Meeting the Academic Journalist
Academic specialist reporter Lee Dong-hyun.
He was the kind of journalist who scoured papers likely to stir up the academic world, then rewrote their complex contents into language the public could grasp.
Among those, articles on achievements by Korean researchers were guaranteed high views, so he hunted down Korean academic buzz more aggressively than anyone.
Naturally, Lee Dong-hyun had his eyes on the paper that had just gone up on the archive.
"On the Proof of the Riemann Hypothesis"
Author: Yoo A-yeon. No affiliation. No degree.
A paper with specs so thin it should've barely hit double-digit views before vanishing into obscurity.
But KAIST professor Park Mu-yeol had endorsed it and actively recommended it to peers in the field, so Lee sensed something extraordinary brewing.
Plus, whispers from prominent overseas scholars he followed on SNS—"intriguing," "has potential"—only fueled it...
'This is scoop-worthy hype material...!'
Judging it a goldmine, Lee Dong-hyun beat everyone to the punch with his article.
Lagging behind by a beat, other academic reporters saw the punchy wording in Lee's piece, sensed something big, and rushed out copy-paste jobs without proper fact-checking.
The result? A flood of articles sparked public curiosity in Yoo A-yeon's paper, one by one.
Of course, it wasn't on the level of the 2023 room-temperature superconductor scandal with LK-99, where practically everyone tuned in.
The Riemann Hypothesis might be the most famous of the seven great math problems, but it was too arcane to resonate with the masses.
Few could even explain what it was, let alone grasp it. Math YouTubers touched on it briefly before moving on.
After the coin market's brief crash and rebound, the proof's success faded fast from public memory...
But as an academic specialist, Lee Dong-hyun had no intention of letting the story die there.
'Yoo A-yeon's identity is shrouded in mystery. No prior papers in academic searches. So this is her debut... but proving the Riemann Hypothesis on your first try? Possible?'
Even tapping his full network, no one knew who Yoo A-yeon was.
His veteran reporter's instincts screamed: scoop alert.
'Gotta land an interview with Yoo A-yeon herself, no matter what.'
Lee started digging into the paper's second author, Han Seol-ae.
Seoul National University Graduate School of Mathematical Sciences. Master's under Professor Shin I-jun.
Then five years of zilch.
'Wait... Shin I-jun? The professor who declared he'd crack the Riemann Hypothesis and died young?'
Something clicked in Lee Dong-hyun's mind.
A tragic genius prof cut down too soon, his student completing his lifelong dream? Pure crowd-pleaser.
'Definite scoop.'
He fired off an interview request to Han Seol-ae's publicly listed email from the academic database.
Two days later, a reply.
Polite but firm rejection.
Most reporters had sent the same email, gotten the same no-thanks, and bailed.
But Lee Dong-hyun didn't quit. He was tenacious.
First, he pored over the archived paper.
Endorser: Park Mu-yeol — KAIST Department of Mathematical Sciences
Professor Park Mu-yeol greenlighting a no-affiliation, no-degree paper. Yoo A-yeon had to have some connection.
So he reached out to Professor Park and headed straight there.
Reporters who act first grab the scoop. That was his creed.
KAIST, Professor Park Mu-yeol's lab. He seated Lee Dong-hyun on the sofa and poured tea.
"You came all the way here yourself, reporter."
"Thank you for sparing your valuable time despite your busy schedule."
Lee expressed gratitude and dove right in.
"Professor Park Mu-yeol, have you met the author of that hot paper, Yoo A-yeon?"
Park paused briefly, then nodded once.
"Yes. I've met her in person. Reviewed the paper before it went up on the archive, too."
'Bingo. Worth the drive to Daejeon.'
Lee cheered inwardly.
"Please, the public wants to know who Yoo A-yeon is, what she's like. Any chance you could connect us?"
"Did you try emailing the second author, student Han Seol-ae?"
"Yes, first thing. Got a polite rejection."
"Hmm... I see."
Park sipped his tea and fell silent.
Moments later, he spoke slowly.
"I can ask Han Seol-ae directly via her contact. Tell her a reporter wants an interview. Up to her, of course."
"That alone is more than enough—thank you."
Lee bowed his head.
"One more thing, Professor, if I may."
"Go ahead."
"What was Yoo A-yeon like?"
Professor Park Mu-yeol gazed out the window.
It was a warm, sunny afternoon.
"Haha. Much smaller than I expected."
He chuckled shortly.
Lee didn't quite grasp the meaning but jotted it down anyway.
[Yoo A-yeon is much smaller than expected...?]
Meanwhile, around then. I was teaching A-rin chess.
"Look closely, A-rin. This is a pawn."
"Huh? Sis, isn't phone the thing Mom and Dad carry around? You bragged like crazy about getting one for your 5th birthday~."
"Uh... yeah, that's a phone too. But this is also a pawn."
"Ooh! So all grown-ups carry these around?"
"Hmm... not quite. That phone's way smarter, this pawn's... less so."
"...? So that phone's super smart? What's its IQ? Higher than mine?"
"Well... IQ's only for people, A-rin."
"Gasp! For realzies?"
Talking to a 3-year-old, the conversation bounced like a bouncy ball. Not a chubby-cheeked one—a super springy one.
Ding-dong~.
Then a text hit Mom's phone. The smart smartphone kind, not the less-smart chess pawn.
"A-yeon, text from Professor Park Mu-yeol."
"Yeah? A-rin, play by yourself for a sec~."
"Okay. I'll squish the slime all slimy~."
Squish-squish~.
Pat-pat-pat. I hurried to Mom and checked the text.
'Here it comes.'
Easy emailers got flat rejections.
But a reporter with real drive and action? This approach was predictable.
"A-yeon, what do you think?"
"Bounced 'em once, now time to play ball properly..."
Passionate reporters deserved a face-to-face story.
Han Seol-ae wanted a short chat, not a full interview.
And no printing today's talk in the article.
Regrettable, but Lee grabbed the straw, agreeing to meet at a cafe.
He arrived 30 minutes early, snagged the window seat, opened his laptop, ordered an Americano.
As the appointed time neared, the cafe door swung open.
Lee set aside his laptop.
His eyes caught a mother-daughter duo entering.
'Beautiful... and cute.' He stared, entranced.
The woman walking ahead looked early 30s.
Tallish, with glossy hair cascading naturally past her shoulders. No overdone makeup, yet her entrance drew every gaze effortlessly. Striking features, barely any makeup, but bright skin. Her walk, the casual sweep of her eyes over the room—pure elegant nobility.
Beside her, a child. Pink kid's backpack, about five years old, tiny and adorable girl.
Clutching Mom's hand, glossy hair peeked by her ear. Round face, clear bright eyes. Cafe lights weren't that bright, but her face glowed like its own spotlight, impossible to ignore. The kind of looks that'd break hearts later in life.
Unlike scatterbrained peers her age, this girl walked calmly, hand in Mom's.
Spotting their table, she bowed politely from the navel.
"Hello~! Mister Reporter~!"