68: Chapter 68 Night

The days after reaching the top weren't as easy as Chairman Wang Shunyi had imagined. The stock price was rising, the media was praising him, and competitors were sharpening their blades in the shadows, but all of that was expected. What truly made him feel uneasy was Park Min-ji.

It wasn't that she had changed. It was that she hadn't.

He still saw that cup of hot Americano in his office every morning, as punctual as an alarm clock. Every Monday, she still placed the financial reports on his desk on time, with a sticky note attached that read, "President, please review." Her handwriting was neat and sharp, just like her personality. He still received messages from her when working late into the night—"I'm leaving. You should head out early too." She didn't ask if he was leaving or urge him to go home; it was just that one sentence, like casually saying "this dish is okay" while getting food at the cafeteria.

He always felt like something was missing.

On February 14th, a heavy snow fell in Seoul. Chairman Wang Shunyi stood by his office window, watching the snowflakes fall into the halo of the streetlights. This winter was colder than previous years, but the snow had come late. Pedestrians on the street hunched their shoulders, walking in a hurry. Someone passed by downstairs pushing a small cart selling fish cakes, their shouts mostly swallowed by the wind and snow, making them hard to hear. He recognized that cart; it used to be parked next to him when he was a street vendor. Later, he moved away, but the cart remained. The owner hadn't changed, the shouts hadn't changed, and even the taste of the fish cakes hadn't changed. Only he had changed.

When Park Min-ji pushed the door open and entered, she was holding a cup of steaming coffee. She wore a light gray coat and a deep red scarf that complemented her fair complexion. There was a bit of snow on her boots, and she stomped her feet twice at the entrance, leaving two wet footprints.

"President, I've put the Southeast Asia report on your desk. For the March data, Vietnam is up fifteen percent, and Indonesia is up eight percent. Zhang Junhao said he's flying to Jakarta next month because the distributors need to renew their contracts." She handed him the cup; just like every cup before, it had no sugar and very little milk. He took it and had a sip. It was hot, but just the right temperature.

"Minji, are you busy tonight?"

She was organizing the stack of documents on the desk and paused when she heard his question. "I'm free. Why?"

"The usual place. For army stew." He didn't say "I'm treating you to dinner," nor did he say "I want to talk to you." He just said, "The usual place. For army stew." Just like the many times he had said it over the past two years.

She looked up at him, the corner of her mouth twitching slightly. "Okay. Let's go after overtime."

"No more overtime." He took his coat off the rack. "No overtime today."

She froze for a moment. He had never said those words before. The president of Shunyi Foods not working overtime sounded more far-fetched than Nongshim admitting defeat. She looked at him, trying to find a trace of a joke in his expression, but found none. "President, do you have a fever?"

"No. I just feel like having army stew. Will you join me?"

She smiled and reached out to grab her coat hanging by the door. "Let's go."

That shop in Hongdae was tucked deep in an alley. Half of the lightbox on the sign was broken; of the three characters for "army stew," only "army" remained lit, while "stew" had been dark for years. The proprietress said it would cost hundreds of thousands to fix, which wasn't worth it. Whenever they came in the past, Auntie Jiang would always give them two extra slices of luncheon meat, and today was no exception. The hot pot was brought out, bubbling away, the steam fogging up his glasses. Chairman Wang Shunyi took off his glasses to wipe them and looked up to see Park Min-ji already putting luncheon meat into his bowl.

"You always serve me first." He looked at her.

"And you're always too embarrassed to help yourself first." She picked up a rice cake for herself. "It's been like this since the first day. How many meals have we had at this place? You're still being polite with me."

He didn't say anything. She swallowed the rice cake and added, "If you don't eat it, it'll overcook in the pot. It's a waste."

Outside the window, the snow fell harder and harder. There was hardly anyone on the street; only the streetlights remained lit, their dim yellow light blurring into small circles in the snow. Auntie Jiang was watching TV with the volume turned very low. It was the weather forecast—tonight, Seoul's snow accumulation would reach fifteen centimeters.

"Minji."

"Yes?"

"Today is Valentine's Day."

She stopped her chopsticks and looked at him. The soup in the pot was still bubbling, steam rising between them.

"I know," she said.

"You know?"

"I saw a kid selling flowers when I got off work today. In a very cold alleyway, shoving them into the hands of passersby. I even thought that kid really knew how to pick a spot; that alley has a lot of foot traffic." After she finished, she lowered her head to eat her noodles again, her tone as flat as if she were talking about today's weather.

He put down his chopsticks and looked at her. "Minji, there's something I want to tell you."

"Don't say it yet." She finished the last sip of soup in her bowl, put it down, and wiped her mouth. "Every time you want to say something important, you put down your chopsticks first. It was like this the first time you talked to me about equity incentives, and it was the same the second time when you told me about acquiring the Kims. I don't want to hear it this time."

"Why?"

"Because every time you put down your chopsticks and finish saying something important, you're so busy the next day that I can't even find you. That time with the equity incentives, you flew to Vietnam. When we were negotiating the Kims' acquisition, you were nowhere to be found. I don't want to hear it; if I do, you'll just run off again." She looked up at his face, the steam from the hot pot making her eyes look a bit bright. "You're not working overtime today? Really?"

"Really," he said.

She looked at him and smiled.

"Then go ahead."

"Minji, three years ago you said to come find you once I succeeded. Does this count as success now?"

"It doesn't." She didn't hesitate. "You haven't reached the place you want to go yet. Being number one in South Korea isn't your finish line. You want to be number one in Asia, number one in the world. When you've achieved those things, come and ask me again."

"And what about you?"

"I'm not going anywhere. Sunyi hasn't gone public yet; I need to help you look over the financial reports. Once it's listed, I'll have to help you with the annual reports. When you become number one in the world, I'll still have to help you count your money. If I leave, who else are you going to find?"

She said this very quickly, as if afraid she would regret it. After speaking, she picked up her water glass and took a large gulp. The water had gone cold, and she frowned slightly.

"Minji, do you know that sometimes you really make my heart ache for you?"

She put down the water glass and looked at him, this time without looking away. "Then do you know that sometimes you're really infuriating?"

"Infuriating?"

"You're always in such a rush. You've been in a rush since the day you were a street vendor. Rushing to make money, rushing to expand production, rushing to get into channels, rushing to go public, rushing to take the top spot from Nongshim. When have you ever slowed down?"

"I can't slow down. If I slow down, I'll lose."

"You won't lose," she said, her voice not loud, but very certain. "A person like you won't lose."

There was nothing left in the pot, only a bit of soup base with instant noodle crumbs floating on top. Auntie Jiang didn't come to urge them to leave. Outside, the snow was still falling, accumulating quite thickly, with a white layer covering the windowsill.

"Let's settle the bill. I'll take you home." He stood up.

She didn't decline.

The car stopped downstairs at her apartment. The snow was already ankle-deep. She didn't unbuckle her seatbelt immediately, nor did she tell him to drive carefully.

"Minji, you said earlier that every time I put down my chopsticks to say something important, I run off the next day. Well, today, I'm not putting down my chopsticks."

He turned his head to look at her.

"I'm not running anymore."

The light from the streetlights filtered through the car window, falling on her face. She lowered her head, then raised it again. Her eyes were red, but she didn't cry.

"You really are..."

"What is it?"

"You made me wait for three years," she said. Then she reached out, pulled open the car door, got out, and stepped into the snow. She looked back at him from the building entrance and waved.

He sat in the car, watching that closed door. The motion-sensor light in the hallway lit up the first floor and then went out. He took out his phone and opened his chat window with her. It was filled with countless work messages, interspersed with a few "See you at the usual place."

He typed a line—"Goodnight, Minji."

A dozen seconds later, she replied—"Goodnight, Sunyi."

Snow fell on the windshield, the wipers swiping back and forth. He sat in the car for a long time, until the heater had gone cold. Then he smiled—a very light smile, but the corners of his mouth didn't come down for a long while.