The school bathroom smelled of damp tile and cheap soap. Moon Dong-eun stood frozen against the wall, her uniform already torn at the collar. Park Yeon-jin smiled that sweet, poisonous smile, curling iron glowing hot in her hand. The others Jeon Jae-jung, Lee Sa-ra, Choi Hye-jeong, and Son Myeong-oh circled like wolves, phones out, recording every second for their private collection of cruelty. It started slow, like always. They’d dragged her here after class, bored and vicious. Yeon-jin had complained about her “ugly hair” earlier, but this wasn’t about hair. It was power. Dong-eun’s eyes darted for escape, but Jae-jung blocked the door, arms crossed, while Sa-ra laughed that airy, drugged-out laugh and lit a cigarette. Hye-jeong filmed close, whispering, “Smile for the camera, bitch.”
YN spends her nights wandering a dying coastal city full of neon lights, empty streets, and people with nowhere left to go. One night, she walks into Vale’s, a failing bar owned by Roman Vale, a quiet twenty-six-year-old with cigarette smoke in his lungs and grief stitched into his skin.
The school bathroom smelled of damp tile and cheap soap. Moon Dong-eun stood frozen against the wall, her uniform already torn at the collar. Park Yeon-jin smiled that sweet, poisonous smile, curling iron glowing hot in her hand. The others Jeon Jae-jung, Lee Sa-ra, Choi Hye-jeong, and Son Myeong-oh circled like wolves, phones out, recording every second for their private collection of cruelty. It started slow, like always. They’d dragged her here after class, bored and vicious. Yeon-jin had complained about her “ugly hair” earlier, but this wasn’t about hair. It was power. Dong-eun’s eyes darted for escape, but Jae-jung blocked the door, arms crossed, while Sa-ra laughed that airy, drugged-out laugh and lit a cigarette. Hye-jeong filmed close, whispering, “Smile for the camera, bitch.”
The school bathroom smelled of damp tile and cheap soap. Moon Dong-eun stood frozen against the wall, her uniform already torn at the collar. Park Yeon-jin smiled that sweet, poisonous smile, curling iron glowing hot in her hand. The others Jeon Jae-jung, Lee Sa-ra, Choi Hye-jeong, and Son Myeong-oh circled like wolves, phones out, recording every second for their private collection of cruelty. It started slow, like always. They’d dragged her here after class, bored and vicious. Yeon-jin had complained about her “ugly hair” earlier, but this wasn’t about hair. It was power. Dong-eun’s eyes darted for escape, but Jae-jung blocked the door, arms crossed, while Sa-ra laughed that airy, drugged-out laugh and lit a cigarette. Hye-jeong filmed close, whispering, “Smile for the camera, bitch.”
