The Professor's Secret Ecstasy
The interview study was hushed. Flip, flip. Only the soft rustle of turning pages lightly sliced through the quiet space. That faint sound of flipping book pages spread out like a gentle breath.
The woman seated in the center of the study couldn't tear her eyes from the book. Lee Yeon-ji. A literature professor quite well-known in the university literary circles. Right now, she wore an expression she'd never show her students. Her eyes sparkled, and her lips hung slightly slack.
"Urghhh...!"
Beer and snacks sat on her desk—a sight that would shock her students. Always impeccably dressed in suits, with a sharp tongue that hounded her students mercilessly. She'd ruthlessly point out a single misplaced line in a paper, dissecting every sentence for meaning. That was Professor Lee Yeon-ji. Yet at home, she let loose with a face no one else saw. To put it crudely, a bitch face in heat, maybe. But that was only natural. It was normal to unwind at home. Home wasn't just a nest—it was the one place you could boldly shed the mask you wore out in society.
Society was brutal and cold; show weakness, and it'd bite you. But at home, you could be as vulnerable as you wanted. No one there would judge. Even Professor Lee Yeon-ji, known at university as picky and terrifying, was just an ordinary mom once she stepped through her door. And a woman who loved literature.
That was why it hurt her so much—why the literary world's decline felt like utter despair. Not just because it threatened her job. Modern society was overrun by money worship. With money, everything was forgiven. With money, you got respect. With money, you earned admiration. A society without philosophy or literature lost its core. Sure, it looked like the economy and companies were booming on the surface, but peek inside, and most were rotting from decay.
But right now, a book soothed Professor Lee Yeon-ji's aching heart. She never tired of rereading it. With a sigh of admiration, she murmured,
"This... it defies logic..."
It was Song of the Sword, written by Sora. Not even her graduate students—whom she mentored rigorously—could produce something this polished. The tight prose, the expressive depth... And to think an elementary first-grader wrote it. If she hadn't seen Sora write it herself, she wouldn't believe it.
Why? Because Lee Yeon-ji was a married woman raising an eight-year-old son. Even now, her boy was romping around the living room outside. It felt wrong to say it about her own flesh and blood, but... compared to Sora, he was little more than a beast. Sora's otherworldly talent made the gap feel even starker. And having observed elementary classes firsthand, she knew all too well. Eight-year-olds were basically overgrown kindergarteners. Sometimes, it even seemed their sense of self hadn't fully formed.
Anyway, raising an eight-year-old gave her a clear sense of what they were like. But Sora was different. She acted like an adult, with profound thoughts. That was how she could pen something like Song of the Sword.
Lee Yeon-ji messaged the literary elders: We cannot let some other field steal away this child named Sora. Her debut was Song of the Sword, after all. She deliberately shoved aside the fact that Sunlight Painter came first. Immortal Yi Sun-sin had claimed Song of the Sword as its original, at least. That softened the blow a bit.
But the film industry grated on her. The perfect success of Parasite Lifeform had shifted their mindset. They were eyeing Sora like hungry wolves. Rumors even swirled that they wanted to snag her as a screenwriter. Hitting ten million viewers was a monumental feat—there'd been only a handful of such blockbusters you could count on two hands. And then the Cannes screenplay award on top. Lee Yeon-ji had teared up watching the news, thrilled yet terrified. What if Sora abandoned literature for film after succeeding so wildly there?! She knew full well the industry treated people better and paid more than this crumbling literary scene...
When she heard Sora had accepted the literary magazine interview, Lee Yeon-ji rushed over without hesitation. She had to tout the literary world's virtues somehow. Sora held the power here—a reversal that would make her groveling grad students weep. It was like the ruthless beauty swordmaster, slayer of demon cultists, kneeling before one. And that cultist's true identity? A kid who wrote genre novels, the very "heretical trash" Professor Lee Yeon-ji decried.
"Sora, let's go!"
"Yes, Mom."
I took Mom's hand and headed out. A renowned literary magazine had requested an interview. No reason to refuse. They were promoting Song of the Sword—why turn down a mainstream lit mag? Getting paid to advertise was standard business. Companies didn't shell out fortunes on newspaper or TV ads for nothing. If it hit big, they'd recoup hundreds of times the cost... Anyway, in that world, getting paid by a company to promote me? Pure free lunch.
I wasn't some money-crazed demon, but I wouldn't say no to free cash. Just do the interview and collect. And the appearance fee? Absurdly high—more than Dad's monthly wage. Debt payoff goal: achieved. Next up: amass enough to buy a Gangnam penthouse. Sipping wine on a terrace overlooking the Han River. Nothing more thrilling.
Family happiness with Mom and Dad came first, of course. But I'd never forget those debt-strapped days. In some ways, harder than orphanage life. Yet the family I gained through that pain and endurance was priceless. I wouldn't trade it for a fortune. Having been an orphan sharpened my appreciation for family like nothing else.
"Ahh, such a mild day~"
The cold had retreated. But for Koreans, tension loomed. We boasted four seasons, but that was a lie. Korean weather boiled down to: spring-su-u-ummer-fall-wi-i-inter. The best ones—spring and fall—felt brutally short. Barely a month, subjectively. Spring had nice temps but crappy air—yellow dust and fine dust from China. So, the most livable season? Fall. No dust, no yellow sand, not too hot or cold. Short sleeves worked; add a long-sleeve layer if chilly. And fall's harvest bounty—food everywhere.
Mom and I took a taxi to the building. A prestigious lit mag, they'd said.
"Sora, wanna grab a burger before we go in?"
My eyes lit up at Mom's words. Boogie anytime!
"I love Boogie!"
"Sora, really... It's a burger. Why call it Boogie?"
"Hehe..."
I didn't mention that in twenty years, "Boogie" would trend online more than "hamburger." Too far off. Plenty of time till then.
Bellies full of burgers, Mom and I entered the building. An employee greeted us—our faces matched the description. Mine was known to the public, after all. That's Incredible! featuring kid prodigies was big, but Cannes screenplay win blew it up. All three major networks aired my face in the news. Being a kid made me stand out more. Even now, most folks at stations recognized me. Celebrities on TV begged for my autograph. I could only chuckle. A celeb asking a civilian for a signature...
We rode the elevator to the appointed spot. The interview was set in a space the magazine prepared—hence our visit. Not some café or rented hall.
I gripped Mom's hand tight. Holding it melted my tension away, somehow. Mom knew, smiling as she said,
"It'll go great, Sora."
"Yes, Mom."
Mom and I entered the interview room together.