The Pickup
Right after old man Sato signed the contract, Kyung-ho asked, “So, can I start working right away?”
“Right away?” The old man raised his eyebrows.
“Yes. No time to waste. I'd like to begin with the clay work.”
Sato glanced at Kyung-ho for a moment before scoffing. “Impatient, aren't you?”
He walked to the shelf in the back and rummaged through a box. A moment later, he pulled out a lump and tossed it onto the workbench with a thud.
“Use this. You weren't thinking of some pottery clay, were you?”
Kyung-ho reached out and touched the lump at his words. His fingers didn't sink in as easily as expected. It was firm yet oily to the touch. His eyes narrowed slightly.
“...It's a bit different from what I'm used to...”
Kyung-ho peeled off a small piece with his finger and examined it more closely. Even rolling it slowly in his palm, he could feel it was noticeably harder.
It was different, but not enough to be a problem.
“...Still, it's oil clay, alright.”
Sato's eyebrows twitched subtly. “You've used oil clay before?”
“Yes. Not exactly the same, but close enough.”
Kyung-ho pressed his thumb into it as he spoke. “This should be fine to start with right now.”
He immediately began clearing the workbench. Sato started to say something about diving into clay work without even a blueprint, but then just chuckled.
The contract for shop use was already done. No need—or reason—to interfere further.
“Do whatever you want.”
He returned to his own station as if losing interest. The hum of machinery filled the workshop again.
Kyung-ho, unconcerned with what the old man thought, indifferently placed the clay lump in the center of the workbench.
He rested his hands on it briefly, pausing to think.
Even with everything in his head, it was best to sketch a blueprint first if possible. Organizing on paper often revealed things that weren't visible before.
But there was no time for that now. Instead, he mentally restructured it once more.
Torso. Internal frame. Joints. Parting lines.
Recalling designs from plastic models he'd made in his past life, he refined them until a complete image formed.
Now he just had to let his hands follow the vision.
Kyung-ho pressed down hard on the clay with both hands. He filled the inside with a core, then layered clay over it.
In just a few minutes, a silhouette began to emerge.
Once it took rough shape, he picked up clay-working tools. He added clay, grabbed nearby tools, shaved it down, added more.
The lump gradually transformed into the precise image in his mind.
Old man Sato paid no attention at first. He could tell at a glance that while the kid might draw decently, model-making was amateur hour.
Soon enough, he'd fail at the complex form without a blueprint and come begging for help.
That's when he could offer advice to the humbled boy and maintain a craftsman's dignity—Sato knew this from long experience.
But.
A few minutes passed, and strange sounds reached him.
Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.
The cutting was too fast. Sato rose slightly and peeked toward Kyung-ho.
...What the hell.
On the workbench, the lump had already become a complete torso. Identical to the sketch he'd dashed off on paper moments ago.
Didn't he just start?
Sato watched for a bit. Kyung-ho's hands never stopped. He separated the arms, shaped the legs. Marked the joints precisely.
As if reading an invisible blueprint.
As Sato stared, entranced, he noticed a silvery core inside the clay.
Not wire...
He'd assumed it was wire, as people often used, but it looked entirely different.
What the heck did he put in there?
Unable to contain his curiosity, Sato approached quietly behind the focused Kyung-ho and realized what it was.
“Aluminum foil?”
Kyung-ho's hands paused briefly at the voice but didn't turn. He resumed and replied, “...Yes.”
Sato instantly grasped the advantages and asked, “Makes it lightweight yet sturdy, right? And cuts curing time too.”
Kyung-ho shaved more with a loop tool. “Exactly. Easier to shape than wire, bigger volume, saves time.”
“Huh... Where'd you learn that...?”
Thud.
Kyung-ho sliced without hesitation, dropping a clay piece. He smoothly picked up a razor blade to clean the torso's cross-section.
Shh.
A perfect curve emerged where the blade passed.
“And why are your hands so damn fast?”
“They've always been fast.”
Sato's eyes narrowed subtly.
This kid's a genius.
How much time had passed?
Shh.
The final parting line was etched into the clay. Kyung-ho's hands paused.
He carefully scanned the workbench.
Torso. Arms. Legs. Joints. Parting lines.
The surface was still rough, but every structure matched his mental design perfectly.
This counted as complete.
Only then did he exhale slowly and set down the razor blade. He leaned back, rolled his neck, shook out his tense hands.
Sato, who had been watching only Kyung-ho's work at some point, muttered lowly, “...Done?”
Kyung-ho nodded. “Yes.”
He glanced at the wall clock and blinked.
“...Already.”
The hands pointed to 7 p.m.
As concentration faded, fatigue crashed in. Staring blankly at the clock, Kyung-ho suddenly remembered.
“...Ah.”
Mari. She'd be waiting for his call, but he'd lost track of time and forgotten completely.
He looked at Sato. “Mind if I use the phone?”
Sato blinked. “Phone?”
“Yes.”
Sato chuckled. “You think a workshop like this has a phone?”
Even in Japan, phones weren't common yet.
“...None?”
“Try a tobacco shop or restaurant. Or a payphone on a busy street.”
Kyung-ho rinsed his hands under running water, thinking. “Closest place with a phone I can use?”
Sato jerked his chin toward the alley entrance. “Payphone at the mouth of the alley.”
Kyung-ho nodded. “Thanks! See you tomorrow morning!”
He wheeled out, leaving the finished clay model on the table.
Sato clicked his tongue at Kyung-ho's retreating figure. “Tch tch... Young folks are scatterbrained.”
Still, he carefully moved the clay model to a safe spot in the workshop.
Pushing open the workshop door, the evening air was cooler than expected. Workshops deeper in the alley were closing one by one; the constant machinery noise had quieted. Only faint clanging of tidying metal echoed from those still lit.
The wheelchair bumped over the stone pavement. In his haste, Kyung-ho pushed harder.
Where's the payphone?
Sato had pointed to the alley entrance. A bit further and it'd hit the main road—probably there.
Lost track of time...
Mari was waiting; his heart raced, but the bumpy wheelchair slowed him.
The alley widened gradually, familiar scenery appearing.
Where he'd gotten out of the car earlier.
And.
A familiar car parked by the road.
Kyung-ho blinked.
No way.
Then the car window slowly rolled down.
Mari stared out at him.
Kyung-ho's eyes widened slightly.
Really?
“How'd you know I'd be out now?”
Mari shrugged. “No idea.”
Then how'd she time the pickup perfectly?
“I waited till you came out.”
Flustered, Kyung-ho blinked. “You waited?”
Mari opened the door instead of answering. “Get in.”
Miyazawa stepped out from the driver's seat and approached naturally.
“Excuse me.”
He deftly helped Kyung-ho into the car and closed the door.
The interior fell quiet.
Kyung-ho asked cautiously, “Weren't you supposed to come when I called?”
“...Realized too late a small workshop wouldn't have a phone.”
“Then...”
Kyung-ho hesitated, then asked, “How long did you wait?”
Mari looked at him, thought a moment, then said, “...Not too long.”
A brief silence.
From the driver's seat, Miyazawa said flatly, “About three hours.”
Mari shrieked. “Miyazawa!!!!”
Kyung-ho's eyes widened. “Three hours?”
Ignoring her, Miyazawa replied indifferently. “She seemed worried about your legs.”
“...When did I ever...!”
She started to retort but whipped her head to stare out the window.
Whoosh.
Heat flushed from her nape to her earlobes in an instant.
Mari stayed frozen, gaze fixed outside. Kyung-ho opened his mouth, then awkwardly closed it.
In the cramped car, only the engine's low hum vibrated through the heated air.
Soon, the car glided forward.
After trailing streetlights with her eyes for a while, Mari turned to Kyung-ho. Her face was back to normal, but her posture seemed a touch more rigid than usual.
“By the way.”
Kyung-ho, staring at the floor, looked up as she spoke.
“Have you eaten?”
Kyung-ho mentally recapped his time at the workshop. Only then did he realize he hadn't had a drop since lunch.
“...Not yet.”
Mari nodded curtly.
“Miyazawa.”
“Yes, miss.”
A mechanical reply from the front. Mari added in a perfectly businesslike tone.
“To Ryotei Kikunoi.”
“Understood.”
Miyazawa flicked on the turn signal. The black sedan smoothly changed lanes toward the main road.
Only then did Kyung-ho's brow furrow slightly.
“Kikunoi?”
Kikunoi. The ultra-high-end ryotei often shown on TV—tatami rooms with gardens where politicians, tycoons, and elites held secretive talks.
Choosing his words carefully, Kyung-ho ventured, “...Isn't that place really expensive?”
Mari sank deeper into the leather seat without answering.
Looking awkward, Kyung-ho continued. “I'm fine. We can just grab something nearby—”
“I'm hungry, so don't worry about it.”
She cut him off and turned away again. Her tone was her usual cool and formal one, but the forced blush rising on her neck was vivid even in the dim car.
......
Kyung-ho felt a ticklish flutter near his heart and turned to the opposite window.
Tokyo's evening glow flickered past the moving window, overlapping the reddened ears of the two.
