Bloodline

Two more days had passed since the televised debate. Today was also the first day of early voting. By custom, candidates made a point of visiting a polling station around this time — election coverage exploded right about now, and even people who had never given politics a second thought were forced to feel the campaign in the air.

"I should go cast my vote first, too."

Today's schedule was packed tight as well. Still, my body had felt comparatively light through all the preparation, because I was already tasting the effects of that televised debate. Just yesterday, of all people, the secretary-general of the People's Choice Party had called me.

It was an offer of supporting stump speeches from the party leadership. I was grateful, but I declined politely — the leadership was so unpopular that its backing would have done me more harm than good. Even so, I could feel my presence rising in a meaningful way. Seventeen interview requests, for a start. Calls from People's Choice assemblymen with districts in Pyeongtaek, Hwaseong, and Yongin. Even the strangely softened attitudes of local-councilor candidates who had once looked down on me.

Shirt Comes Off on Live Debate had climbed the regional trending lists, and the community forums kept spinning new bait threads off it. Taking off my shirt had been the right call after all. Drawing aggro didn't automatically send approval ratings soaring, but…

Better than indifference.

When I'd been a complete unknown, nobody had spared me a glance. There was a reason politicians soaked up abuse while throwing themselves into issue-fighting, doing cringe-worthy stunts to ride a meme. Catch people's eyes first, and someone would inevitably stop to listen to your voice and look your way. On the road to the early voting station, I would get to feel that changed attention for myself.

I had just finished getting ready and was about to leave when the doorbell rang. Camp staff, maybe? That seemed unlikely — I'd been going around without an entourage. We ran the campaign on a skeleton crew, so aside from the ajumma volunteers there were only three full-timers: publicity, organization, accounting. And, pathetically enough, I was the candidate, campaign chair, and war-room chief all rolled into one. I doubted anyone would carve time out of their ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠day to come pick me up.

"I'll know when I see them."

I was heading out anyway, so I opened the door right away. The person standing at it was a thoroughly unwelcome visitor.

"Seojun-oppa."

A little over 170 centimeters tall, with a sturdy frame for a woman. Slightly sun-tanned skin and a face that still looked young. It had been quite a while since I'd seen her in the flesh, but of course I knew that face.

"Min Dajeong."

My younger sister — the one who'd taken my liver. How had she even gotten my address… She must have asked our parents. What grated was that Min Dajeong was in Maesan City at all. I'd already made my message amply clear, so why come in person?

"Aren't you on tour?"

"The eighth tournament at Gunsan CC just ended, and there's a gap before ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the ninth. You didn't know?"

"Of course I didn't."

"Of course… You're doing that on purpose, aren't you?"

On purpose? What was I supposedly doing on purpose? But one thing was certain: she took it as given that her own brother should know her tournament schedule by heart. I could guess why, too. Our parents, and Min Dain — eager to bask in the glow of a pro-golfer sister — had probably cooed over her enough to make it so. Either way, she clearly had plenty of grievances with me, judging by how she'd interrupted her tour and grudgingly carved out time to come all the way up to Maesan City.

No wonder she's pissed.

I could have simply thrown her out, but a little useful material might come of it. As it happened, my pocket held a recorder fitted with a high-performance directional mic. During an election, the thing was essential.

"Well… fine. Talk. I'll give you twenty minutes, tops."

"Twenty minutes?"

"Today's the first day of early voting. I have to take photos in front of the polling station and stump at Osaek Market nearby."

"So what you're saying is, you're busy right now because of your campaign."

"Yeah."

What could matter more to a candidate than campaigning? I wasn't some independent running for a district council seat; I was a capital-region mayoral candidate carrying the main opposition party's nomination. Twenty minutes was already generous.

"Oppa. I told you how important this season is for me, didn't I?"

"I remember."

"You remember, and you still did that to me? How could you?"

...

"I'm twenty-one already. You know that?"

I wasn't ignorant enough to say, But you're so young. Korean women's golf was crawling with monsters to begin with. Unlike sports where the talent pool had dried to a trickle, new players kept pouring in and generational turnover was brutal. Which meant, in the end, that the game wasn't kind to aging has-beens.

"I have to lock down a regular-tour card by next year, or no company will even look at sponsoring me. Seriously!"

Min Dajeong's empty chatter had at least broadened my knowledge of pro golf. Settling onto the regular tour before adulthood made you a genius. Making it by twenty-one made you a fairly standard prospect. Twenty-two was the deadline, she said. Late bloomers did sometimes make the jump after that.

"How's a has-been supposed to land a top-tier sponsor? She'd be better off just making the top tour."

"Right. Sponsorship matters in golf, I suppose."

"Stop talking like it's somebody else's problem. Seriously!"

Except it really wasn't my problem. I started to fire back something dry, then shut my mouth. Min Dajeong's face was on the verge of tears. Whatever a nuisance she was to me, the desperation underneath was real. Besides, she didn't seem likely to hand me any material — all she did was whine. I decided to placate her and send her on her way.

"Dajeong."

"At this rate the only sponsorship I'll land is from the neighborhood optometrist. Or the dentist."

"Okay, calm down. Now tell me what you actually want."

"That's just it, I don't know…"

"That's why I'm asking. Planning to keep wasting my time?"

I'd been ready to throw her out by force if the whining continued. Fortunately, Min Dajeong recovered her composure soon enough and looked me square in the eye. And I got ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to hear why she'd barged in out of nowhere.

"First of all, everyone knows now that I had my liver transplant because of you."

"Is that a problem? You made a full recovery."

"Do you not know how picky sponsors are? If they set their minds to nitpicking, they'll find all the dirt they want."

Her complaint, in short, was that her market value had taken a hit.

"Min Dajeong. That's all in how you package it."

"What?"

"A girl who survived a brush with death as a child and never stopped grinding until she made her pro-golfer dream come true. You can wrap the story up that prettily."

"What would you know about marketing…"

"I know exactly what I'm talking about, so hush."

My family had a habit of underestimating me to my face — even young Min Dajeong. To be fair, my credentials weren't much to look at. Working in Yeouido, I'd rarely crossed paths with anyone whose schooling was worse than mine. But as a party staffer who'd come up through open recruitment, my record wasn't bad. If I hadn't been drafted as a mayoral candidate this time, wouldn't I have been in line for a party-official proportional-representation seat within ten years? It was genuinely fascinating, the way they chewed up that record and tore me down without fail. Did they think politics was something only National Assembly members did? Or had I made an idiot of myself in front of my family at some point without noticing?

"Min Dajeong. It's not hard at all."

I walked her through, roughly, how to cover the surgery history and my mother's meddling — so that the market value of Min Dajeong, hovering somewhere between prospect and has-been, wouldn't slip any further. Her expression brightened by degrees. By now, I just wanted her gone.

"Good. That's settled. But there's one more thing."

"What?"

"Why are you surprised? Weird."

...

Min Dajeong had another demand, apparently. That shameless manner, as if it were some right owed to her. This little— No. First, I would hear what she was spouting.

"Sorry, but write me an official apology, oppa."

What came out of Min Dajeong's mouth was shameless beyond imagining. An apology? Oblivious to my mood, she rattled on, cool as you please.

"Honestly, you went too far at that debate. You made it sound like you were threatened and dragged onto the operating table… and now I'm in a genuinely awkward position. People think I stole your liver by force and barely survived on it."

"That's more or less what happened."

"I didn't do anything! Can't you come out and say it was all voluntary? Or at least mention me."

...

"You know Mom and Dad are both out of their minds right now, right? It's not like you're going to look after me anyway."

She was asking me to walk back, even in part, the truth I'd dug up on that televised debate. The nerve of it — but thanks to her, my head went cold. Because I'd just realized I'd ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠misjudged Min Dajeong.

She's just the same.

Not one thing separated her from our parents. I couldn't even fathom how much of a fool they took me for.

"So, oppa. What's it going to be?"

I studied Min Dajeong for a moment as she pressed me for an answer. My sister, who lived and breathed the golf course and knew nothing of politics. Honestly, she was still young. What stayed with me was the pitiful image of her dying, her skin gone sallow from our mother's lunacy. That didn't mean I owed her a pass.

So this was never a situation for playing nice.

She was, in the end, a member of the Min clan. Min Taegi, Kim Jeongran, Min Dain, Min Dajeong. The four of them were cut from exactly the same cloth.

"Dajeong."

I called my sister's name with a smile. And before she could get a word out, I delivered my notice:

"I'm not going to ask you to give back the liver I gave you."

"Huh?"

"Think of it as severance money and keep it. And I'd rather you never show your face in front of me again."

"Oppa?"

"If you don't do exactly as I've said, I can't promise this conversation won't end up reported to someone, along with the recording. And that wouldn't do a golfer any favors — one with no sponsor, trudging around in a logo-less cap. If you've understood me, then leave. Now."

Min Dajeong just blinked at me in shock, as if I'd said something outrageous. I paid it no mind and ushered her out the door.

"Don't go around pretending you know me from now on. Understood?"

She kept blinking, still unable to take it in. Whether she got it or not, I secured the door behind her and quickened my pace.

"Oppa?"

Min Dajeong's voice came from behind me. That wounded reaction, as if she genuinely couldn't fathom what she'd done wrong. I couldn't for the life of me understand what I'd done to make my whole family dismiss me, discriminate against me, even write me off as a simpleton. Here I was, taking treatment from a second-tier golfer who couldn't even cover her own tour expenses — treatment I'd never once gotten from the brass in Yeouido. Had I lived my life wrong?

Still, Min Dajeong had made my goal clearer.

"I'll need to redraw the strategy."

Now I wanted to win this election by any means necessary.