Chapter Text
The clock on the wall ticked far too loudly.
Seong Gi-hun sat slumped in the plush sofa, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. The reception area smelled faintly of citrus and fresh paint, and the walls were hung with minimalist photographs of bodies—arms, backs, hands—cropped just short of anything that could make a person blush.
He hadn’t touched the complimentary sparkling water on the low coffee table before him. His stomach was in knots, and bubbles would only make things worse.
Across from him, a young man with colourful dyed hair and a swimmer's build flipped through a magazine titled Bare Essentials: The Agency Quarterly, like being here was nothing, like this was just another Thursday. Gi-hun couldn't tell if that made him feel better or worse. The young man looked up from the magazine and caught his eye, then looked him up and down, one eyebrow raised, before breaking into a smirk that he didn’t bother trying to hide, and going back to his magazine.
Gi-hun adjusted the collar of his shirt—pointless, really, considering where he was—and tried not to think about how his last restaurant had gone under in less than a year. Again. How he’d borrowed from friends he could never pay back, and maxed out cards that shouldn’t have still been working. How this was, quite literally, the only interview he had lined up.
“Seong Gi-hun?”
He startled. The receptionist, a wide-eyed young woman with glossy hair cut into a bob, was looking at him expectantly. Gi-hun stood as quickly as he could, struggling to get out of the soft cushions. The smirk on the young man across from him grew wider.
“This way, please,” the receptionist said with a wide, warm smile.
He was led down a short hallway lined with full-length mirrors—because of course there were—and stopped in front of a frosted glass door. The receptionist knocked once and then opened it without waiting.
“He’s here.”
Gi-hun glanced around the office. A warm-toned desk lamp cast golden light over a desk littered with files, a half-eaten protein bar, and a single stiletto heel. The other was still on the foot of the woman lounging behind the desk.
She looked up, dark eyes sweeping him with lazy precision.
“Mm,” she said, then smiled. “Come in. Door shut. Sit.”
Gi-hun obeyed, suddenly aware of how much sweat had gathered under his collar. He took the offered seat, knees too close together, back too straight.
“Han Mi-nyeo,” she said, extending her hand towards his, and shaking it in a firm grip. “Thank you for coming in. Before we start, let me just say—yes, before starting this company, I did the job myself. No, I’m not going to tell you stories. Yes, I’ve seen it all. And no—” she raised a sharp, lacquered nail, “—this is not a brothel. Anyone comes in here looking to sell dick, I cut them out like a bad appendix.”
Gi-hun blinked. “Understood.”
“Good. So, first things first. Why are you interested in working for the agency?”
He paused for a moment, trying to work out what she would want to hear. Was she looking for a speech about how it had been his life-long dream to have the opportunity to be objectified while doing menial jobs for other people? Or was simple honesty the best policy?
“I, uhh…” He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.
“If it’s for the money, just say so. It won’t go against you.”
Gi-hun let out a relieved sigh. “It’s for the money, yes.”
She smiled tightly, then flipped open a folder, scanned something, and looked up again. “Says here you used to run a restaurant. Twice?”
Gi-hun nodded, already bracing himself.
“Why’d they fail?”
He sat up a little straighter, suddenly more alert. “It wasn’t the food,” he said quickly. “I need to be clear about that. It was not the food.”
Mi-nyeo’s brow rose, amused, but she didn’t interrupt.
“I can cook,” he continued, voice firmer now. “People liked my food. Even when the places were struggling, we had regulars. One guy came from the other side of the city every week just for my galbi-jjim. A blogger said my sundubu jjigae was the best they’d ever had—I still have the screenshot.”
“So not the food,” Mi-nyeo said, smirking. “Got it. Go on.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, looking suddenly tired. “I just… don’t have a head for numbers. For business. Rent, invoices, taxes, suppliers screwing you over on prices—none of it made sense to me. I’d try to figure it out, tell myself I’d get better at it, but I never did. I was too busy in the kitchen, trying to keep things afloat one plate at a time.” He gave a small shrug. “I think I just wasn’t built to run things. I work better when I’m told what to do. Give me a task, I’ll do it. I’m not lazy. I’m just… not a boss.”
Mi-nyeo studied him a moment. Her face was unreadable, lips pursed slightly as if tasting what he'd just said.
“So,” she said after a moment. “Why here? There must be plenty of restaurants looking for decent chefs of your calibre.”
G-hun paused again. “I’ve uhh… I’ve tried. I think maybe a lot of places want someone they can mould in the way they want. They see someone who has run their own place, someone who…” He swallowed once again, hating having to admit this part. “Someone who is a little older than they’re looking for, and feel like I won’t be willing to learn to do things their way. It’s not true,” he added, wanting to make that very clear. “But I haven’t really been able to secure any other interviews.”
Mi-nyeo made a couple of notes on the file, then looked up once again. “So, cooking is in your wheelhouse. Cleaning? Gardening?”
“I can do that,” Gi-hun replied. “Like I said, I’m not lazy. Just give me a task, and I’ll do it.”
“Good,” she said, and marked something in his file Mi-nyeo clicked her pen shut and tossed it onto the desk. There was a brief silence—then she looked up at him again, her gaze sharper this time. Measuring.
“Alright, Gi-hun. One last thing.”
He froze. “Yeah?”
She leaned forward, folding her arms on the desk, voice turning matter-of-fact. “We only hire good-looking people.”
Gi-hun blinked.
“It’s not personal,” she added quickly, like she was reading off a laminated policy sheet. “It’s branding. People pay a premium for this kind of thing, and what they’re paying for—aside from the service itself—is aesthetic. You get that, right?”
Gi-hun shrugged uncertainly. “I mean… I guess.”
She looked him up and down, not subtly. “You’ve got the face,” she said, gesturing toward him like she was noting the quality of a vintage wine. “Charming. Soft around the edges, but you look like you could lift a sofa without pulling something. And the smile—that stupid, sincere smile? It’s money.”
Gi-hun blinked. “…Thanks?”
“But,” she continued, drawing out the word like a warning, “I need to know the rest is up to standard. We don’t do surprises when the clothes come off. So.”
He stared at her. “So…?”
She gestured casually. “Clothes off.”
Gi-hun hesitated. “Now?”
“No, next Tuesday. Yes, now.” She sat back in her chair like this was the most normal thing in the world. “I need to see what I’m hiring. You’re fifty, and you’ve been living off instant noodles and bad luck. You might look like you belong on a cologne ad from the neck up, but if you’ve got a beer belly and bingo wings, I need to know before I send you to a rich client.”
He swallowed, throat suddenly dry.
“I won’t ogle,” she added flatly. “You don’t have anything I’ve not seen before. You’re safe.”
Gi-hun gave her a wary look, but the moment stretched too long, and he realized she wasn’t joking. Or budging.
With a sigh, he stood and began unbuttoning his shirt. He it off slowly, folding it over one arm out of pure habit. The office wasn’t cold, but he felt like it should’ve been. Standing half-naked in front of a stranger, under a soft desk lamp and framed motivational posters wasn’t exactly his comfort zone.
He kept his eyes down, waiting for some kind of comment, or a cough, or a disapproving sigh.
Instead, there was silence, followed shortly after by a low hum.
He glanced up. Mi-nyeo was raising one eyebrow at him. Not a leer, not even interest—just a look of expectation, as if he’d only done half his homework.
He frowned. “What?”
She tilted her head, unblinking.
He stared for another second before realization hit. “You’re kidding.”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?” she replied.
Gi-hun looked down at his trousers, then back at her.”Now?”
“I’m not asking for a dance,” she said, voice flat. “But I do need to see the full situation.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it.
“I told you. It’s nothing sexual. This is just casting, and your body is the product. We can’tPhotoshop in this line of work.”
“I wasn’t expecting to—” he stopped himself. “Never mind.”
He sighed again, turned slightly away, and undid his belt. A few awkward seconds later, he was standing in nothing but his birthday suit, his clothes folded in a neat pile beside the chair.
Mi-nyeo didn’t speak. She just looked, arms folded, expression all business.
“Hmm,” she said at last. “You’re wiry. That’s good. Toned without being intimidating. No gym rat vibes.”
Gi-hun gave her a sideways glance. “That a compliment?”
“Absolutely,” she said. “ Turn around for me.”
He did as he was told on autopilot.
Mi-nyeo grinned. “Oh, the lonely housewives are going to love you.” She leaned back, satisfied. “Alright. You pass. Get dressed. Tomorrow morning, nine sharp. I’ll give you a test shift. You’ll be with Se-mi on a basic two-hour apartment clean. Nothing difficult. See how you get on, if you think this is a line of work you could continue in, and if so, I’ll try to find you some regulars”
Gi-hun pulled his trousers back on with stiff hands, his mind still half-caught on what he'd just agreed to. The relief at being told he’d gotten the job should have hit harder—God knew he needed the money—but it was tangled up with the embarrassment of what he would be doing.
He buttoned his shirt slowly, like it might buy him back a little dignity. Still, when he glanced at Mi-nyeo, her focus already drifting to the next folder in the stack, he managed a polite, “You do this with everyone?”
“Everyone,” she said, flipping a page. “Ugly people make people uncomfortable when they’re naked. That’s not our fault. That’s just the way life is.”
He almost laughed, a dry, startled sound sitting just behind his throat—but it didn’t come out. He nodded instead, stiff and measured, like he could contain whatever flicker of pride still tried to stand up inside him.
“Thank you for the opportunity,” he said, and reached for the door.
“Mr Seong?” she called just before he left.
He turned.
“You forgot something,” she said without looking up. She pointed to the edge of the chair, to where a pair of pale blue cotton boxers sat discarded.
Mortification washed over him. A cold, creeping flush that made his ears burn. He stepped back quickly, snatched them up with one hand, and crammed them into his pocket as casually as he could.
“Right. Thanks,” he muttered, and he left the office without looking back.
***
Gi-hun had arrived twenty minutes early.
He stood on the pavement outside a narrow, modern building in Yeonnam-dong, hugging his jacket around him, even though it was already shaping up to be a warm morning, subconsciously putting off the moment when he would be stripped of every layer.
A black scooter zipped to a stop in front of him, tires squealing just enough to be dramatic. The rider hopped off—young, lithe, and dressed like she’d just left a rehearsal with a punk band. She pulled off her helmet, and Gi-hun noted the pixie haircut, the slight androgyny, and the tiny hoops in her nose and bottom lip. She didn’t seem like someone who would take fools lightly.
Her eyes raked over him instantly.
“You’re the new guy?” she asked, voice thick with skepticism.
Gi-hun nodded. “Yeah. I’m—”
“Dude, how old are you?”
He blinked. “Fifty.”
“Shit,” she muttered, unlocking the building entrance with a keycode. “Didn’t know we were branching out into senior outreach.”
“Excuse me?” Gi-hun said, completely taken aback. The next two hours were going to be torture.
“So, what’s your reason for doing this? Wife left you and you thought it an easy way to get a look at a pair of young tits?”
Again, it took him a moment to answer. Her brashness completely wrong-footed him. “I need the money,” he said eventually.
She raised an eyebrow, but said nothing more. It was a pretty universal answer, after all.
Inside, the building smelled like money; filtered air, and eucalyptus infusers.
“The client’s in today,” she said, leading the way to the fourth-floor unit. “Middle-aged woman. Husband's a consultant or dentist or something. She mostly floats around watching morning dramas with the volume low and passive-aggressively sipping coffee.”
Gi-hun’s brow creased. “She just… watches?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes not. But she’s there, which means no hiding, and clothes off. I’m Se-mi, by the way,” she added, sticking her hand out towards him.
“Gi-hun,” he replied, shaking it.
He followed her out of the elevator, and down a well-lit corridor, before she stopped outside an apartment, and knocked sharply.
A few moments later, a woman opened the door.
“Good morning, Mrs Kwon,” Se-mi said cheerfully. “I think Ms Han explained I’d have a new employee with me today.”
Mrs Kwon nodded, and turned away without speaking, and they followed her inside, into a beautiful apartment. The kind of minimalism that wasn’t empty so much as curated. Glass furniture, a low cream sectional, huge windows. Mrs Kwon had sat curled in one corner of the sofa, legs tucked up, a porcelain mug in one hand and a remote in the other, sipping occasionally at her coffee. Gi-hun almost laughed at the entirely accurate picture Se-mi had already painted of her.
“Ok,” said Se-mi, already unzipping her hoodie. “We’ve got a two-hour general clean. Bedroom, living area, bathroom.”
She kicked off her shoes, then—without preamble—peeled off her tank top and bra, and dropped her jeans and underwear in one fluid motion.
Gi-hun turned away so fast he nearly whacked his face on a bookshelf.
“Y-you just—?” he stammered. The reality of what he was about to do had started to kick in. It strangely hadn’t occurred to him exactly how he would strip, and somehow, doing it in the hall made him feel even more exposed.
“Get over it,” Se-mi said, utterly unfazed. “It’s a body. You’ve got one. I’ve got one. We’re here to clean, not flirt.” She paused, then looked at him slyly. “Though if you pop a stiffy, I will report it. Zero tolerance, baby.”
Gi-hun raised both hands in protest. “No risk of that.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Confident, huh?”
“I mean…” He scratched the back of his neck, still looking anywhere but at her. “I’m not into women.”
That stopped her for a second. “Oh.” Her expression shifted. The teasing edge stayed, but she was clearly more comfortable around him.
“Well, good,” she said, tossing a microfiber cloth at him. “That means I don’t have to worry about you sneaking a peek at my ass while I’m scrubbing the toilet.”
“I wasn’t planning to,” he said, catching the cloth
“Yeah, yeah,” she said. “Most guys never plan to. Then boom—‘accidental’ boner.”
Gi-hun, still very much clothed, stood frozen by the door.
“You gonna strip or are you working undercover today?” she asked without looking up.
He sighed. “Right. Sorry.”
He turned to face the wall as he undressed, trying not to think too hard about it—about the stranger watching a soap opera while he took off his clothes two meters away.
By the time he was fully naked, Se-mi was already spritzing glass cleaner onto the sliding balcony door.
“You ever cleaned naked before?” she asked.
“Does my own shower after I’ve used it count?”
She smirked. “Cute. Ok, first piece of advise. Don’t drop anything you can’t pick up with dignity.”
On the surface, the apartment was spotless in that deceptive way rich people’s homes often were—but once they got down to it, they soon uncovered expensive messes hiding in stylish containers. Dust under side tables. Crumbs in drawer tracks. Watermarks on black marble. They started in the kitchen, Se-mi polishing the glass, while Gi-hun tackled the sink and taps.
Every so often, the housewife floated past them. She never said a word, just wandered with her coffee cup or checked her phone, then sat back on the couch and resumed her program.
They didn’t talk much the first half hour, just worked around each other in companionable silence—until they moved into the bedroom and Gi-hun bent over to collect a pair of stray socks that had been left beneath a low side table.
“Whoa, careful,” Se-mi said behind him. “I could almost see what you had for dinner last night.”
He jumped, nearly banging his head.
“Bend from the knees, ahjussi. Let’s not give the ornaments a free show,” she grinned.
He chuckled despite himself. “You’ve got a real gift for encouragement.”
“Nah, just a gift for surviving in a job where people think my tits mean they get to tell me their trauma while I’m bleaching their grout.”
“Do people really do that?”
“Some do. You’ll get used to it. Or you won’t. Some people break after week one. Others get addicted to the weirdness.” She looked over her shoulder at him. “You planning to stick around?”
Gi-hun shrugged. “If they’ll keep me.” He paused for a moment as they walked out into the hall, and began polishing the picture frames. “I suppose you’ll be reporting back on me?”
“Mmm-hmm,” she said, checking the streaks on the mirror with a practiced eye.
“And?”
Se-mi didn’t answer right away. She squinted at the glass, gave it a once-over with a dry cloth, then finally turned to face him.
“And…” she said slowly, “you’re not useless.”
Gi-hun let out a soft laugh. “High praise, indeed.”
“Ok,” she said, trying to hide the smile about to come out. “You’re surprisingly capable. And you haven’t tried to flirt or overexplain anything once. That puts you firmly in the top tier”
He opened his mouth to reply, but a noise from the living room stopped him—a gentle clearing of the throat. Mrs Kwon, stood at the threshold with a coffee cup in hand.
“Oh—sorry,” she said with a vague wave. “Didn’t mean to interrupt the… cleaning.”
Gi-hun instinctively straightened up, arms hovering awkwardly as if unsure whether to cover himself.
Se-mi, utterly unbothered, just smiled and said, “All good, ma’am. Just showing him the ropes.”
The woman hummed and drifted back into the living room without another word, lowering herself into a recliner and flipping through TV channels like the two naked people wiping down her hallway weren’t there at all.
Gi-hun exhaled slowly. “Is it normal? For people to not even look?”
Se-mi shrugged. “That’s the dream, honestly. The weirdest clients are the ones who look too much. But also, rule of thumb: if the client doesn’t acknowledge you, that doesn’t mean they’re not watching. They might not care. Or they might just want you to think they don’t care. Some of them like the illusion of invisibility. Makes it feel more like a luxury.”
Gi-hun frowned. “That’s pretty weird. Creepy, even.”
“Of course it’s creepy. And weird. What about any of this job is normal?”
By the end of the two hours, they’d finished the entire apartment. Everything sparkled. Se-mi glanced up at him as she pulled her clothes back on.
“Not bad for your first day, ahjussi.”
“I’m still breathing,” Gi-hun said. “That’s a win.”
As they exited the building, she looked him over one more time, lips curled into a half-smirk.
“You’ll get good feedback,” she said. “I’ll let Mi-nyeo know you did a good job.”
“Thank you,” he replied, relief battling with residual embarrassment.
He watched as she climbed onto her scooter and sped away, before returning to his own car. Two hours work and he would be earning more than he had in an entire day at his restaurant. And for far easier work. Maybe he should have done this sooner?
***
It was the last day of working alongside someone else. As of next week, Han Mi-nyeo had found him a few regular spots of his own.
He was cooking a veritable feast for today’s client, who would be hosting a dinner party later that day. Thankfully while cooking, he was at least allowed to wear an apron to protect himself from frying oil splashes.
He sliced soft blocks of tofu with the care of a surgeon, while the bubbling pot on the induction stove filled the air with rich aromatics—deep red chili oil slicked the surface of the broth, swirling with garlic, anchovy stock, and the fermented bite of gochujang. He stirred it slowly, coaxing the flavors together, occasionally adjusting the heat beneath the sundubu jjigae.
Trom the living room, the client drifted in without ceremony—a woman in her fifties in designer clothes, with the disinterested energy of someone used to being waited on. She didn’t look at him as she opened the fridge, pulled out a fancy glass bottle of mineral water, and then wandered back to her true crime documentary, volume cranked high enough to make the walls vibrate.
“Damn,” came Se-mi’s voice from the hallway. “That smells good.”
She entered holding a dustpan and brush, cheeks slightly flushed from scrubbing a bathroom somewhere.
“Thanks,” Gi-hun said, glancing at her over his shoulder.
“Might have to hire you myself sometime,” she added, sniffing theatrically.
Gi-hun grinned. “You sure you can afford me, kkomeng-i?”
She made a face, lifting the dustpan like she was ready to hurl it at him. “Just so you know, oppa, if anyone else tried that on me, I’d be filling their shoes with bleach.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it for a second,” he said, chuckling. “You carry yourself like someone who’s already done it.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
They worked around each other for a while, Se-mi ferrying used knives and cutting boards to the dishwasher while he ladled stew into serving bowls to cool. For a while, it was quiet, save for the shrill narration of the documentary in the next room and the occasional bubbling hiss from the stove.
Then Gi-hun spoke, his tone softer. “Hey… thank you.”
Se-mi turned her head. “For what?”
“For making this bearable,” he said. “I’m not sure I’d have made it through day one if you hadn’t been here reminding me how absolutely ridiculous this is.”
She squinted at him. “Excuse me?”
He smirked. “Sorry—how ridiculous they are. The clients. For hiring us to do this.”
“Damn right,” she said, bumping the dishwasher shut with her hip. “We’re the sane ones. They’re the ones watching naked strangers bleach their bathrooms while listening to serial killer podcasts.”
Gi-hun laughed, then checked the final garnish on the stew—thinly sliced spring onion, sprinkled in a gentle arc.
“So,” she continued, leaning on the counter, “Mi-nyeo’s giving you your own clients next week?”
“Mmm-hmm,” he nodded, rinsing out a pan.
“Got any names? If I know them, I can dish the dirt.”
“Umm…” Gi-hun tried to remember a couple of them. “Yoon Byeong-gi. Cho Su-jin. Hwang In-ho.”
She practically choked. “Hwang? Mi–nyeo gave you Hwang?”
Gi-hun felt his stomach drop. “Why? What’s he like?”
Se-mi laughed lightly. “Oh, you’ll see. He’ll absolutely love you. You’re just his type.Just remember Mi-nyeo’s golden rule. This isn’t a brothel. If it gets back to her you slept with him, you’re done for.”
“I wouldn’t—” Gi-hun began.
“Yeah, good luck,” she said. “And make sure you wear sunscreen.”
“Why?” he asked.
But Se-mi just laughed and left him alone in the kitchen. Whoever this Hwang In-ho was, Gi-hun would be sure to be on his guard around him.