THUD.
"YAH! OLEKSANDR! Wake up right now or I am pouring freezing water on your head!"
Ha-neul's voice pierced through my skull like an electric drill. I slammed my eyes shut again, pulling the heavy winter comforter over my face.
I snapped my eyes wide open the next second.
I looked down at my chest. I hadn't even undressed. I had collapsed onto the mattress exactly the way I had crept into the house three hours ago—fully clothed in my slim jeans and the dark tailored jacket from the double date.
Aish, what a total disaster, I panicked internally, checking the digital clock on my charging Samsung phone: 5:30 AM. My skin felt sticky, and my clothes were a wrinkled testament to my nocturnal treason. Luckily, my head didn't throb; I didn't have a single trace of a hangover. Well, given that I'd only consumed a little more than half a bottle of sweet Korean soju and a tropical cocktail, it wasn't a total surprise, but my Ukrainian constitution had officially held the line.
Instead of misery, a sudden, warm wave of delight washed over my chest as the lingering memories of the neon floor returned—the Brüderschaft elbow-lock with Han Min-gyu, our chaotic dance to "BANG BANG BANG," and the dizzying, center-stage momentum of Sora's kiss.
The evening had ended on an impossibly good note.
But I didn't have time to savor the victory. I had exactly fifteen minutes to pack my life for Jeju Island.
My room was already enough of a baseline mess, but the second I yanked open the built-in closet doors to grab my travel gear, a literal avalanche of uncoordinated textiles buried my feet. A dozen t-shirts, hoodies, trousers and loose jeans came tumbling out in a pile of pure structural failure.
"Blyat," I cursed under my breath, dropping to my knees.
With zero time for proper folding geometry, I began aggressively stuffing items into my standard Kirin sports backpack. In went my thick tracksuit, a handful of underwear, a few wrinkled t-shirts, and of course, three pairs of the thick wool socks my grandmother had packed for Antarctica. Because I didn't bother to layer or organize them properly, the backpack instantly ballooned into a terrifying, asymmetrical sphere. It looked less like luggage and more like a furious, wild beast had been compressed and contained inside, ready to unleash its furry on the Incheon transit lines.
The secondary crisis was the closet itself.
The remaining clothes were spilling over the lower threshold. I decided to handle the structural integrity of the wardrobe the good old-fashioned Ukrainian way. I gathered a massive armful of the fallen coats and sweaters, rammed them deep into the dark cavity, and forcefully slammed the doors shut.
They bounced back open.
I groaned, turning my body around.
"Not giving up without a fight, yeah?"
I raised my foot, placing the heel of my sneaker firmly against the center seam of the white wood, and delivered a solid, rhythmic push until the automatic magnetic latches clicked into a desperate, high-tension lock.
By the time the closet was secured, I was already completely drenched in sweat. It was the absolute best moment to sprint to the bathroom for a high-speed emergency recovery.
I blasted myself with freezing cold water for exactly three minutes, scrubbed the Hongdae smoke out of my skin, and stepped in front of the mirror. Today was a high-society family summit with the traditional grandparents; I couldn't look like a stray dog. I took a deep breath, reached into the cabinet, and pulled out a small, introductory concealer stick Min-ah had forced me to buy during our weekend mall trip with Jin-hyun.
Our little drummer rebel wasn't mocking San suprsingly. After all Jin-hyun himself often used it.
My cosmetic skills were still thoroughly awkward and tragic. As I dabbed the pale cream under my bloodshot eyes to hide the bags, a sudden wave of second-hand embarrassment hit my spine.
'Man, if I told the guys back in the Cherkasy courtyard that I was currently watching YouTube tutorials on how to apply man-makeup in Seoul, I would end up wholly beaten up and entirely roasted until graduation,' I thought, shaking my head.
I quickly styled my damp fringe into a precise, hyper-polished "Comma" hair shape, using a blast of hot air from the dryer to lock it into place.
Knock. Knock.
"San-gun?" Mrs. Lee's crisp, anchor-clear voice drifted through the wooden panels. "We are leaving for the domestic terminal in exactly fifteen minutes. Are you ready?"
"Yes, Eomeonim! All good! I am just grabbing my shoes!" I yelled back, my voice jumping an octave in panic.
I rushed out of the bathroom back to my room almost knocking Ha-neul off her feet, scrambled into a clean pair of dark jeans, threw a simple grey hoodie over my shoulders, and grabbed the jacket I had worn to the club. The fabric still carried the distinct, unmistakable scent of Sora's vanilla perfume—a fragrant reminder of the slow dance that made my stomach do a nervous flip.
I hoisted the heavy, beast-like backpack onto my shoulders and sprinted down the marble stairs.
There was no time for breakfast. The kitchen island was entirely bare, the dishes already cleared. Everyone was standing in the foyer, wearing identical expressions of high-society impatience.
"If you don't hurry up, Representative, we are leaving your giant frame on the mainland!" Ha-neul yelled at me, her arms crossed over her crisp winter coat as she tapped her designer boot against the floor tiles.
"I'm here! I'm moving!" I panted, skidding into the entryway.
We piled into Mr. Lee's luxury sedan for the high-speed dash to the airport. The interior, which usually felt like an spacious business-class lounge, was suddenly incredibly cramped. Mrs. Lee naturally occupied the front passenger seat, while Ji-hoon, Ha-neul, and I were packed like salted herrings across the back row. Because of my broad shoulders, I was practically pinning Ha-neul against the left door handle, my bulky backpack resting between my knees.
The car purred onto the highway, the interior warming up rapidly. Ha-neul's nose suddenly twitched. She leaned slightly closer across the leather gap, her sharp eyes narrowing behind her frames as she sniffed the sleeve of my jacket.
"What kind of perfume is that?" she asked loudly, her voice dripping with immediate suspicion. "It smells incredibly sweet. Like... vanilla and flowers. You never wear that."
The question caught the radar of the front seat. Ji-hoon turned his head slowly, his bloodshot, trial-exhausted eyes focusing on my collarbone as he carefully leaned back to sniff the air around my neck.
My heart instantly stopped beating. A cold sweat broke out under my hoodie.
"None!" I stammered nervously, my face turning a brilliant shade of crimson as I adjusted my collar. "That's... that's just a new brand of washing powder Eomeonim bought last week! It has a very... intense European floral dynamic!"
Ji-hoon let out a dry, knowing chuckle, turning back to face the road.
"Washing powder, huh? Right. Very sophisticated laundry system we have, San-ah."
The nearer we drove to the massive, glass arches of Incheon International Airport, the more violently my stomach began to twist.
I realized, staring out at the flashing highway signs, that I was currently experiencing more intense, raw nervousness right now than I had felt while tilting Sora's chin up.
This wasn't a club or an indie stage. This was a direct collision with the deep, traditional roots of the family that had adopted me.
The sedan screeched to a halt at the domestic departures curb. The automatic glass doors of the terminal sloped upward into the winter sky, reflecting the gray dawn. I hoisted my heavy, beastly backpack, took a deep breath of the sterile airport air, and looked toward the boarding gates.
'Jeju Island,' my inner Mountain braced itself. 'Wait for me.'