A City Hall Without Thresholds, Power Without Authority

"Mayor, this time it's the fifth floor."

Kang Seol-heon pressed the elevator button as she spoke. I nodded, and an unasked question surfaced in my mind once again.

Why on earth is this building so enormous?

Yeojin City was a small city of a hundred thousand people. It wasn't a metropolitan city, let alone a special autonomous one. And yet its city hall was more than twice the size of most government complexes.

"What's on this floor?"

"The mayor's private reception room, a guest parlor for foreign dignitaries, the Policy Planning Office, and a dedicated corridor for the mayor's movements."

"A dedicated corridor for the mayor's movements? What is that supposed to be?"

"Exactly what it sounds like. It's a route designed so that you never have to run into anyone else while moving through the building."

I nearly burst out laughing. But the moment I actually stepped into the corridor, that laugh curdled into a quiet sigh.

A red carpet ran the length of the hall, antique wooden frames and lamps lining the walls on either side. Closed doors that no one seemed to ever enter stretched away in a row, and at the corridor's end a single glass door framed in gold stood with an air of quiet majesty.

Above the door, it read:

"I've said this before, but this isn't a city hall. It's a palace."

As I murmured that, Kang Seol-heon chuckled softly. Beside us, a facilities team member who'd been guiding us through the space grew flustered.

"The previous mayor used to say that 'a city's dignity comes from its spaces.' So he put a tremendous amount of care into the interiors."

I shook my head.

"A city's dignity comes from its citizens' lives. Not from this."

I walked along the wall. The lavish corridor, the marble floor, the premium sofas — and above them, rows of framed photographs documenting the mayor's public activities. In one, the mayor shook hands with a National Assembly member wearing his gold badge; in another, he stood in a conference room, pointing gravely at something as he delivered an explanation.

"Is this… an exhibition hall?"

"It was used for publicity."

I slowed to a stop. Through the window at the end of the corridor, the residential districts of Yeojin City stretched out in the distance.

Old single-family homes, rusted window frames, alleys snarled with parked cars. And right beside them, a high-rise officetel that had just broken ground, already half-risen into the sky.

I gazed at the scene and murmured under my breath.

"A city where the buildings outrank the administration… That's not an imbalance. That's a center of gravity in the wrong place."

A short while later, we stood outside the Policy Planning Office on the sixth floor. Kang Seol-heon opened the door ahead of me and explained.

"This is where the major briefings and press announcements took place. It's fully soundproofed, the curtains are remote-controlled, and there's a separate waiting room for the press corps."

Then, glancing up beside the door, I found myself staring at the ceiling.

"…Chief of Staff. Why is this ceiling made of glass?"

"Ah, that's for natural light and a sense of openness."

"How hot does it get in here during the summer?"

"Without air conditioning… I've heard it climbs into the mid-nineties."

I nodded slowly. And standing there, an old saying drifted back to me.

"Authority built with money crumbles easily."

It was true. This lavish space was a staged performance of authority, and the cost of that staging had ultimately been paid out of the citizens' taxes.

I stood at the center of the briefing room and said, "Let's start the remodeling with this space. Not a showcase for policy displays — a space citizens can actually use."

* * *

"Mayor, as you can see, these stairs are special imported marble. They're polished to a high gloss, so maintenance runs a bit costly, but we've kept them up for the sake of a dignified atmosphere—"

"Marble, you say?"

I stepped onto the stairs and felt the texture through the soles of my shoes. So smooth it was practically slippery, the reflected light so bright it made my vision swim.

"On a rainy day, or if someone tracks in snow in the winter… someone's going to get hurt right here, aren't they?"

"Ah, that actually happened once or twice. That's why we lay down anti-slip rubber mats… temporarily, on those occasions."

I closed my eyes for a moment, then looked back down the staircase.

Marble, golden handrails, and on the wall a massive sculpture titled The Future of Yeojin City, embedded beneath with a dense grid of LED lights — designed to glow day and night alike.

This isn't governance. It's an exhibition.

"Mayor, this way is the VIP entrance."

Kang Seol-heon guided me carefully. I stopped before the door, and the panel directly in front of me came into view.

The door slid open smoothly as I approached. The sensor reacted, and the ceiling lights switched on in sequence overhead.

"Regular staff can't use this entrance, can they?"

"No, sir. It's designed exclusively for the mayor and visiting VIP guests."

I paused at the door and looked around. Red carpet underfoot, soundproof paneling on the walls, the corridor wider and more luxurious than the general entrance.

"There are… at least two separate routes just for getting into the mayor's office."

"The main entrance is for citizens, the back door for reporters, and this one for VIPs. The idea was to separate functions and reduce inconvenience."

"So a structure built to 'reduce inconvenience'… turns out to be a structure that blocks access."

I took a step back. Then, slowly, I tilted my head up and studied the building's exterior.

I could see the ceiling. It was glass — a vast transparent arch pouring sunlight straight down into the heart of the building.

"Chief of Staff. What do you suppose the intent behind that ceiling was?"

"I believe it was meant as a symbol — a city hall brightened by light."

"Then why… is the mayor's office sitting in the spot where ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠that light falls most abundantly, instead of a space for citizens?"

Kang Seol-heon had no answer. I murmured briefly, "The light is shining in the wrong direction."

So what if the ceiling was made of glass? If the citizens couldn't see it, it meant nothing. A building wrapped in premium materials and private entrances wasn't a testament to the dignity of governance — it was nothing more than an emblem of authority.

"Mayor, this blueprint shows the current first-floor layout."

The floor plan Kang Seol-heon spread open was densely packed with the city hall's partitions. Corridors running in rigid straight lines, a VIP lounge sealed behind glass, conference rooms with their doors shut, and the civil complaints waiting room tucked into the farthest corner of the building.

"Walking this route as a citizen must be genuinely miserable."

I rested a finger on the blueprint.

"Coming in through the main entrance, the very first thing you run into is… what is this?"

"The city government publicity panel. The previous mayor planned it personally."

"…His own face is right in the center."

"Yes."

I slowly lifted my head and gazed out the window, murmuring, "The era of publicity is over. What we need now is contact."

That afternoon, an internal meeting convened. The architects Kang Seo-jin and Jo Min-hyuk, along with the city hall's general affairs section chief and the facilities team, were all in attendance.

"We need to remodel."

I began.

"Spaces that once stood as symbols of authority must now be reshaped to fit the everyday movements of our citizens."

A brief silence settled over the conference room. Architect Kang Seo-jin turned over a blueprint and asked, "Mayor, I understand the direction. But may I ask you one thing?"

"Go ahead."

"What's the core value of this remodeling? Because strictly speaking, lowering the physical thresholds alone won't be enough."

I considered for a moment, then answered: "Accessibility, visibility, openness."

Then I raised my eyes to the room.

"Government should never stand above the people. Which is why — we don't need thresholds."

Jo Min-hyuk burst out laughing.

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

"That line could work as a slogan. A city hall with no thresholds."

I repeated his words.

"A city hall… doesn't need thresholds."

Everyone seated in the conference room wore the expression of people turning that sentence over in their minds. Kang Seo-jin quietly took out his pen and wrote it in the corner of the blueprint.

After the meeting ended, the slogan began spreading among the staff like a whispered rumor.

"Apparently there aren't going to be any thresholds."

"What's that supposed to mean? There aren't any now. What building even has thresholds these days?"

"No, I think it means they want to get that much closer to us."

"So citizens get to come straight in from now on, huh?"

One staffer said that with a laugh. It spread at first like an office joke — but a few days later, the lobby display board at city hall read:

In that moment, I understood. More important than the budget spent to change a single space was the will that space chose to embody.

Now it was time to show that will to the people.

The first target of the remodeling was the sixth-floor conference room.

"Mayor, this is the conference room for senior executive meetings. The previous mayor called it 'the center of city governance.'"

When Kang Seol-heon opened the door, a formal meeting room steeped in ceremony emerged from behind the heavy, dark wooden door.

A long twelve-seat table stretched down the room, with a nameplate reading MAYOR at its exact center. The ceiling was low, the lighting restrained into rigid rectangles, and the walls were sheathed in dark gray panels — the kind of room that made tension coil in your stomach before you'd even opened your mouth.

I entered quietly and stood at the center of the room.

"Has a citizens' group ever… been allowed to speak in this room?"

"Never. It was a space used only by executives, council members, and high-ranking outsiders."

I slowly picked up the nameplate. Then I set it back down on the desk.

"This is a room that's hard to speak in."

The remodeling moved quickly.

The long table disappeared, replaced by movable round tables. Every chair was swapped for low, wheeled meeting chairs. The walls were refinished in white, and one wall was fitted with a rolling whiteboard and a large monitor.

The ceiling lights were replaced with LEDs, and the atmosphere grew far brighter and lighter than before. And above all, the most important change was this: the conference room door now stood open at all times.

The first pilot use was a brainstorming workshop with a youth startup team.

"Whoa, the vibe in here is actually great."

"Better than our own meeting room… Can we just keep using this place?"

"Mayor, come sit with us too!"

I sat off to one side and listened quietly to their ideas. A circular structure instead of a straight line. Not a room where only the speaker drew attention, but one where everyone could see everyone else's face.

A few days later, Kang Seol-heon passed through the conference room and remarked, "In the old days, getting in here meant… swiping your access card twice just at the door."

"That's right."

"Now citizens' groups, councils, even task force teams use this room. All we changed was the arrangement of the desks… and the whole atmosphere of speaking changed with it."

I gave a light nod.

"We're letting the building speak. Telling people, 'This is a place where you're allowed to talk.'"

At that, Kang Seol-heon smiled quietly.

"Then the first thing you changed, Mr. Mayor, wasn't the structure… it was who holds the right to speak."

The change spread invisibly. Once the conference room became a citizens' space, an atmosphere where dissent could be voiced began to ripple through the entire organization.

This one will be difficult to pull off.

People started saying that more often. And sometimes, other words followed right behind it.

Let's propose this ourselves, first.

I welcomed the change. I knew that a structure in which people could raise their voices was, in itself, the foundation of trust in government.

Late in the afternoon, I stood on the city hall rooftop, resting my elbows on the concrete railing and gazing down at the city below.

Yeojin City was quiet. The distant hum of cars, children's laughter, the thin chill of evening air drifting from the market stalls wrapping up for the day.

And at the heart of it all, the city hall building I now stood atop sat planted like a monument.

I thought of the day, in my previous life, when I had first looked up at this building.

Back then, I'd come here as an urban planning officer for a meeting with the staff. I was neither a VIP nor ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠an executive, so neither the elevator nor the back entrance were mine to use.

The office layout was a maze. Lost, I wandered onto the wrong floor entirely.

"The conference room isn't over there."

Outside the meeting room, I'd once been pressed against the wall like furniture.

"Mayor coming through. Step aside, please."

That was when I understood. This was a building only some people were permitted to pass through.

A building where some walked straight-backed, others bowed their heads, and still others weren't allowed through the doors at all.

But now I stood at the very top of that building. Looking down at the city spread beneath me, I said quietly to myself:

"Buildings don't ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠fall. But authority can be dismantled."

It doesn't take a drill to tear down a wall. One slogan, one conference table, one open door — that's enough. I looked down.

In the first-floor lobby, a few citizens sat talking, and beyond the glass wall beside them, the display board scrolled with its message: Removal of thresholds in progress.

Just then, my phone buzzed. It was Kang Seol-heon.

* * *

"Mayor, you have twelve meeting requests today."

Chief of Staff Kang Seol-heon said quietly, holding out a file folder.

I took it with a grimace. The cover was titled Mayor's Meeting Requests (Second Week of August).

"…Still this many?"

"Down from last week. We were flooded with over thirty back then."

Flipping through the documents, I skimmed the names inside. Even a cursory glance made two distinct categories stand out.

The first: citizens' groups and public-interest organizations.

Public transit improvements, environmental protection, expansion of public rental housing, input on urban regeneration… Their requests were grounded in the field, full of concrete proposals and genuine concern. Some of it was pie in the sky, sure — but much of it was worth hearing.

The second: corporations and interest groups.

Private development proposals for the new town, road widening for a particular district, appeals to loosen floor-area ratios on multi-unit housing… Every single one was transparently angling to bend policy in their favor. No — it was too blunt to even call it angling.

I closed the file and let out a short sigh.

"I won't be meeting with the companies chasing special interests."

Kang Seol-heon nodded, as though she'd expected nothing less.

"I thought you'd say that. How would you like the meetings organized, then?"

I didn't hesitate.

"Bundle the public-interest organizations into group briefings and put them on the schedule together. We'll hear their positions all at once and connect them directly with the working-level staff."

"And the corporate side?"

"I won't meet with them at all. Anything touching development interests goes through the formal administrative process only. There will be no political deals."

Kang Seol-heon grinned.

"Consistent as ever. Understood. If you change your mind down the road, just say the word."

I watched her in silence for a moment, then smiled bitterly.

"The real fight starts now. Those people won't back down easily."

I knew. I knew exactly how the names in those meeting requests had operated, and how, in my previous life, I had been battered around by them.

In my previous life, I had been an urban planning officer — a man whose name appeared only on the last line of every document.

No matter how good a plan I drafted, it was always rendered powerless before someone's "interests."

The good sites in the city center were passed over, and development always began on the barren outskirts of town. And, impossibly enough… those plots of land had always been bought up in advance by someone.

"This is the future!"

"The heart of the new-town era!"

"Station-adjacent premium!"

Their development slogans were grand, but underneath it all, they wanted one thing.

"Raise our land value."

I fought them. And I lost.

In countless conference rooms, in the pages of commissioned reports, in the headlines of news articles, I sank slowly into silence. But things were different now.

I was the mayor. The power to decide sat in my hands. Now it was they who would have to persuade me.

I knew it all — the intent folded into their smiles, the stench of greed hidden beneath their talk of "rationality." And this time, it was my turn to say to them:

"That will not be happening."