Chapter 2 — The Vice President Is Kind
The student council room was quieter than Han Jae-in expected.
Not silent—never silent—but insulated. The hum of campus life faded here, replaced by the soft ticking of a wall clock and the distant murmur of voices filtered through closed doors.
The air smelled faintly of paper and disinfectant. Everything had a place. Everything knew its place.
That should have been comforting.
Jae-in stood just inside the doorway, book tucked against his chest, wondering for the third time why he’d agreed to come here.
Seo Yuri smiled at him.
It was the same polite, unintrusive smile she wore in class. Calm. Measured. The kind of expression that suggested reliability rather than warmth. She gestured toward one of the chairs near the long table, already cleared except for a neat stack of documents and her tablet.
“Just put it down anywhere,” she said softly. “You don’t have to stay long.”
Her voice was normal.
Her thoughts were not.
‘He looks tired. Didn’t sleep enough. Again.’
‘Chair near the door is inefficient. He’ll feel like leaving.’
‘If I angle my body like this, it won’t feel like pressure.’
‘He forgets to eat when he’s anxious. That’s dangerous.’
Jae-in’s fingers tightened around the book.
He told himself—again—that this was stress. Residual noise from yesterday. A trick of pattern recognition. People thought about things. His brain was just… misfiring. Overlaying meaning where there was none.
But the thoughts didn’t sound like his.
They didn’t ask questions. They didn’t wander. They organized.
He set the book down on the edge of the table instead of sitting. “I just wanted to return it,” he said. “Sorry for the trouble.”
Yuri’s smile deepened by a fraction. Approval, not affection.
‘Good. Polite. Low maintenance.’
‘He apologizes too much. That can be corrected.’
“No trouble at all,” she replied. “I was finished with it anyway.”
She slid the book toward herself, aligning it perfectly with the table’s edge before placing it atop a small stack. The motion was smooth, practiced, unconscious.
‘Order reduces friction.’
‘Friction causes stress.’
‘Stress causes mistakes.’
Jae-in swallowed.
The thoughts didn’t pause when she spoke. They ran beneath her words like a second current, steady and confident. He couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
“You’re doing well in Professor Han’s seminar,” Yuri continued.
“Your commentary last week was insightful.”
He blinked. “Oh. Thanks.”
‘Positive reinforcement encourages consistency.’
‘But not too much. He might become self-conscious.’
She gestured again, this time more clearly toward the chair across from her. “Sit, if you’d like. You look like you might fall over.”
It was said lightly, almost joking.
Jae-in hesitated.
‘If he leaves standing, this interaction ends prematurely.’
‘If he sits, I can observe more.’
‘Observation leads to understanding.’
He sat.
The chair was comfortable. Too comfortable. The kind that made you forget how long you’d been in it.
Yuri sat across from him, crossing her legs neatly. The distance between them was appropriate. Professional. Safe.
‘Maintain boundaries.’
‘Boundaries create trust.’
‘Trust allows access.’
Jae-in stared at the table, at the grain of the wood, at the faint scratch where someone had once carved initials before being reprimanded. He focused on anything that wasn’t her voice or the quiet certainty beneath it.
“So,” he said, because silence felt dangerous, “student council’s busy?”
“Yes,” Yuri said. “Always.”
‘Busy is good.’
‘Busy justifies proximity.’
‘Busy makes dependence seem reasonable.’
She tapped her tablet, pulling up something he couldn’t see.
Her fingers moved quickly, efficiently.
‘Budget requests.’
‘Club allocations.’
‘Literature department event approvals.’
‘His name appears more often than average.’
Jae-in’s stomach tightened. “My… name?”
Yuri looked up, expression mildly surprised. “Hm?”
He flushed. “Sorry. I thought you said—never mind.”
She studied him for a moment longer than necessary.
‘Heightened awareness.’
‘Is he anxious?’
‘No. Curious.’
‘Curiosity is good.’
“I did notice,” she said, choosing her words carefully, “that you’ve been taking on a lot lately. Club activities. Group work. Helping classmates.”
Her tone was concerned. Supportive.
Her thoughts sharpened.
‘Too many demands.’
‘Inefficient energy expenditure.’
‘No one else will manage this properly.’
“It’s nothing,” Jae-in said quickly. “I’m fine.”
‘He says that automatically.’
‘Means the opposite.’
Yuri leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table, hands folded. Not invading his space. Just… narrowing it.
“You don’t have to do everything alone,” she said. “It’s okay to rely on people.”
‘On me.’
‘Specifically me.’
The room felt smaller.
Jae-in laughed awkwardly. “I don’t think I’m doing that much.”
‘Denial.’
‘Common.’
‘Not malicious.’
She nodded, as if accepting his answer. As if filing it away for later.
‘Correction can wait.’
There was a brief lull. The clock ticked. Papers rustled somewhere down the hall.
Jae-in realized, with a faint jolt, that he wasn’t hearing anyone else. No stray thoughts. No background noise. Just Yuri.
The realization was both relieving and unsettling.
“Listen,” Yuri said, breaking the quiet. “I was thinking.”
Her thoughts surged, not louder, but more focused.
‘Present solution.’
‘Frame as benefit.’
‘Allow him to choose. He prefers that illusion.’
“You and I overlap in a lot of academic spaces,” she continued.
“Same department. Same seminars. It might be efficient if we studied together occasionally. Share notes. Make sure we’re both… on track.”
Occasionally.
‘Weekly.’
‘Minimum.’
Jae-in’s first instinct was to refuse. Not because he didn’t want to—because something in him recoiled from how right it sounded. How easy.
But then another part of him, quieter and more shameful, stirred.
Someone noticing. Someone organizing. Someone thinking about him when he wasn’t there.
He hated that it felt warm.
“I don’t want to impose,” he said.
‘He’s considerate.’
‘Good.’
‘That can be guided.’
“It wouldn’t be an imposition,” Yuri replied. “It would help me too.”
She smiled again, softer this time. Less polished.
‘Mutual benefit framing increases acceptance by thirty percent.’
Jae-in exhaled slowly. “I guess… that could work.”
The moment the words left his mouth, the atmosphere changed.
Not dramatically. No spike. No rush.
The thoughts smoothed.
‘Permission granted.’
‘Access confirmed.’
‘Begin integration.’
A strange calm settled over him, like pressure equalizing.
Yuri inclined her head. “Great. We can start next week. I’ll work around your schedule.”
‘I already know his schedule.’
‘But hearing it from him reinforces agency.’
“Right,” Jae-in said. “Next week.”
They talked a bit longer—about class readings, about an upcoming presentation, about nothing in particular. Yuri kept the conversation light, steering away from anything too personal.
Her thoughts, however, continued to build a quiet scaffold around him.
‘He prefers afternoon sessions.’
‘Caffeine increases his anxiety after 6 p.m.’
‘Compliments about intellect, not appearance.’
‘Physical proximity should remain minimal for now.’
Eventually, she stood. “I won’t keep you any longer. You should get dinner.”
‘He hasn’t eaten.’
‘He won’t unless reminded.’
“Oh. Yeah,” Jae-in said. He checked his phone out of reflex, surprised to see how late it was.
Yuri walked him to the door. She stopped a respectful distance away, hands folded in front of her.
“Take care, Han Jae-in,” she said.
His name, spoken gently.
‘He responds when addressed fully.’
‘It makes him feel seen.’
He nodded, mumbled a goodbye, and stepped into the hallway.
The door closed softly behind him.
The thoughts vanished.
The absence hit him like stepping off a moving walkway.
Jae-in froze.
The corridor was empty. Just fluorescent lights and scuffed floors and the echo of his own breathing. No voice. No undercurrent. Nothing.
He pressed a hand to his chest, surprised by how fast his heart was racing.
This was good. This was normal. This was what he wanted.
So why did it feel like something essential had been cut away?
He walked back across campus in a haze, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows between buildings. Students passed him, laughing, talking, existing.
Silent.
When he reached his apartment, the quiet followed him inside.
The door clicked shut. The lock slid into place. The familiar cramped space greeted him—desk, bed, kitchenette, everything exactly where he’d left it.
Unmanaged.
He dropped his bag and sank onto the edge of the bed.
For the first time since yesterday, there was nothing.
No noise. No thoughts. No strange, intrusive certainty telling him what to do next.
His hands trembled slightly.
He laughed under his breath, a short, humorless sound. “Get it together,” he muttered.
This was better. This was healthy.
And yet—
His gaze drifted to the small clutter on his desk. Unsorted papers. Empty cup. Crumpled wrapper he’d forgotten to throw away.
Inefficient.
The word surfaced unbidden.
He frowned.
It wasn’t her voice. Not exactly. But it echoed with the same logic.
He lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
The silence pressed down, heavier with every passing minute.
Eventually, he rolled onto his side and curled his fingers into the blanket, as if anchoring himself.
The thought that terrified him most wasn’t that he was losing his mind.
It was that, somewhere deep down, he already missed the noise.
He told himself it was just habit, just the residue of attention, but the truth he avoided was simpler and worse—being alone felt less like freedom and more like being forgotten.
