The Birth of a Mayor

The campaign had swept the time away in a blur. It was a long time if you called it long, and a short one if you called it short — but measured in what my body had endured, it felt far longer.

A schedule that began at five every morning, an endless parade of meetings with people, site visits and stump speeches that never skipped a single day. There wasn't even time set aside for meals; chewing gimbap in the car while heading to the next stop had simply become the routine.

When I first started campaigning, I'd figured I could get by on showing my face a lot and shaking plenty of hands.

Reality had other ideas. Winning people's votes was not a problem that simple greetings could solve.

Several times a day I appeared at different events handing out business cards, visited village halls and traditional markets to listen to the elderly, debated deep into the night with young people, and heard firsthand the grievances of small business owners.

The moment I finished a heartfelt conversation in one place, I had to move on to the next appointment. My feet were always swollen, my voice worn hoarse, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠my body wracked by exhaustion at its very limits.

Politics is a war of stamina. The ones who can keep their bodies going are the ones who last to the end.

Kang Seol-heon's words from early in the campaign came back to me. At first I'd taken them as a joke. As the days wore on, I felt their truth bone-deep.

No matter how solid my campaign organization was, how competitive I was as a candidate, or how much my father's political aura worked in my favor, campaigning was never an easy fight.

Every single day was a battle. I couldn't even remember the last time I'd had a proper night's sleep.

There were moments I wondered whether all of this was truly necessary. But that was what an election was.

Mine was a race I could not afford to lose, yet until I had those two syllables — victory — firmly in my grasp, not a single moment of carelessness was allowed.

And then… at last, the results came in. The television screen flashed to life, displaying the vote count as it rolled in.

In that instant, the campaign office erupted into cheers.

"You won, Candidate! No — I suppose it's Mr. Mayor now!"

Jubilant shouts and applause burst out all around. The team members who had helped run the campaign threw their arms around one another, celebrating.

Some had reddened eyes, overcome with emotion. Kang Seol-heon was clapping too, smiling in my direction.

"Mr. Mayor, this is where it truly begins."

I didn't quite feel it yet, but it did occur to me that this was finally over. I clenched my fists as the cheers and applause filling the campaign office rang in my ears.

Now a mayor, I walked out to the podium that had been prepared for my victory remarks.

Before me stood countless supporters and the campaign staff who had run the race alongside me. Camera flashes popped from every ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠direction, and broadcast reporters thrust their microphones forward in unison.

My heart was pounding. The hand gripping the microphone tightened without my meaning it to.

After a moment to steady my breath, I opened with a strong, firm voice.

"Citizens of Yeojin — thank you!"

Cheers erupted on the spot. I looked out at my supporters and spoke again.

"Yeojin City needs change. I can no longer stand by and watch a city in decline, a city people are abandoning. As your mayor, I will build a new Yeojin together with all of you!"

I paused and looked over the citizens gathered before me. Their faces were full of expectation and hope. I continued.

"A city people return to! A city designed for a sustainable future! A city where everyone can live well. Walk this road with me!"

Another hot wave of cheering rose from below the podium. But I knew. This was where the real work began.

Winning the election was not the end. From here on, the actual business of governing had to unfold — designing policy, overhauling the administrative machinery, turning the citizens' expectations into reality.

Ordinarily, once an election ends, a transition committee is formed. Its role is to help the incoming mayor get a grip on city affairs and organize the major policy directions. But a special election is the exception.

"Mr. Mayor, there is no transition committee."

At first I thought I'd misheard. I hadn't. The campaign staff and the City Hall officials alike all said the same thing.

"Because a special election is held at short notice, there's no time to stand up a transition team. Since you'll be serving out the remainder of the previous mayor's term, you begin work the moment your victory is confirmed."

"Then what about all the projects the previous mayor was running?"

"The division heads at City Hall should have documents compiled. But since the former mayor fell over corruption allegations, a good portion of the ongoing projects were left in a half-finished state."

…Damn it. A newly elected mayor normally gets a month or two of transition work to learn the lay of the land and prepare for a fresh start in office.

But I was the exception. From the instant the election ended, I had been thrown straight into the center of administration.

Something I only learned with this election: a special election exists to fill a vacancy left by the previous mayor. Under election law, the term begins the moment victory is certified.

Even if an official inauguration ceremony is held, legally I can exercise the mayor's authority from the moment the result is confirmed.

Why is this only being told to me now?

It felt like being smacked on the back of the head after spending weeks buried in nothing but campaigning. There was a mountain of things to organize and decisions to make. It was as if I'd been dropped into the middle of a battlefield without so much as a suit of armor.

The policies were in my head, but as for the actual duties and role of a mayor, I had only ever watched from a distance — never once done it myself.

Was improvising my only answer? And knowing the civil servants, they'd be sizing up a young mayor and looking to tame him from day one.

Forget it. All I can do is charge straight in.

I sat down at the desk and prepared to work through the night, combing through the flood of reports and project plans, examining them one by one and thinking through which direction to take.

Just then, Kang Seol-heon came over quietly.

"Mr. Mayor, do you have a moment?"

I set down the pen in my hand and looked at her.

"To be honest with you, sir, I'm worried about whether you can handle this."

"Why is that?"

"As the son of a National Assembly member, you had no political experience whatsoever, and up until now you went straight from university into running your own business, didn't you? Municipal administration is a different animal entirely from running a company."

The moment I heard it, one thought crossed my mind.

That's sound advice — she's only saying it because she thinks she can be easy on me, right?

I gave a small laugh and looked at her.

"I take it the Chief of Staff believes I'm rather lacking, then."

I had appointed Kang Seol-heon as Chief of Staff the moment my term began. I had promised it long before, and she was the person best suited to help me.

A flicker of surprise crossed her face, but she answered without missing a beat.

"That's not what I mean. Municipal administration is simply vast and complicated. I know you have strong convictions, but everyone stumbles their way through trial and error when they actually start running an administration. Yeojin may be a small city, but its government is by no means simple."

Kang Seol-heon's eyes went beyond mere skepticism — she was genuinely worried. And she wasn't wrong.

I slowly rolled the pen between my fingers and spoke quietly.

"Do you know what urban management is?"

Ms. Kang gave me a puzzled look and answered.

"I've heard of corporate management, but this is the first I've heard of managing a city."

I smiled and carried straight on.

"If the goal of corporate management is the pursuit of profit, the goal of urban management is the public good. I trust the difference needs no further explanation. Just as a company satisfies consumers through its products and services, a government exists to make citizens' lives better through public services. Too textbook for you?"

I took a breath and went on.

"Of course, I started a business right out of university myself, so I can't claim to be an expert in both the corporate and administrative worlds. But I've thought about this a great deal, and there are things I intend to do. I'm working to find the right direction, so you needn't worry too much."

I opened ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠my laptop and turned the screen toward her.

"To do urban planning, you have to account for everything — transportation, the economy, the environment, welfare, education, culture, real estate, administration. In the end, it means grappling with every principle by which a city operates."

In my previous life, I was the man who had studied exactly that, from undergraduate all the way to a doctorate. I obviously couldn't reveal that, but the broad strokes of how to develop Yeojin City were already sketched out in my head.

Kang Seol-heon still regarded me with an air of worry, but she seemed to have grasped at least that I wasn't some clueless man flung into the deep end.

I opened my notebook and began organizing the policy directions.

Kang Seol-heon glanced at the notebook and let out a light sigh.

"Mr. Mayor, the plan is admirable — but execution is another matter entirely."

"I'm sure. But I will execute it. I won't be content with merely scoring well on pledge report cards. I have no intention of stopping at hitting numbers on a page, either. Now that I've started, I have to push through until something, anything, delivers real results. After all, I'm young, and I have plenty of time."

I set down my pen and looked at Kang Seol-heon.

"Ms. Kang, just watch. I didn't come here to sit in the mayor's chair."

She studied me for a moment, then nodded.

"Understood, Mr. Mayor. In that case, I will do my utmost to support you."

And so my first night as mayor passed with policies taking shape on the page.

The next morning, I gathered my materials and headed for City Hall.

Today was set for department-by-department work briefings. But before all that, I had stayed up the entire night organizing the policy agenda.

When I'd talked it over briefly with Kang Seol-heon the day before, all I'd had was a rough outline in my head. The moment I got home, I sat down at the desk.

And until dawn broke, I distilled everything into four grand strategies and one hundred policy tasks.

The truth is, I'd been taking notes steadily even during my candidacy. Partly because my mind was always racing, but also because it was work my hands knew by heart.

I spread out all the material I'd accumulated, sorted it into categories, re-established the policy throughlines, and rapidly set the necessary items down in finished sentences.

The document I'd compiled already ran to two hundred pages. And beyond the window, the sun was rising.

Frankly, all-nighters like this were old hat to me. Back in my planning consulting ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠days, there were times when one phone call just before quitting time turned everything on its head.

"The direction changed upstairs. We'll need the revisions by tomorrow morning."

That kind of absurd demand. Redrawing the plans, tearing the proposal apart, pulling an all-nighter, and barely dragging the printouts into the office at dawn — there were countless days like that.

So tonight's work didn't tire me in the least. The difference was that this time, I wasn't doing it because someone ordered me to. I was doing it because I was the one driving.

The thought left me with a strange feeling. The officials who had looked down on me all those years, the staff who had brushed aside my proposals without a second thought, the people who had waved off my opinions with a line like "Your plans are just too idealistic to work in the real world."

Now I was the one in a position to make that "real world." I set the agenda. I made the decisions. From here on, it was my turn to put the pressure on them.

My original plan had been to carry the entire mountain of documents in and present it. But as I reached for the printouts, a thought suddenly struck me.

If I make the whole thing and hand it to them… that's not delegation. That's spoon-feeding.

A laugh escaped me before I knew it.

Right. This isn't education — it's just me doing their job for them.

For departments with no capacity for policy planning, it was far better to hand them a blank.

So I narrowed it down to exactly two pages.

A list containing only the titles of the hundred policy tasks.

I had deliberately left out the details. The remaining hundred and ninety-eight pages went neatly into the desk drawer, and I stood up.

Take this list and try building them yourselves. From now on, it's my turn to give the orders.

The sight of them wringing their brains over a report without the first idea what planning even is — I'd be seeing it soon enough.

A quiet little revenge. But somehow, deeply satisfying.