Contact

The meeting is at ten.

You get there at nine fifty-three. Early enough to set up, late enough that you’re not standing in the lobby waiting for someone to let you in. Junho is already there when you arrive, straightening the chairs around the conference table with the specific energy of someone who arrived too early and has run out of things to do.

“You’re here,” he says.

“I work here,” you say.

“Nari’s getting coffee. She said to tell you the projector’s already connected.”

“Good.”

You set your copy of the brief on the table and take your usual seat — second from the head, left side. The head is for the client. You learned early that sitting at the head of your own conference table in a client meeting reads as territorial, and territorial reads as difficult, and difficult is bad for repeat business.

Junho sits across from you. He’s two years younger, junior creative, good instincts, still in the phase of his career where he slightly over-prepares for everything. His copy of the brief has tabs on it. Color-coded.

“You tabbed the brief,” you observe.

“It’s a big account.”

“It’s a brand refresh.”

“A big brand refresh.”

You don’t say anything to that because technically he’s not wrong.

Nari comes in with three coffees balanced in a carrier, sets them down, drops into the seat beside you. She’s been with Studio Sora longer than either of you, which means she has approximately zero anxiety about this meeting and also zero patience for people who do.

“Client’s not here yet,” she says, opening her laptop.

“It’s nine fifty-five,” Junho says.

“Just noting it.”

You open your brief and go through it one more time. Maison Haru — lifestyle and fashion brand, mid-scale, clean aesthetic. Full brand refresh: visual identity, campaign direction, lookbook. Four months, give or take. You’ve done bigger. You’ve done messier. On paper this one looks straightforward, which in your experience usually means it isn’t, but you’ve learned not to borrow trouble before the room fills.

The account came in through a referral. Nayeon. You’ve known her since university, briefly worked at Studio Sora a few years back before taking a job elsewhere. She apparently recommended you to someone at Maison Haru. She texted you about it the week before.

heads up, gave your name to someone. hope that’s okay. you’ll like the brief.

Classic Nayeon. You texted back a thumbs up and didn’t think much more about it.

The door opens at nine fifty-eight.

Two people. The first is a man in his forties — Director Park, based on the brief’s contact sheet. He walks in the way senior people do, like the room was already arranged around him before he arrived. The second person comes in just behind him and she is — not what you were expecting, though you’d struggle to say exactly what you were expecting. She’s young. Your age, maybe younger. She has a notebook tucked under one arm and the look of someone who has already read the brief more carefully than anyone else in the room.

Director Park surveys the table.

“Studio Sora?” he says. More announcement than question.

You stand. “That’s us. I’m Y/N, senior creative lead. This is Nari, creative strategy, and Junho, junior creative.”

Nari gives a short nod. Junho almost stands up, thinks better of it halfway, and ends up doing something in between that he will probably think about later.

“Director Park,” the man says, shaking your hand. “Brand director, Maison Haru.” He gestures beside him. “This is Karina. She’ll be your main point of contact on our end.”

She steps forward and extends her hand.

“Yoo Jimin. Karina’s just what people call me.”

“Either works,” you say.

“Karina’s fine.”

Her handshake is firm. She makes eye contact the way people do when they’ve been told it matters and have practiced it enough that it no longer looks practiced. You let go and gesture toward the seats.