The Lawyer's Glasses

Tuesday afternoon. My stylus hovers, frozen over the tablet.

This project isn't a commission from President Kim. It's a new freelance gig from a publisher I've never worked with before. One novel cover illustration and five interior illustrations. The pay isn't bad, but the contract they sent over is a bit strange.

Setting down my stylus, I open my laptop and re-read the attached PDF. Transfer of all secondary work rights. Merchandise, animation, games, or any other derivatives. I know this clause exists. I also have a vague feeling that slipping something like this into a simple cover commission isn't normal. But I don't know where the line is drawn between standard practice and a total rip-off.

"...Contracts," I mutter to myself. I'm in my third year of freelancing, but this stuff is still a headache. I resent my past self for always skimming through and signing whatever was put in front of me.

Right then, a face pops into my mind. Room 301. Park Chaewon. She had mentioned she was a lawyer. It was during those early morning hours a few days after I moved in, when she was sitting on the stairs in her pajamas, drinking the milk I'd given her. "I'm a lawyer. That's my job." That was all she said. There was no business card, no offer to help me out if I ever needed it. She had simply stated her profession in a single sentence. Still, she's the only person I can think of right now.

Ultimately, I head up the stairs. Third floor. In front of Room 301. I hesitate before pressing the doorbell. It's two o'clock in the afternoon. On a Tuesday, she should be at work. Just as I'm about to turn around, the door swings open.

"...Siu?" Chaewon stands at the door. She's wearing a white knit sweater and gray slacks—definitely not her usual office attire. And—glasses. She's wearing black horn-rimmed glasses. It's the first time I've ever seen her in them. Her usually sharp, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠cold impression instantly shifts to something scholarly and intellectual. I'm not quite sure where to look.

"Ah, are you working from home today?"

"Yes." Chaewon opens the door a bit wider. "Is something the matter?"

"Well..." I lift the laptop in my hand. "I was wondering if I could get a quick legal consultation. It's about a contract."

Chaewon's eyes widen ever so slightly. Is she surprised, or is she pleased? Her facial expressions are so subtle that they're incredibly hard to read.

"Please, come in."

It's my first time stepping into Room 301. It has the exact same layout as my apartment, but the atmosphere is entirely different. Minimalist. White walls, gray furniture. Law books are neatly lined up on the bookshelves, and a laptop and stacks of documents are tidily arranged on the dining table. There's no distinct smell. No, wait, there is. A very faint scent of fabric softener. That's all.

"Please sit here." Chaewon pulls out a chair at the dining table for me. I sit opposite her, open my laptop, and pull up the contract PDF. "This is what the publisher I'm currently working with sent over, but something about it feels off."

Chaewon gently turns the laptop toward herself and begins to read the screen. Her eyes move rapidly behind her glasses, scanning line by line. I find myself watching her. The black frames contrast beautifully with her pale skin, and I can't help but notice the way she pushes up the temple of her glasses with a slender finger as she reads.

"Siu."

"Yes?"

"Do you see Article 5, Section 2 here?" Chaewon points to the screen. Her nails are clean and neatly trimmed, her fingers long and elegant. "This clause is highly problematic."

I lean in to look at the screen. Since Chaewon is looking at the exact same spot, our distance naturally shrinks. Our shoulders are almost touching.

"Transfer of secondary work rights. I figured it was a transfer clause, but I don't know what falls under a normal, acceptable range."

"If it says 'all derivatives,' then it is well outside the normal range. Merchandise, animation, games... absolutely everything ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠created based on your illustration would belong entirely to the publisher."

"...Why would they do that?"

"Normally, a clause like this should never be included in a standard cover illustration commission."

Chaewon's voice grows firm, a stark contrast to her usual cautious, quiet tone. "Siu, have you signed contracts with clauses like this in the past?"

To be honest, I probably have. I scratch the back of my neck. "I'm... not entirely sure."

Chaewon takes off her glasses and sets them on the table. She closes her eyes for a brief moment, opens them, and puts her glasses back on. It's as if she just pressed a reset button.

"It's fine. We just have to do it right from now on."

Her tone is strangely full of confidence. The woman who usually worries about being a burden completely transforms when she's facing a contract.

"Let me review the whole thing. It might take a little time, is that alright?"

"Yes, of course."

Chaewon turns her attention back to the screen. Left with nothing to do, I look around her apartment. There's only one thing hanging on the wall: a small framed abstract painting in shades of blue and gray. The entire home reflects those colors. It's clean, orderly, and cold. It lacks any warmth of human presence. Looking at the kitchen, it seems almost completely unused. A single water glass sits on the counter. That's it. Does this woman even eat properly?

"Siu."

"Yes?"

"Take a look at Article 7 as well."

I lean back toward the screen. As Chaewon scrolls down and points to a specific paragraph, my hand brushes against hers on the table. It's not just a passing graze. Just as she reaches out to point at the screen, I reach out in the same direction. The back of my hand rests directly over hers. Her hand is cold, despite being indoors.

"Ah, sorry—"

"No, it's fine," Chaewon says, pulling her hand back. Her movement is slow. It doesn't feel like she's flinching away in a hurry, but rather retreating in slow motion. And then I see it. Her ear. Peeking through her straight black hair, her ear is bright red. Her face remains completely expressionless, but the tip of her ear has flushed past pink straight into crimson. This woman wears her emotions on her ears. I pretend not to notice. Chaewon silently returns her gaze to the screen, but I can see her neck is slightly stiffer than before.

"Article 7..." Chaewon clears her throat before continuing. "It's a penalty clause regarding delivery deadlines. It is unreasonably high. It's about three times the industry standard."

"Three times?"

"Yes. It's practically an abuse of power by the client." Chaewon pushes her glasses up again. "If you miss the deadline by even a single day, the penalty is fifty percent of the contract fee. This is something we can legally contest."

I listen to her explanation. She occasionally uses legal jargon, but each time she does, she pauses to translate it into simpler terms. Her attentiveness feels completely natural. Chaewon straightens her posture and looks at me. Her eyes behind the lenses are dead serious. "You must not sign this contract as it is."

"Really?"

"Yes. At least three clauses need to be revised: Article 5 Section 2, Article 7, and the exclusivity clause in Article 12." Chaewon begins to write on a notepad next to her laptop. "For now, I'll just explain it with these notes. I'll draft a formal revision opinion separately and email it to you, so you can forward it directly to the publisher."

"...Is it really okay for you to go to all that trouble?"

Chaewon stops her pen and looks at me. "Siu, I am a lawyer."

She says it calmly, but there's a quiet pride packed into those words. I am a lawyer. This is what I do. That's the nuance.

"I know, but... this is outside of your working hours. And as for the consultation fee—"

"I won't accept any," she cuts me off flatly. Then, she goes back to writing. Her handwriting is small and neat. As she writes down legal terms, I notice her putting "Explain to Siu" in parentheses next to some of them. She's making custom notes just for me.

About fifteen minutes pass. Chaewon fills an entire page of the notepad.

"Here." She slides the paper toward me.

"This is just a summary for your understanding. I'll send you the formal opinion letter with the proper formatting separately. If the publisher pushes back, let me know and I'll look over it again."

"Chaewon."

"Yes?"

"Thank you. Truly."

Chaewon pauses. Then, the corners of her mouth twitch upward ever so slightly. It's a change too small to even be called a smile, but I know that for her, this is the absolute limit. "...I'm glad if even something like this can be of help," she says in a quiet voice, her eyes fixed on the notepad.

The phrase "even something like this" lingers in my mind. It carries a nuance of apology, as if she's sorry she can't do more. Why? This is more than enough.

I fold the note, slip it into my pocket, and close my laptop. "Let's go eat."

Chaewon looks up. "Pardon?"

"What time is it now? Two-thirty. Have you had lunch yet?"

"...Not yet."

I figured as much. It was obvious from the state of her kitchen. "I'll cook something downstairs, so let's eat together."

Chaewon opens her mouth, then closes it. It seems like she was about to decline but stopped herself. "...Won't I be a burden?"

"Not at all. I haven't eaten either." It isn't a lie. I really had lost track of time and skipped lunch while working. After a brief hesitation, Chaewon nods. Just a tiny, subtle nod.

Down ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in the kitchen of Room 201, I open the fridge to check the ingredients. Tofu, green onions, eggs. I decide to make a simple tofu stew. The rice I made earlier is still warm in the cooker. Chaewon sits at the dining table. This is her third time visiting my place, but she still looks a bit awkward. She sits with her back perfectly straight, hands resting neatly on her knees. She looks like she's waiting for a job interview.

"Make yourself comfortable."

"...Yes."

She doesn't budge. Suppressing a chuckle, I take out the cutting board. I dice the tofu and finely chop the green onions. While boiling the anchovy broth, I stir in some red pepper flakes and soybean paste. I add the tofu and crack an egg right on top.

As I cook, I can feel Chaewon's presence behind me. I get the feeling that if I turn around, she'll be watching me, but she'll immediately look away the moment our eyes meet. So, I keep my back turned.

"Chaewon."

"Yes?"

"About the contract earlier. Is there anything else I should watch out for besides Article 5, Section 2?" I ask on purpose, knowing how her voice changes when she talks about her area of expertise.

"There is," she says, her voice instantly growing clear and precise. "The most common thing overlooked in freelance contracts is the non-compete clause after termination. It restricts you from working in the same industry for a certain period even after the contract ends. This is unilaterally disadvantageous for freelancers, who aren't protected by the Labor Standards Act."

I listen while stirring the stew. "And also the intellectual property clauses. In principle, the copyright of a creator belongs to the creator, unless there is a separate transfer agreement."

"Then Article 5 from earlier..."

"They slyly slipped a separate transfer agreement into the main contract."

A subtle emotion creeps into Chaewon's voice. It isn't outright anger, but rather a firm stance against injustice. There is a deep-seated conviction hidden beneath the dry legal terminology.

"From now on, please show me your contracts before you sign them."

I turn around. Chaewon is sitting at the table, looking at me. She has already taken off her glasses. Her face without them reveals her distinct, sharp features. She usually has a cold impression, but right now, she looks somewhat soft.

"I will review all of them for you."

"...Then I'll be imposing on you quite often."

"It's not imposing." Chaewon bows her head slightly. "I... also want to be of help to you, Siu."

Her voice trails off. Chaewon doesn't say anything more, and I don't press her. The sound of the bubbling stew fills the kitchen. I scoop rice into two bowls and place the hot earthenware pot of stew on the table, along with some kimchi and rolled omelets.

"Enjoy your meal."

Chaewon picks up her spoon. She takes a bite of the stew and pauses. "...It's delicious," she murmurs. Her voice is quiet, but it's filled with sincere appreciation.

I observe Chaewon as we eat. Even while eating, her posture remains perfectly straight. Every movement of her spoon to her mouth is careful and deliberate. Yet, she keeps scooping up the stew. She picks out the tofu, sips the broth, and mixes it with her rice. She must have been incredibly hungry.

"Would you like some more?"

"...No, I'm fine." Despite her words, her eyes are fixed on her empty bowl.

Without a word, I get up and scoop another bowl of rice, placing it in front of her. Chaewon looks up at me. Her face is expressionless, but her eyes are slightly moist. She isn't about to cry... it's just the face of someone who is deeply grateful but doesn't know how to express it.

"Thank you very much," she says, still using formal language. I simply nod and sit back down.

Once we finish eating, Chaewon insists on doing the dishes. Knowing she'll be stubborn if I refuse, I let her. From the sofa, I watch her stand at the sink. Her long, straight hair is swept to one side, revealing her slender, elegant neck. Below it, the white knit sweater hugs her shoulders. Her waist is remarkably slim. She naturally sways slightly to one side as she washes the dishes.

I look away. The cold temperature when our hands touched earlier. Her ears flushing red. And her words: "I'm glad if even something like this can be of help." She is the type of person who gives everything she can, yet still feels like it isn't enough. Who taught her to be like that? Was there someone in her past who made her feel like whatever she gave was never sufficient?

"I'm finished," Chaewon says, drying her hands with a towel as she walks back over. "I should head back up now. I have a brief to finish."

"Sure. Once you send over the revision opinion, I'll forward it to the publisher right away."

"I'll send it to you sometime today."

Chaewon heads to the entryway. She puts on her shoes, opens the door, and pauses halfway out.

"Siu."

"Yes?"

"Um..." Chaewon hesitates for a moment. Then, in an incredibly quiet voice, she asks, "Did I... look strange wearing glasses?"

It's a completely unexpected question. I blink in surprise. "Strange? Not at all. They looked really good on you."

Chaewon's ears turn red again. This time, I catch it clearly.

"...I'll be going then." The door closes.

I stare at the closed door for a long moment. Chaewon's glasses. Her small, neat handwriting on the notepad. The parenthetical "Explain to Siu." Her cold hands. Her red ears. The scent of the stew still lingers in the kitchen. Sitting on the sofa, I pull the note out of my pocket and read her handwriting once more. The places where she wrote simple explanations between the complex legal terms so I could understand. This woman... I fold the note and place it in my studio drawer. It feels like something I shouldn't throw away.

Around evening, an email from Chaewon arrives in my inbox.

I forward the email to the publisher. Then, I send a reply back to Chaewon.

Right after sending it, I immediately regret it. Was that too casual? Offering to "cook again" to someone who just did professional legal work for me... But her reply ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠comes back surprisingly fast for her. A single word. A single period. I close my laptop and chuckle. It's just one word, but I can practically see her face in it. Her expressionless face, her red ears, and the corners of her mouth twitching ever so slightly upward.

I head back to my studio and turn on my tablet. I resume working on the cover illustration. Strangely, the lines flowing from my stylus are softer than usual. My hand feels relaxed. Maybe it's because my tension has melted away, or maybe it's because the cold sensation of Chaewon's hand still lingers on my skin. Shaking my head, I focus on the work.

Eleven o'clock at night. I wrap up my work and save the file. A reply from the publisher's representative has arrived: "We will review the proposed revisions and get back to you." It looks like Chaewon's opinion letter hit the mark.

After taking a shower, I'm about to turn off the lights when I hear a faint sound from the ceiling. Room 301. It seems Chaewon is still awake. She did mention she had a brief to finish. She'll probably be working until dawn, just like me. I turn off the lights and lie down in bed. As I close my eyes, memories of today drift into my mind. Her serious eyes behind her glasses. Her finger pushing up the temple of the frame. The cold touch on the back of my hand when she pointed at the screen. And her red ears. "I'm glad if even something like this can be of help." Sleep washes over me, coming much faster than usual tonight.