Episode 42
22 October 2025, Wednesday. Late morning. SNU, Building 8, Doosan Humanities Hall.
Doosan Humanities Hall—where chemistry students usually had their Philosophy and Ethics lectures—was located downhill from Building 500.
About a 12–15 minute walk at a brisk pace.
Far less pleasant on the way back—when gravity demanded payback from tired legs.
The philosophy lecture hall was filled with a soft, scattered murmur of shuffling bags, whispered jokes, and the faint tapping of laptop keys.
Professor Han stood near the window, hands clasped behind his back. He looked outside for a moment before speaking.
Min-jae used this pause to type a message to Den.
I am NOT walking back, Hyung. We are taking a bus.
Den glanced at the screen and smiled. His fingers moved lazily across the screen.
As you wish.
But I already convinced Han-bin that walking uphill is excellent for leg definition.
If you insist on the bus, I suppose I'll just have to walk your girlfriend myself.
Min-jae's expression flared with indignation.
I hate you!
Forget it. I am walking Han-bin.
You are a monster, Hyung.
Den smirked at the screen—didn't get the chance to reply. The professor's voice sliced cleanly through the hall, cutting all the conversations.
"When we talk about morality, ethics, justice," Professor Han began, his tone calm and measured, "most people immediately think of rules. Of what is allowed and what is forbidden."
He paused.
"But philosophy begins earlier than that. With the question of how we define those boundaries. What separates good from evil, right from wrong."
He turned to the board.
"Let us imagine a situation," he said.
"A prince is in love with the daughter of a leader from an insignificant clan. However, everyone expects him to choose the daughter of a far more powerful clan—one allied with the crown. If the prince confesses his feelings, what should the girl do?"
The dry marker scratched softly against the board as he wrote.
"Should she pretend she has no feelings and reject him?
Should she accept his love?
Or tell him the truth—but still refuse, citing political realities and the threat of civil war?"
Professor Han turned back to the students.
"How should one act in such a situation?"
He wrote a few more words on the board.
Ataraxia of Stoicism
Greek Romanticism
Mill's Consequentialism
Confucian Harmony
He lowered the marker and faced the class.
"So—how do we define moral and ethical boundaries here using the ideas on the board? Who can say which choice is right? Justified? Fair?"
He scanned the room.
No one spoke.
Then a hand rose.
Professor Han looked over and nodded.
"Yes, Denis. Would you like to share your thoughts?"
Den stood.
His eyes flickered involuntarily toward Mi-yeon. She caught his glance—and immediately lowered her gaze to the desk. He took a breath, cleared his throat, and spoke.
Now he looked back at Professor Han.
"The romantic idealization of ancient Greece tends to end in tragedy—starting with Homer's Iliad. It is hardly the best approach."
"Mill's, Stoics and Confucian position are logically defensible. To destroy thousands of lives through war, to end countless love stories in tragedy—for the sake of a single one—is, mathematically speaking, irrational."
In this scenario, all of them would prioritize one principle above all else: 'do no harm.'"
He hesitated, then continued.
"The prince most likely has a few options. Perhaps he could go to the allied clan leader and ask not to force their marriage—offering something significant in return as proof of loyalty to the alliance. Perhaps he would renounce his title. In politics, everything has a price. Including political marriages. Negotiations are as ancient as the alphabet and offer viable solutions in most cases."
He exhaled.
"But none of that will matter if the girl refuses to admit her feelings."
He paused.
"You gave us a trick question, Professor-nim.
The girl's choice is not about choosing between the prince's politics and his feelings. That's already his choice."
"Her choice is rather about letting him have his choices—or denying him that right.
Regardless of what the Prince's actions should be, if she voluntarily turns away from happiness without even attempting to fight for it—deciding for him, taking away his choice—then it is an act of fear rather than sacrifice.
His gaze shifted, just for a second, toward Mi-yeon's seat. She felt it on the back of her neck.
The room fell completely silent.
Mi-yeon slowly raised her eyes to him, but Den was already looking back at the professor.
"If I were that prince," he said, his voice dropping lower, as if breaking, "I would find a way to be with the girl I love without starting a civil war. I just wish that girl would trust me enough to let me try."
Mi-yeon felt his last words—formal but firm—rip open every wound she had tried to close.
Please forgive me, Den.
I wanted to.
I… I just couldn't.
Professor Han did not respond immediately.
He studied Den for a long moment—his expression neither approving nor dismissive. Then his gaze drifted subtly to Mi-yeon, catching the way her shoulders had tensed, the way her fingers gripped her pen until the knuckles turned white. A flicker of understanding passed through his eyes, brief and professional.
He gave a small, thoughtful nod.
"That," he said calmly, "is a compelling synthesis, Denis. You've taken the ideas on the board and turned them toward a very human question: not just what is right, but who gets to decide what IS right."
A faint ripple of murmurs passed through the class—some nods, some students scribbling notes.
Professor Han paused, letting the silence settle.
"However, allow me to challenge you on that. Trust, as you say, is essential. But trust is rarely given freely in situations of real consequence. Confucius would remind us that harmony requires not only individual courage, but empathy for the burdens others carry.
What if the girl's silence is not the result of fear… but a form of protection? Protection of the Prince himself, from consequences he may not yet fully see?"
Professor Han looked directly at Den.
"Who failed then?
She, because she is afraid?
Or he, because he failed to ensure that she had nothing to fear?"
He let the question hang, gentle but deliberate, his tone inviting reflection rather than confrontation.
Mi-yeon's breath caught. She stared at her notebook, heart pounding.
Professor Han scanned the room once more.
Den opened his mouth…and closed it.
"This is why philosophy does not hand us answers so much as it forces us to question our assumptions. Good contribution, Denis, you may sit down. Does anyone else care to build on this?"
At the end of the class, Professor Han softly excused himself, after announcing an agenda for his next class, left.
Chairs scraped softly as students began to gather their things. Conversations resumed in hushed tones.
Mi-yeon remained seated for a moment longer than usual, her fingers curled tightly around her pen.
Did I make a bigger mistake than I thought I did?
And for the first time since that rainy evening, the thought did not only hurt.
It unsettled her.
22 October 2025, Wednesday. Noon. Duremidam, Building 75, across the road from SNU's chemistry faculty.
At Yuna's enthusiastic insistence, a group of students ended up having lunch together at a small noodle shop not far from campus.
The place was cramped, warm, and noisy—fogged windows, the clatter of chopsticks, the smell of broth and grilled meat clinging to clothes. It was the kind of place students loved because no one cared how loud you laughed or how long you stayed.
Han-bin and Min-jae sat glued together like a pair of lovebirds. They leaned toward each other without realizing it, exchanged glances too soft to hide, and smiled too easily. Anyone with eyes could tell they were dating.
Han-bin sat between Min-jae and Mi-yeon, alongside Yuna.
Across the table were Den, Chang-woo, Soo-yeong, and Se-a.
At the ends of the table across from each other So-mi and Do-hwa found their spots.
Bowls of noodles were emptied quickly. Bottles of beer passed from hand to hand. From two shared skillets in the middle of the table, everyone hunted pieces of fried pork with chopsticks, laughing and complaining when someone stole a piece first.
Yuna, already glowing with energy, suddenly spoke up.
"So, guys—who's going to the paintball competition next weekend?" she asked brightly. "The physics department has won three years in a row. We really need to fix that."
Chang-woo jumped to his feet, chest puffed out dramatically.
"Yes! How long must we endure this humiliation?" he declared, hitting his palm with a fist. "We will crush them on the battlefield! Admiral Yi Sun-sin himself would be proud of us—true sons of Korea, destined for glorious victory!"
Soo-yeong rolled her eyes.
Se-a snorted quietly, hiding her smile as she looked down at her noodles.
Han-bin slammed her chopsticks down lightly, offended.
"Hey, Oppa! Why only sons of Korea?" she shot back. "What is this, Joseon era patriarchy? Women of Korea are capable too, you know! Don't assume we shoot worse than you boys."
She tilted her head, remembering something, then glanced sweetly at Min-jae.
"Right, my rice cake?"
Min-jae immediately choked on his noodles, coughing violently, recalling how Han-bin had been destroying him at the shooting game in the Mall. Every time.
He avoided her eyes.
"Y-yes, of course," he managed. "I'm sure our girls will do great."
Yuna asked again cheerfully,
"Then we need a team name. I suggest 'Group 107.'"
Se-a lifted her gaze.
"Why is that?"
Do-hwa smiled and answered softly.
"You don't remember Se-a? It was our orientation group number. 107. We all met each other then, just like that. Behind one table. It's actually a great name."
Yuna clapped her hands together, delighted.
"Perfect! Then it's settled—everyone's going?"
Mi-yeon stared down into her bowl, her voice small when she answered.
"I don't know… I've never played anything like that. It sounds really scary. Maybe I'll just watch from the side."
But Yuna was not one to accept hesitation.
"Oh, come on, Mi-yeon! It's just a game. You'll like it," she said cheerfully. "We'll find you a solid protector."
Her eyes traveled around the table deliberately.
"Den," she said suddenly, "promise you'll protect our Mi-yeon."
Den turned his head—but not toward Yuna.
He looked directly at Mi-yeon.
"I promise," he said simply.
Mi-yeon flushed all the way to the tips of her ears.
Yuna, seriously?! she thought frantically. Emotions cascaded in her mind.
Agh…who am I kidding… I am happy about it.
Out loud, she forced herself to answer.
"…Okay. I'll try."
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and focused back on her food, pretending to be calm, pretending her heart wasn't racing.
Across the table, Den watched her quietly.
And no one missed how gentle his expression was.