A New Housekeeper

Just yesterday—Sunday—Min-ju's parents had driven up with Han Jihyun and Yoo Serin in tow to look over the dorm together.

It was smaller than the Jeoseung Boys' place, but at twenty-four pyeong with three full bedrooms, they'd walked through it looking thoroughly pleased.

Once the school transfer paperwork was finished, Min-ju and Yoo ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Serin would move up to Seoul and start trainee life in earnest.

That side of things was settled. The problem was the Jeoseung Boys.

They still weren't sold on the name, for starters.

"Just take a look first."

I sat them down in the conference room—five guys who still wanted to be Origin—and played them the sampling video. Then I ran the audio alone, no visuals.

"......"

"......"

"......"

"......"

"......"

Even after it finished, nobody said a word.

Was the song that bad? I thought it was good.

"So? What do you think?"

"It's good, actually? Fizzy Pop is a concept we've never tried, but the song just keeps looping in your head."

"And that shoulder dance! It's nothing fancy, but you can't help copying it!"

"I like I'm Idol better."

"Same. The concept's cool, and the track has real atmosphere."

"Um... CEO..."

"Yes, Lee Shin-woo. Go ahead."

Everyone else looked fine. Only Lee Shin-woo's face had gone sour.

"It feels like too many parts are concentrated on one person..."

Ah. Of course that was it.

Even so, the distribution here was pretty even. One of Slerix's tracks, Glory, was basically a solo song—almost every line funneled to the main lead.

"That's just the nature of a project built around a specific protagonist. And I never said the version you record is the one that ends up in the final work."

"...Sorry?"

"Whether your take gets used depends on the director's confirmation. So this is a competition. Same song—the artist who sang what you just heard, versus you."

At the word competition, the lightness that had started to ease onto his face hardened right back into something serious.

Still—why hadn't anyone said a word about the group name?

"What about Jeoseung Boys, though? Are you okay with that?"

"Once we saw the video, it made sense."

"So everyone's on board?"

"Yes."

"I agree."

"Me too."

"Honestly, it's unique. I like it. The gat could even become our trademark."

"I agree as well."

The gat as a trademark... that wasn't half bad.

I'd have to run that by Director Negi Jeong too.

"Then when can we start recording?"

Lee Shin-woo had suddenly caught fire. I answered with a faint smile.

"Right now, if you want. But you'll need to practice first, won't you?"

The former Origin members—who'd hated the name Jeoseung Boys so much—accepted it and threw themselves into practice on the spot, determined to own the song.

And one pair of eyes was watching them from the shadows.

"......"

"Oppa... hehehe..."

"What kind of sasaeng are you?! Get over here! And there's only one oppa in that room—what's with 'oppas'?!"

"If they're handsome and I like them, they're all oppa! So just let me watch our oppas a little longer—kyah!!!"

This wasn't going to work.

Shin Yena was the worst of them, but May was here too, and Min-ju and Yoo Serin would be moving up soon. On top of that, Iseul used the practice rooms from time to time.

"This is dangerous..."

I called Yoon Heejeong, Head of Department, on the spot and ordered B1 converted to a men-only practice floor and B2 to women-only, with fingerprint scanners installed on every entrance.

Right. I couldn't afford to think about the company alone right now.

"This place is a disaster..."

Iseul had only been gone a week for a regional shoot, and the house already looked like a refugee camp. Delivery containers everywhere, trash of every kind, laundry piled up, dust coating every surface.

"When Iseul was here, we barely ever ordered out..."

Cleaning up made me realize just how hard she'd been working. The place was far too big to live in alone.

"Ugh... I already don't want to do this... Fine. What's money for if you just sit on it?"

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

I called a cleaning service and had the whole house done. The clean result was satisfying, but one thing still bothered me—strangers coming in and out of my home.

"Should I hire a housekeeper again...?"

Once Iseul started acting in earnest, she'd move into a dorm. If reporters found out a rookie from a modest background was living in a place like this, they'd dig for a connection to me for sure. Bad rumors would hit the company first.

"But a housekeeper who isn't Iseul... that feels weird too. Maybe a commute-only arrangement?"

I nearly jumped out of my skin.

The second I looked up live-in help online, it hit me.

"I've been working Iseul for free this whole time..."

When I first hired her, I'd thrown out a salary of 1.8 million won based on a half-assed internet search. For a Korean worker in this neighborhood, the floor started at 3.5 million—and that was for five days a week. The average sat closer to four million.

That was 48 million a year. Nearly a hundred million over two years.

"Should I just keep living with Iseul...? No. She's not some live-in maid... Hmm. I'll try doing what I can myself first."

Starting today, less delivery food. I'd cook, clean, and do laundry without putting it off. Money didn't grow out of the ground—I could handle this much on my own.

Lately, there was something I did every time I came home.

I checked whether my money was still there.

"Ha... short again."

I'd left cash scattered around the study, the master bedroom, the living room, the smaller rooms—not hidden like emergency funds, just set out casually, the way money you forget about might sit. I'd even tucked a few crumpled bills into the clothes in the laundry hamper.

Not once had every last bill still been there. Fifty thousand, a hundred thousand—sometimes as much as five hundred thousand won gone.

These were housekeepers referred through agencies, and not a single one of them had left the money alone. Sure, I'd arranged it so taking it would feel easy—but actually taking it was another matter. How was I supposed to let someone like that into my house?

"So doing it myself is the only answer...?"

I tried to restart the housework I'd abandoned after three days, but I was too well-fed for it—I genuinely would rather die than scrub. The basics I could manage. The thought of sweeping and wiping down this entire house every single day, though, made me not even want to start.

"Fine. This time I'll recruit directly."

I posted a job listing on a hiring site and went to work. A few hours later, a notification came through. I texted right away, sent the address and door code, and asked them to clean.

"If this one's the same, I'm done."

Treating it as the last try, I worked hard and headed home.

The moment I opened the front door, a delicious smell hit my nose.

"Sniff sniff. Jangjorim?? And something else too..."

I went straight to the kitchen—and froze.

Every single bill I'd left around the house was sitting on the dining table. Not one thousand-won note missing. And beside each stack, a memo listed the exact location where it had been found and the exact amount.

That wasn't all. Another note was stuck to the fridge.

I opened the fridge. Side dishes of every kind were packed neatly into containers—pretty to look at, and they tasted good too.

I'd only asked for cleaning. She'd cooked on top of that and hadn't touched a single won. The only thing this housekeeper had taken was the envelope of day's wages I'd left on the table that morning.

I had to call right away.

Live-in help?

That was a little uncomfortable. But could I find someone like this again?

I was still turning it over when another text arrived.

The intention came through clearly. She meant to inconvenience my private life as little as possible.

Was that enough?

I ran a fingertip across the top of the fridge. No dust. Plenty of housekeepers had come through here, and not one of them had ever wiped up there.

"Ah... this is driving me crazy... What do I do?"

The hesitation dragged on, but maybe the answer had already been decided.

We set it for tomorrow, and I called Iseul right away. This was something she needed to know.

I just hadn't expected this reaction.

"Come on. Once you start acting for real, you'll have to live in a dorm. I already explained that last time."

"You're already stretched thin. That won't work. And what about stretches like now, when you're stuck down in the provinces for ages?"

"Ha... don't worry. Housekeepers are all ajummas."

"That was a special case."

"It won't be. But if it somehow is... I'll call you again."

"Iseul?"

"I-Iseul! Are you sulk—she hung up..."

I didn't understand her reaction at all as I flopped onto the bed.

"Why get upset over this? It's obviously going to be some ajumma. Ugh..."

I let out a long sigh and drifted off—and only the next day did I find out.

This time, too, it had turned out to be a very special case.