Siru

It was my third day since moving in. The morning delivery had arrived right on schedule: an electric rice cooker and a toaster. But as I leaned down to pull ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the boxes inside my entryway, I noticed another package resting right beside mine. A quick glance at the shipping label showed that it was addressed to someone else: Haedam Villa, Unit 101 — Jeong Dain.

A misdelivery. Unit 101 would be on the first floor. Should I bring it down to her? Did I really need to go out of my way? Haedam Villa was a modest building without a security office or a front desk to hold packages, and leaving it out in the open meant it might get stolen. Letting out a soft sigh, I picked up the box. It was broad and surprisingly light, bearing the logo of an art supply brand printed along the side.

I headed down the stairs and came to a stop before the door of Unit 101, pressing the doorbell. From inside, the rhythmic, heavy thumping of bass music rattled through the doorframe. Wondering if the music had drowned out the chime, I pressed it once more. Still no response. Raising my hand, I knocked firmly on the door.

"Excuse me, delivery—"

The door flew open with a whoosh.

"Yeees?!"

A young woman burst into view. She had short brown hair pinned back with two clips, wide, round eyes, and soft, plump cheeks. She was petite, standing around one hundred and sixty centimeters at most. Beneath an oversized sweatshirt, her slender, pale legs extended down to a pair of slip-on sandals, where bright blue paint speckled her toenails. Flecks of paint dotted her sweatshirt as well, accompanied by smudges across the back of her hand and a single dot of vivid lime green on her right cheek.

"Wh-Who are you?" she asked, blinking in surprise.

"I'm Han Siu from Unit 201. Your package was delivered to my door by mistake."

"Ah, aaah! My package?!"

The moment her gaze landed on the box, her face lit up like a sunrise, practically radiant.

"Whoa, seriously! It's my art marker set! I've been waiting for this forever!"

"It ended up sitting outside 201."

"Gasp, again? The courier must mix up the unit numbers every single time. Thank you so much, really!"

She took the box with both hands and bowed deeply in gratitude. But as she straightened back up, she suddenly paused. She looked at me again, her eyes traveling from my head down to my toes, then back up to my face.

"Um... Are you by any chance the new neighbor who moved into 201?"

"Yes, three days ago."

"Oh, I knew it! I'm Jeong Dain from Unit 101. A third-year college student! It's so nice to meet you!"

Her voice was bright, rapid-fire, and peppered with eager exclamations. Her eyes sparkled with restless vitality. She was practically vibrating with energy.

"I'm Han Siu."

"Siu-ssi... Ah, you look older, like an oppa. How old are you, Oppa?"

"Twenty-seven."

"Whoa, five years apart! Can I call you Siu Oppa?"

She moved fast. Barely thirty seconds had passed since opening the door, and she had already skipped straight to 'Oppa.' At a loss for how to respond, I just muttered, "...Whatever you're comfortable with."

"Thank you, Oppa! Seriously, if this hadn't arrived today, I would've been totally screwed. My assignment deadline is tomorrow. Ah, Oppa, by any chance—"

Dain cut herself off mid-sentence and peered past my shoulder. No, not behind me, but upward—toward the stairs leading to the second floor.

"If you're in 201... that means you're on the second floor, right? Are you the place where that incredible smell has been coming from every single day?"

"Incredible smell?"

"Yes! Ever since the day you moved in, there was the smell of grilled meat, and yesterday it was doenjang jjigae... It drifts all the way down to the first floor. I literally ate my cup ramen while sniffing the air!"

I had no idea the aroma traveled that far. "I'm sorry. I should have ventilated better—"

"No, no, no! It smells amazing! I'm totally hopeless at cooking. Instant cup noodles are basically my staple diet, so having that delicious smell float down from upstairs has been absolute torture."

Dain grinned broadly. Beyond her open door, her studio apartment was in plain view. It was a modest one-room unit, with one wall lined with stacked canvases and the floor cluttered with paint tubes and mixing palettes. True to her word, empty cup ramen containers were piled haphazardly by the sink. But what caught my eye was the far wall. Taped across the wallpaper were several printouts. Illustrations. My illustrations.

To be precise, they were A4 prints of the fantasy illustration series I had drawn under the pen name 'Siru.' There was the 'Knight of the Moon' series I had uploaded to social media last year, the artbook cover I sold at an indie convention two years ago, and even a few concept art pieces I had posted recently.

Dain followed my gaze into her room, and her face instantly flushed bright crimson.

"Ah, th-that's—"

"Do you know Siru?" I asked before I could stop myself. It slipped out naturally; meeting someone in real life who recognized my pen name was a rare occurrence.

Dain's eyes widened to three times their normal size.

"Siru?! Of course I do! I'm a massive fan! The color palette in the 'Knight of the Moon' series is completely insane. The gradation shifting from cold blues into deep violet is pure genius. Oh, and the female warrior concept! The metallic texture on the armor is unbelievable—"

She didn't stop. A torrent of specific critiques, technical praise, and passionate observations poured out of her mouth. She wasn't just a casual follower; she was a diehard fan.

"Jeong Dain-ssi."

"Dain! Please, just call me Dain!"

"Dain-ah."

"Yes!"

"It's me. Siru."

Three seconds of absolute silence fell over the corridor. Dain's expression froze solid. Her eyes remained stretched wide, and her jaw hung slack.

"...What?"

"Siru. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Han Siu. Si plus U makes Siru."

"...Huh?"

"I'm the illustrator Siru."

The color drained from Dain's face until she was ghostly pale. Then a furious red surged up her neck, flooding her cheeks, before draining away once more. Her face was cycling through colors like a traffic light.

"L-Liar."

"I'm not lying."

"Pr-Proof!"

I pulled out my smartphone, opened Siru's official creator account, and held up the screen. The profile photo, the direct message inbox, and the creator dashboard were all right there in front of her. Dain looked back and forth between the screen and my face, then back to the screen, and then—

"Aaaaagh!"

A piercing scream tore from her lungs, loud enough to reverberate through every corner of the villa.

"S-Siru-nim li-lives next d-door?!"

"Upstairs, actually."

"What do I do, what do I do, what do I do?!"

Dain buried her face in the oversized sleeves of her sweatshirt. As her arms flew up, the hem of the shirt rode upward, exposing more of her bare thighs. She was wearing shorts underneath—very short cotton lounge shorts—though that wasn't my primary concern right now. What worried me was the distinct possibility that she was about to hyperventilate.

"Take a breath. Calm down."

"I can't! Siru-nim! In our villa! You actually live here?!"

"I do."

"And just now, when you brought my package, I just went, 'Thank you!' like you were some ordinary person!"

"I am an ordinary person."

"No, you're not! Siru-nim is a genius!"

It was excessive praise. I was merely a reasonably well-known freelance illustrator in the industry. Yet Dain's eyes brimmed with unadulterated earnestness—admiration, profound respect, and the sheer dizzying shock of a fan coming face-to-face with their idol. It wasn't uncomfortable to witness.

"Oppa— ah, Siru-nim— ah, what on earth am I supposed to call you?!"

"If Siu Oppa is ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠easier, go with that."

"Siu Oppa is Siru-nim... Is this real life? For real?"

"It's real."

Dain cupped her cheeks with both hands, squishing them back and forth in disbelief, which promptly transferred the smudge of lime-green paint onto her fingers.

"Wait, hold on a second. If that's true, then those drawings on the wall..." She snapped her head around, staring at the row of Siru illustrations taped neatly across her room, before turning back to me with sheer horror in her eyes. "Did you see them, Oppa? Just now?"

"Yeah."

"Aaaaah!"

Another scream erupted as she bolted into her apartment, scrambling to tear the printouts off the wallpaper. Fighting back a laugh, I called out to her.

"Don't take them down. It actually makes me happy."

Dain froze in place, her fingers still clutching the edge of a printout. "...Really?"

"It's my first time seeing a fan tape my art to their wall. Honestly, I'm kind of touched."

A delicate sheen of moisture welled in her eyes. She was disarmingly transparent with her feelings.

"Oppa, I'm... I'm a junior in fine arts. Seeing Siru-nim's work was what made me decide to become an illustrator in the first place. My parents were completely against it, but I showed them Siru-nim's portfolio and told them, 'This is the kind of art I want to create.'"

"Is that so?"

"Yes. That's why I moved all the way up to Seoul. Because I wanted to become an artist like Siru-nim."

A quiet weight settled in my chest. Back when I was in university, I had felt the exact same way. There was an artist I idolized, and I spent countless sleepless nights drawing until sunrise just to chase their shadow. I understood that hunger all too well.

"Dain-ah."

"Yes!"

"Show me your work."

"What?!"

"You're an art student, which means you have projects in progress. Let me see."

After a brief hesitation, Dain nodded and led the way into her room. I followed her inside. Though the apartment was cramped, an entire half of the space had been converted into a dedicated studio. An easel stood propped with a canvas, paint tubes littered the floor, and sketchbooks were stacked high upon her desk.

Resting on the easel was an ongoing piece—a watercolor-style figure painting depicting a young woman sitting by a window, gazing outside. While the coloring remained unfinished, the underlying composition and linework were remarkably solid. She clearly understood the direction of light, and the subject's posture felt natural. The technique was still unpolished, but the innate sense was unmistakable.

"This isn't digital, right?"

"No, it's an assignment for a traditional media class."

"Your linework is good."

"R-Really?"

"The composition isn't bad either. The lighting is consistent throughout. But right here, the transition from the right shoulder into the arm feels slightly unnatural. Check your joint placement."

Dain peered intently at the canvas, leaning in until she let out a sharp gasp. "Oh! You're right! The shoulder is jutting too far forward!"

"In figure drawing, you always have to keep the joints in mind. Especially the shoulders. It's easy to overlook once clothing covers them up, but if the underlying skeletal structure wobbles, the entire piece loses stability."

"Oppa, how did you practice that kind of thing?"

"Anatomy sketches. One full sheet every single day for a year."

"Every day?!"

"Three hundred and sixty-five sheets."

Dain's mouth dropped open. Pointing toward the desk, I asked if I could look through the sketchbooks, and with her eager nod, I flipped one open. The pages were crammed with practice sketches. The sheer volume was impressive, but the focus was scattered all over the place.

"Dain-ah."

"Yes."

"You do digital work too, don't you?"

"Yes! On my tablet, using a drawing app."

"Let me see."

She fetched her tablet and unlocked it. Her digital pieces were far more polished than her traditional work. She possessed an intuitive grasp of complementary colors, and her character designs carried a distinct personal charm.

"What's this one?"

"Ah, that's... fan art. For Siru-nim's 'Knight of the Moon'—"

It was a reinterpretation of my own character. She had preserved the atmosphere of the original while weaving in her own stylistic flair. In all honesty, it was quite impressive.

"Did you post this online?"

"Ah, yes... I tagged Siru-nim in it..."

"I might have seen it, then. I check all my mentions."

Dain turned bright red once more, burying her face in her oversized sleeves with a small, muffled whimper. As she curled in on herself, her sweatshirt hitched up again, revealing the pale curve of her thighs. Did this girl genuinely have zero awareness of what she was wearing?

"Oppa."

"Yeah?"

"Could I... show you my drawings every now and then? I'd really love your feedback."

"Sure."

"Really?!"

"On one condition: organize your workflow. Don't try to tackle everything at once. Dig deep into a single area. Right now, your sketchbooks are far too unfocused."

"Yes! Understood!" She looked ready to snap a military salute right then and there.

I turned to head out of Unit 101, but just as I reached the door, Dain called after me.

"Oppa, have you eaten yet?"

"Not yet."

"Me neither! Do you want to eat together?"

"Dain-ah, what do you even have to eat in your fridge?"

"Cup ramen."

Her answer gave me pause. A third-year fine arts student living alone in Seoul, subsisting entirely on instant noodles at twenty-two years old. Something about that tugged uncomfortably at my conscience.

"Come upstairs."

"Huh?"

"I'll make you lunch, so come up to Unit 201."

"Whaaaat?!" Dain's eyes went completely round. "Siru-nim is going to cook for me?!"

"Not Siru. Siu Oppa."

"Siu Oppa is cooking! For me!"

"I'm just reheating some leftover doenjang jjigae. It's nothing special."

Dain shuffled up the stairs behind me in her slippers, alternating between muttering, "Is this real life?" and "Am I dreaming?" with every step. The moment I opened the door to Unit 201, she stepped in and gasped at the kitchen.

"Whoa, your place is amazing, Oppa! What's with all this kitchen gear?"

"I like to cook."

"Siru-nim cooks too?!"

"Just call me Siu Oppa."

I put the leftover doenjang jjigae on the burner to simmer, started a fresh pot of rice, and whipped up a quick rolled omelet to go with it. While I cooked, Dain sat at the kitchen island, glancing around with wide curiosity until her eyes landed on the reference board pinned to my studio wall.

"Oppa! Is that a new project?!"

"Ah, that's just reference material for a commission—"

Before I could finish my sentence, Dain was already slipping into the studio. There was no stopping her. She examined the sketches pinned to the corkboard one by one, her eyes zeroing in on the rough sketch of female warrior Option C that I had drawn the night before.

"What's this? A warrior woman? Wow, look at these lines. The S-curve flowing from the shoulder down to the waist is insane."

"It's client work. It's still in progress, so—"

"Her eyes feel so alive. These eyes... did you use a real model?"

She was sharp. An art student through and through, her observational instincts were remarkably keen.

"No. I drew it from imagination."

"Liar. These are the eyes of someone you've actually seen. Look at the highlight placement on the iris—it's way too realistic."

This girl was frighteningly perceptive.

"Food's ready. Come on out."

I steered the conversation away, and Dain reluctantly pulled herself away from the studio. I laid out the warm doenjang jjigae, the freshly rolled omelet, and bowls of steaming rice on the table. Dain's eyes grew round as she looked over the spread.

"Whoa... is this real doenjang jjigae? Made from scratch?"

"Just reheated from yesterday."

Dain picked up her spoon, scooped a bit of the broth, and brought it to her lips. Before she had even finished swallowing, her eyes drifted closed.

"......It's so good."

Her voice softened to a whisper, filled with a quiet, reverent awe that was a stark contrast to her earlier bouncing enthusiasm.

"Oppa, this is genuinely incredible. It tastes just like the kind my mom makes back home."

"Does it?"

"Yes. The fermented soybean flavor is so deep... and the potatoes are soft and fluffy... It's been a whole year since I've eaten food like this."

Dain began ladling the stew over her rice, devouring it with eager haste. 'Scarfing it down' was the only appropriate description. Hearing that she lived on cup noodles had been no exaggeration; she had clearly been starving for a proper, home-cooked meal. The rolled omelet vanished in the blink of an eye. When she looked down at the empty plate and shyly asked, "...Is there any more?", I couldn't hold back a chuckle.

"Want some more rice too?"

"Yes, please!"

I scooped her another generous bowl of rice and ladled out more stew. Once we had finished eating, Dain stubbornly insisted on washing the dishes. Watching her from behind as she stood by the sink, I couldn't help but notice her bare legs fidgeting in her slippers beneath the hem of that oversized sweatshirt. The soft curve of her upper thighs peeked in and out of view with every shift of her weight. I quickly looked away.

She was a third-year art student, I was twenty-seven, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠she was a fan, and I had simply fed her a meal. There was nothing more to it than that.

"Oppa!"

"Yeah?"

"Can I come back over later after I finish my assignment?"

"Again?"

"To show you my art! For feedback!"

"Ah, right. That's fine."

"Can we eat together too?"

"...If I have enough groceries."

"I'll buy the ingredients!"

Did this girl simply have no sense of personal boundaries? No, it wasn't that—she just couldn't see invisible social lines to begin with. Her personality was utterly transparent. If she liked something, she liked it; if she wanted to go somewhere, she went; if she wanted to eat, she ate.

"Dain-ah."

"Yes!"

"Focus on your assignment first. You said the deadline is tomorrow."

"Ah, that's right!"

Having finished the dishes, Dain dried her hands on a towel and headed toward the front door. As she slipped on her sandals, she tilted her head up to look at me.

"Oppa, thank you so much, really. For the meal, and for looking over my drawings."

"It was nothing."

"No, it wasn't nothing. It meant a lot to me." Her gaze was entirely serious now, stripped of all playfulness. "Looking at Siru-nim's art was the only way I endured living alone in Seoul. And now the person who drew those pieces lives right above me. It has to be fate."

"Fate? Isn't that taking it a bit far?"

"I mean it!"

The front door clicked shut, followed by the clattering rhythm of her slippers as she hurried down the stairs—light, rapid footsteps fading into the distance. Returning to the quiet stillness of Unit 201, I wiped down the dining table. Two plates. Yesterday there had been three, and today two. People kept finding their way to this table, and I had only moved in three days ago.

That evening, I decided to cook stir-fried pork belly with kimchi. Mindful of the smell, I took extra care to ventilate the apartment, turning the range hood to maximum and cracking open the windows. Even so, there was no stopping the rich aroma of garlic and chili oil from filling the air. Just as I sat down to eat, my phone rang with an unknown number.

The line went dead. I picked up a piece of pork belly and kimchi with my chopsticks and ate it. The pungent warmth of garlic and the fiery tang of chili oil spread across my tongue. A small chuckle escaped me. I couldn't even tell you why I was laughing. Perhaps it was just amusing that Haedam Villa had turned out to be such a noisy, chaotic place.

I had wanted to live in quiet solitude. I truly had. So why did people keep knocking on my door?

After finishing dinner and clearing the sink, I sat down at my desk in the studio. I spent the night polishing the female warrior cover art, working straight through until dawn. But this time, instead of refining the warrior's gaze, my stylus drifted, sketching a short-haired girl with two hairpins in her bangs. A casual doodle that had nothing to do with my commission—paint smudges on her cheek, wide, round eyes. Just practice. Nothing more than practice.

Closing the sketchbook, I finally went to bed. Would I really be able to live alone in this villa? That night was the very first time the question crossed my mind.