Julian watches him quietly, a faint smile forming at the corners of his lips. He nods, slow and thoughtful.
"I see," he says. "I understand. It must've taken a lot of reflection to come to that conclusion."
But Harry just shakes his head, chuckling again—this time with a trace of irony.
"No. It was actually pretty simple, if I'm being honest. It's always been clear, right in front of me. I just didn't want to face it. But now I know—I want to be a fashion designer. Like you. Someone who actually sees people. Someone who values their unique traits and doesn't just chase trends but creates something new—something that resonates."
Julian's smile deepens, subtle but sincere.
And in that moment, from the flicker in Harry's gaze, Julian senses it—that unmistakable spark. The kind that speaks of ignition. Of conviction. Of fire.
"I'm retired now," Julian says quietly. "I'm no one to look up to anymore." He lifts his gaze, eyes steady. "So, what's your plan?"
Harry leans forward, a quiet intensity rising in his voice, his whole being alive with purpose.
"That's why I'm here," he says. "I'm dropping out of the master's program. And from the very bottom—no shortcuts, no help from my father—I want to build a brand. A real one. Something that celebrates individuality, beauty in all its forms, and does it at a price people can actually afford." His eyes lock onto Julian's. "Do you have any advice?"
Julian chuckles softly and shrugs, the gesture casual, but his eyes don't lose their edge of realism.
"Well," he says, "first thing's first—you're already starting with an advantage. Whether you think you're using your father's help or not, the fact remains. He's the founder of that massive group. A name like his doesn't just disappear. So, admitting that… that's your first step."
Harry slowly nods, letting Julian's words settle deep within him. There's no use denying the truth when it's laid out so plainly.
"Right," he says softly. "You're very right about that. I can't deny that I'm already standing on an advantageous point."
There's no resentment in his tone—just honesty. Acceptance.
Julian meets his gaze with a calm sincerity. His voice, low and grounded, carries a weight of genuine care.
"But I really do appreciate what you're trying to do," he says. "The idea of creating a high-quality brand that's still affordable… That's a good approach. Thoughtful. Purposeful." He leans back slightly, arms crossing as his expression turns contemplative. "Well, come up with your brand values. Maybe sketch out a few lines you'd like to develop. When you have something solid, I can take a look with you later."
Harry's eyes widen, surprise lighting up his face like the sun breaking through clouds.
"Really?" he asks, almost breathless. "That would help me so much."
Julian simply shrugs, but there's a warm smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
"I'll pray for you on your journey."
Harry's face softens with gratitude. He beams—a smile filled with new energy, new hope.
"Thanks. That… really means a lot to me."
Grace passes by the campus gate on her way out. Feeling the cold air and the winter stillness around the campus, she notices people walking past, throwing sideways glances at her.
"She's that girl from the photo, right? The one where she's going to the hotel room with the professor?"
"Yeah, I think that's her. Look—she's keeping her head down."
Murmurs follow her as they pass by. Grace keeps her head bowed, staring at the ground. Slowly, after they've gone, she lifts her gaze.
This has been happening for weeks since that photo leaked online. Still, she's not used to it.
She lets out a small sigh. Why won't they believe the truth? I already made it clear on the online community—the stalker uploaded that picture. It's not what it looks like. My room got locked, so I ended up going into his room without knowing Professor Julian was staying nearby. But no one believes me.
A weight presses on her chest, but she doesn't let it show.
Just then, the bus arrives. Grace hops on.
Inside, she finds a seat near the back. A cold breeze drifts through a slightly opened window. She gazes out at the snowy cityscape. It's almost lunchtime, but the city feels gloomier and darker today.
She likes weather like this—gloomy and overcast. It puts her at ease. So she stares quietly out the window.
As the bus nears her apartment, she presses the stop button and rises from her seat.
Walking toward the front, she says, "Thank you," to the driver as she steps off.
She waits at the curb for the traffic light to turn green. The moment it does, she strides forward.
And at that moment—
Screeeech!!!
A loud, piercing sound cuts through the air, followed by gasps and shouts from the people gathered along the road. Grace feels her body lift off the ground, suspended for a terrifying second, pain exploding through her in waves she can barely endure.
Then, with a heavy thud, she crashes onto the cold, unforgiving cement.
"Oh, no!!!"
"Someone's been hit by a car!!!"
Voices rise in panic all around her. Faintly, from the edge of her fading consciousness, she hears the chaos—the screams, the cries—but her eyelids grow heavy and begin to close.
Her mind drifts away, slipping somewhere far beyond the earth.
"Oh, no!!!"
The car door slams open. The driver rushes out, stopping in front of her. She's a woman in her twenties, blood streaming from a wound on her head, staining the cement beneath her in dark, spreading pools.
Someone nearby is already on the phone, urgently dialing 911.
"Hello? I'm on Custine Street—there's been an accident. A woman was just hit by a car. Yes, she's unconscious! Please send help quickly!"
In the darkened hospital room, Monica sits quietly beside her daughter. Grace lies motionless on the bed, a bandage wrapped tightly around her head, eyes closed beneath pale eyelids, dressed in crisp white hospital clothes. A thin hose snakes gently around her mouth, steadying each fragile breath.
"Lord, please… please save her…" Monica whispers, her voice barely more than a trembling breath in the silence of the night.
Outside the window beside her, snow falls softly, blanketing the world in white. Though the clock shows only 5:30 p.m., winter's early dusk has already swallowed the sky, leaving the street utterly dark.
Monica's mind replays the frantic moments from earlier. As a doctor in this very hospital, she was on duty when the emergency call came in—911 reporting a hit-and-run victim. Now, wearing her white coat, she stares at her daughter who lies in a coma, fighting somewhere deep inside her body.
Her eyes drift to the bedside table where Grace's phone rests, its cracked screen dark and lifeless. Monica had taken it the moment Grace was rushed in. Now, Grace has been moved to a private room.
Gently, Monica picks up the phone, her fingers trembling. She presses the power button—and to her surprise, the screen flickers to life, the light piercing through the cracks.
The phone vibrates relentlessly, buzzing with incoming texts and missed calls. Monica's heart tightens as she sees the sender's name.
Professor Julian.
"He's…" Monica breathes, recalling what Grace confided to her in whispered moments before the accident.
For a moment, Monica hesitates, the weight of uncertainty heavy on her chest. Then, with a steadying breath, she swipes to unlock the screen. There is no passcode.
She opens the messages, selects Professor Julian's contact, and presses
The dial tone hums for a few seconds—then, suddenly, the line clicks, and a soft, familiar voice answers.
"Grace?"
There is silence.
"Grace?" the voice repeats, quieter now.
"This is Grace's mother," Monica says firmly, trying to steady her own voice.
There's a silence—heavy, almost unbearable—that stretches for several seconds.
In his dimly lit office, Julian, leaning lazily against the back of his chair just moments ago, suddenly straightens up, startled by the unfamiliar voice. The cold from his half-finished coffee still lingers in the air, but now everything feels frozen in place.
"I… I'm sorry. I didn't know," he says quickly, the words catching in his throat. "I'm Julian. I'm her…"
He pauses, unsure of what he has the right to call himself. His hand grips the armrest of the chair, knuckles tightening.
"…Professor. At the graduate school," he finally manages, the words tumbling out more like an excuse than a title.
Monica hears the hesitation in his voice. It's subtle, but unmistakable. She already knows—Grace had confided in her about him, though cautiously. So she says nothing of it, simply understanding.
"Grace will not be able to answer the phone," Monica says quietly, her tone calm but laced with the weight of sorrow.
"Oh…" Julian's heart stutters. His pulse quickens for reasons he doesn't fully understand. "May I ask why, Ma'am?" he asks gently, his voice lowered in respect.
Monica's eyes drift back to her daughter—Grace, lying still beneath the soft glow of the hospital monitor, her head wrapped in white bandages, her face pale, lips parted slightly beneath the oxygen hose.
"She's… in the hospital," Monica says, her voice faltering despite her efforts to remain composed. "She's unconscious."
The world stops.
Julian's breath catches. For a moment, everything around him dulls—his thoughts, the sounds, the light in the room.