Work Text:
INT. LOCAL SHOE STORE – DAY
A bell chimes as the glass door swings open.
Inside, the store is half-stocked, half-forgotten — shelves of boxed shoes, a humming ceiling fan, sunlight leaking through dusty blinds.
At the counter sits Mr. Choi, a grizzled shop owner in his late 50s, sharp eyes, cautious posture.
Across from him stands Ka Tae-pong (late 20s) — well-dressed but nervous, trying very hard to look like a man who belongs here.
A silence hangs between them. Tae-pong clears his throat, forcing a polite smile. He gestures to a small pair of black leather shoes on the counter.
TAE-PONG
These— uh— are our newest model. Genuine Korean leather. Flexible sole. Perfect for customers who, you know, walk a lot.
Mr. Choi just looks at him. No reaction.
MR. CHOI
I heard your father’s name around town before. Typhoon Trades, right? But yours… this is the first time I’ve heard it.
Tae-pong freezes for a moment, then straightens, placing a hand on his chest — polite, overly formal.
TAE-PONG
It’s Ka Tae-pong, sir. The pleasure’s mine.
Mr. Choi lets out a quiet scoff. The fan hums louder.
MR. CHOI
You’re young. Why sell shoes when the whole country’s broke?
TAE-PONG
That’s… exactly why, sir. People still need to walk — maybe more than ever.
Mr. Choi blinks at him — uncertain if it’s clever or just naïve.
MR. CHOI
Hmph. You talk like a salesman, not a trader. Your father — he was sharp. Numbers, margins, logistics. You—
(smirks)
You look like you just came from a bar.
Tae-pong laughs awkwardly, rubbing his neck.
TAE-PONG
I’ve been… cutting back.
Silence again. Mr. Choi leans forward, studying the shoes, then the man.
MR. CHOI
So tell me, Mr. Ka Tae-pong... What makes you think I should buy from you?
Tae-pong blinks — the question hits like a punch. He looks down at the shoes, then back at the older man — scrambling for the right words.
CUT TO:
INT. LOCAL SHOE STORE – CONTINUOUS
Tae-pong forces a confident smile and opens a folder — crumpled printouts, half-organized. He lays out sketches, photos, and a pricing sheet like a magician revealing his cards.
TAE-PONG
This model is part of our—uh—revitalization line. The goal is to make quality affordable again. We handle delivery ourselves, so there’s no middleman markup.
Mr. Choi raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.
MR. CHOI
Delivery? You have trucks?
TAE-PONG
We… will. Soon.
MR. CHOI
Mm. And what about your manufacturer? You still import from Busan?
Tae-pong laughs lightly, hoping it sounds casual.
TAE-PONG
Import licenses got tricky after the won collapsed. So we’re… sourcing locally now.
MR. CHOI
That means expensive.
TAE-PONG
It means reliable.
The word hangs there, not quite convincing either of them. Tae-pong flips a page — his hands are slightly trembling. He points at a number that doesn’t mean much.
TAE-PONG
If we partner, I can give you thirty percent below retail. You won’t find that deal anywhere in Seoul.
MR. CHOI
Thirty percent below retail means you’ll lose money. So who’s really paying the price, kid?
Tae-pong falters. He opens his mouth, closes it again.
TAE-PONG
I’m… investing in relationships.
MR. CHOI
Sounds like you’re investing in a grave.
He chuckles, not cruel — just realistic. Tae-pong’s grin fades. A clock ticks somewhere.
MR. CHOI
(CONT'D)
You said Typhoon Trades, right? That company went down with the crisis.
TAE-PONG
We’re not down. We’re just— —leaner.
MR. CHOI
Leaner. Hah. That’s one way to say “half dead.”
Tae-pong laughs quietly, though it hurts. He glances at the shoes again — two neat pairs waiting for a buyer, like loyal dogs.
TAE-PONG
Maybe. But sometimes half-dead things come back stronger.
Mr. Choi looks at him for a long moment — almost pitying.
MR. CHOI
You’re your father’s son, alright. All heart, no plan.
Tae-pong tries to keep smiling, but the light in his eyes dims a little. He takes a breath, about to speak — but the door chimes again.
INT. LOCAL SHOE STORE – CONTINUOUS
The door chimes again. Both men turn as Oh Mi-seon (late 20s) steps in — brisk, composed, a folder clutched tightly in one arm. Her hair is slightly windswept; she’s been rushing.
MI-SEON
Mr. Ka, the meeting was supposed to start at five, not four.
Tae-pong freezes, smile flickering like a dying lightbulb. He glances at his wristwatch — as if that will save him.
TAE-PONG
Was it? Oh— right, Mianhe, I— must’ve— misread.
Her eyes narrow just a little — not angry, just assessing. It’s a look that says, You really didn’t plan this, did you?
MR. CHOI
And who’s this? Your assistant?
TAE-PONG
Head of Trading Department. Oh Mi-seon.
Mi-seon gives a short, respectful bow.
MI-SEON
It’s an honor to meet you, sir.
Mr. Choi looks between them, skeptical.
MR. CHOI
Head of Trading, hm? Typhoon Trades must be hiring fast these days.
A flicker crosses Mi-seon’s face — she registers the jab but doesn’t react. Tae-pong steps in, trying to smooth it over.
TAE-PONG
She’s been with the company for— —long enough to save my skin more than once.
MR. CHOI
A woman trader. Haven’t seen many of those.
Mi-seon’s polite expression hardens for a fraction of a second.
TAE-PONG
Let’s not be so old-fashioned, sir. She’s sharper than most of the men I know.
The older man snorts.
MR. CHOI
We’ll see about that.
He leans back, folding his arms. Mi-seon glances at Tae-pong — the smallest flick of annoyance. Her tone turns measured, clipped.
MI-SEON
So far, you’ve discussed price and supply, correct?
MR. CHOI
You’re late, Miss Oh. Think you can catch up that fast?
MI-SEON
Depends how fast the conversation’s been going.
Tae-pong nearly laughs but swallows it, watching as she sets down her folder. Her demeanor shifts — calm, controlled, analytical.
CLOSE ON: MI-SEON’S HANDS
She flips open a page of printed data — steady, not rushed.
MI-SEON
Your shops are mid-tier, focused on affordability. But your imports from Taiwan are delayed — am I right? That means shelves empty before winter.
Mr. Choi blinks — caught off guard.
MI-SEON
(CONT'D)
If you switch to our domestic line now, we can cut your delivery wait by forty percent. No import licenses. No customs. And yes — the material holds up in cold weather.
Mr. Choi stares at her, then at the shoes again. The fan hums. He’s not convinced yet — but he’s listening.
Tae-pong watches in quiet awe — she’s just taken over the room.
TAE-PONG
(under his breath)
Kapchagi…
She doesn’t look at him — eyes fixed on the client, steady as a blade.
INT. LOCAL SHOE STORE – CONTINUOUS
The silence stretches. Mi-seon keeps her eyes on the paperwork — calm, unflinching. Mr. Choi crosses his arms, testing her.
MR. CHOI
You’ve done your homework. But numbers don’t walk off shelves. Customers do. Why should I risk my business on your company when half of Seoul’s closing shop?
Mi-seon lifts her gaze slowly.
MI-SEON
Because the other half still needs shoes. People aren’t buying luxuries anymore. They’re buying what lasts. And we’re the only local supplier still paying our workers on time.
That makes him blink. A small hit. Tae-pong’s eyes widen — he didn’t even know that.
MR. CHOI
Paying workers, hm? Must be a miracle.
MI-SEON
Not a miracle. A plan. Our factory took wage cuts instead of layoffs. It wasn’t easy, but people stayed. And they deliver because they still believe the company will survive.
Mr. Choi studies her — the tone in her voice has quiet steel. Tae-pong, trying to help, jumps in with a grin:
TAE-PONG
Exactly! Typhoon Trades doesn’t sink. Just— little storm damage, that’s all.
He laughs nervously. Both of them look at him. He coughs, stepping back.
MR. CHOI
And what do you know about storms, Mr. Ka?
TAE-PONG
Enough to bring an umbrella next time.
Mr. Choi snorts, almost amused despite himself. Mi-seon hides a smirk.
CLOSE ON – THE SHOES ON THE COUNTER
Mi-seon reaches for them, turning one in her hand.
MI-SEON
The soles are reinforced — hand-stitched. Not like the imported ones that crack after a month. You’ll save money long-term because customers will come back to you, not to complain.
Mr. Choi leans forward, curiosity replacing skepticism.
MR. CHOI
Huh. You talk like someone who’s worn them.
MI-SEON
I do. These are mine.
She steps aside, revealing she’s wearing the same model — scuffed from real use.
A pause. Then— Mr. Choi chuckles. The first real laugh of the meeting.
MR. CHOI
Well, you’re convincing, I’ll give you that. You’re wasted behind a desk, Miss Oh.
MI-SEON
I prefer standing when I work.
Tae-pong breaks into a grin — half admiration, half disbelief. He can’t help whispering:
TAE-PONG
You’re terrifying.
MI-SEON
You’re welcome.
Mr. Choi stands, sliding the papers back toward her.
MR. CHOI
Alright. I’ll take a trial batch. If it sells, we’ll talk long-term.
Tae-pong blinks, then bursts out—
TAE-PONG
Really? I mean— thank you, sir! You won’t regret this.
Mr. Choi shakes both their hands. Mi-seon’s grip is firm, steady — professional. Tae-pong’s is too eager, almost boyish.
EXT. STREET OUTSIDE SHOE STORE – LATE AFTERNOON
The door closes behind them. For a moment, they both stand there, the city noise washing over — cars, chatter, the faint echo of distant construction.
Tae-pong turns to her, eyes wide with childlike wonder.
TAE-PONG
Miss Oh… you were so cool. Like— I don’t even know what that was, but— wow.
She exhales a soft laugh, trying to stay composed.
MI-SEON
You forgot to tell me about the meeting.
TAE-PONG
I said sorry already! Well— in my head.
MI-SEON
Try saying it out loud next time.
TAE-PONG
Deal.
They walk side by side, not quite synchronized yet.
The light catches their reflections in the shop windows — two mismatched silhouettes heading into something new.
EXT. SEOUL SIDE STREET – LATE AFTERNOON
The sky is dimming — orange light bleeding into a gray city. Mi-seon and Tae-pong walk down a narrow street lined with shuttered shops and leftover banners from better days.
He’s practically skipping. She’s clutching her folder like it might vanish if she relaxes.
TAE-PONG
I mean— did you see his face? He went from “no way” to “maybe” to “please sign me up.” That was incredible. You were incredible.
MI-SEON
He just needed numbers that made sense.
TAE-PONG
No— he needed you. You had that— that thing. Confidence. Like you were born to save clueless bosses from humiliation.
Mi-seon glances sideways — unimpressed but secretly amused.
MI-SEON
Clueless bosses shouldn’t schedule meetings without telling their traders.
TAE-PONG
Point taken. I’ll start sending memos. Or— pigeons. Whatever works faster.
She tries not to smile, but it slips. They pause at a crosswalk. A small gust lifts bits of newspaper down the road — headlines about layoffs and the economy. For a moment, both fall silent.
MI-SEON
You think he’ll really go through with it?
TAE-PONG
Yeah. He liked you. And even if he didn’t— —he’s too scared to say no after that speech about cold weather and cracked soles.
She lets out a small laugh, quick and genuine.
MI-SEON
It wasn’t a speech. It was… logic.
TAE-PONG
Yeah, logic with fire behind it. Don’t downplay it — you just landed Typhoon’s first deal since the meltdown.
A moment. The realization hits her. Mi-seon looks down at her hand — the one that sealed the deal. She flexes her fingers slightly, almost like she’s making sure it really happened.
MI-SEON
I’ve… never signed a deal before.
TAE-PONG
Well, that makes two of us.
Their eyes meet — brief, awkward, but honest. They start walking again, the rhythm slower now. Neon signs flicker on, one by one, reflecting on the wet pavement.
TAE-PONG
You know, we should celebrate.
MI-SEON
Celebrate? With what money?
TAE-PONG
Who said anything about money? We’ll celebrate like broke geniuses.
MI-SEON
That doesn’t sound safe.
TAE-PONG
Miss Oh, life’s already unsafe. That’s why we need a little chaos — keeps the heart from rusting.
She gives him a long look, half disapproval, half intrigue. For the first time, there’s warmth between them — subtle, growing. He tilts his head toward a street corner where the sound of a band tuning up echoes faintly.
TAE-PONG
(CONT'D)
Trust me. You’ve been saving this company all day. Let me save you from being boring for one night.
MI-SEON
…You’re impossible.
TAE-PONG
That’s the fun part.
They cross the street together, disappearing into the crowd. A neon sign flickers to life behind them — TYPHOON TRADES barely visible through the reflection on a passing bus window.
CUT TO:
INT. SMALL CLUB – NIGHT
Warm light, packed crowd. A live band plays upbeat 90s funk-pop; the air smells like smoke and cheap perfume.
Tae-pong pushes through the people, laughing, while Mi-seon follows cautiously, clutching her purse like a shield.
TAE-PONG
Come on! Don’t tell me you’ve never been to a place like this!
MI-SEON
I haven’t.
He turns, walking backward, eyes wide with mock disbelief.
TAE-PONG
Not even once? College parties? Company dinners? Karaoke?
MI-SEON
I read books.
He laughs — not at her, but with a kind of delighted surprise.
TAE-PONG
Then consider this… continuing education.
They reach the bar. The bartender glances up.
TAE-PONG
(to bartender)
Whatever she’s having.
MI-SEON
I didn’t order anything.
TAE-PONG
Then you’ll have the mystery special.
She frowns, but there’s a faint hint of amusement. He leans closer, the music swelling around them.
TAE-PONG
Ms. Oh… No, actually— I’ll just call you Mi-seon-a for tonight.
He smirks — playful, teasing, but not mocking. It catches her completely off-guard.
MI-SEON
You’re aware that’s not workplace-appropriate.
TAE-PONG
Exactly. That’s why it’s perfect for a night off.
She doesn’t answer — but the corner of her mouth lifts, just barely.
A man passing by accidentally bumps into her shoulder, nearly spilling her drink. Tae-pong reacts without thinking — hand at her waist, steadying her, voice sharp over the music.
TAE-PONG
Hey— watch your step, man!
The stranger mumbles an apology and disappears into the crowd. Tae-pong turns back — close now, his hand still there for half a second before he pulls away.
TAE-PONG
(softer)
You okay?
Mi-seon nods, a faint blush rising to her cheeks. He notices — just for a heartbeat — and that smile of his shifts from playful to something warmer. She looks away quickly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, pretending to focus on her glass.
TAE-PONG
(lightly)
Guess the city’s not used to traders in heels.
MI-SEON
Guess some people don’t know how to walk.
The bartender slides them two drinks. They clink glasses. Her first sip makes her cough; he laughs and pats her back.
TAE-PONG
You’re supposed to taste it, not fight it.
MI-SEON
That is fighting it.
He grins — she’s starting to relax, even if she won’t admit it.
ON STAGE
The next band starts — faster rhythm, electric guitar, wild energy. People surge forward to dance.
TAE-PONG
That’s it. That’s the good stuff. Come on. Let’s go.
MI-SEON
I’m fine here.
TAE-PONG
You’re boring here.
Before she can protest, he grabs both her hands — gentle but insistent — and pulls her into the crowd. The lights flash over them.
Mi-seon stands stiffly at first, surrounded by people moving like waves.
MI-SEON
I don’t know how to—
TAE-PONG
Just take it in. Don’t think it through.
He starts bouncing with the rhythm, still holding her hands. She resists for half a beat — then gives in, almost shyly. A few awkward steps… then laughter slips out of her — real, unguarded.
Tae-pong watches her face light up for the first time all day. He laughs too, spinning her once — just enough to make her stumble, then steady herself with a hand on his shoulder.
The crowd roars around them — but for a second, it’s just the two of them.
CLOSE ON – MI-SEON
She’s breathing hard, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. Her smile is small but alive. Something shifts quietly — not romance yet, but connection.
TAE-PONG
(softly)
See? You’re not made of spreadsheets after all.
MI-SEON
And you’re not as hopeless as I thought.
TAE-PONG
That’s progress.
WIDE SHOT – THE DANCE FLOOR
The camera pulls back slowly: Music, motion, warmth — two figures amid a crowd of strangers, finding a rhythm of their own.
EXT. SEOUL RIVERSIDE – NIGHT (LATER)
The music fades under the low hum of the city. Streetlights ripple across the Han River.
Mi-seon and Tae-pong walk along the path, shoes clicking softly against the pavement. Both a little tipsy, both quiet.
TAE-PONG
You dance better than you think.
MI-SEON
I tripped twice.
TAE-PONG
Still better than me.
A beat of silence. Mi-seon looks out at the water, the distant glow of skyscrapers.
MI-SEON
Tomorrow, the real work starts again.
TAE-PONG
Then we’ll start again.
She glances at him — unsure whether he means the company or them. A gust of wind lifts her hair. He steps closer, offering his jacket without a word. She takes it.
They keep walking — no music now, just footsteps and the faint hum of night traffic.
FADE OUT:
(signed) Silver
Thank you for reading 💗
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