London, Dyed Red

At dawn the next day, Paver sat through the night with his eyes wide open. Perhaps it was the dopamine still detonating in him. He had not slept a wink, and yet his mind was perfectly clear.

A week earlier, a single advertisement had run in Queensman. Today, it promised, an Ultimate item that anyone could buy would go on sale. He had wondered what it was, but he and the president were both buried in work, and he had let the question pass without asking. And then—this. The Ultimate item everyone was supposed to be able to buy turned out to be a newspaper.

And here I thought it was only talk. He had actually kept his word.

Paver was still turning it over when he reached the subway station. Even at that hour a line stretched long, and for an instant he thought they were waiting on the morning commute. Huh? Look closer, and they were waiting to buy newspapers. Had they stayed up all night? Camping chairs, sleeping bags, clothes piled on in layers. What, exactly, was a newspaper stamped with the Ultimate logo supposed to be?

Wondering if it was only this one place, he made a round of several newsstands. Everywhere he went, the scene was the same. Day had broken in the meantime, and from a certain point on, the same sort of notice was posted as if by prior agreement.

The president had said they'd printed a full million copies. And they were gone before the morning was out?

Well... the heart of London, maybe. But the other districts...

As if to laugh at the thought, a news item drifted from a miniature television inside the stand. The volume was too low to catch every word, but the gist was plain enough. A shortage of the London Times had broken out. The entire run was sold out. Something like two hundred thousand copies had already been sold on to America.

Ha! The president's vision, after all, had been to sell a lifestyle. Yes—today's London Times shortage was a victory of planning, pure and simple. All of it had come out of the president's head. What reason did he have to get carried away?

Right. This isn't my share.

He was bracing himself, and bracing himself again, when the street began to come into focus—slow, but sharp. People hurrying off somewhere. And astonishingly, in every single hand, there was a newspaper stamped with the Ultimate logo.

He swallowed.

The day he had first come to Britain to meet the president, Paver had planted his pride on the table: John Green or no John Green, his own logo had to go on it. Looking back, the demand had been nothing but dogma and obstinacy. And yet, even if a wrongheaded stubbornness had produced only mud, the instant it passed through the kiln called the president it could be born again as splendid porcelain—an artist's "spirit of resistance."

Several months had passed since then. Now the streets of London, as if showing themselves off, were dyed red with Paver's logo. Not Coco Chanel. Not Christian Dior. Not Giorgio Armani. No designer in the world could ever have stood before a sight like this.

I didn't earn this by being good.

He could turn every bit of the credit back upon the president. Even so, there seemed no way for him to stop the thrill rising through his ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠whole body.

At that same hour, Park Yonghak was looking down at a newspaper in the airport lounge. Beneath the words London Times, the word Ultimate sat in white against a red ground, and in small print beside it were the date and place of the selection match, together with a line announcing that a new collaboration would be unveiled.

"A million ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of these sold?"

"Yes."

From what he was told, they had put an advertisement on the front page and hardly paid a thing. He couldn't begin to fathom what magic they'd worked. Even so, it was a sight to make Bongi Kim Seondal himself—the old trickster said to have sold people the very water of the Taedong River—stick his thumb in the air. The boy had sworn he would never inherit the business. This was the level of shooting his hand up bright and high: I'm the right man for the job. It was nearly too much to take.

"Hah!"

Park Yonghak was letting out that short, delighted laugh when the next report came.

"Chairman. There's one more matter I should report."

"What is it, with a face that grim?"

"W-well..."

"...?"

"The Grosvenor ducal house in Britain wishes to arrange a gathering in honor of your visit."

"Grosvenor? McLaren's biggest backer, aren't they?"

As if anyone could forget he was mad for cars. Chairman Park remembered them as McLaren's sponsor. Weren't they said to be considering the purchase of both teams, McLaren and Aston Martin? The chief secretary, however, seemed to see the matter a little differently.

"As you say, they are a steadfast patron of F1—and, at the same time, the most influential house in Europe."

Naturally, he had no choice but to stress the latter half.

"Then why's your face gone all dark?"

"They say there are exactly three things the Grosvenor family covets."

One pile of money would settle the lot. Why go and name three? Just as Park Yonghak turned a displeased look on him, the chief secretary went on.

"Land, automobiles, and works of art."

Listening, it was the usual business of behold, I am a noble. And why wouldn't it be? From long ago, the masters of estates had been aristocrats, and for age after age the measure of a man's ability had been how much land the king saw fit to grant him. Cars were no different. There had been a time when a house's prestige was judged by horses—when a family's wealth was weighed by how many rare-bred animals were hitched to draw the carriage. Art went without saying. There had been an age when a house's dignity was spoken for by the greatness of the artist it kept. In the end, land, carriages, and art were all tokens of aristocratic worth.

Park Yonghak set his thoughts in order and quietly raised his head.

"They're not about to ask me for land or a car."

"..."

"Don't tell me they said they want the da Vinci."

Caught by the chairman's instinct, the chief secretary could only click his tongue.

"I believe that's the shape of it. If you mean to refuse, rather than forging some needless bond of favor and grudge... it may be better to block the meeting altogether..."

"What businessman is there who can't meet ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a man?"

"I-if the day comes you fall out with the Duke of Grosvenor..."

"If he's that small-minded, we'd fight whenever we met, wouldn't we?"

The secretary's face asked what they would do if it truly came to a fight. Yonghak scoffed.

Chairman Park shook his head as if the notion were absurd. He had spoken this far; what further objection could there be? The chief secretary could only bow his head in silence.

Meanwhile, at the Harris Group, Leona Harris summoned Carl to her office for the first time.

She had taken the executive desk with her back to the floor-to-ceiling window. Carl, forced to face the sun head-on, could barely keep his eyes all the way open. In a voice that had settled low and cold, she spoke.

"Do you know how far the share price has fallen?"

Carl bowed his head as if in apology, though he couldn't begin to guess why a story about the stock was being laid at his feet. Perhaps because she saw straight through a son like that, she added an explanation.

"Over one measly rugby match, every paper poured out articles."

"..."

"As if Harris and Grosvenor had become enemies."

"E-enemies? That's... not even true, is it?"

At the words he flung out like a protest, her eyes went sharp as hatchets.

Under Leona's roar, Carl hunched his shoulders in hard. He had curled so tight that his big toe was going numb. A scolding from his father was nothing. But his mother—being scolded by the mother who gripped every shred of power—that was a problem.

Only after he had forced his head down did she continue.

"Every kind of talk is coming out of the intelligence sheets. Grosvenor is raking us over. They're even tracing the Swiss accounts."

No one who fell into Grosvenor's net had ever survived. A falling share price was, looked at one way, only the natural next step.

"Th-then the magazine freebie, maybe..."

"The share price is collapsing right now, and that's what you care about!"

"..."

"Try tying yourself to us now! When Grosvenor's about to stamp you wholesale into the same lot, what moron is going to help you!"

In other words, the promised giveaways were all canceled?

"...Ah."

At words like a thunderbolt from a clear sky, Carl let his head drop.

A few days later, he still couldn't make sense of it. How could a magazine that had held the number-one spot on the bestseller list only last week be shoved clean off the rankings in a single week—just because they'd taken away some freebie?

"Damn it! Daaamn it! Goddamn it!"

What choked him worse was that Queensman had taken that number-one place in its stead. They don't have a freebie either. So why does that one keep selling?

Raging alone would do him no good. The only means of revenge left to him now was rugby.

"Haaah."

If there was any comfort, it was this: no matter how many times he thought it through, no matter how he chewed on it, there was simply no angle by which he could lose at rugby.

"You vermin!"

Yes. This time he would smash them to pieces. Grinding his teeth, he gathered up his rugby shirt and dragged his heavy feet on.

Meanwhile, on the playing field of the Royal School—perhaps because ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the match was the next day—a number of large cameras had been set up in the stands. The Queensman staff were there, of course. Famous papers had taken their places as well, and there was even a truck bearing a broadcast network's mark.

Behind the press, the girls had massed until it might as well have been a concert.

"Ten—ne—see!"

"Tennessee, let's goooo!"

Now and then someone with a hardcore streak was cheering for me, too. It didn't matter.

"Tennessee, you're amaaazing!"

Thanks to our prince on a white horse, I was buried without any effort at all.

There were side effects, of course. Whenever Tennessee fixed me with eyes that fierce, the look itself was a question.

"And how exactly do you mean to take responsibility for this mess?"

"Focus. Focus. The match is tomorrow—why do you keep looking off somewhere else?"

I took practice as my excuse, quietly changed the subject, and dodged the responsibility(?).

"You promised you'd grant me a wish, didn't you?"

"What wish!"

"We'll see about that. You."

"..."

That was the two of us, reckoning an overdue debt with nothing but our eyes.

It was D-1, the last day to fit our play together, and for the final check some very welcome faces had come.

The Cambridge University rugby side!

"Feels like a bigger crowd than a pro match."

Steve came over with that clear, refreshing laugh of his.

"How you feeling?"

"Never better."

"That smug face. Sure you can win?"

"Of course."

My answer must have been too crisp.

"Then let's see a little skill."

I nodded. I was just about to suggest a scrum, if only to loosen up, when he spoke again.

"But listen." Steve wore an odd look, and he lowered his voice. "Word is, a new collab gets revealed here tomorrow."

"Ultimate?"

"Y-yeah."

Huh. Steve was into Ultimate, too?

"Tomorrow's right on top of us. Wondered if you'd heard anything."

"Hard to say..."

He studied my face, then quickly waved a hand.

"No, no. Don't worry about it. Right—how would a student know a thing like that?"

He seemed to have reached a conclusion of his own.

"Haha."

I smiled as brightly as I could, the way a student would.