Man with No Nunchi (눈치 없는 남자)

Episode 1 

3 March 2025, Monday, Orientation Day. Noon. Main gate of Seoul National University.

The chilly air buzzed with nervous excitement.

Freshmen streamed along the paved paths toward the Chemistry Faculty building—some walking confidently, others pretending they weren’t completely lost. Backpacks were new, shoes too clean, smiles a little too rehearsed.

Jeong Mi-yeon walked toward the university gates with careful, measured steps, barely containing her nervous excitement.

The campus rose ahead of her—wide paths, clean stone buildings, banners welcoming freshmen fluttering softly in the breeze. Everything looked exactly like the photos she had stared at on her old phone late at night, lying under a thin blanket in her parents’ house near Chuncheon.

I’m really here.

She tightened her grip on the strap of her backpack. It wasn’t new. She had scrubbed it carefully the night before, making sure there were no loose threads, no stains that might give her away. Her clothes were simple too—nothing fashionable—but neat, feminine, chosen with care.

The chemistry program at SNU was her dream. The lectures, state-of-the-art labs, and student festivals—things she had only ever imagined through the university’s booklets and borrowed prep materials. She had studied until her eyes burned, until numbers and formulas followed her into sleep.

She loved studying. Equations did not mock her. Reactions followed rules.

She had a scholarship. Without it, university would be impossible. Her parents had smiled proudly when the acceptance letter came, but she had seen the relief behind their joy. No loans. No impossible sacrifices. Their daughter had made it on her own.

I did it. I earned this.

And yet, with every step closer to the campus, the familiar anxiety crept in.

Mi-yeon adjusted the neckline of her blouse automatically. The motion was unconscious, practiced over years.

University will be different.

Around her, groups of freshmen laughed, took photos, compared schedules. Girls with styled hair and careful makeup walked confidently, already belonging. Mi-yeon kept a small distance, letting them pass, slipping through gaps when they opened.

She caught a glimpse of older students wearing armbands—student council, orientation leaders.

Mi-yeon walked toward them.

Seconds later, someone else cut across the same line of steps.

After hours of document checks, signatures, polite bows, a young man—confused by directions and quietly swearing in Russian—finally stepped through the main gate for the first time.

Denis Sokolov—or Den, as he introduced himself—walked at a steady pace. Tall, foreign, slightly out of step with the crowd. Backpack on one shoulder. Eyes scanning the unfamiliar space with quiet alertness.

No one seemed to care about his presence. Jeong Mi-yeon most certainly didn’t.

Near the main entrance, at the students registration desk, Mi-yeon stood clutching a thin paper folder to her chest. The folder held scholarship confirmation, her proof that she belonged here. Her fingers pressed into its edge unconsciously.

She felt small. The crowd flowed around her like a river around a stone, splitting, rejoining, never stopping for her. Older students clustered near the desk, laughing softly, whispering, leaning close to one another. Their bodies formed a loose barrier, unintentional yet absolute.

Mi-yeon took a half-step forward. Then stopped. They weren’t looking at her, but she could feel it—the way people’s eyes slid past her and still recorded everything. Her posture. Her clothes. The way she hesitated.

If I interrupt, they’ll sigh, she thought. Or look at me like I’m stupid.

She looked around. From the other side of the stairs, Kim Soo-yeong passed by. A small crowd of students seemed to follow her.

She was impossible not to notice—elegantly styled hair, fitted clothes, phone held loosely in one manicured hand. Other girls moved with her, orbiting naturally, laughing at something on her screen. Confidence clung to her like perfume.

Soo-yeong’s eyes flicked toward Mi-yeon. It was quick. Efficient. The look of someone who didn’t need time to decide. Mi-yeon felt it land on her skin like a cold drop of water.

She already knows.

Mi-yeon thought, her stomach tightening.

She’s decided what I am.

Soo-yeong’s gaze moved on just as quickly, dismissively, uninterested.

It’s okay. I don’t need her to like me. I just need my schedule.

She glanced back at the registration desk. The whispering seniors were still there, heads close together now, smiles sharp with private amusement. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she didn’t need to.

Wait a little, she told herself. When they leave.

Behind her, the flow of people shifted. Someone’s presence cut through the space—not loud, but unmistakable.

Den passed through the entrance hall, foreignness wrapped around him like a quiet anomaly.

If Mi-yeon moved like water, slipping around bodies, Den moved like a wedge—splitting the flow, earning disapproving looks without even noticing.

Mi-yeon didn’t look at him. Not at first.

Her focus was fixed on the desk, on the seniors blocking it, on the growing anxiety tightening her chest. She swallowed and shifted her weight from one foot to the other. She even tried to stand on her tiptoes, to no avail.

Den stopped near the registration desk, lifting his gaze slightly to read the printed lists and signs above it. Being tall had its advantages—over the heads and shoulders of the crowd, the information was visible without effort. Room numbers. Group codes. Arrows pointing deeper into the building.

Mi-yeon was still standing just a step away. Still behind someone’s back. She shifted to the side when one of the seniors finally moved, a small opening appearing like a crack in a wall. Her heart jumped.

Now.

She leaned forward slightly, eyes lifting… and Kim Soo-yeong stepped smoothly into the space. It wasn’t abrupt. It wasn’t aggressive. It was practiced.

“Oh—sorry,” Soo-yeong said lightly, turning just enough to block Mi-yeon’s view completely. Her smile was soft, almost apologetic. “I was already standing here.”

Mi-yeon froze. Her mouth opened, then closed again. No sound came out. She felt the familiar heat creep up her neck, the tight pressure behind her eyes.

She did it on purpose.

Mi-yeon thought immediately—and then hated herself for thinking it.

No. Maybe she really was here. Don’t cause trouble.

She took half a step back, instinctively retreating. The folder pressed harder against her chest, like a shield that wasn’t strong enough.

It’s fine. I’ll just wait again.

Den saw it. Small, ugly adjustment in space. A girl stepping forward with ease. Another being erased without a word.

His eyes dropped briefly—not to Mi-yeon’s face, but to the folder she was holding. The group number was printed clearly in the corner.

“107”.

The same as his. He glanced back at the board once more, confirming it, then turned slightly—not toward Soo-yeong, but toward the girl who had been pushed out of view.

“107? We are in Building 500,” he said calmly, in accented but clear Korean.

His voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t demand attention. “Third floor. Room 301. That’s where our group orientation is.”

Mi-yeon blinked. For a second, she didn’t understand that he was speaking to her. Then it registered.

Our group.

She looked up instinctively. He was tall—much taller than she expected up close. Sharp cheekbones, pale gray eyes that didn’t smile automatically, didn’t soften to make things easier. He wasn’t trying to be kind in the way people usually tried. He was just… stating information.

“Oh—” Her voice came out too quiet. She cleared her throat, embarrassed. “Thank you.”

She automatically bent forward in a light bow.

Den nodded once, already turning away.

Kim Soo-yeong’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second.

But Mi-yeon was too distracted to notice. She was watching him disappear into the crowd.

He could have just left.

I mattered enough for him to speak to me.

Something pulled at Mi-yeon from inside. Not courage, more like a quiet gravity she didn’t know how to resist. She took a few quick steps and followed him toward Building 500.

Mi-yeon didn’t walk beside him.

Never beside. Just behind, half a pace back.

Enough distance so no one could say that she was with him.

This is stupid. I don’t even know him.

But her feet kept going. Den walked with long, unhurried strides, cutting through the stream of freshmen without pushing or apologizing. People adjusted around him instinctively. Mi-yeon slipped into that wake like a leaf behind a boat, barely noticed.

Her body loosened a bit.

It’s quieter behind him, she realized. When everyone looks at him, no one looks at me.

She kept her eyes down, focused on the floor, on the back of his shoes, counting steps like she used to count breaths when panic crept in. She could smell something faint—soap, maybe laundry detergent. Not a perfume, something ordinary.

Don’t get ideas, she warned herself. You are not friends with him. You’re just walking the same way.

They reached the building entrance, went through the lobby and followed other students to the third floor. Lecture hall 301. Wide doors. A sign announcing freshman orientation for the chemistry faculty. At the doorway stood two figures who didn’t need an introduction.

Ko Su-ho was unmistakable even at a distance—tall, composed, sharp-featured, his presence quiet but absolute. Beside him stood Choi Mi-rae, calm and confident, her expression warm without being overly soft. They wore the armbands of student council seniors, standing so close to each other. Obviously a couple.

“Those two,” someone whispered behind Mi-yeon. “Student council. They’re… kind of famous around here.”

Mi-rae smiled at the incoming students. “Welcome. Please come in and take any seat. Orientation will begin shortly.”

Su-ho nodded, his gaze briefly scanning the room, ensuring order without saying a word.

Den walked in first, barely reacting. For him, famous seniors were just… seniors.

Mi-yeon hesitated at the threshold.

Just go in. Everyone else did.

3 March 2025, Monday. Early afternoon. SNU’s chemistry faculty, lecture hall 500-301.

She followed, still a step behind him, and slipped into the lecture hall. Rows of seats spread out like a challenge. Groups were already forming—girls sitting together, boys claiming rows with loud confidence. Laughter bounced off the walls.

Mi-yeon slowed, suddenly unsure.

Where do I sit? If I choose wrong, I’ll look strange.

If I sit alone, it’ll be obvious.

Den stopped a few rows down and took a seat near the aisle close to the window.

Mi-yeon passed him. She took a seat one row behind, closer to the edge, where she could leave easily if needed. Close enough that his presence still buffered the noise. Far enough that no one could mistake it for intention.

She sat very straight, smoothing her skirt, aligning her folder on her lap like an anchor.

This is fine, she told herself, breathing out slowly. This is already better than I expected.

Up front, Mi-rae’s voice carried gently across the room as the doors closed.

Mi-yeon lowered her gaze, listening to the senior. She didn’t look at Den again. But she was acutely aware that he was there.

Den claimed his seat without ceremony. He placed his backpack on the chair beside him—casually, decisively—blocking the spot. Then he hooked one knee between himself and the desk, leaned back, and tipped the chair onto two legs with the ease of someone who trusted his balance.

The display immediately earned him a few disapproving glances.

His gaze turned outward.

The campus lawn slid past the window in fragments of green and concrete. Voices filled the room—excited, loud, overlapping—but he didn’t engage.

Behind him, a few seats away, Mi-yeon sat very still. The chair next to her remained empty. She noticed it immediately. Not because she wanted company—but because emptiness had a sound to it. A quiet confirmation.

Boys passed her row without slowing, eyes drifting instead toward girls with curled hair, glossy lips, bright laughter. Girls scanned rows the same way, measuring jackets, bags, shoes, silently ranking one another before choosing where to sit.

Mi-yeon folded her hands neatly over her folder.

Of course, she thought, without bitterness.

No one would choose this.

Caution didn’t attract attention—but it also didn’t repel cruelty as much as she wished. Seats filled. Laughs popped and faded. The chair beside her stayed untouched.

Her eyes drifted forward, unbidden.

Den’s silhouette stood out even seated—long limbs, broad shoulders, the quiet defiance of someone not trying to fit in. The backpack on the neighboring chair was an unmistakable barrier.

He doesn’t want anyone there, she realized.

I don’t either!

Mi-yeon adjusted her skirt again, smoothed the corner of her folder, and sat straighter.

She lifted her eyes just in time to see Kim Soo-yeong arrive.

Soo-yeong didn’t hurry. She moved down the aisle as if the room had been waiting for her specifically, light catching in her hair, posture relaxed, confident. She stopped closer to the center of the lecture hall, not at the front, not at the back—exactly where people would see her best.

Almost immediately, other girls clustered around her.

“Soo-yeong-ssi, are you thinking of dance club or vocal?”

“You danced in high school, right?”

“I heard the vocal club has good-looking seniors…”

Soo-yeong smiled, tilted her head and answered something easily.

Mi-yeon watched from her seat, feeling the familiar distance stretch between herself and that kind of girl.

Some people belong everywhere, she thought with a little envy. They don’t even have to try.

Soo-yeong’s eyes flicked briefly across the room and caught a couple of boys watching her.

The boys immediately pretended to look elsewhere.

Her gaze lingered for a moment—not interested, not shy, but assessing. Then she moved on, apparently satisfied.

Mi-yeon lowered her eyes before Soo-yeong’s gaze could reach her, her heart giving a small, nervous twist.

Another girl entered quietly. That was Baek So-mi. She moved differently—precise, contained. Her clothes were expensive but understated, her expression cool, eyes sharp with attention. She scanned the room once and chose a seat in the very first row.

Front and center.

So-mi sat straight, notebook already open, pen aligned neatly. She didn’t look around for approval. She assumed her place.

Few more students walked in.

The last to enter was not a freshman.

Mi-yeon noticed her immediately, and so did everyone else. Short, tailored black skirt—professional in cut, intentional in length. Long legs in open-toe heels. Confident stride. She didn’t belong to this nervous, buzzing atmosphere—and that was obvious. An assistant. A senior. Someone who knew exactly where she stood in the hierarchy.

A voice called her out, ”Oh, Yu-ra sunbae!”

Yu-ra’s gaze swept the room lazily—and stopped on that foreign freshman. Only for a moment. Then she looked away, lips curling slightly, already filing him somewhere in her mind.

Mi-yeon felt oddly relieved when that gaze moved on. The seats filled. The noise softened into a restless hum.

Ko Su-ho stepped forward and closed the door.

The sound echoed—firm, final. He moved to the front, standing beside the lectern, and clapped his hands once, sharply.

The room quieted.

“Alright,” he said, voice calm, carrying easily. “Welcome to the chemistry faculty. Congratulations—your life just officially became harder than it was in high school.”

Laughter rolled through the lecture hall, nervous but genuine.

Mi-yeon smiled faintly without meaning to.

The room slowly settled as the orientation began in earnest. Mi-rae’s voice moved from welcoming to instructive.

Mi-yeon listened carefully, taking mental notes, nodding at the right moments. This part—this she could do. Rules. Information. Structure. And yet, beneath it all, she was aware of two empty spaces.

It’s fine.

She thought again, softer this time:

I’m used to this. At least… I’m not the only one sitting alone.

After Mi-rae was done with the formal welcoming speech, she passed the mic to Su-ho.

Su-ho continued, relaxed but authoritative. “Before we proceed, let’s get to know each other. One by one—stand up, as I call you, say your name, where you’re from, and what you expect from your studies.”

He gestured to the first row.

Students began standing.

Baek So-mi spoke crisply, efficiently. No wasted words. Others followed—some voices shaky, some too loud, some awkwardly joking.

Mi-yeon’s heartbeat started to speed up.

It’s day one, she thought, fingers tightening in her lap. Don’t mess up on day one. Just say your name.

Her eyes were focused on the grain of the wooden desk, her mind—on breathing evenly.

Su-ho’s gaze moved down the rows.

“Next—Sokolov Denis,” he called, looking into his papers.

“Did I pronounce that correctly? From Russia, right? Go ahead.”

Mi-yeon looked up instinctively.

Den stood without hesitation, pushing his chair flat and straightening to his full height. Heads turned toward him. A few whispers passed through the room.

He looked entirely unconcerned.

For a moment, Mi-yeon wondered if he would say something stiff, formal, foreign. Instead, he rubbed the back of his head with an almost embarrassed smile.

“Well, Korea is amazing. SNU is a very respectable institution. Besides, just this morning alone, I saw about a dozen very pretty reasons why I should study here rather than anywhere else.”

For half a second, the lecture hall was silent.

Then scattered laughter broke out. A few boys laughed louder than the joke deserved. Some girls covered their mouths, though their smiles faded almost immediately.

The laughter died sooner than Den seemed to expect.

At the front, Ko Su-ho rolled his eyes.

“A little too bold for an introduction,” he said dryly. “Don’t forget your name and age.”

Den lifted one shoulder, finally realizing that the joke had not landed quite as intended.

“Right. Sorry. I’m Den. I’m twenty-one.”

He sat down.

Mi-yeon stared at him in open disbelief.

That was… She searched for the word. Brave? No. Arrogant? No…

What the hell was it?!

Den had already leaned back again, his gaze drifting away as if the moment were over. For everyone else, it wasn’t—not quite.

So-mi’s pen paused for a fraction of a second before continuing.

One corner of Yu-ra’s mouth curved upward. She wasn’t laughing, but she didn’t look offended either. If anything, she seemed entertained.

Kim Soo-yeong leaned toward Hwang Se-a. “He’s weird,” she murmured. “Typical foreigner.”

A few boys exchanged amused looks.

Mi-yeon swallowed.

After him… it couldn’t be worse, could it?

Then she heard her name. Her heart dropped.

“Next,” Ko Su-ho said calmly. “Jeong Mi-yeon.”

Mi-yeon rose slowly, carefully. Her fingers were locked together so tightly that her knuckles paled. Her shoulders curved inward despite her effort to straighten.

She could feel her heartbeat in her throat.

“I…” Her voice trembled—only slightly, but she felt it immediately, like a crack in glass. “Jeong Mi-yeon.”

She swallowed.

“I’m… nineteen, and I’m from Chuncheon… and…”

Her thoughts scattered for a second, panic threatening to blur everything.

“…I just want… to study well.”

Silence followed. It wasn’t awkward or mocking, just empty. No one laughed. Actually, no one reacted strongly at all. Which, somehow, hurt more.

Soo-yeong turned her head away openly now, gaze sliding past Mi-yeon like she hadn’t spoken or the sound had been irrelevant.

Mi-yeon sensed the heat rise in her face.

That’s it, she told herself quickly. It’s fine. Sit down.

She lowered herself back into her seat almost immediately. Her hands stayed clasped in her lap, breathing was shallow.

Around the room, the introductions continued. Min-jae stood next. Then someone else. Voices overlapped again.

She didn’t look at Den again. Although she wanted to.

When the last introduction faded and the room’s attention began to loosen again, Choi Mi-rae stepped forward with that calm, practiced warmth that made even a crowded lecture hall feel slightly less threatening.

“Alright,” she said, smiling as she looked across the freshmen. “Now we’ll do a small team task to help you get acquainted. Break into pairs—two people. Whoever is sitting next to you, that’s your pair.”

A soft wave of movement rolled through the seats.

Chairs scraped lightly. Students turned toward their neighbors with easy laughter. Voices overlapped as names were repeated again.

Mi-yeon stayed still. The empty chair beside her looked suddenly brighter, louder, more obvious than it had a minute ago.

If I pretend I’m busy, maybe…

She adjusted her folder, fingers fidgeting, eyes fixed on the paper even though there was nothing new on it. Around her, nearly every seat was already “claimed” by a natural pair—two girls leaning closer, two boys fist-bumping, someone playfully nudging the person next to them.

No one hurried toward Mi-yeon, no one even hesitated near her row. It wasn’t dramatic cruelty. Just an ordinary selection process that never included her.

A few seats ahead, Den remained as he had been—backpack still planted on the chair beside him like a territorial marker. His posture said he didn’t need anyone. That he preferred not to.

Choi Mi-rae’s eyes moved over the room, scanning for leftovers—the ones who hadn’t paired up.

Her gaze paused.

“Oh—right.” Mi-rae’s tone stayed light but clear. “Den, you’re without a pair.”