037 Yin Yunhui_official

It’s sweltering.

Yoon Yun-hui had said he would take his little scooter out, and he really did take the moped, not his BMW S1000RR. Around July in Seoul, the rainy season usually brings a humid, stifling heat. Riding a liter-class superbike in this weather? That would literally be a recipe for scorched feet.

Bae Suzy’s fan meeting was scheduled for the evening by the Han River at Gwangjin Ferry, where the twilight over the reed beds promised to be beautiful. Inside the Yes24 Live Hall, a cafe had been entirely booked by Suzy’s fans, the interior packed with fan support materials. The visual impact was striking; the support banners stood taller than the people themselves. Yun-hui noticed the Traditional Chinese characters on the inscriptions—it was a grand gesture from Suzy’s Taiwanese fan club. It gave Yun-hui a small taste of "wealthy fan" shock.

Tickets to the fan meeting entitled attendees to a complimentary small pastry and coffee at the counter. Yun-hui didn't hold back; after grabbing his coffee, he took a selfie. He wanted to snap a picture with those massive standees, but the area was a bit crowded. As he squeezed closer, he heard the girls guarding the displays talking. Yun-hui couldn't help but chime in:

"Ni-men hao, ke-bu-huo-yi, bang-wo-pai-zhao-pian?" (Hello, would it be possible to help me take a photo?)

Forgive Yun-hui. His Chinese was essentially mute; he could read Traditional characters without issue and could write most of them, but in his daily life, there was simply no context to speak the language. Among the upper echelons of the peninsula, any family with a bit of history understood at least some Hanja, and many politicians were quite sinophilic, enjoying the affectation of practicing calligraphy.

"Hahaha, sure."

The girls were a bit sharp-tongued, but they were friendly enough. They took Yun-hui’s Samsung foldable phone and helped him snap a commemorative shot.

"You use a Samsung foldable too? You have taste." The girl who helped him took out her own phone—it was the same model. "Follow our fan club’s account, please? Thanks!"

"And follow our main fan base account, too."

"No problem."

And so, Yun-hui logged into Instagram, Facebook, and X in quick succession, adding some strange new entries to his following list. The fan accounts had nearly 100,000 followers, even more than Yun-hui’s own Instagram. He had lost. Completely lost. And that was without him even using Weibo; if he had seen that Suzy’s Simplified Chinese fan base had over 200,000 followers...

"Xie-xie!"

Yun-hui didn't linger to disturb them further, as plenty of other fans were waiting to photograph the row of oversized support banners.

The "station masters" didn't think much of it. Plenty of fans were coming, and it wasn't as if there were no male fans—at most, this one was just particularly handsome. Was Yun-hui a real fan? Of course he was. Miss A’s Suzy was his gateway into K-pop. Though it might sound rude to say, Yun-hui had genuinely liked Suzy since he was a child. During his awkward adolescence, Bae Suzy had once had Yun-hui completely infatuated. Even if that obsession had been short-lived, it was still a form of love; otherwise, how would his relatives have known? Clearly, his elders had taken it as a humorous anecdote.

The song that left the deepest impression on him was undoubtedly "Hush"—those graceful silhouettes behind the sheer curtains, the subtle, violent beauty of tearing them down. Even after all these years, whenever Bae Suzy was mentioned, Yun-hui still felt an inexplicable stir. Aside from having the power to choose his own freedom, Yun-hui was just an ordinary person, and Bae Suzy had left a mark on his youth. The last time—at the school anniversary in 2018—his senior’s relentless efforts had allowed him to see Bae Suzy in person, which counted as "fulfilling a dream." She was beautiful and wonderful.

Before inheriting the memorial foundation, Yun-hui couldn't command the family’s influence. His grandfather’s education of him was such that there was no "getting what he wanted by tying it up and sending it to his bed." Please, born in 1998, Yun-hui was only twenty-two; he hadn't even been an adult back then. Yun-hui had learned his bad habits on his own! He was a natural-born troublemaker. Ever since inheriting the Songdo Memorial Foundation and gaining limited control over the family's resources, Yun-hui had become a bit full of himself.

He found a cool corner and sat dejectedly on the steps, playing with his phone, hearing snatches of Japanese and other languages around him. If it weren't for the fact that Suzy only wanted to hold a single fan meeting, she could have easily embarked on an Asian tour for her tenth anniversary.

Yun-hui looked at the photos he had just taken—very touristy, very good. He posted them to his Instagram, the account "xxavier123," with a bio featuring a [Sun behind clouds] emoji. Almost immediately—and I mean immediately—his assistant, Ms. Jin, sent a message:

"Brother, don't do this. Can we please not post this?"

His desire to share seemed a bit too intense; he was nothing like a typical celebrity’s Instagram. He posted absolutely everything, every single day.

"Read, not replied."

Yun-hui elegantly ignored Ms. Jin. He knew what he was doing; his social media accounts were strictly compartmentalized. Instagram was for handsome photos and sharing his life. Facebook and Twitter were for serious matters—like student council updates or foundation activities—and used his real name, Yoon Yun-hui. It was just that he had a bad habit on Instagram of posting whatever came to mind, often just one or two photos, leaving a massive trail of digital footprints. Ms. Jin had suggested he open a new account or at least hide the irrelevant posts.

Yun-hui hadn't agreed. His fans were perfectly capable of seeing these things; there was nothing shameful about it. Surely no one was actually bored enough to go through the archeology of his hundreds of posts, right?

Ms. Jin felt exhausted. "My artist is so hard to manage..."

After much back-and-forth, she finally secured his permission to launch an official "Yoon Yun-hui_official" Instagram account for business purposes—with his name written in Romanized script, of course.

The post Yun-hui had just made already had likes and comments. He replied to a few familiar accounts—school juniors, seniors, and workout partners. He looked every bit the internet-addicted shut-in. But he didn't have to wait long before a staff member called out that VIP ticket holders could enter early to watch the rehearsal. The staff member kindly reminded them that there were no restrooms inside the hall, so they should take care of business outside before entering.

VIP tickets? Isn't that me?

Yun-hui stood up in a flash and joined the short line entering the hall. Sure enough, those little wealthy "station masters" were also VIPs, each equipped with long lenses. Yun-hui only then realized that he seemed to be the only man among the VIPs. Well, his ticket had been a gift from someone else—Suzy’s mother.

Female fans were the key; those who won over the female fans won the world!

Then, Yun-hui realized he was the only one empty-handed, while everyone else held gifts they had prepared for their idol. Eh? No one had told Yun-hui what VIP tickets entailed, so he had to watch what others were doing.

The staff led the VIPs to the pit closest to the stage, where rows of folding chairs had been set up. The Yes24 Live Hall was configured with a standing pit, a first floor, and a second floor. It seemed this fan meeting only sold standing VIP tickets and first-floor tickets. Rather than a meeting, it felt more like a small-scale concert. There were more performance segments and fewer interactive ones, as Bae Suzy also had to record the event for a "pseudo-live" broadcast.

As everyone took their seats, Bae Suzy appeared from the side, smiling.