Paradigm

Chapter II

Paris, France, February 1998.

Seonghwa had put some thought into his outfit. After a lot of hesitation, he had eventually settled on a baby blue shirt, the only slacks of his wardrobe that suited him more or less and brand new leather shoes that already gave him blisters after less than fifteen minutes wearing them.

His heart was hammering.

After reading the strange thanks of Paul Jung, he could not help but get on with the first chapter. Then the second and the third... He had literally been snatched into an unrivaled story. He hadn't worked the whole day and just read the novel in one go, without pausing once.

It was definitely the greatest work he had ever had the honor to read through. Breathtaking. Really. All the other books will look bland after this !

And he would meet the genius whose imagination made something new bloom inside of him.

The day before, he had pushed curiosity to the point of making researches about this mysterious man. No phone number, no traces of him or his book in the Korean press. Even the site of his old publishing house did not mention anything about him. That was highly suspicious.

There was nothing. Absolutely nothing. Only his name playing on repeat in his mind.

He was admiring the Korean copy, turning it between his hands, engrossed in his thoughts.

Seonghwa jerked violently when the doorbell rang. The young man bolted up, pulled his slacks up in a manner that could not be considered very chic and opened the door to his visitor. A man was silently staring at him with his dark fox eyes magnified by long and dark lashes.

To silence.

He was standing immobile on the doorstep, probably waiting for Seonghwa to let him in.

To immobility.

But the editor was so engrossed in his contemplation that he forgot his notions of basic politeness and just stood there, completely frozen.

To oblivion.

He was convinced that this image would remain engraved in his memory for a long time. The person in front of him looked like he did everything to blend into the crowd yet there was something indescribably beautiful about him. Seonghwa definitely expected a bold writer, perhaps a lunatic, to only see the most discreet young man. Well... honestly, the more he stared at him, the more he grasped a disturbing glint in his look. It wasn't perversion, nor melancholy or pain but it still unsettled him. He also found him less and less young, too. At first glance, he would barely have pegged him at nineteen years old but a few minutes later, rather thirty five. As if his traits were in perpetual metamorphosis.

Slightly rebellious black strands slipped out of his hat and covered his eyes, which gave him the appearance of a charming school boy. His shirt that was a bit too large did not let the editor get a glimpse of the approximative shape of his body that he still guessed to be thin. Very thin.

Finally, fearing that his heavy stare on the body of his visitor – who was perhaps still a teenager – might scare him or make him look like a voyeur (which Seonghwa definitely was, let's be totally honest), he centered his attention on his face.

Paul's face was harmonious, his lips delicate and his nose straight... He definitely broke a few hearts.

Discomfort seeped into him. The author wasn't uncomfortable for the least. Just...impassive. Always impassive. Maybe this impassibility unsettled Seonghwa the most.