Can Murder Be a Workplace Accident? Chapter 1.5

His voice rose slightly.

Was abstract art not to his taste? This was a question he could answer easily.

“It was Ms. Printemps Kim.”

“My mother?”

He narrowed his eyes as if in disbelief and asked back. The curator, himself, or even the director could give their opinions on acquisitions, but the one with the biggest say was the owner. It was only natural, as the gallery was run with the owner’s money.

Nodding, he added what she had instructed.

“Yes. She ordered us to buy it, no matter what it takes.”

“Even if it means doing… this?”

Min Isak’s previously composed face turned pale. He leaned his head forward and blinked, pretending not to understand what was being said.

Namgung Tree hooked his knobby fingers into Min Isak’s turtleneck. The thin summer knit stretched, revealing a love bite, red and swollen from the heat.

Baring his teeth, Namgung Tree gave a bitter smile.

He hastily backed away and rose from his seat. The office chair slid back with a whoosh and hit the bookshelf behind him. Bundles of exhibition leaflets that had been tucked into the low shelves tumbled to the floor.

“How, how…?”

As if his face were a sight to behold, it contorted even more. This wasn’t a matter of asking how he knew.

“It’s not. It’s not like that.”

He had to deny it first. It was something that couldn’t be revealed even to a stranger.

“It’s not what you’re thinking.”

“And what do you think I’m thinking?”

He couldn’t say. His body trembled with fear. He subconsciously covered the back of his neck with his hand. But that only made it more obvious that Kwon Hyuk had left a mark on his neck.

“My girlfriend must have left it.”

Even after realizing this, he couldn’t take his hand away. He just kept spouting lies.

“You said you didn’t have one.”

“I do.”

“Your girlfriend must have quite a big mouth. You’re a lucky man, Chief Min.”

“That’s…”

Namgung Tree sneered. Standing with his legs spread wide, he waved a dismissive hand as if Min Isak’s words weren’t even worth listening to.

“Hah…”

He clicked his tongue and exhaled.

“If you’re going to say that, sir, you should at least hide the smell of semen you’ve been reeking of this whole time, Chief Min.”

He ran a hand over his dry face, then covered his mouth and nose. He acted as if the stench was unbearable. Min Isak felt as if all the blood was draining from his body.

The reality he most wanted to hide had been laid bare in front of his first love, whom he had met for the first time in ten years. How much lower could he fall? If they had been strangers, he wouldn’t have felt so wretched.

He couldn’t figure out how to act. As he simply met Namgung Tree’s gaze and blinked, the other man crossed his arms and jeered.

“What’s with the surprise? I heard even back in New York that you were sleeping your way to the top. I didn’t believe it, thinking no way, but I guess it was true…”

He had slept with officials from overseas a few times for business reasons. But he never dreamed that word of it would reach his ears.

Strength drained from his momentarily frozen body. He staggered weakly. If he hadn’t leaned against the bookshelf, he would have undoubtedly crumpled to the floor.

“What… did you say?”

He couldn’t believe what he had just said. His head was spinning.

“Director. Weren’t we just talking about Lee Ufan? I have no idea what, what you’re talking about.”

His shocked mind dredged up the conversation from a few minutes ago. He acted foolishly, as if changing the subject would make it all go away.

That only fueled the other’s anger.

“Min Isak!”

Namgung Tree slammed his fist on the bookshelf and shouted in frustration. Ping. A temporary ringing echoed in his ear. When he squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, he saw the other man’s face. His fierce yet cold glare stabbed his chest more painfully than a knife.

“You… how did you fall so low?”

The voice that reached his ears was trembling severely. He was the one whose past had been exposed, yet it was Namgung Tree who looked hurt. He kept repeating “How,” then just moved his lips, unable to form words.

“You, how could you?”

Namgung Tree’s back hit a partition as he stumbled backward, trying to get away. A nameplate, placed there so visitors could easily find the right person, came into view.

It was an acrylic nameplate with ‘Chief Curator’ written in English.

“Did you get this position that way too?”

He picked up the nameplate and waved it in front of Min Isak’s face. Min Isak dropped his gaze to the floor and remained silent.

He had risen through his abilities, but those abilities included, as Namgung Tree said, sleeping his way up.

“…”

A silence that was close to an affirmation. Namgung Tree’s eyes widened in an exaggerated way as he tilted his head back. When he looked forward again, his gaze was utterly ruthless.

“I’m disappointed.”

He threw the nameplate toward the trash can. The small acrylic plate flew in an arc, hit the wall, and fell to the floor. A white crack appeared on the transparent plate.

“I absolutely cannot be in the same gallery as you. Since I’m the director, I can’t be the one to leave, so…”

Namgung Tree slowly approached Min Isak. He leaned down and whispered distinctly into his ear. It was impossible to pretend he hadn’t heard.

“You get out.”

He spoke through clenched teeth. Veins bulged on his flushed neck.

“You’re fired.”

“…”

Min Isak still stood motionless. He didn’t move an inch, like a pillar of salt that had broken a taboo.

In any case, from the moment he fired him, Min Isak was as good as gone from the gallery.

As if nothing had happened, Namgung Tree calmly walked to the office entrance, turned off the light, and slammed the door shut. He couldn’t stop his anger the entire way down in the elevator, repeatedly striking the wall with the side of his fist. It was a wonder the elevator didn’t plummet.

When he stepped outside and looked up, the office was dark. After glaring fiercely at it, Namgung Tree headed for a bar.

What’s the problem?

He stood alone in the dark office, lost in thought. Once the shock subsided, anger belatedly set in.

Is it such an offense that I, with no money and no connections, worked my ass off, even sleeping my way up? He couldn’t understand.

Even if he sold his body a hundred times, it was Namgung Tree’s family who reaped the benefits. All he got was a small incentive and a reputation in the industry for being capable. The incentive was less than pocket change, and a reputation couldn’t be exchanged for a single penny.

She said to buy it, no matter what it takes.

You lived well and ate well in New York because of what I did.

If I’m a whore, then your mom’s a pimp and you’re the pimp’s son.

What kind of bullshit is this, coming from someone who sat on his ass and got the director position without ever knowing hardship, all while living warm and well-fed on the money I earned selling my body?

Min Isak lowered his chin and ground his teeth. He was furious with himself for being too flustered by being caught to throw those words back in his face.

The neon sign from the next building shone through the window. The discarded acrylic nameplate faintly reflected the light. The words ‘Chief Curator’ cast a long shadow on the floor.

Min Isak had worked tirelessly to carry those words on his shoulders. Sleeping his way up wasn’t even a fraction of it.

Since joining Gallery Spring, there was nothing that hadn’t passed through Min Isak’s hands. From trivial things like the arrangement of office automation equipment to exhibitions, art acquisitions, collection management, education, and even the design of the leaflets he had tripped over earlier. They were all his achievements.

Min Isak could finally understand why the former director, Lee Yang-hee, had left in a rage.

“…Fuck. For whose benefit.”

He swore, which was rare for him. His nails dug painfully into his clenched palm. He hadn’t expected a word of thanks, but this kind of treatment was unfair.

However, the difference between him and Lee Yang-hee was that Min Isak had nowhere to retreat. Having reached the director position, Lee Yang-hee could use that name recognition to move to another small gallery as a director, but a chief curator was in an ambiguous position. Thirty-two. In this field where a master’s degree was the minimum requirement, he was still young. If he was unlucky, he would have to start over from a junior position.

He picked up the nameplate from the floor. How I got this.

It was a small nameplate, only 15 centimeters wide and 5 centimeters tall, but the weight of ‘Chief’ was significant to him. Though it was cracked white from being thrown, after he breathed on it and wiped the dust away with his sleeve, it looked decent enough.

Placing it back on the partition where it belonged, Min Isak headed for the director’s office.

When he entered the six-digit passcode Lee Yang-hee had used, an error signal appeared. He must have changed the number as soon as he arrived. Useless. He was the head of security at Gallery Spring.

This is the power of a chief.

Min Isak pressed the master key code. The light on the electronic pad turned green, and the door opened.

The director’s office, cleared of Lee Yang-hee’s belongings, was starkly empty. In front of the empty bookshelf sat a desk large enough for a person to lie down and sleep on.

On top of it, a single nameplate lay there. Made of black Formica with mother-of-pearl inlay.

‘Director General’

Director. Why hadn’t Lee Yang-hee taken that? Did she decide that taking that too would seem too pathetic?

The elegantly shining mother-of-pearl letters were incredibly irksome.

He lifted the nameplate high. For a moment, the black nameplate reflected the light, and then it was slammed onto the floor.

Crack. The wood wrapped in Formica broke. It looked impressive, but inside it was just cheap plywood. Shards flew in all directions, scratching his cheek.

Min Isak paid it no mind. He didn’t even feel the pain. An animal-like sound escaped through his tightly clenched teeth. He stomped on the nameplate over and over, dozens of times, and only stopped when it had been ground to dust.

He was so exhausted he could barely stand. Looking at the shattered nameplate, he wondered how he had managed to break it.

His cheek felt warm. When he wiped it with the back of his hand, it came away stained with red blood. It seemed a shard had scratched his face.

“Fire me?”

Smiling bitterly while bleeding, his face was close to that of a madman.

“…Haha. Me?”

Go ahead, if you can.

The Min Isak that Namgung Tree thought he knew had, as he said, fallen long ago. The weak human who would pack his bags and go home crying when told to leave no longer existed.

“…Fuck. For whose benefit.”

Min Isak recalled the crises he had faced and repeated the words he had said earlier.

How did I survive in this business? He couldn’t be used and then tossed aside just because he wasn’t deemed worthy. If he was going to quit that easily, he would have quit over ten times already.

His resolve hardened, he left the director’s office. As a warning, he left the remains of the nameplate just as they were, like the head of a decapitated enemy general.

First loves should never meet again. Especially if it’s an unrequited one. Just as a fantasy figure differs from the real person, Min Isak was not the same person he had been ten years ago.

The following Monday, Namgung Tree showed his face at Gallery Spring, rubbing his hungover face. He was greeted by a double row of congratulatory wreaths lining the way from the parking lot to the director’s office, his mother Printemps Kim who had come to see her son’s first day at work, and Min Isak, who was chatting amicably with his mother.

“Y-You…”

Holding Min Isak’s arm affectionately, Printemps Kim walked over to Namgung Tree.

“Tree, say hello. This is our gallery’s chief, Curator Min Isak.”

Min Isak watched with quite a pleased look as Namgung Tree’s face crumpled as if he’d seen a ghost. Just as he had done on Friday, Min Isak extended his right hand for a handshake.

“A pleasure to meet you for the first time. I am Chief Curator Min Isak.”

“…Why are you here?”

Namgung Tree was on the verge of screaming.

He didn’t even know how he found his way. Seoul, which he had returned to after several years, was almost a different city. Thanks to that, even with a map application open, Namgung Tree got lost on the same street several times.

Anger was added to his already cluttered mind. By the time today’s meeting place came into view, he was on the verge of throwing his phone in a fit of rage.

The entrance to the members-only bar was hidden between a telephone pole and a wooden barrel disguised as a used clothing collection bin. The person had giggled, saying it would be hard to find, and indeed it was.

When he pushed the used clothing bin aside, a staircase leading underground appeared. He followed the LED lights embedded in the floor down to another glass door painted black. When he entered the daily-changing password on the touchpad next to it, a space completely different from the outside was revealed. Boisterous jazz was the first thing to greet him.

Inside was a Prohibition-era American-style bar that captured the frenzied atmosphere just before the Great Depression. The place, named Gatsby, was bustling with lavishly dressed people.

Namgung Tree ignored all the observing glances and sat on a stool, tapping the bar table with his knuckles. He was in no mood to respond to every stare and socialize.

“Bring me the strongest and most expensive thing you have.”

The bartender made a troubled face. The types who placed this kind of order were troublemakers who would find fault with whatever was brought to them. They were usually idiots who liked to show off their money.