Opening the Board with a Question

The meeting room was quieter than I'd expected. For a gathering convened at such short notice, there was no tension in the air, none of the sharpened back-and-forth one might anticipate. If anything, silence and sidelong glances seemed to be pressing the atmosphere flat.

The fluorescent lights blazed down on the conference table, yet no one had managed to take command of the room. They simply sat, each waiting for someone else to move first.

I sat quietly at the far end of the table. Across from me was the head of the Resource Circulation Division, and beside him sat Cho Yeon-woo, head of the Citizen Space Design Division.

The Resource Circulation Division head let out a short sigh and set a stack of printouts on the table.

"We've received an official document from Gwangseong City."

The edge of the paper trembled almost imperceptibly. He pressed it flat with his palm and went on.

"There's been an accident at their waste incineration plant, and operations have been suspended entirely. They're requesting distributed processing from neighboring municipalities. Yeojin City is on the list. On paper, it's a feasibility review request."

He had used the word request, but the mood in the room was closer to pressure. Cho Yeon-woo nodded slightly and murmured in a low voice.

"I understand Gwangseong is in a hurry, but that gives us no obligation to take it on."

At his words, I shifted my gaze a little further down the table. Beside him sat a single Grade 8 officer with a boyish face.

Jeong Ye-na. I'd heard she'd earned praise for the way she handled the fieldwork on several citizen participation projects — small-scale ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠town halls, idea contests, things of that nature.

But this room was a different arena altogether. Sitting with her hands folded neatly in her lap, visibly tense, her eyes darted busily from face to face, as if she were trying to read every person in the room at once.

Her expression carried unease, and beneath it, an unmistakable awkwardness. It seemed to prove that this meeting was still far too heavy and unfamiliar a seat for her.

Like a small animal that had wandered in among predatory beasts.

A team leader at another seat tilted his head.

"I heard the airport height restrictions leave us no alternative ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠site anyway. Which means one of the surrounding cities has to take it, and our transport links happen to fit just well enough to be inconvenient."

"*Fit just well enough*? We're drowning in complaints as it is. Building an incinerator here means clear, guaranteed public backlash. The press, the city council, civic groups — every one of them will come out swinging."

"Which is exactly why we should refuse from the start."

The one who threw that out was a field team leader from the Resource Circulation Division. He tapped the document a few times with his finger.

"We cannot accept this. Public perception doesn't respond to logic. You can talk about scientific standards, odor control, zero environmental impact — the word 'incinerator' itself sets off emotions. Yeojin has been so quiet for so long, and this would mean breaking that peace with our own hands."

"But still…" another employee began carefully, picking up the thread.

"What if every other city refuses, and we're the only ones left at the end? If someone has to take it regardless, wouldn't Gwangseong at least be forced to offer conditions?"

The current in the room shifted in an instant. At those words, some turned their heads; others scowled.

"By that logic, how long are we supposed to keep being the ones who lose? Even with our small population, we can't just roll over and take whatever comes…"

A subtle difference in temperature spread through the room. Some flatly rejected the idea; others weighed the possibility.

Neither side had a settled position. To put it plainly, everyone was anxious.

And that was precisely why no one dared raise their voice.

I watched them in silence. That was all it took — seeing who avoided which topic, who deflected, who was maneuvering for control.

The briefing materials were a formality; what the conversation actually produced was attitude.

The Resource Circulation Division head spoke again.

"Mr. Mayor, this carries far too much political risk. We'd have to answer to the Ministry of Environment, and the provincial governor will certainly have his own position. This isn't something we can decide on our own."

He looked my way, but I neither dodged his gaze nor returned fire.

I simply gave a light nod. These were the same people who talked so loudly about Yeojin's autonomy and authority — until a sensitive issue landed, at which point it was all "higher-ups" and "keeping in step."

It was how survivors in this structure had learned to survive. I didn't blame them. I simply understood the structure.

Cho Yeon-woo offered an awkward smile.

"Well, matters like this are… naturally, the direction should come from above…"

I didn't wait for him to finish. I turned a page of the briefing materials and nodded slowly.

I deliberately let the silence stretch. As their faces grew steadily more uneasy, I took it all in — because in my eyes, the scene itself was a document.

Has anyone in this room ever thought about what an opportunity like this could hold?

Almost certainly not. They see only the size of the problem. The possibility hiding inside it has yet to catch anyone's eye.

My hand stopped mid-turn. The officials' gazes snapped reflexively to the movement.

Their mouths had gone still, but their minds would be racing. Who should yield first? Who would dare say the unsayable first?

The longer that stillness held, the more their eyes gathered on me.

Without a word, I tapped one sentence on the printout with my fingertip. It began like this:

I hadn't read it aloud, yet everyone seemed to have caught the phrase, and for a moment they all looked down at that same line. The sentence was simple but unyielding. They all knew that the word portion was not to be taken lightly.

"If… hypothetically, we were to accept — how large would that 'portion' be?"

Cho Yeon-woo answered with a slight frown.

"The document doesn't specify, but word from the working-level consultations is that the figures being floated are quite high. If Yeojin accepts, it would start at a minimum of 150 tons a day."

"At that volume—"

The moment I deliberately cut myself off, the team leader beside me took up the thread.

"150 tons a day is more than triple Yeojin's total daily output. Emotionally and practically, it's an unbearable number."

"Then—"

I laid my fingers out neatly on the desk and raised my head.

"How are the other cities moving on this?"

The Resource Circulation Division head answered quickly.

"Nearly all of them are refusing. We were actually the third city contacted — the first two have already sent formal replies declining."

"Which cities were they?"

"Sunyeong City and Sangye City."

"Hmm. Both over half a million people, aren't they."

I lowered my head again and pretended to think for a while. Silence settled back over the room.

Some were already straining to read my expression.

"Of all cities, for this to land on Yeojin…"

When I let the words trail off, Cho Yeon-woo answered on reflex.

"Among mid-sized cities, we're close by, and we have at least some infrastructure in place. I imagine that's the reasoning. If we don't draw a line, they'll keep coming to persuade us."

I raised my head and looked at him.

"And have we drawn one?"

Cho Yeon-woo drew a short breath.

"…We haven't issued a formal position yet."

"So we haven't said anything at all."

I nodded slowly.

I wasn't trying to catch anyone out on a technicality. I was resetting the atmosphere of the room. Then I continued quietly.

"What is it that we can say, right now?"

The question hung in the air.

No one could answer right away. They were field officials, and a field official stays safe by withholding judgment — that's the rule.

I knew perfectly well I was asking because I knew that.

"If we do accept, what will the citizens ask us?"

I lifted my head and looked around the entire room.

"*Why do we have to be the ones to take it.* That would be the question, wouldn't it?"

Someone nodded. Only then did I let out a faint smile.

"Even as an ordinary citizen, I'd ask that same question."

Then I paused for a beat.

"So let's ask the reverse. Why is refusing the obvious ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠answer?"

A strange current moved among the officials. It wasn't simple discomfort — it was an exquisitely fine tension.

Their faces said they sensed I was carrying an intention, but couldn't yet read exactly where it pointed.

The Resource Circulation Division head spoke up.

"Mr. Mayor, public sentiment can't be dismissed. Even if we hold a public hearing, the opposition will only harden. Even if it's defensible on the merits—"

"I know."

I cut in quietly, careful not to trample his words.

"Even so, we have to make a choice. Refusal or review. One or the other."

The room went quiet again. They bit their lips, running the calculations in their heads.

"However our city handles this, the press will ask questions. Why did we accept? Why did we refuse? If we decide without a rationale, there's no predicting where it all flows."

I continued, dressing the exercise up as deliberation and handing it to them.

"If we refuse, how will the other cities react?"

No one answered.

"Which means… among those 'other cities,' there could very well be weaker ones."

At that, someone let out a small sigh.

Exactly. NIMBY facilities are always built where resistance is weakest. Somewhere, that scene was unfolding right now.

So I asked the question.

Was this city, at this moment, the strong — or the weak?

"Then… suppose we could ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠set conditions, so that we aren't simply pushing the harm onto those weaker than us. How would that be?"

I was changing the grain of the room's air, very slowly.

"If we can control the odor technically — if we can explain it to the citizens — then the logic that we 'can accept this' might actually stand up, couldn't it?"

Silence again. The weight of it settled gradually over the room.

I hadn't asserted anything. I had only asked.

A few rounds of opinions made the surface look tidied, but underneath, nothing was resolved. No one declared, no one was certain.

The briefing materials sat on the table like meaningless scraps of paper. No one held them; no one leafed back through them.

What this table needed now wasn't information but judgment — and no one had been able to make that judgment first.

I kept still. Not because I had resolved to say nothing, but because I knew that right now, speaking would be a mistake.

This wasn't instinct. It was learning.

I understand urban planning better than anyone here. What becomes possible when a city holds certain conditions, where to begin the interpretation so the argument gains persuasive force.

But that was the person I used to be. The person I am now is twenty-seven — thin on political experience, short on administrative track record, nothing more than a "young mayor who won by accident."

At least, that's how it is in this world.

So I refuse to treat this problem as though I hold the answer. I never voice a solution first.

What I need to show right now is not the language of an expert bearing alternatives, but the posture of a politician thinking alongside them. The answer is already in my head — but if I say it first, no one follows.

What I must do is make them feel they're watching the process of the answer emerging on its own.

And then, at the very end, I need only add one line:

'I agree with that conclusion.'

That was the method I had chosen for this table.

My gaze dropped, and I pictured the far edge of the old town. Land that people turned away from — flat ground without weight, forever pushed to the back of the administrative queue.

To me, though, it wasn't the city's leftover scrap. It was blank space — margin for possibility. Beside a severed railway line sat the grounds of a defunct factory. The connections to the road network, the prevailing winds, the distance from the waste source, even the room to widen the access route.

The land fit as though it had been waiting for me all along. It was only that no one had ever looked at what it could become.

But I will never let that thought pass my lips. The moment I speak it, it becomes clear that I already knew.

This society distrusts a young person who seems to know everything in advance. The moment calculation starts to look like calculation instead of experience — the moment deliberation starts to look like design — I stop standing at the center of anyone's trust.

So I keep asking questions. Questions aren't aggressive. Questions warm the air and set people's hearts in motion.

And the moment they find the answers themselves, those answers become "everyone's opinion."

The field team leader seated at the far end of the room spoke up again.

"Mr. Mayor, in the end… once you weigh the practical conditions, there's really no suitable site except that outer edge — the far end of the old town. To be honest, we did look into the possibility ourselves, but since no one ever said anything definitively…"

He glanced at me cautiously and couldn't bring the sentence to a close.

I gave a slight nod — an expression that neither encouraged nor restrained.

"Is that so? There are no usage plans for that land yet, are there?"

I stopped at that single line.

It was, in effect, a permit — but the form of the words was still a question. My judgment stayed hidden inside the shell of the question, nudging the direction forward.

I did not speak. I had merely been there, beside them.

As I waited for the moment when they would set the direction and I would lend it my agreement, I slowly folded back one corner of the printout with my fingertip.

Next to the field marked Site Feasibility, the blank space remained empty — but in my head, someone was already writing, with careful strokes: Possible.