My name is Han Seo-jun.
I am twenty-two years old.
I am retired.
This is usually the point where people laugh or assume I am lying. I let them. Explaining things to others requires energy, and I retired specifically to avoid unnecessary effort.
I wake up without an alarm.I eat when I'm hungry.I sleep when I'm tired.
It's a very efficient life.
My parents disagree.
They believe a man in his early twenties should be doing one of three things:studying, working, or getting married.
I have already completed the first two.The third one… I am ignoring.
That morning, I was standing in my kitchen in Seoul, eating cereal out of the box because washing bowls felt optional, when the television caught my attention.
"—Nation's top idol Yoon Ha-rin announces a temporary break from activities—"
I looked up.
Ha-rin appeared on the screen, smiling softly in an old photo the news channels liked to reuse. Perfect posture. Perfect skin. Perfect distance from reality.
"Oh," I said.
That was my entire reaction.
Idols took breaks all the time. Exhaustion. Health. "Personal reasons." Korea had mastered the art of vague explanations.
I finished my cereal, folded the box neatly, and put it back. Order mattered.
The news anchor continued talking. Speculation scrolled across the screen. Fans were already trending hashtags.
I turned off the TV.
Celebrities belonged to a world that required effort. I had opted out of effort.
My day continued peacefully.
I read.I checked investments.I reorganized my bookshelf by height, then by color, because the first attempt felt unbalanced.
At exactly 11:39 a.m., my phone rang.
I stared at it.
Unknown Number
Unknown numbers were dangerous. They meant sales calls, distant relatives, or people who started conversations with, "Do you remember me?"
I let it ring.
It stopped.
Good.
Then it rang again.
Persistent.
I sighed and answered.
"Hello."
"Is this Han Seo-jun?" a polite female voice asked.
"Yes."
"This is calling from Sunrise Medical Center. We're contacting you regarding a matter related to your records with us."
I blinked.
My brain ran through my life efficiently. Hospital visits. Checkups. Nothing recent.
"…Records?" I asked.
"Yes. We'd like to ask you to visit the clinic in person. It's important."
Important was not a word I enjoyed.
"When?" I asked.
"As soon as possible, if you're available."
I checked my schedule.
It was empty.Every day was empty.
"I'm available," I said.
"Thank you. Please bring your identification."
The call ended.
I stared at my phone for a moment longer than necessary.
Then I placed it face down on the table.
Important things were inconvenient.Unexpected things were worse.
I picked up my jacket.
Whatever this was, it was clearly not part of my plan.
And for some reason, I had the uncomfortable feeling that my quiet life had just been put on hold.