Reunion at Shilla Hotel (2)
What kind of place is the Shilla Hotel? Even in a small country like Korea, it's one of the ultra-luxury hotels that stands out for its scale and extravagance. Not for nothing is it a five-star establishment—the interior design was impeccably clean yet lavishly formal, captivating every visitor's gaze. It had all the usual suspects that ordinary folks think of first: swimming pools, massive event halls you could rent out entirely, and restaurants to satisfy even the most discerning palates. Yeah, that place where a single bowl of ramen easily tops tens of thousands of won, the exclusive haunt for the filthy rich.
I was definitely one of those ordinary folks, but my social life revolved around schmoozing with the moneyed and high-status types, flattering them to keep the deals flowing. Naturally, I'd been to spots like this a few times, depending on company needs or the client's mood. I could vividly recall cramming table manners just to avoid looking like a cheapskate.
Back then, I was a young hot-blooded salesman fueled by passion. You might wonder why a guy like that showed up in such a sloppy dress code today. But this class reunion wasn't some formal affair with big shots. Sure, a few loaded alumni had shelled out a fortune to book the Shilla, but they were still just Hanseong University Class of XX like me. Reunions are places to show your true self without making others uncomfortable. Too shabby, and you're a burden; too flashy, and you're off-putting. A neat casual outfit with a touch of style is plenty.
How do you add that touch? Hell, I'm Han Daeri—style incarnate. What more do I need? But the classmates who arrived at the same time clearly disagreed with my self-assessment.
"Han Siwoo? Oh, you're the guy who hustled every mandatory event with your part-time gig excuses? The department head said he'd snap you in half if he saw you, but damn, good to see you, man."
"Dude, we're not even 30 yet—why's your face already like that? Get some skincare, seriously. I thought you'd pulled three straight all-nighters when I first spotted you. You still grinding multiple gigs a day like back then?"
"You need a hangover cure more than booze. Ask the server—they'll hook you up."
"What company you at? Your boss riding you hard? I thought a walking skeleton had joined us."
I wouldn't say it myself, but I don't think I have a face that gets bowed to wherever I go. Solid build radiating healthy vigor, a cheerful mug, towering just over the average Korean guy's height. That's more than enough, right? Overflowing, even.
But as you can see, my classmates kicked off the reunion not with dramatic reunions or concern, but by roasting me under the guise of worry.
Do I really look that rough? Among peers, this should be decent, no?
If this were a VIP gathering, maybe, but among equals, why the intense scanning and status-checking? Sure, as fresh-faced undergrads, we craved those casual hookups and power plays with strangers. But as adults who already know each other's dirt, this felt a bit pathetic.
We exchanged light chit-chat like that, following the server to the reserved hall, where earlier arrivals greeted us. The warmest welcome went to Park In-ha, the female classmate sporting two D-to-E-cup masses optimized for breastfeeding.
Was Park In-ha getting laid tonight?
"Damn, Park In-ha's class never fades. If anything, you're getting prettier every year."
"Cut the hype, Ho-bbang! Doesn't mean I'll date you~."
"Kavi~."
Ho-bbang, the affectionate nickname, belonged to another alum with a moon-like round head. Nicknames sticking among the popular crowd meant serious presence, and I easily recalled its origin.
Claimed to be a tough guy, yanked two wisdom teeth at once, swelled up like a pufferfish on both cheeks—boom, Ho-bbang.
Already round-headed, the swelling never fully went down, dooming him to the moniker. Luckily, he wielded his vibe and nickname like a pro, apparently keeping the energy high at events I skipped.
Atmosphere makers are hyper, snarky 1.5-tier popular kids armed with spice and pranks—hype men for the top-tier pretty crowd.
And Ho-bbang was cranking the tension from the jump for one obvious reason.
Today's star of the show.
No intro needed—or even if I forgot who he was—that guy screamed protagonist. Actor-level looks, sleek build, luxury suit reeking of high-end, slicked-back hair shouting, "I'm the main character!"
With seamless assist from the 1.5-tier clown, out stepped the hero, flashing a smile blending 30% fresh charm, 20% cheesiness, 50% sleaze.
"I was worried you wouldn't show, Park In..."
"Hey! Guess who showed up? Han Siwoo!"
That clueless tit-monster. Toting two lumps bigger than her skull combined, yet zero tact! The protag just slid in with a smooth opener—play along coyly, give him a chance to verify if those were padded or terrorist-grade naturals!
I nearly facepalmed, then casually swept back my bangs as eyes turned my way.
Fuck, I dropped 100,000 won to extract some padding at the Shilla tonight.
Think premium booze, grub, and a room in a five-star for pocket change? Even corporate road warriors rarely score that luxury.
"Han Siwoo? Oh."
The protag drawled my name slowly, his gaze dripping annoyance—like, So what? Pure corporate interviewer pressuring a spec-less newbie for a brown-nose routine.
I wanted zero involvement, but popular kids have their rules, like loners do. Once acknowledged or interest sparks, "ignore" vanishes. In their world, snubbing is ruder than a face-slap roast, tied to sky-high egos. Get ignored? Not "How dare you?" but "Am I really that low-tier?"—instant rage.
Opposite of loners' paranoia in relationships.
And I hated this social drain. What did I care about departmental backstabbing or clique rankings? That's why part-time excuses killed my college fun—better grovel for VIPs than kid politics.
I'd dodged it then, but a reunion forcing intros? Brutal.
With milk-tank Park In-ha branding me to the in-crowd, I had no choice but to step up.
"Heard about the reunion, end-of-year free time—figured I'd drop in. Lots of new faces, so call me Han Daeri, casual-like."
"Han Daeri? Assistant manager somewhere?"
End-of-year idle at some nobody firm? Protag smirked sourly.
"Nah, no company."
"...What? Then why introduce as Han Daeri?"
"'Cause I am."
I whipped out a card; he blinked, peering down.
"Supernatural Phenomena Resolution Office... Han Daeri...?"
"My outfit. Five-star reviews only—real deal hot spot."
"Whoa, own agency already? Shouldn't that make you the boss, not assistant?"
Park In-ha wedged in, boobs bouncing cluelessly. I was this close to plating her bowl, yet she kept dumping ash on my grill.
"Supernatural Phenomena Resolution Office... cough, ahem! Name screams sketchy—what's the gig?"
"Catch ghosts. Demons on the side."
"Cough, heh! Ahem! For real... Damn, how'd we miss a riot like you in college? Yo, Ho-bbang—watch out, dark horse vibe-maker just crashed the party."
"Ah, crap... No vibe pay, and I'm starved."
See that? Social-max Ho-bbang clocked his demotion, dropping self-roast effortless. True pro.
Protag chuckled, pocketing my crumpled card, flashing his luxe wallet.
"We're adults now—'socialites.' Return the favor."
Unlike my stiff print, his card oozed quality. "CEO, Whatever IT Firm—Kim Jun-gong."
"Right, you mentioned starting a startup last reunion? Boss-man too?"
"Not like a solo gig. I run a company."
"Whoa~ Our class killing it. How many CEOs we got?"
Park In-ha lumped all bosses equal—maybe from respawning milk machines over society studies—beaming naive.
One more word, and Jun-gong snaps, boots me first. Time to defuse.
"Thanks to CEO Kim, Han Daeri here gets Shilla feast. Grateful in advance."
"...Haha, easy, easy. Classmates—what's to thank? We cover costs, no worries. Eat, drink up. Mingle with others."
"Sweet. Time to loosen the belt. Cheers."
I slipped the in-crowd seamless. As more moths flocked, perfect exit timing—lucky break.
Now, really loosen that belt.
With most guests seated, servers rolled out finger foods and drinks as prepped. Rare delicacies hit, and damn if my crotch didn't stiffen involuntarily.
Truly fucked.