The Start of a Week — A New Week's Riyeon

No one would believe it, but from Sunday evening until I opened my eyes in the small hours of Monday morning, nothing at all happened with Riyeon.

Not that there was any need to misunderstand — nothing unusual happened. The texts still came exactly as they always did.

I doubted my own eyes.

Riyeon was going to bed early?

Not begging me to play with her — just going to sleep early?

Then I remembered that she normally left for work earlier than I did, and it made sense. Leaving early on Friday was one thing; showing up for work itself, she was diligent about. When she said she didn't want to get chewed out at the office, she'd meant it.

We traded a few more messages after that, and then Riyeon went to bed like a lamb.

Mm. Peaceful. Tranquil, even.

It didn't take long for me to realize I'd been played.

The blanket I'd hauled out in my arms was none other than the one Riyeon had soaked through with her fountain of a masturbation show. That single blanket had more bulk than every other piece of laundry I owned put together, so I ended up running two machines just for it.

I sat at the little table beside the humming drum washers and tried to read, but the NTR scene from Even After Knowing Everything of You kept looping on infinite replay inside my head.

Thinking I was fine had been pure arrogance. Riyeon had been with me, so I hadn't let it surface fully — and even when it did, we could tear into it together and I could grit through the damage. Sitting there, I understood just how stupid I'd been, and at the same time I finally understood why she'd gone to bed early.

She was afraid the wound from the NTR Drift would flare up in her the same way it had in me, so she'd crashed first while I was still awake and able to deal with her.

Smart girl.

Tomorrow I'd go to sleep earlier than her.

Setting Riyeon aside and talking about the state of Even After Knowing Everything of You — the place was a funeral home. In Japan the reaction was so violent that people were running online terrorism campaigns against the artists who'd drawn Mizuki NTR doujinshi, day after day without letup.

Don't forget. The whole reason Riyeon and I had started talking openly was the Mizuki Drug Bulgogi Incident, and that had happened less than a week ago.

Which was why, ironically, even though the author himself had made the NTR official, no new Mizuki NTR doujinshi were coming out. You could argue a week wasn't enough time to whip something up that fast, but a few well-known underground artists had also posted on social media that they were postponing their planned release dates — reason being, what they'd been drawing just happened to be Mizuki NTR.

Even before all this, Even After Knowing Everything of You had been valued as pure romance, so NTR doujinshi had always been relatively scarce. Online opinion looked like this: rage over the NTR Drift was still the majority, but day by day the fire was slowly dying down. In its place, people were holding memorial services for Mizuki, wailing their hearts out — and then, in the same breath, shifting focus to who the next true heroine candidate might be.

But there was no way to have a serious debate about that. The other heroines had vanishingly small roles. The series had been recognized for its pure-romance value precisely because the heroine page count had been a Mizuki monopoly.

Beeeeep—.

The dryer finished its cycle. The end-of-cycle signal somehow sounded like the flatline of an oxygen machine, and it left a bitter taste in my mouth.

Gleureomeogun Jeonhannan's Even After Knowing Everything of You. I'd been reading the manga for a long time, and it had gotten me through a bleak stretch of my life not that long ago — so, all things considered, it really was… something.

And so Monday morning arrived.

I finished the laundry, got home, texted Riyeon that I was going to sleep, closed my eyes — and the alarm went off immediately.

This ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠is unjust! Unjust!

Monday is simply an unjust day. No matter how much you sleep, it's a dawn you never want to wake up for. But as long as I was taking their money, I had to get up. Mondays meant the regular meeting, so I needed to go in a little early and organize the materials. Weekend data had piled up too, so there was no other choice.

I was in the middle of drinking a glass of water when the text arrived with uncanny timing. A chill ran down my spine.

I hated Mondays themselves, but I liked the air of a weekday dawn. Something about the feeling of living by a schedule was precious — it gave me the conviction that I wasn't useless, that I was at least pulling my own weight as one functional adult.

Heh. Cute.

It was nothing special, and yet my chest fluttered. I wondered if she knew that a Riyeon who wasn't running wild could give me this kind of flutter whenever ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠she wanted.

Absolutely not.

If she said she'd wash me, she might lick me from head to toe and then pin me down. Riyeon was not a being you could afford to lower your guard around.

I wanted to sleep with her. I really did. But both she and I had something in our hearts — a wound, an obstacle, a wall, whatever you wanted to call it — and until we'd grown deep enough not to care about it, I didn't want to shove a definition of our relationship too hard, too fast. If there was going to be a tragedy at the end of this anyway, it was better to make a rational call before we got any deeper. Honestly, even if I had to cut it off starting now, it would hurt more than enough already. Another deep scar would be carved in. Whether I could rehabilitate from it, I had no idea. I might carry it for the rest of my life.

I was a morning shower person. My body temperature climbed a lot while I slept, so I sweated heavily. I turned on the boiler, let the hot water hit me, and meditated for about five minutes — a pre-commute process of thinking through what I had to do today, what was urgent, and how far I needed to get at minimum this week. Once the meditation was over, the rest of the shower was a straight shot. Men's showers are all like that, right?

In the mirror, it was clear the weight loss had stalled. Absolute dry spell from here on out. I wanted to succeed at quitting smoking and at dieting, one way or another. Should I try Wegovy or Mounjaro? Haha — if I had the money for that, I'd have moved out of this place first. The life of a bottom-rung commoner, in every way.

I towelled the water off my body and blow-dried my hair. Just a proper dry and the style looked decent enough. Lotion, moisturizing cream, then clothes — neat, clean fashion. As an HR person, dressing too flashy got you dirty looks. You didn't win trust from the people you dealt with either, so even if the company had a free dress code, the job itself put limits on you. For someone with no fashion sense like me, having a uniform-like guide was actually a relief.

I pulled on a knit sweater and a coat over it. A little thin, maybe? But the forecast said over ten degrees today, so it should be fine. I ran hot; if I layered any thicker, the inside of the coat would be a swamp of sweat on the subway. On my left wrist I strapped a metal watch. I wanted to change watches, but I didn't have the money. It wasn't that I particularly liked watches. I didn't care much about cars either. The reason for all of this was one and the same: as HR staff, I needed a certain level of formal presentation.

I checked the time on my phone — six-thirty in the morning. Enough leeway for a simple breakfast. To do that, though, I first had to leave the house. This cramped little place was still humid with steam from the shower I'd just finished, and there was no space to cook. I seemed to remember saying that if you wanted to use the induction burner, you practically had to put your shoes on at the front ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠door.

Oho. At last, a complaint about my place out of Riyeon. Until yesterday she'd been pure infinite positivity, but of course what wasn't good simply wasn't good.

I checked that the boiler was off and the front door was properly locked, then stepped outside. The cold dawn air sliced sharply at my ears and cheeks, but that too was the destiny of a working stiff.

Alright. Shall we begin this already exhausting, soul-draining week?

Bzzzzzzzt—.

Riyeon's call.

Still, I had a little room this morning, so I could buy a triangle kimbap on the way. I was gradually building the data work into an automated pipeline with AI and formulas, so I allowed myself the hopeful projection that soon even Monday start times could get close to regular hours. Right. Automate all the repetitive office tasks. Then I could coast through Mondays in peace and do other things on the side. When labor issues blew up, I was the one who got screwed with the overtime anyway, so it was fine.

I stopped walking.

A vehicle had been following me from behind for a while now. And the model was a Genesis.

The Genesis pulled up beside me, and the driver's side window slid down with a smooth whisper.

"Oppa, hop in. Let's go eat. There's a home-style rice place I know well."

A man's pride was completely unnecessary. This woman — one hand draped over the Genesis wheel, sweeping back her secret two-tone black-and-blue hair as she told me to get in — her invitation was far too sexy.

"What time did you get here?"

"Five."

"Don't tell me…?"

"Yeah. That's right."

Click.

Riyeon leaned over herself and buckled my seatbelt for me.

"That's why I went to bed early."

This woman was just sexy. No question about it.