bristling.
"I looked into it. There are exactly four of them in the world. The boy from earlier owns one."
"And how do you know that?"
"My daughter wants one. Of course I looked."
"Even so, digging into a friend's parents? How could you?"
"Parents?"
"The car. Obviously his father..."
"It wasn't."
"...?"
"From what I hear, Chairman Dazai in Japan gave it to young Jihoon himself. An investment, you might say, in the boy's potential."
"What do you mean?"
"Hm?"
"Why would a Japanese chairman invest in a student?"
At his daughter's question, it was Warren who looked surprised.
"You didn't already know all this, and like him for it?"
"Like him? What am I supposed to like!"
Warren scratched his head, a little dumbfounded. His daughter knew nothing of Park Jihoon's background.
How is that possible?
Teenagers were the age for taking the smallest achievement, inflating it, and inflating it again, just to boast—all the more in front of someone they liked. And yet Park Jihoon had apparently chosen not to show any of it.
He let out a low hum. What startled him more than the things Jihoon had accomplished was the character it took not to mention them.
"Then why did he say it was his father's?"
"Better than puffing himself up as a Bugatti owner. What's the problem?"
"Hmm."
His daughter looked thoroughly put out. No—more pressingly:
"Could you close your legs a little? A girl, sitting like that..."
"These are pants, you know."
"Even so..."
"Put me in front of a boy I actually liked, and I'd be demure all on my own."
"I certainly hope so."
Whether her father worried or not, the girl simply set about clearing the plate with obvious pleasure.
After parting from Jo Sudeok, I went back to the dormitory and dropped straight onto the bed. I had been running, and then there was the lower-body work; passing out was the only reasonable outcome. I didn't wake until past five in the afternoon.
A rustle opened my eyes, and there was Peter's back. He was pressing the keys with exquisite care, as if one wrong stroke might wake me.
"You can type normally."
"...!"
He spun around, startled.
"You can even bang on it."
"Even so..."
"I'm not a light sleeper."
He seemed to be sorting his thoughts. A moment later he picked up the chair and turned it toward me.
"Olivia came by earlier."
"Yeah?"
"Looked like she was here for you. When I said you were asleep, she just nodded and left."
"Did she?"
While I was picturing Ralph Warren's face, Peter went on.
"Can I ask you one personal thing?"
"Of course."
"Do you like football?"
I nodded.
"Playing, or watching?"
"Both."
"Which team... do you like?"
What was there to be that tense about? Anyone watching would have thought he was opening his exam results. The seriousness was funny enough that I decided to tease him.
"A London club does have a certain style."
"R-really?"
"The one that represents London..."
I could practically hear his heart.
"I like Tottenham."
"Ah..."
A groan slipped out of him.
"And I thought we could have been good friends..."
I snorted.
"Why? You can't be friends with a Tottenham fan?"
"Well..."
Peter let out a deep sigh.
"We could be friends, I suppose. But we couldn't be brothers."
"It works like that?"
"Yeah..."
He had just dropped his head, thoroughly dejected, when I said it.
"I'm not actually a Tottenham fan."
"Then what?"
"Man U. Manchester United."
"R-really?"
"Really."
"Then why did you say Tottenham..."
"Because I knew you were a Gooner."
"Whatever violence I've got amounts to hoping Tottenham loses every weekend... Ah, that's because I'm an Arsenal fan..."
He had said it with such a grave face. Thinking of it again made me want to laugh. In any case, the mere fact that I wasn't a Tottenham fan left him looking like the most relieved person on earth.
"Is it really that much of a relief?"
"Obviously. I've poured more than half my life into football."
"Huh?"
That was when he started to fidget, sneaking a look at my face.
"You really want to know?"
So very Peter. Peak Peter.
"Maybe because it mixes football and fighting, the development difficulty shot up."
Here he glanced at me again, careful, as if the violence of it might offend me. The moment my look said I didn't mind, he went on, almost shy.
"What is it?"
"It's called Hooligan Crackdown..."
"Peter."
"...?"
"A-a weird taste, right?"
"It's fun. Keep going."
"Well..."
The hero was a stadium operations man. If the match was heading for a blowout, he laid in flamethrowers. In a game where a rival had beaten them to a pulp, he strung electric barbed wire and defended the city from spectators who had turned into zombies.
This kid is not in his right mind.
The pitch was so caked in MSG that the savor hit completely differently. I looked at Peter in silence, then asked the boy with the most innocent face in the world.
"Do you actually want to make it?"
"What good is wanting to? Even if I made it, I couldn't sell it."
At that, I changed the question.
"If you had a way to sell it, would you be willing to finish it?"