⤸magic shop.ᐟ⋆

🦠 WHAT IS THE AWAKENING?

The Awakening is Do Re Reef’s Halloween 2026 event. 

Every participating writer will create a story set within the same original zombie apocalypse universe provided by Do Re Reef, following shared lore while telling their own unique story. Some characters may cross paths and others may only hear whispers of one another. Together, every fic will become part of a larger world.

Readers can join too by recommending zombie themed SEVENTEEN fics to help us build a community masterlist celebrating the genre.

Both readers and writers have the option to also create moodboards inspired by the event or collaborate with a participating writer to make one for their fic. Any collaborations should be arranged between participants themselves.

Decrypting recovered files...

🧬 OUTBREAK FILE

It’s so easy to make a mistake, to lose focus for a split second and to ruin something previously so beautiful. Though, there is an argument to be made that humanity, although resilient and with a collection of positives, can struggle to keep hold of its beauty when the world grows deeper into ruin as the days pass. Perhaps, when you think of it in that way, this particular mistake was for the best. This particular mistake has given humanity no choice but to return to its roots; to return to nature and give the world time to heal. Of course, you have to ignore the blood spilled, the bodies bitten, and lives overtaken. In the grand scheme of things, it’s a small price to pay to allow nature to reclaim the earth and the natural order of things. Then again, is greener grass and brighter flowers worth the blood spilled to allow the growth? Is the cleaner air a fair exchange for less living roaming the streets? There’s a balance to the world, at least, there should be, but a mistake can tip the scales, and it’s not quite so clear cut as to whether that’s a good or bad thing. It’s all a matter of perspective, really. It’s down to you to decide how this story goes; if one can flourish or flounder when faced by once-humans mindlessly clawing and gnawing, controlled by the ancient parasite burrowed in their brain stem with the sole purpose of further infecting humanity one bite at a time. Can humanity overcome this mistake and claim back their world before it’s too late? It’s time to find out.

Transmission received. Preparing survivor briefing...

📂 SURVIVOR BRIEFING

🧟‍♂️ Writers

⏲ Receive your assigned member, gain access to the event lore, and write your own story within The Awakening universe. ⏲ Every story is unique, but every story contributes to the same outbreak. ⏲ Optional: Writers may also create moodboards inspired by the event or collaborate with a writer to make one for their story. Any collaborations should be arranged between participants themselves. ⏲ All event fics and moodboards will be reblogged by Do Re Reef and will be added to the event masterlist.

🧟‍♂️ Readers

⏲ Recommend existing zombie themed SEVENTEEN fics to be included in the event masterlist. ⏲ Recommendations don’t need to be stories you’ve personally read as long as the summary, tags, or description clearly fit the setting, they’re welcome. The recommended story doesn’t need to focus directly on zombies— survival, relationships, or everyday life during the outbreak all fit the theme. ⏲ Optional: Readers may also create moodboards inspired by the event or collaborate with a writer to make one for their story. Any collaborations should be arranged between participants themselves. ⏲ Recommendations and moodboards will also be featured on the event masterlist, with moodboards also being reblogged by Do Re Reef.

Time is running out. Here’s what we know.

📅 OUTBREAK TIMELINE

Event Runs: 23rd July – 31st October Sign-ups Close: 6th August Drop-out deadline: 17th September 

𓉸 Assignments are first come, first served. If another participant has already selected your preferred SEVENTEEN member, you’ll be asked to choose another. There are only 13 writer spaces available, so don’t hesitate or you may lose your chance.

Survival depends on more than luck. Read these protocols carefully.

☣️ SURVIVAL PROTOCOLS

Participation is exclusive to Do Re Reef members. If you’re joining from Tumblr and not a member already, you’ll need to complete the network application before your event sign-up can be accepted.

Writers will each be assigned 1 SEVENTEEN member on a first come, first served basis. There are 13 writer slots available.

All stories must take place within The Awakening shared universe and follow the event lore provided in the server.

Participants are expected to meet the event deadlines. Please only sign up if you believe you can complete your chosen role.

Minimum word count is 3k words; there is no maximum word count. Multi part stories are welcome, but part one must be at least 3k words and posted by the event deadline.

AI generated content is not permitted, including writing, graphics, or other event submissions.

Permanent death of any SEVENTEEN member (or other real life idol portrayed in the story) is not permitted. Temporary death, ghost AUs, undead portrayals, and other alternate forms are welcome.

Because every story exists within the same shared universe, writers may occasionally need to coordinate with one another if their stories intersect.

Full writing guidelines, content rules, posting requirements, event resources and others will be available in the private event channels after participants receive the event role.

If you’re still here, then maybe you’re willing to fight.

📋 ENLISTMENT Think you have what it takes to survive?

Complete the application below to join The Awakening as a writer, a reader, or both. ➜ Sign up here.

Please note that participation is exclusive to Do Re Reef members. If you’re not already part of the network, you’ll need to join and complete the verification process to gain membership before your event application can be accepted. To join the Do Re Reef, please fill out the form in this post.

Further information, including the complete lore, event guidelines, assignments, and discussion channels and threads, will become available within the private event category after participants receive the event role.

No one knows how this ends. The only question left is whether your story will be remembered after the awakening.

We wish you luck, survivor. You're going to need it.

🦠 WHAT IS THE AWAKENING?

The Awakening is Do Re Reef’s Halloween 2026 event. 

Every participating writer will create a story set within the same original zombie apocalypse universe provided by Do Re Reef, following shared lore while telling their own unique story. Some characters may cross paths and others may only hear whispers of one another. Together, every fic will become part of a larger world.

Readers can join too by recommending zombie themed SEVENTEEN fics to help us build a community masterlist celebrating the genre.

Both readers and writers have the option to also create moodboards inspired by the event or collaborate with a participating writer to make one for their fic. Any collaborations should be arranged between participants themselves.

Decrypting recovered files...

🧬 OUTBREAK FILE

It’s so easy to make a mistake, to lose focus for a split second and to ruin something previously so beautiful. Though, there is an argument to be made that humanity, although resilient and with a collection of positives, can struggle to keep hold of its beauty when the world grows deeper into ruin as the days pass. Perhaps, when you think of it in that way, this particular mistake was for the best. This particular mistake has given humanity no choice but to return to its roots; to return to nature and give the world time to heal. Of course, you have to ignore the blood spilled, the bodies bitten, and lives overtaken. In the grand scheme of things, it’s a small price to pay to allow nature to reclaim the earth and the natural order of things. Then again, is greener grass and brighter flowers worth the blood spilled to allow the growth? Is the cleaner air a fair exchange for less living roaming the streets? There’s a balance to the world, at least, there should be, but a mistake can tip the scales, and it’s not quite so clear cut as to whether that’s a good or bad thing. It’s all a matter of perspective, really. It’s down to you to decide how this story goes; if one can flourish or flounder when faced by once-humans mindlessly clawing and gnawing, controlled by the ancient parasite burrowed in their brain stem with the sole purpose of further infecting humanity one bite at a time. Can humanity overcome this mistake and claim back their world before it’s too late? It’s time to find out.

Transmission received. Preparing survivor briefing...

📂 SURVIVOR BRIEFING

🧟‍♂️ Writers

⏲ Receive your assigned member, gain access to the event lore, and write your own story within The Awakening universe. ⏲ Every story is unique, but every story contributes to the same outbreak. ⏲ Optional: Writers may also create moodboards inspired by the event or collaborate with a writer to make one for their story. Any collaborations should be arranged between participants themselves. ⏲ All event fics and moodboards will be reblogged by Do Re Reef and will be added to the event masterlist.

🧟‍♂️ Readers

⏲ Recommend existing zombie themed SEVENTEEN fics to be included in the event masterlist. ⏲ Recommendations don’t need to be stories you’ve personally read as long as the summary, tags, or description clearly fit the setting, they’re welcome. The recommended story doesn’t need to focus directly on zombies— survival, relationships, or everyday life during the outbreak all fit the theme. ⏲ Optional: Readers may also create moodboards inspired by the event or collaborate with a writer to make one for their story. Any collaborations should be arranged between participants themselves. ⏲ Recommendations and moodboards will also be featured on the event masterlist, with moodboards also being reblogged by Do Re Reef.

Time is running out. Here’s what we know.

📅 OUTBREAK TIMELINE

Event Runs: 23rd July – 31st October Sign-ups Close: 6th August Drop-out deadline: 17th September 

𓉸 Assignments are first come, first served. If another participant has already selected your preferred SEVENTEEN member, you’ll be asked to choose another. There are only 13 writer spaces available, so don’t hesitate or you may lose your chance.

Survival depends on more than luck. Read these protocols carefully.

☣️ SURVIVAL PROTOCOLS

Participation is exclusive to Do Re Reef members. If you’re joining from Tumblr and not a member already, you’ll need to complete the network application before your event sign-up can be accepted.

Writers will each be assigned 1 SEVENTEEN member on a first come, first served basis. There are 13 writer slots available.

All stories must take place within The Awakening shared universe and follow the event lore provided in the server.

Participants are expected to meet the event deadlines. Please only sign up if you believe you can complete your chosen role.

Minimum word count is 3k words; there is no maximum word count. Multi part stories are welcome, but part one must be at least 3k words and posted by the event deadline.

AI generated content is not permitted, including writing, graphics, or other event submissions.

Permanent death of any SEVENTEEN member (or other real life idol portrayed in the story) is not permitted. Temporary death, ghost AUs, undead portrayals, and other alternate forms are welcome.

Because every story exists within the same shared universe, writers may occasionally need to coordinate with one another if their stories intersect.

Full writing guidelines, content rules, posting requirements, event resources and others will be available in the private event channels after participants receive the event role.

If you’re still here, then maybe you’re willing to fight.

📋 ENLISTMENT Think you have what it takes to survive?

Complete the application below to join The Awakening as a writer, a reader, or both. ➜ Sign up here.

Please note that participation is exclusive to Do Re Reef members. If you’re not already part of the network, you’ll need to join and complete the verification process to gain membership before your event application can be accepted. To join the Do Re Reef, please fill out the form in this post.

Further information, including the complete lore, event guidelines, assignments, and discussion channels and threads, will become available within the private event category after participants receive the event role.

No one knows how this ends. The only question left is whether your story will be remembered after the awakening.

We wish you luck, survivor. You're going to need it.

🦠 WHAT IS THE AWAKENING?

The Awakening is Do Re Reef’s Halloween 2026 event. 

Every participating writer will create a story set within the same original zombie apocalypse universe provided by Do Re Reef, following shared lore while telling their own unique story. Some characters may cross paths and others may only hear whispers of one another. Together, every fic will become part of a larger world.

Readers can join too by recommending zombie themed SEVENTEEN fics to help us build a community masterlist celebrating the genre.

Both readers and writers have the option to also create moodboards inspired by the event or collaborate with a participating writer to make one for their fic. Any collaborations should be arranged between participants themselves.

Decrypting recovered files...

🧬 OUTBREAK FILE

It’s so easy to make a mistake, to lose focus for a split second and to ruin something previously so beautiful. Though, there is an argument to be made that humanity, although resilient and with a collection of positives, can struggle to keep hold of its beauty when the world grows deeper into ruin as the days pass. Perhaps, when you think of it in that way, this particular mistake was for the best. This particular mistake has given humanity no choice but to return to its roots; to return to nature and give the world time to heal. Of course, you have to ignore the blood spilled, the bodies bitten, and lives overtaken. In the grand scheme of things, it’s a small price to pay to allow nature to reclaim the earth and the natural order of things. Then again, is greener grass and brighter flowers worth the blood spilled to allow the growth? Is the cleaner air a fair exchange for less living roaming the streets? There’s a balance to the world, at least, there should be, but a mistake can tip the scales, and it’s not quite so clear cut as to whether that’s a good or bad thing. It’s all a matter of perspective, really. It’s down to you to decide how this story goes; if one can flourish or flounder when faced by once-humans mindlessly clawing and gnawing, controlled by the ancient parasite burrowed in their brain stem with the sole purpose of further infecting humanity one bite at a time. Can humanity overcome this mistake and claim back their world before it’s too late? It’s time to find out.

Transmission received. Preparing survivor briefing...

📂 SURVIVOR BRIEFING

🧟‍♂️ Writers

⏲ Receive your assigned member, gain access to the event lore, and write your own story within The Awakening universe. ⏲ Every story is unique, but every story contributes to the same outbreak. ⏲ Optional: Writers may also create moodboards inspired by the event or collaborate with a writer to make one for their story. Any collaborations should be arranged between participants themselves. ⏲ All event fics and moodboards will be reblogged by Do Re Reef and will be added to the event masterlist.

🧟‍♂️ Readers

⏲ Recommend existing zombie themed SEVENTEEN fics to be included in the event masterlist. ⏲ Recommendations don’t need to be stories you’ve personally read as long as the summary, tags, or description clearly fit the setting, they’re welcome. The recommended story doesn’t need to focus directly on zombies— survival, relationships, or everyday life during the outbreak all fit the theme. ⏲ Optional: Readers may also create moodboards inspired by the event or collaborate with a writer to make one for their story. Any collaborations should be arranged between participants themselves. ⏲ Recommendations and moodboards will also be featured on the event masterlist, with moodboards also being reblogged by Do Re Reef.

Time is running out. Here’s what we know.

📅 OUTBREAK TIMELINE

Event Runs: 23rd July – 31st October Sign-ups Close: 6th August Drop-out deadline: 17th September 

𓉸 Assignments are first come, first served. If another participant has already selected your preferred SEVENTEEN member, you’ll be asked to choose another. There are only 13 writer spaces available, so don’t hesitate or you may lose your chance.

Survival depends on more than luck. Read these protocols carefully.

☣️ SURVIVAL PROTOCOLS

Participation is exclusive to Do Re Reef members. If you’re joining from Tumblr and not a member already, you’ll need to complete the network application before your event sign-up can be accepted.

Writers will each be assigned 1 SEVENTEEN member on a first come, first served basis. There are 13 writer slots available.

All stories must take place within The Awakening shared universe and follow the event lore provided in the server.

Participants are expected to meet the event deadlines. Please only sign up if you believe you can complete your chosen role.

Minimum word count is 3k words; there is no maximum word count. Multi part stories are welcome, but part one must be at least 3k words and posted by the event deadline.

AI generated content is not permitted, including writing, graphics, or other event submissions.

Permanent death of any SEVENTEEN member (or other real life idol portrayed in the story) is not permitted. Temporary death, ghost AUs, undead portrayals, and other alternate forms are welcome.

Because every story exists within the same shared universe, writers may occasionally need to coordinate with one another if their stories intersect.

Full writing guidelines, content rules, posting requirements, event resources and others will be available in the private event channels after participants receive the event role.

If you’re still here, then maybe you’re willing to fight.

📋 ENLISTMENT Think you have what it takes to survive?

Complete the application below to join The Awakening as a writer, a reader, or both. ➜ Sign up here.

Please note that participation is exclusive to Do Re Reef members. If you’re not already part of the network, you’ll need to join and complete the verification process to gain membership before your event application can be accepted. To join the Do Re Reef, please fill out the form in this post.

Further information, including the complete lore, event guidelines, assignments, and discussion channels and threads, will become available within the private event category after participants receive the event role.

No one knows how this ends. The only question left is whether your story will be remembered after the awakening.

We wish you luck, survivor. You're going to need it.

🦠 WHAT IS THE AWAKENING?

The Awakening is Do Re Reef’s Halloween 2026 event. 

Every participating writer will create a story set within the same original zombie apocalypse universe provided by Do Re Reef, following shared lore while telling their own unique story. Some characters may cross paths and others may only hear whispers of one another. Together, every fic will become part of a larger world.

Readers can join too by recommending zombie themed SEVENTEEN fics to help us build a community masterlist celebrating the genre.

Both readers and writers have the option to also create moodboards inspired by the event or collaborate with a participating writer to make one for their fic. Any collaborations should be arranged between participants themselves.

Decrypting recovered files...

🧬 OUTBREAK FILE

It’s so easy to make a mistake, to lose focus for a split second and to ruin something previously so beautiful. Though, there is an argument to be made that humanity, although resilient and with a collection of positives, can struggle to keep hold of its beauty when the world grows deeper into ruin as the days pass. Perhaps, when you think of it in that way, this particular mistake was for the best. This particular mistake has given humanity no choice but to return to its roots; to return to nature and give the world time to heal. Of course, you have to ignore the blood spilled, the bodies bitten, and lives overtaken. In the grand scheme of things, it’s a small price to pay to allow nature to reclaim the earth and the natural order of things. Then again, is greener grass and brighter flowers worth the blood spilled to allow the growth? Is the cleaner air a fair exchange for less living roaming the streets? There’s a balance to the world, at least, there should be, but a mistake can tip the scales, and it’s not quite so clear cut as to whether that’s a good or bad thing. It’s all a matter of perspective, really. It’s down to you to decide how this story goes; if one can flourish or flounder when faced by once-humans mindlessly clawing and gnawing, controlled by the ancient parasite burrowed in their brain stem with the sole purpose of further infecting humanity one bite at a time. Can humanity overcome this mistake and claim back their world before it’s too late? It’s time to find out.

Transmission received. Preparing survivor briefing...

📂 SURVIVOR BRIEFING

🧟‍♂️ Writers

⏲ Receive your assigned member, gain access to the event lore, and write your own story within The Awakening universe. ⏲ Every story is unique, but every story contributes to the same outbreak. ⏲ Optional: Writers may also create moodboards inspired by the event or collaborate with a writer to make one for their story. Any collaborations should be arranged between participants themselves. ⏲ All event fics and moodboards will be reblogged by Do Re Reef and will be added to the event masterlist.

🧟‍♂️ Readers

⏲ Recommend existing zombie themed SEVENTEEN fics to be included in the event masterlist. ⏲ Recommendations don’t need to be stories you’ve personally read as long as the summary, tags, or description clearly fit the setting, they’re welcome. The recommended story doesn’t need to focus directly on zombies— survival, relationships, or everyday life during the outbreak all fit the theme. ⏲ Optional: Readers may also create moodboards inspired by the event or collaborate with a writer to make one for their story. Any collaborations should be arranged between participants themselves. ⏲ Recommendations and moodboards will also be featured on the event masterlist, with moodboards also being reblogged by Do Re Reef.

Time is running out. Here’s what we know.

📅 OUTBREAK TIMELINE

Event Runs: 23rd July – 31st October Sign-ups Close: 6th August Drop-out deadline: 17th September 

𓉸 Assignments are first come, first served. If another participant has already selected your preferred SEVENTEEN member, you’ll be asked to choose another. There are only 13 writer spaces available, so don’t hesitate or you may lose your chance.

Survival depends on more than luck. Read these protocols carefully.

☣️ SURVIVAL PROTOCOLS

Participation is exclusive to Do Re Reef members. If you’re joining from Tumblr and not a member already, you’ll need to complete the network application before your event sign-up can be accepted.

Writers will each be assigned 1 SEVENTEEN member on a first come, first served basis. There are 13 writer slots available.

All stories must take place within The Awakening shared universe and follow the event lore provided in the server.

Participants are expected to meet the event deadlines. Please only sign up if you believe you can complete your chosen role.

Minimum word count is 3k words; there is no maximum word count. Multi part stories are welcome, but part one must be at least 3k words and posted by the event deadline.

AI generated content is not permitted, including writing, graphics, or other event submissions.

Permanent death of any SEVENTEEN member (or other real life idol portrayed in the story) is not permitted. Temporary death, ghost AUs, undead portrayals, and other alternate forms are welcome.

Because every story exists within the same shared universe, writers may occasionally need to coordinate with one another if their stories intersect.

Full writing guidelines, content rules, posting requirements, event resources and others will be available in the private event channels after participants receive the event role.

If you’re still here, then maybe you’re willing to fight.

📋 ENLISTMENT Think you have what it takes to survive?

Complete the application below to join The Awakening as a writer, a reader, or both. ➜ Sign up here.

Please note that participation is exclusive to Do Re Reef members. If you’re not already part of the network, you’ll need to join and complete the verification process to gain membership before your event application can be accepted. To join the Do Re Reef, please fill out the form in this post.

Further information, including the complete lore, event guidelines, assignments, and discussion channels and threads, will become available within the private event category after participants receive the event role.

No one knows how this ends. The only question left is whether your story will be remembered after the awakening.

We wish you luck, survivor. You're going to need it.

Journalists: @aeristudios @haologram @imnotshua @gyuswhore @wqnwoos @starlightkyeom @100vern @shadowkoo @shinysobi @sailorsoons

“Why did you come back?”

“What?” 

The air is filled with the steady drip-drip-drip of a water faucet leaking somewhere, and it’s driving her crazy. She’s still looking at the man, though, in front of her, dressed in the same clothes as her, and with the same look in his eyes. Years have passed, but the look remains the same. They aren’t standing outside in a New York alleyway, they’re in Seoul, that’s the only difference. She sighs, looks at him. A beat. 

He holds out a cigarette. She ignores it, “why did you come back? Everyone has been talking about it, you know. The world is not as big as you think.”

“The world is big enough for all of us,” she snipes, “look, I didn't like New York. So, I came back. There’s nothing else to it.”

He steps closer to her. They both smell like onions, she thinks, and the air is too thick with smog at this time of day. There’s something about looking into his eyes; just like all those years before, she can't look away. “You were CDC at the best Korean restaurant in the world, and what, you leave all that to come to this place? We don't even have a star.”

“A star is irrelevant.” She finds herself growing more defensive, more angry, more impatient, “Look, I just needed a break, okay? That’s why I'm here.”

He stares at her. She’s been on the receiving end of it far too many times for her to be flinching away from it now, but she does anyway, “That’s a fucking joke if I ever heard one, you know. You’re a liar.” You’re lying to me again, Chef Kim.”

“Am I now?” 

“Yes, you are, and you will be a fucking liar unless you tell someone the truth.” He snaps at her, “And you know what? I didn't even expect anything else from you. Fuck you, man.”

“Fuck me? Fuck you,” she replies, equally venomous, “fuck you too, man.”

Vernon opens his mouth to say something, but thinks better of it and leaves. She’s still standing in the middle of the alley, looking at him, and realises that she never really took the cigarette from him.

It’s too late for the metro, which means that she has to walk the half kilometre to the bus stop, hoping that the late-night buses are running that night. Behind her, the lights of Gangnam district are as bright as ever—people move in and out of frame, just going about their lives, but she’s out there, feeling like shit.

And really, Vernon wasn’t wrong. She left because she wanted “different things”. That’s the original statement. “I wanted something different, so I came here,” she had said when Cheol had looked at her and asked, “I wanted something that would stay mine, so I came here.”

The bus comes within fifteen minutes of her standing at the stop, which means that she spends ten minutes of those staring at her concept notes for a new recipe. Sketches stare at her, brilliantly coloured, and she can’t help but think back to the pile of drawing pencils sitting in the middle of her drawer at home.

I need a break, she thinks, dragging herself up the short hill to her apartment building. I need a fucking break, and this is not it.

Unfortunately, this has not been it for a long time. Hasn’t been it, notsince New York, hasn’t been anything really, since she graduated from culinary school and had enough accolades under her belt to go around the fucking world, and she was just—just—she was someone. Someone who spent all their time in a restaurant, trying to figure out the rest of their lives. Someone who tried their best to purge the memories of New York from their minds, like it was a blip in the matrix, like they did not spend most of their lives moving from restaurant to restaurant, trying their hands at everything, before leaving it all behind at the peak of fame to come back to fucking Seoul and go back to the same restaurant where they wanted to become a chef for the first time ever. No, that’s a lie. It’s really not a lie.

When she opens the door to her apartment, the silence that greets her is shitty as usual. She tries not to think about it too much, and instead walks over to the cupboard where she keeps her crappy red wines. She could drink beer, but she’s trying not to fuck up her palate too much. Instead of sitting at her table with a bottle of beer, she sits at the table with a glass of wine, trying (and failing) not to think about New York.

Why was there so much to think about, when it came to New York? she wasn’t really trying to do anything, she just wanted to cook good food and become the best. Well, cooking good food was the goal at first, but by the end, she just wanted to be the best. The best in the game. The first female CDC at the only three-starred Michelin Korean restaurant.

The wine is over, so she moves onto the second worst part of her day: trying to go to sleep. Sleep refuses to come to her on most days, and on the others, she stays awake until the light blinks over the skyline, makes enough coffee to keep her going until the next century, and ignores the growing anxiety in her mind that one day she’s going to wake up with a dysfunctional heart and it will all be over soon, and that someone will find her on the floor of the kitchen, dead.

Almost like—

Shut up.

Sleep refuses to come, which means that she’s going to give into her worst impulses and go back to looking at the news again, staring at pictures of herself until they all start blurring into one and she no longer recognises the person staring at her from the screen.

Jungsikdang, New York, a new era: sitting down with Kim Mi-ran.

Kim Mi-ran, making waves in Korean fine dining.

So many headlines, and all the same; Kim Mi-ran, new chef, Kim Mi-ran, the best CDC at the best Korean fine dining restaurant in the world and the hottest new thing on the culinary scene. Her face, looking back at her from the articles, and everything feels off. Everything feels awkward, like she’s not even looking at the same person, like she’s looking at herself, refracted through an unfamiliar lens.

Let’s look him up.

She doesn’t want to, but her hands move of their own accord, because within thirty seconds, she’s looking at the face of Chwe Vernon, standing in front of the kitchen pass, leaning against the wall. He’s dressed in his chef whites and he annoys the shit out of her.

“Fucking Vernon,” she mutters, scrolling up to see the title of the article, The year’s Best New Chef works at Dovetail in London: Chwe Hansol.

She doesn’t want to think about how his name is now Chwe Hansol, and not Vernon. Not anymore, not like she remembers him to be. It’s all her fault, anyway. The article keeps raving about his career as sous at Dovetail London, about the new dish that he was developing, something similar to lasagna, wide noodles cooked in perilla oil with shiitake mushrooms and soy-braised beef scattered on top of it, glittering like jewels. She’s not jealous. She’s not jealous at all, but she wants to make something like this again.

Fuck Vernon. Fuck him and his perfect cooking.

Irritated, she rolls over on the bed, plugging in her phone, and closes her eyes. She doesn’t want to think about Vernon, not at all. She was fine in New York. She was good.

Well now, now she’s nothing.

 —

Chef Kim, refire.

Hands. Hands. Hands.

Pass too slow.

Wake up, Chef. You’re running late.

Her eyes blink open, and the clock on her bedside reads five in the morning. Only three hours, as per usual. Lying in bed, she makes a mental checklist of all the things that she needs to do before she begins work on prep for the day—make breakfast for herself, enough that she doesn’t keel over and die in the middle of service, drink a cup of coffee, text her mother. She needs to text her mother, she needs to text someone. Proof of life, kid. You ned to let us know that you’re here, and not somewhere else.

She needs to go to Gyeonghoeru. She needs to prep mirepoix and she needs to look at the menu for today because there’s a special and there’s always a special but she needs to keep track of everything. She has Vernon as her CDC and she’s fucking terrified that one day people are going to wise up to the fact that she has nothing new to offer anymore. No inspiration. Nothing.

1 unread message from Cheol.

[1:20 am] hey, just checking in. you’ve been offline for a long time. Work still shit, huh? Make sure you hydrate. There’s food at the house when you want to come by.

She hates this feeling. This constant buzzing inside her mind that she’s never going to be good enough, that one day, she’s going to be left aside by people who’ve seen her for so long, and that no one is going to look at her and say shit like ‘Kim Mi-ran, best CDC ever’, that people are going to call her out on her bullshit. Cheol gives that same feeling. Food at the house, when you want to come by. Not if, not an out. When. Like it’s preordained that she’s going to come by, that she’s going to turn up at Cheol’s bustling house full of his family and his friends and all his weird cousins that aren’t really cousins that she never really manages to keep track of, and she’s going to sit down and pull herself a plate. Because that’s what she does. She runs away, then comes back. She always comes back. Like a fucking metronome.

She doesn’t get groceries, doesn’t make herself breakfast. Instead, she stands in front of the coffee machine, contemplates whether to do something about the flickering light, and instead decides against it, before pouring herself a cup. Big cup, black coffee. No cream, no sugar.

The streets of Seoul are still foggy when she steps out of the house, wearing a grey coat with patchwork on it, one that she made or picked up while in Copenhagen, she’s not sure. She misses Copenhagen. Misses London. Misses a lot of things.

Most of all, she misses the feeling of being enthused about something in her life.

There’s a new stage at the kitchen this morning, and he looks fucking terrified, big doe-eyes that blink rapidly as he takes down notes in very cramped handwriting. She peers at him being coached by the front of house staff, and decides not to intervene when someone looks at her. She just shakes her head. There’s no reason for her to do anything about it. The kid’s as terrified as he is, and she’s just going to fuck everything up, so she leaves it.

Coat off, jacket off. Hair slicked back. Pull on your chef whites. Get started on your prep, you’re getting slow.

Her chef whites are actually black, a stark contrast from the rest of the kitchen. She’s not trying to stand out from the crowd, not really. Not in an asshole-like manner. She just likes the black instead of the white.

She’s peeling mushrooms for a light broth when Vernon steps beside her, picking up a knife and a mushroom. It’s annoying, how easily he falls in step with her, like he’s never really had to worry about finding his footing in the middle of a busy kitchen. She doesn’t resist the urge to sneak a peek at his chef whites, the embroidered Chwe Hansol staring back her like a fucking brand. He’s no longer Vernon; he’s no longer the person she knew back at culinary school. She’s no longer the person he knew either. Both of them are posing, standing in the middle of a high-end restaurant, peeling mushrooms in the fucking morning, and trying not to yell at each other. No yelling, chef. That’s another rule. She’s never broken it, not at Madison Park, not at NOMA, not even at Jungsikdang, where she could feel her brains leak out of her ears. Never yell in a kitchen, not in the middle of prep, not in the middle of service. Yelling means you’re losing control. Control. Control. Control. Everything on a plate has to be controlled. Yes, chef.

“Peas back on the menu?” Vernon asks.

She nods, “pre-sear Hanwoo today, chef.”

He nods, and she doesn’t want to imagine it, but his voice sounds more clipped, “heard.”

—

Service begins, and its hands, fire, hands, fire, all over again. Over and over, and by the end of it, she’s struggling to keep her hands under her control. They’re shaking. They didn’t shake before, but now they shake every so often. No one notices. If they do, they're too polite to say anything to her face.

Wiping down her station, she looks at her watch. Midnight again. Vernon is beside her, single-handedly focused on doing the thing that she hates doing the most, but he does it so elegantly, it makes her wonder if she ever looked like that. There’s no one here, and he’s still wiping down the station with her. He’s not doing it with her; he's doing it at the same time as her.

“From tomorrow, you’re on the galbi, chef,” she says, passing him by, and he looks at her, “what?”

Vernon doesn’t mince words, “the galbi is your signature. You formulated it.”

“And I’m asking you to start working on it from tomorrow,” she fires back, “is there any confusion, chef?”

There are no people in the kitchen anymore, and Vernon’s face goes through five distinctly different emotions, before settling on something that is similar to surprise, “you are just asking me to do galbi? Like what is happening here?”

She sighs, placing the towel away and going back into the locker rooms. Vernon follows; there’s no one here, not now. No one to tell him to fuck off. She pulls her chef’s whites off, he looks away. There’s nothing to look at, but still, he looks away.

“Is this charity?”

She blinks, not looking at him. Just sort of in the vicinity of him, she blinks, “where did you get that idea from?”

He takes another step forward, “you always do this, Chef Kim. You always fuck with my head. Me on the galbi? You know you don’t want me to do it, so you’re doing charity.”

She finishes dressing up, pulling her grey wool coat from Copenhagen, “I’m not doing charity, Chef Chwe Hansol.”

“Then what is this,” he scoffs, “you’re finally recognising me? That would never happen, I know you that well.”

“Maybe, Chef Chwe Hansol, you do not know me that well,” she snaps back, “it’s been a long time since culinary school, and Sketch. You cannot think that I’m the same, because I’m not.”

At the mention of London, Vernon flinches, and she wants to smile. There’s a tight thread spooled inside her heart. Sketch. London. Le Cordon Bleu. He looks like he wants to laugh, but he doesn’t. instead, he turns on his heel, and walks out of the locker room. She’s still standing, and all of a sudden, she feels like she’s back at Sketch, back before the whole thing blew up in her face.

—

[London, seven years ago]

Service is brutal.

She knows this. Knows this in her bones, knows this in the way her vision gets slightly blurry after every service ends. Service is brutal, but it is satisfying. She needs the hit of adrenaline to get through every day.

“Good work on the peas, chef,” she doesn’t even need to look at the person to know who’s talking to her, because who else would speak in that voice? In a kitchen, where it tends to get loud as fuck, Vernon is the only person who consistently speaks to people in that particular tone. Like he’s speaking to elementary school children. She likes to think that they’re all elementary school children either way.

“Thank you, chef,” she replies, “good work on shucking the oysters, chef.”

“Likewise, chef.”

She rolls her eyes good-naturedly, following him out of the kitchen and into the locker room, “are you really going to be this way, Vernon?”

“Be what way?” He looks at her, raising an eyebrow, “what happened?”

 She grimaces, “seriously? You’re going to NOMA, and you didn’t tell any of us?”

Vernon sighs, “I didn’t go to NOMA, I applied to NOMA. I don’t know if I’m going to get in. it’s a competitive position, you know. They’re not just going to give it to me because I asked for it.”

She sighs, holding her hand out. He says nothing, just reaches and wraps his hand around hers. It’s grounding, holding his hand. Their calluses match.

No. Vernon will go to NOMA, she’s sure of it. He’s also going to be great at it; she is also sure of this one thing. The rest of it—she’s not sure about that.

“What about you?” Vernon nudges her shoulder, looking at her changing out of her chef whites, “going to finally buy clothes that are not grey or black?”

“Don’t judge the clothes, Vernon,” she laughs, “at least I buy something other than t-shirts.”

“Yes, you buy shirts,” he sighs, “Mi-ran, I’m really just stressed about NOMA. I don’t think I’m going to be hired there, but I would love to.”

“I know, Vernon.” The two of them walk out of the building, into the night, and she looks at the sky, but Vernon is looking at her. She can feel it, that he’s looking at her, with his cheekbones and perfect facial structures and the propensity to treat people with kindness despite being in a stressful work environment—Vernon is looking at her.

“Mi-ran, do you, maybe, next week—”

Her phone buzzes in her pocket. She unlocks it, expecting to find—what? What did I expect to find? An email from National Insurance, telling me about my new health plans?

Instead, it’s something she doesn’t expect.

It’s from NOMA. The executive chef at NOMA, that is.

Chef Kim Mi-ran, this is Adrian—

Her heart stops, and from the way she can hear Vernon's breath hitch, it’s clear. He’s read it too. She shoves her phone back inside her pockets, “I’m not going to go to fucking NOMA, Vernon.”

He stares at her for a long time, and then opens his mouth, “heard, Chef Kim.”

He says something, but the sentence that he’s about to say dissipates into the night like it never existed in the first place. She doesn’t want to think about how much that hurts her. The email from NOMA sits in her email inbox, opened, read, but not answered.

Three months later, she’s flying to Copenhagen.

—

[Seoul, present day.]

On Mondays, the restaurant is closed, so she has free time. Free time to go about making the new menu for the upcoming summer months because that’s one of the duties of an Executive Chef, and she needs to finish the roster for whoever is on cleanup duty the next day, and she needs to do so many things. One after the other, things keep piling up for her, and she needs to finish them.

Instead, she wakes up at four in the morning, and walks down to her nearest convenience store to pick up a pack of cigarettes. She’s not even thinking about the transaction when she slides a ten-thousand won bill across the counter to the bored and cleared sleep-deprived clerk, walking outside to the footpath and lighting up a cigarette in the first light. She likes this, likes watching the sun break out from over the horizon because it signals to her that the cycle will still move on. Despite her not being there, despite her being absent from the rest of it, the cycle will move on, the sun will continue to rise, and she doesn’t need to think too much about it.

She thinks too much about it.

The coffee machine has a flickering light, still, and she ignores it again in favour of making herself a big cup of coffee, drinking it slowly as the hands on the clock tick past her. Six am. Seven am. The restaurant remains closed today. There’s no need for me to go in there.

At eight in the morning, her phone rings. It’s Cheol, and she contemplates only for a minute before pressing answer and holding the device up to her ear, “yes, Cheol.”

“Hey, Kim,” he laughs, “morning, Babygirl.”

“Don’t call me that,” she grumbles, “and why the hell are you up so early?”

“What do you mean?”

“You usually wake up at eleven in the morning, Cheol. It’s eight am now. A whole three hours early. I want to know why.”

He pauses for a moment, “why do you think, babe?”

She pinches her brows, because this is what Cheol always does and she’s feeling a headache come on, and Cheol will not let up until she’s guessed something, “I don’t know, you have work?”

“It’s Monday, babe. We took off work.”

“Most people have work.”

Cheol laughs, “not me, though.”

“Yes, yes, tell me all about your perfect ‘I own a business and employ my best friends and it is profitable as fuck’, Choi Seungcheol.”

He laughs again, an obnoxious sound that she hasn’t heard in a long time, “look, I was calling about lunch. We’re planning a barbecue, in the garden.”

“The garden?” She asks, “your big-ass house’s garden? A barbecue there?”

“Yeah, the cousins are coming over, and I think Mingyu is bringing a new friend of his, some cook, so I thought you guys could bond or some shit, I dunno.”

“I can’t bond with someone just because we’re both cooks, Cheol,” she sighs, “and who is it?”

“Mingyu said it was a secret, so I’m keeping it a secret from you too.”

She nods, “so Mingyu hasn’t told you, huh?”

Cheol doesn’t reply for a moment, “not really, but I would like you to be here.”

She thinks about it for a moment, eating lunch with Cheol's weird family and friends situation that she doesn’t want to keep track of. It’s going to be hot, it’s going to be annoying, but she likes the chaos. And if things go well, he’s not going to let her near any sort of open flame, which is a nice thing. She doesn’t want to cook on Mondays. “Who else is coming?”

“All the family, the friends, and you know, Mingyu’s new friend.”

She sighs, “do you want me to bring something?”

“Bulgogi?”

“Fuck no,” she laughs, “I’m not bringing fucking bulgogi to an open lunch, Cheol, I know my foods well enough for that.”

“It’s a picnic, sort of, you know,” he sighs, “listen, if you don’t want to, then you don’t have to.”

“No, no, I want to,” she exhales, going back to her breathing exercises, “I want to make something for you and your friends and family.”

“Make anything you want,” Cheol smiles into the phone, “I’m sure none of those bastards have ever had anything made by a Michelin starred chef before, so it’s going to be a fun thing, no matter how awful you think it is.”

“I do not think it’s awful.”

Cheol stays silent, “well, yes, it’s going to be awkward,” she replies, “but I can handle that much, you know, I can handle it. It’s not going to be a bad thing.”

“I know it, Babygirl, it’s going to be good.”

—

Cheol texts her after she cuts the call, a litany of emojis with the words do u wanna come for lunch yes or no, and she answers after thinking about it for five minutes, yes, Cheol, I will come to the barbecue, but no Korean food. I need something not Korean for once.

Will do, boss, he replies, hamburgers for everyone.

—

Cheol was lying when he said that the barbecue was going to happen at his house, because the address that he has given her goes to a fucking camping ground on the outskirts of town, where people go to have fun for the weekend, and definitely not meant for someone like her, but she musters up the courage either way. The taxi driver looks at her strangely when she tells him the address, but he says nothing more when she presses two bills into his hands. He doesn’t even spare a glance at the assortment of groceries she has in her hands. He’s also lying to her about being able to cook for everyone, because before she leaves the apartment, he texts her, begging for her to bring some groceries. She debates for a second on whether to do it for him or not, but Cheol just sends her a text, I’ll buy you a drink, Mi-ran, at the Shilla.

Drink at the Shilla means an easy million won on the pocket, so she’s not even upset at Cheol, or at buying food and groceries for his stupid friend outing. Drinks and a dinner at the Shilla, Cheol, don’t go back.

The camping ground looms up at her about an hour later, and she has to fight actively to not give into her desires and tell the driver to turn back and go back to her pick-up point. It’s going to be good, Kim Mi-ran, she tells herself, it’s going to be good.

—

Cheol’s carrying about three thousand blocks of firewood in his arms when she walks up to him, arms full of groceries, “Mi-ran!” he yells, “you made it!”

Thankfully, he doesn’t drop everything and come running to her for a hug, but it’s awkward nonetheless, “I’m here, like you requested,” she holds up the bags, “and I brought stuff that we can cook.”

“You’ll need to pick that up by yourself,” he says, grinning, “my hands are full of wood.”

She chooses not to play into the trap of that innuendo.

Stil, they fall into step alongside each other, and it’s nice. Nice to the degree that she forgets about the restaurant, the fact that she’s going to have to ditch them all at eight in the evening to catch the bus back to Seoul. Cheol will probably be angry with her, but she doesn’t know what else to do.

“Change of plans, baby,” he says, smoothly, placing the firewood blocks near the already set-up tent, “my parents aren’t coming.”

She rolls her eyes. This was bound to happen. “So, what, it’s just the friends?”

“Just the friends,” Cheol nods, “Jeonghan and Mingyu and Joshua, along with Mingyu’s new friend.”

“This friend that you’ve neither seen nor managed to have a conversation with,” she sighs, setting the groceries down, “what about the cousins?”

“The cousins aren’t coming either,” Cheol assures, “don’t worry, it’s just going to be us four, and you’re going to take off at eight, so you don’t even have to spend the night with us.”

She blinks, “how did you know that?”

It’s now Cheol’s turn to roll his eyes, “I know enough about restaurants to know that they need to start prepping at the crack of dawn,” he replies, “don’t worry, I’ve got the car, so I’ll drop you and Mingyu’s friend off at the bus stand at eight.”

She wants to ask why Mingyu’s friend is also leaving at eight, along with her, but then remembers that Mingyu’s friend is a cook and most restaurants need start prepping from the morning, in order to be able to serve their guests. And if he’s working at a small-scale restaurant, then he needs to be working throughout the day, so there’s that. Suddenly, she feels a strange sense of solidarity towards this unknown friend of Mingyu’s, someone who knows her struggles, someone who is on the same boat as her. It’s a bracing thought.

“When are the rest of them showing up?” she asks, rolling up the ends of her sleeves, “I could get started on cooking.”

Cheol shrugs, “Jeonghan will be coming soon enough, but Mingyu will be a bit late. Around noon, maybe?”

“Noon, right.” She can do noon. She can do lunch. She can do a lot of things.

“What do you have in that bag?” Cheol comes over, checking his phone, “Jeonghan’s here.”

“Jeonghan’s here?” and on cue, the tall, almost angelic-looking man appears into her field of vision, grinning from ear to ear, “Jeonghan!”

Jeonghan stops for a moment when he sees her, “Mi-ran?” he asks, “you’re really here? Food and Wine’s Best New Chef at twenty-three is here at a picnic?”

She rolls her eyes, but she likes Jeonghan. Maybe it’s the deceptively angelic looks, maybe it’s the way that he greets her with a hug every time he sees her, like he’s preparing for her to leave again. Maybe it’s that one time she made him a scallop dish, with a caper sauce and stuff, for his graduation from college. Jeonghan hated the dish, told her that it tasted strange, and she told him to fuck all the off to fucking Busan. Still, it was probably the most honest review anyone had given her in her life, so she liked it, likes him. Jeonghan is nice. He’s annoying, but nice.

He hugs her, placing a quick kiss to her cheek before looking at the bags she’s been arranging on the edge of the temporary firepit, “really, Cheol’s making you cook again?”

“I thought I’d bring something for him and his family, but he told me it’s just going to be us four,” she shrugs, “I made food, either way.”

“Yeah, food you’re not gonna eat,” Cheol shouts, “what did you even make?”

She points at the refrigerated bag, “there are some flank steaks in there, trying to actually work on a chimichurri-inspired marinade, but made with Asian ingredients, like shiso and more minty things. There are a lot of cognates within South American and Asian cuisine, so we can do that. And on that side, we have some shikhye, that I have been making for a long fucking time, and in the last bag we have something of a quick and easy yeolmu bibimbap, because I found some young radish kimchi, so we have that—”

“Jesus, it’s enough for a group of ten, not four people,” Jeonghan picks up one of the Ziploc bags with the flank steaks, “do you need help with cooking the steaks? I can do that.”

“No, it’s fine,” she sighs, “I think Mingyu’s new friend is a cook, but I can’t just—”

“You’re gonna make Mingyu’s new friend cook? The first time he comes here?” Jeonghan laughs, “come on, Mi-ran, you shouldn’t do that.”

“Well, I was supposed to have help from Cheol’s family, and the rest of our friends, but that’s not happening, so we now have to make do with something like this,” she grumbles, “I don’t want to make the guy cook in his first hangout either, but what can we do?”

“We can just have Mingyu help you with it,” Cheol replies, setting the logs, “he’s a competent cook, you know.”

“He would have been better if he had some formal training instead of just puttering about in a home kitchen,” she grumbles, “he had so much potential for becoming a chef, you know.”

“In your mind, everyone should be a chef,” Cheol laughs, checking his phone, “oh, wait, Mingyu is here.”

“Mingyu is here? Should I get started on the steaks?”

But Cheol is not paying her any attention, and neither is Jeonghan, so she looks up at the two people coming up the field. One of them is Mingyu, his tall frame easily visible even amidst the crowd of people, and on the other side is—fuck, it’s Vernon.

She sighs, standing up, and Mingyu runs up to her, pulling her into a hug again, “Mi-ran! So nice to see you, and this is Vernon—” he makes a gesture towards the man, who’s staring at her, intensely, “I met him in the gym! He’s also a cook, same as you!”

“Yeah, I know him,” she sighs, “he’s my CDC at Gyeonghoeru. He’s excellent.”

That one gets their attention. Cheol stands up straighter, and Jeonghan has a knowing glint in his eye, “really?” Mingyu asks, “you work with him?”

Vernon doesn’t answer at all, just keeps staring and staring at her, not looking away, and she hates her decision to come here again. Instead of running away, she turns to the stove, checking for temperature, “he’s excellent, Mingyu, I’ve told you that.”

—

On Monday mornings, she wakes up earlier than usual. Most days, she doesn’t go to sleep. Instead, she just stays awake, blinking in the darkness of the night, looking at her shitty ceiling and hoping for the morning to come by quicker. On Monday mornings, she gets to the restaurant at five in the morning, hoping for her prep to get done before she has to get wrapped up in the process of making menus and doing other stuff that keeps the restaurant smoothly running, the mundane, day-to-day tasks that she doesn’t really enjoy, but at times like these, they are a welcome reprieve for her.

“Morning chef,” the new stage, a boy whose name begins with Lee and well, she’s never learnt the rest of it, “prep time?”

“Prep time, Lee Jungchan, was it?” She asks, peering discreetly at the apron, “welcome to Gyeonghoeru.”

The boy looks bashful, “it’s just Lee Chan, actually. My parents put an extra syllable on there to make it more symmetrical.”

“Right, Lee Chan, then,” she smiles at him, looking around them at the pristine kitchen, “what else is there at this time of the day?”

He shakes his head, “just thinking about small talk, chef.”

“Small talk is good,” she pulls out her NOMA notebook, we’re doing a ginseng infused broth for the seasonal menu this time around. Have you ever had wild ginseng?”

“Wild ginseng?”

She shakes her head, smiling, “I had it once, and surprisingly enough, it was in Copenhagen. I think about it from time to time.”

“Was it—in a broth, or some sort of other preparation?” he asks, and it’s kind of endearing how he’s hanging on to her every word, and he trips over his words in an attempt to continue the conversation, “I mean, I had your dish at Jungsikdang, and the dol hareubang completely changed my life, I think it’s the best dish I’ve ever had.”

“Thank you, for the compliment,” she smiles, “you went to Le Cordon Bleu, right?”

He nods, “I know you and chef Vernon were both alumni of the same school. And you came to the school, one time, when I was still a student there.”

She frowns, “did I?”

He shakes his head, “I think you just came there to attend another lecture.”

That jogs her memory, “I went there to attend a lecture by Louis Dupont. He was my instructor when I was at Le Cordon, too.”

His eyes grow wide, “you learnt from Louis Dupont?”

“It was really nice,” she sighs, “his recipe for roast chicken is something I still haven’t managed to improve upon.”

“Still?” and in the morning light, she still thinks about the first time she had roast chicken by Louis Dupont, working at Gaspard, nervous as the youngest woman in the entire kitchen. Louis Dupont, who was an old man even when she met him, now positively ancient. Gentle hands teaching her how to truss the chicken, how to prepare a meal with care enough for it to leak out of every element on the meal, so that the people who eat your food will know that someone took the time to care about their meal. About food. She misses that time.

“I liked learning from Louis,” she offers, “he taught me why we should care so much about this.”

He blinks at her, clearly confused, “what?”

She laughs, “wild ginseng, boy. Wild ginseng.”

She’d lied to him when she talked about the wild ginseng. Well, she wasn’t lying, just omitting the truth. It wasn’t NOMA, and it wasn’t even Copenhagen. She had wild ginseng for the first and only time in Sweden, delirious to the point where she imagined that particular root appearing in front of her eyes. NOMA was behind her then; a blur of time that was spent in a small house overlooking the river and where she became convinced that a ghost was haunting her, where her days began at six and ended at midnight. NOMA was a blur of guilt for her, days and nights of attempting to contact Vernon, until she gave it up entirely.

Hey, Mi-ran, I don’t mean to tell you this, but Vernon was there at the reunion dinner last night, and when they asked him about you, he said that he didn’t know what the hell you were doing.

Really?

He was far unkinder than that. Sorry.

I took the NOMA opportunity from him; he should be angry. I don’t mind. It would have been weird if he wasn’t angry.

He also said that the rice and egg broth with the shiitake mushrooms was kind of derivative.

…

Mi-ran?

Okay. He can think that. I don’t mind.

Do you.

I’m telling you the truth. He can think whatever he wants.

If you want my opinion—

Don’t. it’s fine.

I was about to say that the rice and egg broth dish was the best thing I’ve ever had.

Flatterer.

I speak the truth.

Love you.

You don’t really.

I don’t?

You love Vernon.

Lies. Liar.

It’s why you’re forgiving that comment.

I’m not. I’m ignoring it. As I should.

You’re a coward.

That’s why I love you, Millie. You keep me honest.

Both of you are stupid.

—

“Wild ginseng,” she mutters to herself, setting up her station, “wild ginseng.” A close aide of the president was coming to dine with them that night, the front of house had informed them all before, it would be great if the Executive chef made the Hanwoo dish. The not-so-subtle undertone of don’t give this to the CDC and the line cooks remained there, but she really didn’t want to be a part of whatever political game the aide thought he was playing. She was going to be there, as usual, and she would be nice, as usual, and it would be a good service. Like always. She had stages and she had line cooks and she had two sous chefs and a CDC who hated her guts but loved cooking. She could do it; she had the necessary skills. She was skilled, man.

Prep time sulks, but that’s the point. People keep looking at her like she’s an alien, come to earth to figure out the living patterns of human beings. To some of them, she must look that way: the CDC-turned Executive Chef from Jungsikdang, someone who would under no normal circumstances be a part of this kitchen. That’s what Cheol told her too.

“What are you doing here, Mi-ran? You should have gone to another restaurant, someplace better than this one. You know that, right?”

“I do, Cheol,” she’d said, not fully believing herself, “I do. I just needed a change.”

And she did. Fire three Hanwoo. Hands. Refire. Change this, chef. The expo is being held up.

Someone passes a deli container into her hands. She looks up. Vernon just shrugs, “hojicha. Family meal is up next.”

“Right. Family meal.”

The new stage was on the family meal, rice and bulgogi made from the leftover marinated beef they had in the walk-in. She eats it all, because food is fuel, and you need the energy. She wants an energy drink. She wants fried chicken. She wants, desperately, anything other than Korean or Asian food. Her palate is fucked.

After family meal is done, she steps outside the restaurant for a break, stepping away from the gates and into the back alley. A cigarette comes up to her lips even before the doors finish closing behind her, and she walks out to the side of the dumpsters, taking quick puffs to calm herself down. Halfway through the cigarette, she sits down on the curb, hoping that the solidity of the road will do something to her shot nerves.

The prep is over. Now it’s just service that I need to get through.

“Sitting here again?”

She doesn’t even need to look to know it’s Vernon. He takes a seat next to her, their knees touching, and for a moment, she thinks of another time, back in London, back in the timeline before everything went to shit, “you’re still here?”

“What, you thought I’d leave?” he laughs, “I’m not going to, Chef Kim. If you want to, you can leave. I’m not going to.”

“Gyeonghoeru that important to you?” she scoffs, “you said that it doesn’t have a star.”

“Yes, but it could.” Vernon holds his hand out for the cigarette, and she wordlessly hands it over to him, “you know it too. If we all pulled through this one, then we have a chance at getting a star. It’s doable. It’s there.”

“Do you know the process of getting a star?” she turns to look at him, and Vernon is there, with a faraway look on his face, like he’s looking at something beyond her, beyond himself, beyond this restaurant, even. It’s the same look she had seen on his face when he talked about working at NOMA, when he talked about their future, the two of them. It’s the same everything.

She has to look away to not start crying.

“It could be a starred place, you know,” Vernon says, “they genuinely have the potential for that. Everyone here loves cooking; everyone here loves the art of it. They’re hungry for success, and a star would make them even more hungry for it. You know this, Chef Kim, you know they could be better than a restaurant with the potential to get recognition. They could actually have it.”

Chef Kim. All those years of calling me Mi-ran, and now he reverts back to Chef Kim. Fine. Good. “Do you know how hard the process is?” she can’t help the scoff that escapes her, “it’s painful, it’s hellish. Every day is a constant grind in that process, to get a star. People become jaded, people become tired. People start hating each other. It brings out the worst in people.”

“And you think the atmosphere in there isn’t already shot to death?” he stands up, looking down at her, his eyes hard, “everyone is on eggshells around you, everyone is on eggshells around me. People start looking amongst each other the moment we have a conversation, because they know we’re fucked up, and they want us to just stop this mess.”

“I did not start this mess, you did,” she snaps, “you know how many times I called you? How many times I texted, begging for you to listen to my words? I cut myself up daily because I thought I hurt you. That’s what I did. Every day, chef, of course the dynamic is fucked up, because you hate me, and I dislike you just as much!”

He stands very, very still. She knows what she’s just said, she knows the impact of the words, but she doesn’t want to take them back. Not yet. Not now. Vernon knows it’s true. He said your dish was derivative.

Everything comes back to cooking, in the end.

He takes a deep breath, “you wrote all those words to me from NOMA. You wrote them from Copenhagen, Mi-ran. You wrote them from the place where I desperately wanted to be at. You still think I should forgive you?”

She stands up, “then don’t fucking ask me to get you a star!”

“You think it’s just me who’s going to get a star? You’re going to get one too!”

She stares at Vernon for a full ten seconds, before saying “fuck you.” The door slams loudly, in the wake of her leaving. He doesn’t follow her into the kitchen.

“Twenty minutes till the doors open, chef,” the front of house, Minghao, says, loud enough for her to be jolted awake from that fucking daydream. “You feeling good?”

“Never better, chef,” she mumbles, looking away from him, because Minghao unfortunately worked at Ever and is a bitch for getting an accurate read on whatever emotions she’s feeling at any moment, “we’ll be ready this way, chef.”

“Stations need to be prepped, chefs!” she announces, stepping into the kitchen, drawing everyone’s attention, “pre-service meeting, please.”

There’s a murmur of assent, and Minghao follows her to the dining room, bringing the whole front of house along with him. Vernon walks into the kitchen as she follows Minghao out of the kitchen and into the dining, his eyes flicker for a moment before settling onto indifference.

“I’ll oversee pre-service,” he says, and she nods, allowing that bit of lie to fall through. What else was she going to say? That she knows that he didn’t want to talk to her, or that he knew that she was aware of this?

The dining room has approximately ten people in there, split amidst kitchen and front of house. Minghao takes a deep breath, before looking at her, inclining his head just a little. When was the last time that she had seen that particular gesture? Right, at Ever, when Minghao was there along with Vernon, both of them staging, and she had followed Vernon out to Chicago just to try and make amends. She still remembers the look that Minghao had given her across the room. She doesn’t think he recognised her, but at times, Minghao makes her suspicious.

“Chef,” he murmurs, “the pre-service.”

“Right,” she claps her hands, “today, we have some important things on the menu, the new iteration of dol hareubang, served with an orange reduction, so that needs to be mentioned. Also, for the seasonal menu, we have the boiled whole chicken, paired with a shiitake mushroom broth that has been flavoured with ginseng and Chinese whole spices. That’s all.”

She finishes her speech feeling very stupid, and Minghao, thankfully, takes over from her, “okay, guys, listen up! We have a few people of note eating with us today—two public health doctors, who have come here to celebrate their anniversary, and the man has sent a note ahead with his reservation, saying that he will be proposing to his girlfriend. We will be facilitating that, so there will be a special red bean paste dessert for them, and for god’s sake, do not ask them for the check.”

Red bean dessert, with a champagne proposal. She can already think of the multiple ways that she can make this one occasion more special for this couple, to make this one experience an unforgettable one. Red bean parfait, modified slightly from the sorbet that we already are serving for dessert. The tasting menu would have to be changed slightly, but that’s okay. They can do it.

“Pâtissier would be taking point on that one,” she mutters, and Hong Joshua, the pastry chef, looks up from where he’s standing, nodding fervently. Look, he can do it. You’ve got a system now, Kim Mi-ran. You’ve got your own brigade.

“What about the presidential aide?” one of the front of house members pipes up, “shouldn’t we be considering him as a person of note too?”

Minghao looks at her. She sighs, pinching her nose, “if we consider every politician who walks in through those doors as a person of note, we are going to inundated with red tickets like that every day. Politicians are not people of note, the people are. Let’s keep that in mind, everyone.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself, chef,” Minghao smiles, checking his watch, “ten minutes till doors open, chefs. I’m going to be on expo, so please make sure that everything is running smoothly. Seokmin, I’m counting on you for that.”

Seokmin nods, smiling brightly, ‘you can count on me, chef!”

“I can never get used to that,” she sighs, tucking her notepad into her apron pocket, “let’s go back to work, everyone.”

“Yes, chef!” the chorus follows her all through, even into the kitchen, where she looks at the dessert menu, that has been slightly revamped for the season; matcha and hojicha ice cream, along with a caramel sauce that people poured over their dishes. Joshua did a very good job of it, as expected from hi. She’s come to expect a lot of things from people, she does.

Vernon would never say anything bad about me.

He did, you know.

Derivative.

Derivative.

Derivative.

Chef, we need three shrimp within the next two minutes.

Derivative.

“Chef?”

She blinks, the lights suddenly harsh, “am I having a stroke?”

Vernon stares at her, “no, not really. You’re three minutes out from the doors being open, though.”

“That’s right, everyone. Three minutes till the doors open,” she nods, “faster and cleaner on every dish, chefs. Every second counts.”

Every second counts.

“First tickets coming in,” Minghao announces, “we need three striped jack, three arctic char, please, chefs.”

“Heard,” she says. Her hands work fast, sure, confident. This is the one thing in her life that she’s entirely confident on, cooking. Every second counts, chef. She knows her hands are fast and sure; she knows her hands make art and work at it. She’s sure of it.

Derivative.

—

“That’s it,” Minghao announces, “thank you, chefs!”

Mi-ran throws in her towel with slightly more force than absolutely necessary. Everything had gone well. The presidential aide had shown up with their acquaintances in tow and they had had a good time. Everyone who stepped in through those doors tonight had had a good time.

“Thank you, everyone,” she says, looking at Minghao, who’s walking fast towards her, a smile on his face, “yes?”

“The persons of note wish to send their compliments to the chef,” Minghao grins, “they really enjoyed their meal.”

“You refused to take the check, yeah?”

He rolls his eyes, “of course we did, but now they want to meet you.”

“Why? They should be meeting Joshua instead. The dessert was the surprise one.”

Minghao shakes his head, “the dol hareubang.”

“The dol hareubang.” She sighs, “let’s go.”

When she follows Minghao out into the dining area, she can feel the eyes of the diners on her, looking with heightened interest in the executive chef, who’s coming to grace them with her presence. She doesn’t like this part of her job. One thing she didn’t have to deal with at Jungsikdang, were the meetings. She didn’t have to think about meeting people, just had to be satisfied with the knowledge that her food was good and it was received well by the people.

Minghao stops in front of a pair of people in the corner seat, “there you go.”

“I have to do it, right?”

“You’re the executive chef, not me.”

She sighs. He’s not wrong. Minghao rarely is. “Hello, I’m the executive chef, Kim Mi-ran,” she smiles, bowing at the couple, who elbow each other in excitement, “I trust everything went well?”

The woman stands up, smiling, “thank you so much for this incredible meal, chef. The dol hareubang was out of this world.”

“Thank you, we as a team work very hard for everything to be perfect,” she smiles back, “I trust the surprise went well?”

The brilliant smile on their faces rivals the brilliant cut of the diamond ring on the woman’s finger.

—

“Staff drinks, please,” Joshua whines during cleanup, wiping down his counter, “Saturday, please.”

Minghao looks at her, “I’m not the person who can sign off on that.”

Joshua looks at her, “pretty please, Chef Kim?”

She sighs, “we need to go over the vendor contracts on Saturday. I need Minghao and Vernon for that.”

“We can look over the contracts before we leave for drinks,” Minghao says mildly, trying not to annoy her further, “I’m sure we can finish everything in time and then go out for drinks, the whole staff.”

She looks down at the tile that she had been scrubbing for the past three minutes. There’s a particular red stain on there, that she can’t really get out. She’s been staring at it for the past three minutes, and the smell of soap persistently stays on, within her nostrils. They’re all going to go out for dinner and she’s going to have to go with them, because that’s what a good boss does; go out with their employees during the weekend, commiserating with them over general shitty work life and offering them condolences for ending up in the position where they were.

“Right, I don’t think I can join, sorry,” she says, “but the corporate card is there, for discretionary expenses. I think we can use that.”

Minghao’s expression perks up, “that's right! We can take the corporate card with us. And we've been working so hard for the past couple of months, I think we deserve a break.”

“We do,” Vernon replies. She looks at him. He’s scrubbing the floor, same as her, but unlike her, he’s managed to cover a significant area. She wonders if this is a sign from the universe.

“We’re bringing you too, chef,” Joshua points at her, grinning widely, “you cannot escape the company dinner just because you think it’s going to be a bad thing, you need to come with us.”

“I don’t need to do that,” she grumbles, “I shouldn’t go out and get drinks with anyone.”

—

Minghao leaves her in the middle of brainstorming about the seasonal menu, three of whose dishes need to be changed, citing some vague excuse about a wine vendor who had reneged on their promise for a proper Beaujolais, which means that she’s stuck in the small office at nine in the evening, with only a blinking table lamp for company. She has to be here, because there is work to be done. There is always work to be done. The work never ends, it seems. Not for her.

“Minghao?” the door opens, “I thought you were supposed to me here—oh.”

She looks up at Vernon, who’s wearing a plain white shirt and jeans, looking like he’s freshly showered, clearly expecting someone else, “oh, it’s you.”

“Are you upset that it’s me, chef?” she murmurs, going back to her notebooks, “Minghao has gone off in search of a proper Beaujolais. He’s not here right now.”

“Right,” Vernon sighs, ignoring the jab, “he asked me to meet him here.”

“I was talking to him until a few minutes ago, when he said that he had to leave,” she sighs, “I know you said you didn’t want to be a part of the proceedings, but do you want to take a look at the new seasonal menu? Front of House says that three dishes need to be changed out.”

For a moment, Vernon looks like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world, but shakes his head, sitting down on a stool, looking at er scrawled notes and sketches, “which three dishes?”

“The manduguk, which Joongang Daily didn’t like when they did the review, the LA Galbi, which Hankyoreh thought was the least cohesive of all of our dishes, and finally, the salmon roe, which in everyone’s opinion, is exceedingly difficult, has too many elements, and generally, is a bitch to prepare. Also, no one really goes for it in the a la carte menu.”

“Damn,” Vernon whistles, “that’s a lot of things to go through. You sure you need my help?”

She stares at him, “chef, I don’t know what you think about me, but to me, you’re my CDC. That hasn’t changed, and I don’t think it ever will. No matter what happened between us, I still need your opinion on this.”

He looks at her, “I said that I didn’t want to be a part of this.”

“I know, but I wanted you to be a part of this, so that’s why, I’m asking you for your opinion,” she holds her hand out for her notebook, “never mind, if you don’t want to give your opinion, or be a part of this one, then I shouldn’t force you to take part.”

“You always do business like this?”

“What?”

“I’m asking if you always do business like this.”

“I’m not the one running a business here, chef,” she sighs, “I still need to report to my boss and the accounting department, who always have something to say about the dishes that we have planned, and I still need to get everyone on board for this, so chef, if you don’t want to be a part of this, I’m not going to stop you. You are free to leave this office space.” That part of her sentence, you're also free to leave this kitchen and my life goes unsaid. His face looks like he’s gotten the memo, however.

He hands her the notebook, and she goes back to sketching the dishes. They need to scrap the manduguk. If Joongang Daily hates it, then it was truly not up to the mark. The first time that she heard about that review, she had scoffed. What did the fucking Joongang Daily know about haute cuisine? The second time, she read the review, which called the manduguk ‘unbalanced and not up to the mark’. Hankyoreh thought that the La Galbi was not cohesive and did not ‘speak to the overall quality of the atmosphere’, and that it seemed too much like ‘the Gyeonghoeru was trying to at once be an upscale restaurant and a small-time Korean barbecue joint in the Bay area, and it wasn’t working’. She knows. It never works. They need to change it.

 “Mi—Kim,” he says, and it’s pathetic, so pathetic, how small his voice sounds, and it’s kind of awful on her part, because that small part inside of her, that mean and angry and bitter part inside of her, that preens at this comment. He can’t even say my name out loud. She realises with horror, that she likes it when Vernon gets that tone in his voice. It means that he’s listening to her. It means that her words are affecting him, that he can no longer remain nonchalant and pretend that she doesn’t exist in his sphere outside of service and prep. Am I a fucking monster?

“Yes?” she looks up, and Vernon looks like he’s been thinking about this for a long time, “what do you need to talk to me about, chef?”

That’s just being cruel, she knows it, but she needs this, also; needs the distance of calling him chef, because she doesn’t want to call him Vernon, only to hear the words Chef Kim being thrown back at her. She doesn’t want to be a part of that. She doesn’t think her heart could take that much.

“I’m sorry.”

She blinks. “What are you sorry about, chef?”

“I shouldn’t have lashed out at you like that.”

“It doesn’t matter now, chef,” she sighs, “we should get back to work. That means I need to get back to work, and you can ask Minghao where he is right now. Probably moved on to a Languedoc sweet wine by now.”

“I’m trying to make amends here, Chef,” Vernon huffs, slightly irritated, and she must be crazy, because she really needs to see him lose it for once in his life. She needs to see Chwe Vernon just go insane. Berserk. She needs to see it. He’s snapped at her and he’s gotten irritated with her, but he’s never been angry. She needs to see it.

A sudden, irrational realisation comes over her, and she stands up, the notebook entirely abandoned on the desk, with its brightly-coloured drawings staring at the two of them, “how badly do you want that star, Chef Chwe Hansol?”

He looks up, eyes wide, “you’re considering it?”

“I still think it’s a bad idea,” she sighs, “but that’s not the point. Do you want it, or not?”

A moment.

Vernon stares at her like they’re back at le cordon, like they're back working side by side at sketch, like the last few years had never really happened, like they're not on other sides of a burning bridge. “Do you want this too?”

She nods, “I think we could get you a star, Chef Hansol. I’m not going to ask why you want that star or why you’re so intent on getting it in fucking Korea, making Korean food, when the process would have probably been a lot easier in the United States. I’m asking you, do you want the star?”

Vernon looks at her for a moment, then nods, “yes, I want it.”

She sighs, “well, let’s see what we can do about it.”

—

Mi-ran, what’s your deal with Vernon?

Vernon? He’s a friend.

He cannot be just a friend.

He is.

Have you seen the way he looks at you? Not a friend. Not by a long shot.

You’re lying hehe

—

On Saturday, she hands a typed-out card to Minghao, with the title ‘Non-negotiables’.

“What’s this?” he asks, without even looking at it, “cannot be the new menu, you just locked it last night. You haven’t even given it to everyone yet.”

“I think we should get a star.” She says, without any preamble. Minghao sputters, then does a double take.

“What?”

“I mean, it’s been long enough with me here, I think we need to work towards getting a star.”

“I’m sorry, chef,” Minghao says slowly, as if he’s trying to get it through in his own head, “you mean a Michelin star, right? This is not some other sort of award that I am not aware of?”

“No, chef, this is a Michelin star that I’m talking about,” she replies, “I want one.”

He blinks at her, “you’ve been talking to Chef Hansol again, I see.”

She turns her head so fast that her neck would have snapped, “no. I want the star.”

“Is this some ego thing?” Minghao looks like he might have a conniption, “it hasn’t even been a year since we opened, and the boss brought you into this ship as a last-ditch attempt to keep this restaurant alive. Chef Hansol joined after you did, so I want to be clear on this one thing.”

“I’m clear, chef,” she pulls on her apron, “we need to get a star if we want more people to come here.”

“Getting a Michelin star is not a publicity stunt, chef,” Minghao sighs, “are you sure about this?”

“One hundred percent sure,” she walks back into the kitchen, “we will get a star.”

Over at pastry, Joshua perks up, “a star?” he walks over, “are we talking about getting a star?”

“Chef Kim here is talking about getting a star,” Minghao sighs, “chef, please. Think about this. We cannot afford to fail if we start. We cannot stop on this trajectory.”

“I know, which is why I wrote those regulations,” she turns back to her finished prep, “we’ll get a star.”

Joshua and Minghao share a look amongst them, “is this about—” Joshua begins, and she holds up a hand, silencing them both.

“This is an ego thing,” she says, blatantly ignoring Vernon, whose looking at the three of them from his position on the pass, “I retained two stars at Jungsikdang, and I got another star for the restaurant the next year. I want Gyeonghoeru to have a star too. I want this for myself, and I want this for everyone else.”

Minghao takes a look at her list, “this is all on par for the course for fine dining, but what is this thing about a ‘chaos menu’?”

“The menu changes once a week,” she shrugs, “similar ingredients, because vendors will refuse to give us a good discount without larger orders, but we shift the dishes. Every week, the menu will change.”

Minghao looks like he might really have a heart attack now, “chef,” Joshua says, “I doubt pastry would be able to pull that off.”

“The dessert menu can be locked,” she concedes, “but the rest of it, I will change that. We are all capable of following through on a challenge, and I think—no, I know that this will do well.”

Footsteps. She knows who this is, because only one person walks like that, even within a kitchen, “chef,” Vernon says, voice clipped, “please, can we talk about this?”

She gives Minghao and Joshua a nod, following Vernon into the office.

As soon as the door closes behind her, he turns around, looking irritated, “a chaos menu? Really?”

“I thought you wanted a star, chef.” She replies, trying her best to be nonchalant, “we need to do this.”

“Doing this would harm us more than it would do us any good,” he snaps, “you know this, chef.”

“I was not the one who wanted a star, chef.”

A moment. One. Two. Vernon looks like he wants to storm out of the office, but finally decides otherwise, standing a bit taller. Doesn’t matter, he’s still the same height as me, she thinks, not a hint of malice in there. He’s still the same. Even if he had changed his name and adopted another person’s skin, he’s still the same.

“You’re going to make everyone suffer,” he bites out eventually, not looking away, “you’re going to make everyone suffer with your rules and this chaos menu that will be changing every three days—”

“Every week.”

“—every week, then, because you have no idea how these people work—”

“I have enough of an idea, thank you very much.”

“—which just means that you’re going to put everyone through the ringer for nothing!”

She doesn’t say anything when he finishes his sentence, just keeps staring at him. Theres a shuffling noise outside the door. About three people, listening in, two of them have to be Minghao and Joshua, and they must have recruited someone from the kitchen, probably to get another witness to this—whatever they were having right now. Was this a lovers’ spat?

“If you want to get a star, chef, you need to follow the rules and regulations. If you don’t wish for that, then you’re free to go. I’m sure London would be very happy to have you back, working in their kitchens,” she says finally, and although it’s bitter and mean and nothing like what she wanted to say to him, it comes out like she’s tired and exhausted, like she’s been holding her exhaustion in for months and weeks and days.

“Are you firing me?”

“I’m telling you to get with the programme that you built, chef, not the other way around,” she groans, “god, I’m so fucking tired.”

“Right, message receives,” he nods, “do let me know about the rules and regulations, I will be following them to the dot.”

“I would really hope that you do, chef, because my kitchen is not a place for idleness,” she replies, “make sure that you are on board with everything.”

Vernon steps aside, and she opens the door, yanking it back with so much force that the three people waiting outside almost fall over, and she glares at Minghao, Joshua, and Chan.

She scoffs, levelling another withering stare at Minghao and Joshua, who have the decency to look slightly abashed, “roping in the stage on their first month?”

Chan blushes almost immediately, “no, no, chef, I just wanted to show you this idea that I had been working on, and Chef Xu said that I could come to the office and show it to you, and Chef Hong said that I could—”

“They filled your heads with bullshit, right?” she rolls her eyes, “really? I did not expect that from the two of you, man.”

“You expected worse from us, be honest,” Minghao looks unashamed, and Joshua just giggles as she makes her way back to the kitchen and picks up her knife again. The fucking knife. She had got it back in NOMA, as a present from a friend in Japan, a beef knife that was half a joke, half serious. Still, she stuck with the utensil, even going so far as to travel to fucking Gifu to repair it one time.

“Hey, chef,” Minghao follows her into the kitchen, whispering low, “do you really think that fighting with him like this is going to help?”

“There is nothing to fight about,” she mutters, chopping up onions for the mirepoix with more anger than necessary, “look, chef, I’m thankful for the support, I really am. But there is nothing to help with, and I need you to focus and follow the regulations.”

Minghao sighs, “I worked at Michelin-starred restaurants too, chef. But this is too—”

“Everyone here is trained formally, yes, but Michelin star is a different ballgame altogether, you know. We need to get together and get our heads in the game.”

“Yes, that’s all well and good for you, chef, but I’m not jeopardising the well-being of the whole team because you wanted to have a Michelin star.”

“I did not want a Michelin star. I’ve got enough of them, and I hate the idea of it,” she snaps, not really understanding the implications of those words. I don’t want a Michelin star. I’ve got enough of them.

Minghao stares at her for a while, then a slow, understanding smile spreads all over his face, “understood, chef.”

She looks at him, hands still methodically chopping onions, “no, do not go there.”

“I knew there was something there when you came to fucking Chicago and waited around at Ever for a lifetime,” he snickers, “there’s so much I want to know about this.”

“There will be nothing that you get to know about this, you fucking asshole,” she rolls her eyes, “go run service. Prep will be over in an hour.”

He snorts, leaving her on the pass. Vernon comes up behind her, eyes red, like he’s been crying in the office, which is not true, because Joshua would know and Joshua cannot keep a secret to save his life, “chef, the prep.”

“Right, the prep, chef,” she mutters, bringing out her notebook, “we have two and a half turns tonight, so, prep accordingly, chef.”

“Two and a half turns,” he mutters, under his breath, going back to his station. She doesn’t want to hurt him, and she doesn’t want to argue with him, but she also doesn’t want to hurt herself.

—

“Coming for drinks?”

She stares at Minghao’s outstretched hand, blinking twice to refocus, after the Saturday service. Why is it that all Saturday services were shitty? They are all wiped out, Joshua almost cried during service, Chan actually cried during service, and Vernon was—Vernon was doing whatever his idea of a cold shoulder was, which was nothing.

And Minghao is looking at him with Seokmin in tow, all hopeful about a dinner, and she doesn’t really have the emotional bandwidth to deal with this anymore.

You have to, you’re executive chef now.

“I’m going to opt out of this one, chef,” she sighs, reaching into the drawer to get the corporate card they save for these occasions, “no expensive wines and shit, please. The discretionary budget has been shot to hell.”

Minghao makes a face, “what, you want me to wreck my palate?”

“Yes, please, chef, wreck your palate on cheap soju and beer, because that is the extent to which the company will be funding our team dinners to.” She rolls her eyes, “I spoke with the boss yesterday about it, and he said there was a discretionary budget in place for this. It’s not much.”

“Yeah, no shit, we’re gonna have to get fucked up on cheap liquor tonight, I guess,” Minghao pockets the card, “you're not coming?”

She stares at him. Is he kidding, or does he actually want me to come with him? “I’m not so stupid as to butt into the affairs of my subordinates, Minghao,” she shakes her head, “I need to work through this couple of vendor contracts before I can even get out of this office.”

Minghao takes a step forward, then takes a look at the giant spreadsheet that she has open on her computer, “I’m not going near that with a ten-foot pole, chef. That looks awful.”

“Yes, well, I have to deal with it, that’s my job,” she sighs, “tomorrow is a state holiday, and on Monday, we’re all off.”

“The restaurant's closed for two days, yes,” Minghao says, narrowing his eyes, “wait, are you planning to come back in here? Why?”

“I’m not, I just had an idea for a dish, we can put it in the menu maybe when we’re a bit more uh—financially solvent,” she wants to wring her hair out, “I’m going to go over the numbers again.”

“Don’t you need to see the accountant for that?”

“I’ve got enough experience at this, I think, chef,” she says, “if there is nothing that I can do, then I’ll talk to the accountant.”

“Yeah,” Minghao takes a seat on a stool, “no drinks, then?”

She shakes her head, “sorry, chef. No drinks tonight.”

When Minghao opens the door to walk outside, she can see Vernon standing outside, staring at her like she’s a problem he cannot really solve. She doesn’t return that look. I don’t care.

When she gets home that night, the clock is striking three in the morning. The spreadsheets were so complicated that she almost bled from her eyes, but she had to get through them. We need a star, she thinks, if not for me, then for the rest of the people in there. Joshua. Minghao. Seokmin. Chan. Vernon.

Vernon.

She reaches for her phone, turning blindly towards the place where she’s sure that she’s kept it. Minghao has added her to his Instagram, and like a fucking masochist, she opens his profile to see the story that he’s uploaded. Fucking idiot. What, you want to see how well they're doing without you?

It’s a photo taken at a cheap roadside bar. Minghao stares into the camera, grinning, and behind him, the rest of the crew. Chan is halfway through his drink, and Joshua is holding up a victory sign. Great. Vernon is there too, on the edge of the picture, smiling, holding his hands up in a gesture that means what—what does it mean? She doesn’t know. She never does.

[on this day seven years ago]

She doesn’t want to click on that notification, but she has to. There’s some sort of magnetic pull towards that notification that brings her to that memory from seven years ago, just when they began working at Sketch, her and Vernon, grinning, a cigarette dangling from her lips, and a can of coke in Vernon’s hand. Is she pathetic if she remembers everything about that one night?

She doesn’t care. She doesn’t care at all. She’s so good at this. She’s thirty and she’s a genius and she’s an executive chef and she misses Vernon and misses cooking in a way that actually mattered to her.

—

I don’t think this is working out.

How so?

I keep thinking about the burner.

The burner?

The burner. In the kitchen. I keep thinking about it. When it’s on, I think that it’s going to be easy. So easy.

To do what?

To just let the fire continue. To just let it burn everything and me along with it.

Have you done anything about it?

I just turn the knob off the moment the voices get too loud.

That’s good, Miss Kim.

That’s nice to hear. Miss Kim.

Why?

I get called ‘chef’ all the time. This is a welcome change.

I see.

—

She blinks awake in the middle of the morning. It’s eight o’ clock, too late, which means that she has one call from her mother, waiting for her.

“Mi-ran,” she hears on the second ring, when she calls her mother, “are you coming to lunch today?”

“I don’t want to, mom,” she sighs, “I just go home and start cooking, and I am taking a break from it for two days.”

Her mom sighs, “and what makes you think that I’m going to ask you to cook when I know that it’s a holiday?”

Shit. “I’m sorry, mom, it’s just that so many other people—”

“I know, honey. I know. Just come home. It’s going to be fine.”

“Okay,” she thinks about it, “I’ll come home in the afternoon, mom.”

“Love you.”

She doesn’t say it back.

She is so fucked. She keeps thinking about it while packing up for a night at her childhood home. Her mother would no doubt pack her with enough side dishes to last a whole month. The only person who’s been excited by the prospect of her returning, have been her parents. Her father would no doubt tell her to buy a car instead of hiring a car every time she made the trip, because getting a taxi costs money. Everything costs money. She’s not even interested.

She doesn’t want to go, but like a good daughter, she does. She opens her fridge and looks at the dismal selection of ingredients and thinks to herself, what can I make for my parents, and comes up with nothing, and still moves. Takes a shower, brushes her teeth. Feels like her insides are going to crawl out of her skin.

She can still see the Instagram story that Minghao had uploaded, with Chan and Joshua and Vernon, and feels like she’s messing everything up.

—

Her parents live in a middle-class area, where they bought their house in the years before the IMF crisis. Most of the people she grew up with were all the same: children of middle tier government workers, who had a set life course ahead of them even before they began to understand what life meant. Lawyer, doctor. Engineer. One became a prosecutor. Teacher. Bank worker.

“Mi-ran!” her mother says, the moment she walks through the front door, “come in! you look so tired, did you drive here? Why did you take so long to come? We’re all done with lunch.”

“Mother,” she replies, extricating herself from her grasp, “I just have two days of vacation. I spent the morning cleaning.”

That satisfies her mother, because cleaning is a good thing, right? Cleaning means that you were thinking about the space where you lived in, took care of the people who shared the same space as you. Cleaning was good. Cleaning was appropriate. Cleaning was what adjusted people did.

She’s a well-adjusted woman.

“You’re here,” her father says, “your sister was supposed to be back, but she’s not here yet.”

Did she mention that she has a sister?

“Yeah, right, I called her, and she said she’s not going to make it this time around.” She replies, looking intently at the floor design, “you called her? She picked up?”

“She didn’t pick up,” her father sounds irritated, but she can ignore that as much as she likes, “she just sent me a text. God knows what she’s doing right now.”

Mi-ran has an idea about what her sister might be doing at the moment, but she says nothing, and instead, she chooses to keep her mouth shut. She’s a wise woman. She’s wise and she’s a genius.

“Right,” she mutters, stepping beside her father, “I’m going to take a nap, mom. Don’t worry.”

—

“Don’t you ever rest?” her sister asks, lounging on her bed, “Copenhagen’s so beautiful. You should go gout sometime.”

She laughs, “eonnie, this is my first day off in—like, months.”

Her sister sits up, “months?”

“Months,” she repeats, “I think my hands are just, sixty percent julienned carrots right now.”

Her sister laughs, easy and relaxed, and Mi-ran allows herself to relax too, bringing the glass of coke up to her mouth. Her sister is here, visiting her at NOMA, and she’s having fun with her sister. She’s having fun with her sister right now. So much fun.

Her sister sits up on the bed, “I’m sure your hands are carrots right now. My hands perpetually smell of that same ink they use for evidence documents. It never goes away, man. I keep thinking, maybe today is the day I can finally scrub it all off me, but no. nothing happens. I still smell of ink.”

She snorts, “like Lady Macbeth?”

“Like Lady Macbeth,” her sister makes a show of scrubbing her hands, “all the perfumes of Arabia would not sweeten this hand.”

“You're always so dramatic.” She laughs, “you didn’t bring your husband along this time.”

Her sister stays silent for a moment, “hey, Mi-ran, you know something?”

Mi-ran sits up. She doesn’t want to admit, but am odd feeling runs all over her skin, because that tone of voice is something that her sister has used only once with her, a long, long time ago.

Mi-ran, tell me the truth. Do you want this for yourself?

“What happened?”

Her sister reaches for Mi-ran’s can of coke, and takes a drink, “your brother-in-law has been cheating on me.”

Mi-ran goes stock still. She knows her brother-in-law, knows the man who seemed sweet to her sister whenever he came over to the house, the man who cried like a baby when her sister appeared in her wedding dress, “he’s been cheating?”

“Yes,” her sister nods, “it’s his secretary. He’s like a walking stereotype, my god.”

Mi-ran takes her coke back, drinking from it. For a moment, she’s back in a side street in Seoul, passing a cigarette back and forth beside a convenience store. Don’t worry, no one’s going to tell on you. Do you want this, Mi-ran?

“Divorce him.” She makes a face, and her sister laughs, “what? I’m right.”

“I already filed the paperwork for it,” her sister shrugs, “I just—well, I’m kind of scared.”

“Scared?” Mi-ran can’t believe her ears. This was her sister, the girl who was her idol for the longest time, the one person who didn’t give a shit about how they were living their lives, and she’s saying this? It doesn’t make sense.

“Scared?”

Her sister shrugs again, “mom and dad told me that I shouldn’t think of getting a divorce so soon after getting married.”

She gives a short, self-mocking laugh, “he was sleeping with his secretary. I’m supposed to let that go, because people will say shit?”

“People always say shit,” Mi-ran sighs, “they kept saying shit about me, and now they're going to say shit about you. You shouldn’t be afraid of what people are going to say, and make ourself unhappy in the process.”

“I know, but it’s still, slightly uncomfortable,” her sister says, which means that it is very uncomfortable for her, “maybe when I have enough of my braincells about me, I’ll think differently, but for now, I’m not really willing to go and face the music. You must think I’m a big coward, right, Mi-ran?”

Mi-ran nods, and then stands up to look outside the window. Copenhagen is a beautiful city, no doubt, but it’s even more beautiful in the night. Everything seems bathed in moonlight, in this corner of the city. Her apartment is silent, “you can hide here. I don’t mind.”

Her sister stands up, “hide?”

Mi-ran nods, “yeah, hide. You can hide here. Running away from problems isn’t a bad thing. You’re nor a coward, sis. You can stay here.”

Her sister laughs, “my little sister is offering me shelter?”

Mi-ran makes a face, “I’m not little anymore. You hid me from the world when I asked you to, so now, even before you're asking me, I’m telling you. Hide in here for as long as you want. Take all your vacation days, and then some. I earn enough from NOMA. I’ll feed you, and we can live here. Get a transfer, to someplace other than Seoul. Run to Busan, sis. I’ll look after you.”

“The parents are not going to be happy about it.”

“They don’t always know everything about our lives, sis,” she laughs, “we’re people. Normal people. Normal people are allowed to run and hide from their problems. That’s what family is for. To give shelter.”

“That’s wat they're teaching you at NOMA?”

“They teach me how to farm, how to create things out of everyday produce,” she smiles, “I can make an haute cuisine puree out of parsnips that I harvest in the gardens, I can make something out of anything, almost. We can make a life in here, for you, for as long as you need.”

Her sister stares at her for a long while, “I think I would like that, Mi-ran.”

—

She wakes up in the middle of the evening, with a headache that threatens to blind her. Am I finally going blind? Swinging her legs out of the bed, Mi-ran goes to find her mother in the kitchen, stirring a pot of soup, “your father likes this, so I made some. You want?”

She takes a look inside the pot. Ground loach soup, with ginger and radish. Pulling a spoon from the dish rack, she tastes it, feeling her mother staring at her while she tries not to think about how much she fucking hates loaches, “needs a bit more salt, but you have to be careful with it, otherwise it’s just going to be a salty mess. Here, let me,” she takes out the container of salt from her mother’s hands, “dad is still on his blood pressure medications, right?”

“Right,” her mother says, eyeing the container like Mi-ran’s about to defuse a bomb, “let me do that, Mi-ran.”

She shakes her head, “no, it’s fine,” she says, but her mother is already gripping it with both hands, and trying to take it from her, “mom, just give it back. Let me salt.”

“No, your dad is going to find it salty, and then he’s going to complain, let me.”

“Mom just—shit!”

The entire container of salt spills into the soup, the crystal granules melting into the soup faster than she can pick it out of the pot, “I was doing it!”

“You always manage to do this,” her mother sighs, “I told you to stay out of the kitchen!”

Mi-ran snaps back, “and you told me to taste it! Of course I’m going to change things! I’m a chef!”

“A chef?”

“Yes, just let me change the—” but it’s too late for that. Her mother, upset, takes the whole pot, and throws it down the garbage chute. Mi-ran just nods her head, stomps back up the stairs, and debates jumping in front of oncoming traffic for the next half hour.

Ground loach soup. Not even samgyeopsal for the kid who is coming home for the first time in months. Not even that.

When she finally comes down for dinner, the table is set for a simple dinner, a miso soup that has no ingredients other than tofu and bean sprouts in it, from what she can see, and rice and kimchi. Her father sits at the head of the tale, surveying everything with a critical eye, “your mother was making loach soup, right?”

“Well, there was an accident,” Mi-ran gives a half-assed explanation, “miso soup is great, mom. Thanks.”

She takes a seat, and even before she can take a first bite, her father says, “how is the restaurant coming along?”

She puts her food down, “it’s fine, dad. We’re running okay.”

“COVID hit a lot of restaurants really badly, you know that, right?”

“Yes, dad,” she says, dutifully, “we have a very affordable menu because of the budget cuts, and we’re thinking of—” he holds a hand up, and she shuts her mouth. Why am I even explaining myself to him? Why am I doing this?

“I just hope you're thinking about the future,” he says, sharing a look with her mother, and immediately, she knows what this is about. Of course.

Her mother, taking a look at her father, begins, “you know, there’s this very nice boy, lives right around the corner, works in the district governmental office. His parents attend the same church as we do, and it would be really nice to—”

“I’m not really looking to get married right now, mom,” she sighs, “I’m thinking of getting a bigger profit from the restaurant. We’re barely making profits as it is, right now.”

Bad thing to say. Her father looks up, “and you're still there?”

Mi-ran blinks, “what?”

Her father sighs, taking a bite of his food, “you refuse to get married. You refuse to even consider the prospect of moving into a proper career.”

“This is a proper career, dad,” she sighs, “I’m not having this conversation with you again.”

“It is not when you are constantly worrying about shutting down!” he shouts at her, and she thought that it was rare, when her father yelled at her, but nowadays, she keeps remembering occasions when he was yelling, shouting, like he is right now, “we kept telling you, to take up a proper career, but your head was filled with crazy nonsense about becoming a chef, and going to some fancy school in another country—”

“I worked my ass off to be in that school!” she shouts back, “I had jobs and I applied for scholarships and I worked day in and day out, just to be there, dad. It was my dream!”

“It was a fool’s errand!”

“Then you shouldn’t have taught me anything like that!”

“Mi-ran,” her mother says, clearly annoyed, “sit down and finish your food.”

But Mi-ran cannot hear anyone. She can’t even see her parents, all that is in front of her eyes is an open flame, flickering, waiting. Enticing. Burn it all down.

She stops yelling, but her voice is no less angry, “you shouldn’t have taught me how to dream, dad. You should have taken and strangled that dream for me when I was a child, but no, you taught me how to dream, and then you refused to let me follow them! Of course I left!”

“Mi-ran!”

She stands up from the table, pushing her miso soup away from her, “I’m going back home. This was a stupid decision.”

At the gate, she turns, “the miso soup has no salt, mom. And I have three Michelin stars, so I think I know what I’m talking about.”

—

The clock reads midnight when she reaches home, utterly exhausted. She doesn't want to fight with her parents, but every time she goes back to that house, she's reminded of her sister, and that one evening in Copenhagen, where she had looked at her and said, I'm scared, Mi-ran.

Every time. This happened every fucking time she went there.

She closes her eyes, and all of a sudden, she’s back in that one moment at Jungsikdang, her hands outstretched over the pass, a large knife in her hands.

Lower it. Lower the knife, cut into skin. You know what to do. You can butcher almost any game within three and a half minutes. You can do this, Mi-ran. You know what to do. You couldn’t burn it down, so you need to do this one thing. One thing, and you’re free of this kitchen. For the first time, and forever.

No.

Do it.

She’s always standing in that kitchen, over the burner. Doing nothing, just standing there. Sometimes, there would be the buzz of the kitchen all around her, moving like a well-oiled machine, not a cog out of place. Everyone in their right place, as it were. Everyone, except for her.

Mi-ran flops down on her bed, thinking about the whole fiasco. Her sister is not going back to their home anymore, not unless their parents actually apologise to her, which they’re not going to. Not at all. Going back home means going without her sister, means going back into the house of people who always meat well, but eventually meant a little too well.

“You know that they’re never going to forgive you for this, right?” her sister says, unloading her luggage from the taxi, “they're here because of a formality. They don’t really want you to go.”

“I bombed the college admission test, I can’t even get into a university if I tried,” she sighs, “I’m sorry, eonnie, I really tried.”

Her sister smiles, then wraps her into a hug, “I know, I know. You really tried. I know that.”

Mi-ran feels like she’s halfway in the middle of heaven and hell. She’s supposed to be happy, she knows, but the faces of her parents keep reminding her that her happiness is coming at the cost of theirs, and that she shouldn’t even think about being happy. She’s breaking her parents’ hearts, by not doing what they wanted for her. Essentially, by being herself.

I’m just seventeen, she thinks, I’m just seventeen.

The departures gate at Incheon airport is crowded, again, but she feels like she’s free. For the first time in a long time, she’s moving towards her dreams, without someone telling her to not follow them. Without someone holding her back. Or maybe she’s walking right off a cliff.  

“Be good,” her sister whispers, giving her a hug, “call me from time to time, okay?”

“Okay, I will,” she smiles, “I’ll be successful, eonnie. I’ll be successful.”

—

You have three missed calls.

She doesn’t bother checking who’s called her, because it’s always the same: her parents, Cheol, Mingyu, Minghao, someone from the restaurant, or a spam caller. Hopefully a spam caller.

The last text exchange with her sister is Mi-ran sending her pictures of dishes at Gyeonghoeru and her sister replying to her with pictures of her home and from around her workplace in Busan. Good for you, she replies, I’m trying to keep my eyes open today.

Good day or bad day?

Does it matter? Is it a good day for you?

It is a good day for me. I have a date tonight, so I’m going to get off work an hour early.

Ooh, look at you, going on dates. Proper young lass, I say.

I prefer the term ‘normal woman’, thank you very much.

I’m just saying, it would be nice if I could permanently move to Busan. Hang out there all the time.

You have a proper high cuisine restaurant to run, Mi-ran. You're an executive chef, and I keep telling all my colleagues about you.

About your sister who returned to Korea after trying to kill herself in the middle of her house? Very nice.

Haha, and have you told mom about that? She would want to know.

No, I haven’t, and mind your own business, sis. Going around talking shit about me, huh?

I tell them about my sister who was CDC at Jungsikdang, and got three Michelin stars for that restaurant.

Technically, I just got one. The restaurant already had two to begin with.

I’m going to hit you so hard.

Lol you should join the line.

Of?

The people who want to kill me.

You’re very morbid, Mi-ran.

I prefer ‘pragmatic’. Most line cooks want to kill their executive chef.

Did you?

Every day.

You’re very insane. Also, how the tables have turned, eh?

How the turntables, indeed.

When are you letting me come to Gyeonghoeru

I never came to Jungsikdang, so I want to come and eat at your place

When we have a star

So next week?

Fuck off, man.

Mi-ran sighs, drops her phone to the bed beside her, and rolls over to look for a pack. I’ve run out, she realises, sighing, I’ll have to go out and get some today.

Minghao send her a text, you need to talk to Vernon about the new menu if you really want a star.

Irritated, she calls the man, who picks up within a couple rings, “really, dude? I'm not going to call Vernon. I'm not going to call him at all.”

“Are you just being combative or annoying?” Minghao laughs, “you really need to call Vernon. He feels very bummed out that you didn't include him in the planning.”

Mi-ran rolls her eyes, “he’s not a child, Minghao, Vernon can come and join the process of planning the menu, it’s just that he doesn’t really want to. Ive asked him multiple times to come and join, and he hasn’t replied to any of my requests. That’s wild.”

“No, that’s just Vernon,” Minghao laughs, “just give him a call next time you need to workshop a new dish, because he was crying about it on Saturday.”

Mi-ran doesn’t respond for a moment, and then says, “he should have come to me, instead of telling you all about it.”

Minghao sighs on the other end, “look, Mi-ran, I’m not going to tell you how to deal with your issues, but you need to communicate better with Vernon. He’s the only person you have these issues with, and he’s the CDC. It’s hurting the restaurant, and if we want a star, we need to have better communication between you and him.”

“You think I don’t know that?” she scoffs, “fine, I’ll give him a call, but if he doesn’t respond, then I can’t do anything about it, and I tried my best.”

“Was that so hard?” Minghao laughs.

Yes, she wants to say, but instead, just replies with, “see you tomorrow, chef.”

—

[three years earlier.]

Ever in Chicago, had just gotten its first Michelin star. The restaurant was fully booked out for the following three months, but she knows the executive chef, Kim Seokjin, and he’s kept a one-top reserved for her tonight. No one else, just her, and their expensive tasting menu for company. Seokjin had offered to comp the bill for her too, but she’s put her foot down and refused.

“Sorry, chef,” she had held up her hand, shaking her head, “I’m refusing your offer. I can pay for my own meal, you know. They pay me enough.”

Seokjin had made a face, pushing a cup of tea towards her. They were sitting around his very expensive looking kitchen table, eating breakfast. Seokjin has a sandwich in his hands, and a cup of coffee on the table in front of him. He looks very pleased with himself, and with his stupid idea of treating her to a meal at his restaurant, just because he can. 

“I don't care how much money you make in Kyoto, but I can treat you to a meal, chef.” Seokjin laughs, “besides, I remember all my juniors at Sketch, and I try my best to—”

“To treat them to meals, yeah, I know,” she laughs, “you're the meal fairy, chef. Of course, I know.”

“Not only meals, chef,” Seokjin rolls his eyes, good-natured, “I try my best to help them in any way I can.”

Mi-ran frowns at him, but Seokjin doesn’t budge. In fact, he smiles placidly at her, his eyes twinkling, “yes, Mi-ran, as your senior from Sketch, I do think I have a sort of responsibility towards you guys. After all, you were some of the best chefs to come out of that kitchen.”

“Sketch is a Michelin-starred restaurant, chef,” she rolls her eyes, laughing, “far greater chefs than me and Vernon have walked in and out of that restaurant.”

Seokjin shakes his head, “nope. Individually? Maybe. Chef Dubois walked out of that kitchen, and he’s possibly better than you two individually.”

“So are you,” she nods, “you keep forgetting that you're’ executive chef at Sketch. The youngest ever from Le Cordon, as far as I know.”

Seokjin preens, “I am the youngest, but this is not about me. You and Vernon are great not because you’re individually the greatest chefs of all time, but the two of you, when you're in the kitchen together—there’s something wonderful about it, Mi-ran. There’s no other duo in the kitchen who work as well as you do, because somehow, by some miracle, or an accident of nature, you’ve managed to get the level of synergy in the fucking kitchen which people beg for their entire lives.”

“So, that’s all I’m good for? My synergy with Vernon?” she mutters, trying not to sound upset, “I’m not even working with him right now. I’m just working at—well, you know.”

“Yes, you’re working with Gordon Ramsey now,” Seokjin laughs, looking like he’s about to be sick, “does he call you an idiot sandwich?”

Mi-ran rolls her eyes, “no, he doesn’t, he would catch a case so fast if he did that,” she laughs, “he’s pretty chill when he’s working with qualified people who know the limits of their own talents.”

“Fair enough, he always did seem very high-strung to me,” Seokjin laughs, “so, Sketch, tomorrow. Vernon will be there; I will be not.”

Mi-ran looks up, “what? You’re not going to be there?”

Seokjin just shakes his head. She tries not to wince.

—

The restaurant had been beautiful, but she hadn’t been able to enjoy anything. The mood lighting just served to make her mood worse, if anything. Minghao had taken one look at hr from across the room and brought out a surprise just because she looked like shit warmed twice over. Vernon had been working in the restaurant just ten feet away from her and she hadn’t even been able to apologise.

When she walks into Gyeonghoeru, it’s six in the morning, and predictably, no one else is there. The day begins with a thorough check of every available surface, and since she’s a paranoid little monster who doesn’t know how to delegate tasks, Mi-ran does everything herself, even cleaning the grease trap. No one else knows that she does this, because she hasn’t told anyone. She’s great. It’s all going very, very well.

“Mi-ran?”

Fuck. She stands up from her position, kneeling in the middle of the kitchen floor, only to look straight at Vernon, who stares at her like he’s been seeing things, and going insane, “yes?”

“Are you checking everything?”

“No, I was participating in a complicated satanic ritual to summon some deities to give us a better shot at the Michelin star, chef,” she snipes, “of course I was checking everything. I do this every day.”

“I know you do,” Vernon sighs, “you used to do that in school.”

Mi-ran chooses not to respond to that statement, because what does he mean why does he remember everything I said and did at culinary school, and decides not to think about that idea and how it made her feel. No. I am grown enough, I don’t want to do this.

“Minghao told me that—” she begins, then clamps her mouth shut halfway through her sentence, then recalibrates her words, “do you have any ideas for the new menu we are going to serve?” she adds in a smile, for good measure, “the Michelin guide people start coming in around six or seven months from now, so we need to uh, figure out a plan that works.”

Vernon blinks at her, “why are you smiling?”

“I smile, chef, of course I do,” she rolls her eyes, “why wouldn’t I smile? I’m a normal person and normal people smile all the time.”

“You haven’t smiled a single time since you came to Seoul,” Vernon points out, “I don’t think this place has ever seen you smiling, chef.”

That hurts. She doesn’t like being handed out physical reminders of her mental illnesses, much less from someone like Vernon, but Mi-ran supposes that she’s earned it anyway; by virtue of being the biggest asshole known to mankind, so she arranges her mouth in a non-smiling position, “is this better, chef?”

“That is less scary,” Vernon concedes, setting his knife roll down, “and yes, I did have some ideas for this, but I don’t think you’re gonna like them.”

Mi-ran has to physically stop herself from jumping at Vernon, “what are they?”

Vernon sighs, smoothing out the roll of cloth, “are you going to listen, or are you going to ignore whatever I say, and move forward with your own ideas again?”

Mi-ran raises an eyebrow, “last I checked, chef, I was still the executive chef in here.”

Vernon’s expression immediately hardens, “right, of course. Sorry, chef.”

“Now, tell me about your ideas, chef,” she says, smoothing down her jacket, “what do you want to do?”

“Maybe a course in a royal-cuisine style,” Vernon begins, looking like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, “provide every diner with the feeling of being in a royal palace.”

Mi-ran doesn’t budge. Vernon continues, “and we could make something like a rainbow-style jeon, with—”

She raises a hand to stop him, “chef,” Mi-ran sighs, “how many people do you think dined at royal halls?”

Mi-ran walks out towards the office, and he follows, still talking. The door closes behind them with a thud, and Vernon is still talking. “Not many, which is why it would be marketed as a once-in-a-lifetime experience,” Vernon shrugs, “you can’t really go wrong with marketing to people about royal cuisine that they can just pay money to eat. It’s like we’re erasing the markers of class and caste, and making it easier for people to come and taste what the royals had.”

Mi-ran sighs, “again, I don’t want to argue with you on this, Vernon, but you kind of make it impossible for me not to do it.”

Vernon raises an eyebrow, “you’ve got a problem with this too?”

She doesn’t speak for a minute. Vernon is still staring at her, so Mi-ran opens her big mouth, “look, I don’t mean to rain on your parade or anything, but I also don’t think we should be putting out food for royalty when for years—”

Vernon bristles, visibly, “what?”

Mi-ran sighs again, “when for centuries, only the most privileged of all people got to try the food for royalty. It feels like we’re democratising something that wasn’t meant to be made democratic in the first place.”

Vernon nods, “okay, so what do you have in mind?”

“Something egalitarian. Something to remind people that high quality dining and haute cuisine is not just confined to royal cuisine.”

“Right, so, do you have ideas?”

She just pushes her notebook towards him, “there you go.”

He goes through the pages. Mi-ran knows what he’s going to find. Gukbap, with a milder fish instead of strong flavours. Rice, made three ways. Three different kinds of boiled vegetables and chicken.

Vernon stops in the middle of perusing, and just stares at the pages. Mi-ran stares at him. He stares at her.

“What is this?”

She takes the notebook out of his hands, and looks at the page he’s on. Fuck. Braised duck with an orange reduction, served on rice. “Did you eat this?”

“I went to Seokjin’s restaurant,” she shrugs, “he invited me.”

“No, this is—this is my dish, Mi-ran,” he looks faintly shocked, “you had my dish?”

“You cooked it, you made it, so yes, I had it,” she sighs, “can we not talk about this right now?”

Vernon nods, which just means we’ll talk about this later.

Mi-ran doesn’t want to talk.

—

“End of service, good work today!” Minghao announces, holding up the last ticket, “congratulations everyone, on surviving another day.”

“Good work, chef,” she murmurs, already beginning to clean up her station. Vernon is still staring at her, knife in hand. Does he want to kill me or something?

He hasn’t talked to her during prep, he hasn’t talked to her during service. Hasn’t really talked. Sure, he’s told her about dishes and he’s responded to her “hands, please, chefs,” all throughout, but Vernon has not talked to her. He hasn’t talked to her before, either, but this just seems loaded.

Minghao winks at her, and since Mi-ran is also the biggest coward in the history of everything, she hides out in her office for a full half hour, busying herself with backed-up orders of cutlery and vendor contracts until she’s sure everyone has left.

The kitchen is empty, and when she pulls on her jacket and stuffs her knife roll in her bag, she hopes Vernon is not waiting for her outside the restaurant. She hopes he’s not waiting for her at all, because she doesn’t want to talk to him at all.

And what’s she going to say? “Oh, yes, for sure, I spent a fortune flying out to Chicago to eat your food and it made me cry and I still love you, Vernon?” would that be normal? Or is she going to say, “yes, of course, I’m sorry I took that opportunity at NOMA even though I knew you wanted it but they offered it to me, and there was nothing I could do about it, but I still love you?” would she have to tell him, “yeah, I was hoping that you would be here, and I was also dreading that you would be here, because thinking of you fills me with guilt and regret and I want to let you go but I love you still so I cannot?” Mi-ran is not an idiot; she cannot tell him all this.

He’s not going to be here. It’s late, he’s gone back home.

When she steps out into the street, he’s there, waiting. She almost runs back inside.

“You’re still here?” she says, already walking towards the bus station, “its late, chef. Go back home.”

“It’s not working hours anymore, don’t call me chef,” Vernon responds, following her, “you went to Ever and ate my food without even telling me that you were there.”

“As opposed to what? Telling you and then being thrown out of the restaurant because the sous did not want to cook for me?” she scoffs, “don’t tell me that’s what you would have wanted, Vernon.”

“No, it’s not—” Vernon looks irritated, “you should have told me.”

“Told you?” Mi-ran rolls her eyes, “what difference would that have made?”

“This is why I fucking hate you, Mi-ran,” Vernon seethes, “you keep lying to everyone around you, including yourself.”

“I don’t!” she needs to get out of this fucking alley or she will break down in tears, “we have enough bitterness and hatred between us both to ruin everything good that might come out of our history, Chwe Vernon. Let us not ruin ourselves further.”

“I don’t get it,” Vernon shakes his head, “you went to NOMA even though you knew I wanted that position, and then you stopped talking to me entirely. And now, what? You went to Chicago to eat my dish?”

“It was offered to me!” she snaps, voice cracking and oh god, oh fuck, I’m crying right now, “I went to NOMA because the position was offered to me, and I spent the better part of a decade being guilty over having even a single good thing in my life, because I thought I would be stealing it from you!”

“So, are you saying that I ruined your life?”

There you go, “no, you didn’t ruin anything, Vernon,” she smiles, “I ruined my life by my own hands. This is reparations for everything that I have done.”

She walks away from him. The bus stand is on the opposite side of the road. Mi-ran just needs to cross this, “one course, sinseollo. Make it. I don’t care. Do your fucking royal cuisine.”

—

The following week, Mi-ran spends it like a ghost. She wakes up at four in the morning, and goes on a run. She doesn’t run because she wants to, she runs because there is nothing better for her to do. The voices in her mind get louder, progressively. In moments, she wants to drink.

“You look like shit, chef,” Minghao tells her on Sunday night, standing beside her at the bus stop, “you know, you should get drunk with us sometime.”

“I don’t drink, chef,” she rolls her eyes, “my bus will be here in a minute.”

“You know, when you came to Ever, I thought you would be much more stuck-up and annoying you know.”

“Good to know that you had such a sparkling opinion about me,” she laughs, but Minghao doesn’t.

“Chefs all have big egos, Mi-ran,” he simply says, “it’s how they survive in the kitchen. They all have big egos. And when I saw you sitting by yourself, I thought, youngest CDC at Jungsikdang, must have a massive ego.”

Mi-ran raises an eyebrow, “and?”

“And nothing,” Minghao shrugs, “you just looked very defeated.”

“I looked like a wet cat.” Mi-ran shakes her head, “the bus is here.”

She stands up, and Minghao follows suit, looking at her, “no, Mi-ran, you just looked like you were waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

The bus comes, and she gets on it, swipes her card and gets settled into a seat beside a softly snoring old woman. She doesn’t think about what Minghao has said earlier. She does not.

Waiting for the other shoe to drop. Minghao’s annoying; the read that he has on her is annoying. He knows who she was there for that night. It's a minor miracle that he's not told anyone yet. Not even Vernon, by the looks of it.

And its true. For all her life, she's been waiting for the other shoe to drop, for something worse to happen. Every moment, she was waiting for the moment where she would inevitably hit rock bottom again.

When she gets down from the bus and makes her way to her home, Vernon is standing in front of the front door, still in his work clothes. She knows that jacket. He looks pale and washed out under the lights, and she wants to turn around and go back to the restaurant.

“You’re late,” Vernon says, when she steps aside him to climb the stairs to her home, “this neighbourhood isn’t the safest for you.”

Mi-ran sighs, “I don’t care, Vernon. What do you want to talk to me about?”

He pauses for a moment, “you never told me you came to Ever.”

“I didn’t want to.”

“Why?”

Mi-ran throws up her hands, “what, and make my feelings even more clearer than they already are?”

Vernon steps closer, “what feelings?”

She stares at him, “don't pretend that you don't know—”

Vernon is kissing her, she realises, his hands are on her face and he's kissing her, his lips soft against hers. She thinks of Sketch and culinary school, kisses just like this one, stolen in the middle of busy days, after shifts and classes. Vernon smells like the kitchen still, and she thinks she might go insane. Hands, chef. Right, hands. Hands please, chef, right?

No, I don’t want to think about that right now.

Vernon’s lips are warm against her own, and for a moment, she thinks about the smell of garlic and onions, stuck perpetually to her skin, and for one, stupid, irrational moment, wants to scrub her skin raw because she doesn’t want to let him smell the dirt and the grime on her skin. But this is the same as it was in their Sketch days, with perhaps less explosive feelings than this one. His tongue is in her mouth, and for a floaty, strange, second, she is reminded of a particularly brutal shift, after which they had gone back to her flat, Vernon kissing down her jawline like they both didn’t have four hours to recharge themselves and go back to work again. He’s still the same; single-mindedly focused on her, his left hand now on her waist. Mi-ran needs to stop this. She needs to stop this madness right now, because otherwise, they're going to do something stupid in fucking public and she does not have the wherewithal to fix a case like that.

Her hands are still on her side, when Vernon pulls away, to look at her, “I still hate you, Mi-ran. I still hate you.”

That makes two of us, Vernon. She nods, then turns around to leave.

—

“You locked the menu?” Minghao looks at the sheet of paper that she’s just handed to him, “this is actually good, chef.”

“I don’t do things halfway,” she shakes her head, “make sure everyone is on board for this.”

Minghao looks at her, “isn’t that supposed to be your job?”

Mi-ran doesn’t say anything. It is supposed to be her job, but for the whole of the previous week, she’s been feeling like it doesn’t matter. Vernon could do it just as well as I do, she thinks from time to time, and it doesn’t help.

“Do you think it’s a good idea?”

“What is a good idea?”

“That I am still somewhat running this restaurant, you know,” she shrugs, “I mean, I’m probably the worst person to work for, there are so many things to keep track of, and the profit margin is fucking razor-thin right now, so I can’t really—”

“Mi-ran, chef,” Minghao sighs, “you’re probably the best thing to happen in this restaurant by a long shot.”

She looks up from her desk. “What?”

Minghao doesn’t even bother with changing his stance, he just barrels on, “you have three Michelin stars, and you’re working here. You're the best chef in the world when it comes to Korean cuisine. You’re the best thing that could have happened to Gyeonghoeru, and I don’t know if you know it, but I know it. Vernon knows it, Joshua knows it. Hell, even Chan knows it, I think.”

“Stop glazing me, my god,” she rolls her eyes, “also, we’re not doing royal cuisine, like people wanted us to do.”

“How did the boss take it?”

“Like he doesn’t care very much,” she sighs, “I just don’t want people to come here and be reminded of the fact that their ancestors were being forbidden from eating the food that they can now eat in a restaurant.”

“But you still have one course of sinseollo,” Minghao looks at the sheet, “that’s Vernon’s idea, right?”

Mi-ran nods, “that’s Vernon’s idea, yes.”

“Vernon is the best at royal cuisine in here, no doubt,” Minghao remarks, “but even for him, sinseollo in a restaurant that focuses on elevating normal, day-to-day cuisine, is too much.”

“Let him work with this one dish,” she sighs, “leave Vernon out of it. He’s doing great work as CDC.”

Minghao sets the paper down, and takes a seat, “have you both gotten together yet?”

Mi-ran rolls her eyes, “we are not going to.”

“Pity, it would have been great,” Minghao sighs, “I’ll inform the crew of the updated menu.”

Mi-ran leans back in her rickety chair, and takes a deep breath. She hasn’t talked to Vernon about the kiss, and he doesn’t look like he's willing to have that conversation with her, either. So far, all they have managed to do, is run awkwardly around each other, talking only about the service and the prep. Nothing else. Safe conversations, nothing more. Nothing that could expose their feelings about each other.

I’m not even sure how Vernon feels about me. Wait, no, I am. He kissed me last week, and told me he hated me afterwards.

That’s where they stand, the two of them; on opposite sides of the emotional battlefield, and arm-in-arm, like comrades, when it comes to the kitchen. It gives her whiplash, almost.

She decides to let it go. After all, she has a kitchen to run.

When she walks outside and into the kitchen, Minghao is telling the crew about the new menu, which is different from the chaos menu that they have been practicing for the past month and half, and the relief is palpable. Joshua looks like he hasn’t heard better news in decades, Chan looks like he is about to cry, and Vernon—Vernon looks fairly murderous.

What?

Mi-ran walks outside, and when Joshua spots her, he gives her a smile, “congratulations on locking the menu, chef.”

“It was getting to be a problem with vendors and it wasn’t fair on everyone,” she replies, “sorry, guys, for making you put up with that for so long.” She apologises, moving on to her station. Vernon follows.

“Yes?”

“Sinseollo? After all that spiel about making food that people would identify with, and not royal cuisine?” Vernon scoffs.

“Again, I don’t want to argue with you about this right now, but yes, I did say that, and then I changed my mind, and I told you to put it on there,” she argues back, “I’m not fucking you over, chef.”

“You absolutely are, my god,” he groans, “one sinseollo in the middle of a menu centred around easily accessible food items, and we have a dish that featured heavily in royal cuisines?”

Mi-ran shrugs. She’s not being petty, not at all (slightly) but the sinseollo doesn’t work, will never work in this case, and, “look, chef, if you have a problem with the menu, please come and talk to me personally—”

“I am talking to you right now!”

“When you're a little less hysterical, I mean.”

“Oh my god, stop fighting!” Minghao yells, and Mi-ran suddenly realises that she is standing and arguing with Vernon in the middle of the pass, “stop arguing, you’re scaring the children.”

“Whose children?” they say in unison, and immediately, Mi-ran shuts up.

“You’re the parents, and these are the children,” Minghao makes a sweeping gesture of some sorts, “don’t scare them. Sort this out amongst yourselves.”

“Fine,” she grumbles, turning back to Vernon, “we’ll talk after service, chef.”

—

[three years earlier].

“Reservation for one,” she says to the woman manning the front of house, smoothing down her shirt. The woman looks at her, eyebrows raised, and Mi-ran realises that she needs to provide a name for her reservation, “oh, uh, Chef Kim Seokjin made the reservation, so I don’t know what name he’s put me under.”

“Chef Kim,” the woman types rapidly into her tablet, and thirty seconds later, a young man is next to her, having materialised out of thin air, apparently. His footsteps have been measured and unhurried, but Mi-ran can hear the rapid rise and fall of his breath, “this is Chef Kim’s guest, Kim—Yuna, yes. This way, please.”

Mi-ran wants to throttle Seokjin. Sure, she had asked him to make a reservation under a false name, because if Vernon knew she was there, he would point-blank refuse to even talk to her, much less make her dishes, but Yuna Kim? Of all the names that Seokjin could have picked out, he picked the name of the most recognisable Korean celebrity in the world. What sort of joke was this? At least he didn’t pick the name of a girl group member.

The young man leads her to her table, gesturing to the one-top in a secluded corner of the restaurant, clearly meant for privacy, “we’re very happy to have you tonight, Chef Kim.”

Mi-ran blinks, then takes a seat, “could you keep this between us, please?”

The server smiles, bowing deeply, “of course, chef.”

He’s gone before she can tell him that the bowing can get a bit too much too soon and I don’t want to freak people out.

Mi-ran takes out her phone, texting Seokjin, Yuna Kim? Really?

You asked me to make the reservation under a false name.

Not Yuna Kim, oh my god.

Do you want to make amends, yes or no?

Mi-ran puts her phone away. Seokjin was right. In an annoying, insufferable way, Seokjin was right. She needs to make amends. She needs to make everything right with Vernon, even if it is for a little while, because it’s been six months since she’s had a proper night’s sleep, and she doubts she ever will be able to. Not without talking to Vernon. That’s why she’s here, in Ever, and putting herself through this. She can do it, this is nothing. She’s been through worse.

And then the first course comes to her plate, and it’s just—hell.

She can't eat it. She can't look at the plate because Vernon has made this and it is just a mockery of all their experiences at Sketch. This is them on a plate, the memories of their times together, and she can't fucking swallow anything. This is awful.

The front of house, a tall man, with a name tag on his chest that says Xu Minghao, has been looking at her for the past ten minutes, Mi-ran realises. He disappears into the kitchen somewhere after she’s served her third course, and comes out, holding a plate of something, and says, “this is the main course of the tasting menu.”

Mi-ran peers at him, and Minghao continues, “this is a braised duck leg, served with an orange reduction and on a bed of rice. Enjoy.”

She doesn’t want to, but she takes a bite anyway. Might as well do it.

—

Vernon comes into her office, after a month. A month of nothing but staring at her across the pass, working alongside her without a single word of camaraderie, and she’s trying to keep herself from not going insane. She has been trying her best to not just walk out and drag him by the collar into the office, and demand answers.

“Mi-ran,” Vernon says, and she looks up. It’s after hours, and Mi-ran has been balancing the books for the past hour, “we need to talk.”

She checks her watch, “it’s after midnight, Vernon. What do you have to tell me?”

He shrugs, “look, it’s nothing important, so if you want to talk to me later, I can understand.”

“No, it’s fine,” she sighs, “it’s been a long day, and an even longer month.”

The last sentence was a subtle dig at him, but it’s not as though Vernon is solely responsible for this situation. Still, he takes the dig, with a grimace on his face, “I just thought we should talk about this.”

“This?” Mi-ran raises an eyebrow, “what do you mean by that?”

Vernon sighs, sitting down heavily on the sole unoccupied chair, “you went to Ever. You didn’t even tell me, and you went to the restaurant where I was sous.”

“Seokjin-sunbae invited me, so I went,” she shrugs, “you made the duck breast, and I ate it.”

“That’s what I don’t get!” he stands up, irritated, “you keep talking about eating my food, and you keep telling me that it was the best thing you have ever eaten, and what am I supposed to make out of it?”

Mi-ran sighs. Might as well get it over with. “It means that our undefined relationship back when we were in Sketch was enough for me to spend more than a thousand dollars on round flight tickets to Chicago, and that I ate your food. It means nothing more than that.”

Vernon pauses, eyes terrifyingly still. Mi-ran sighs, standing up, “you want me to be gone? Fine. I’ll give the boss my resignation, and I’ll be out of your hair. You're more than capable of getting a Michelin star by yourself, and I don’t think I need to be in a kitchen where people are constantly on edge regarding our relationship, so I’ll go.”

Vernon scoffs, “go?”

“Yes.”

“That’s the best thing that you can do, right? Just leave?” he snaps, and Mi-ran raises an eyebrow, because Vernon is, for the first time in her life, truly angry, “you can't even stay here and face the consequences for your own actions, all you can do is run away!”

“I’m not running away because I want to, Vernon,” she sighs, “look, you don’t want me here, and I think I have spent enough years feeling guilty about going to Copenhagen, and I can't do it anymore. Fighting with you is pointless.”

“No, it’s not, because I need to have it out with you one time before I go insane,” Vernon seethes, “you come here, come back after years spent in the best kitchens in the world, and you tell me that you want to get a star, which is fine, but then you also make a menu that pisses me off, because it’s the best thing you can do, and then you put my dish in there? What does that mean?”

“It means that I still have feelings for you, you absolute asshole!” she yells, “I shouldn’t have put the sinseollo in the menu, but I did. Why? Because I love you. I came back, even though I shouldn’t have. Why? Because I love you. I went to Chicago to eat your food. Why? Because I love you. Half the things I’ve done so far is because I love you, you giant fucking—”

Vernon crosses the small room in three steps, pressing her to the wall, and she’s back in the London kitchens again, kissing him after a shift, because it’s the same Vernon, the boy who always made her laugh. He’s kissing her like they're both dying, and they need to kiss one last time before they draw their last breath.

Mi-ran pulls at Vernon’s shirt, inhaling the smell of garlic that seems to cling to them both after a gruelling shift, and unbuttons the first two buttons of his shirt. Vernon stops, “you want to do this here?”

Mi-ran makes a faint embarrassing sound in the back of her throat, “I’m going to fire you if you stop right now.”

Vernon raises his eyebrows, but says nothing, just nods, his own hands coming up to unbutton her shirt. She’s about to go insane, but she needs this. She needs to have Vernon inside her, needs to turn him inside out in order to keep him for himself.

Vernon lifts her onto the table, and papers flutter to the floor, but they're both too far gone to care about it, “I don’t have anything on me.”

“I don’t care,” Mi-ran grumbles, “I still have a couple years on my IUD.”

Vernon nods, and kisses her again. She can feel his erection against her core, already leaking, straining against his pants, “I need to eat you out.”

“Doesn’t matter,” she grumbles, hands going to his pants and unbuckling the belt, “just fuck me right now, Vernon, I swear to god I’m going to kill you if you don’t.”

Vernon nods, kissing along her jaw, and she takes a moment to run her fingers through his hair. Vernon is doing the same things that he did all those years ago; biting her neck, sucking on the skin hard enough to leave a bruise, and it’s embarrassing for her how she still has the same reactions to all of it.

He unclips her bra, kissing down to her breasts, and the moan that comes out of her mouth when he lightly bites down on a nipple is truly unholy. Mi-ran wonders for a split second that they are technically in their office, and finds out that she doesn’t really care who finds out.

His hands are keeping her legs apart, and two of his fingers lightly scrape along the outside of her cunt. Mi-ran grabs hold of his hair, and Vernon moans, his lips still around her left nipple. She wants to die. She wants to consume him. She wants to crawl inside his skin and live inside it for the foreseeable future.

“You're fucking insane, Mi-ran,” Vernon mumble, reaching up to kiss her again, “I still love you, Mi-ran.”

His tongue is in her mouth, and Mi-ran has her hands around his throat. Vernon reaches for her underwear, and she has the insane thought about not being so fucking wet right now, because the squelching sound that fills the air when he presses two fingers into her is unholy.

“Fuck, you're so fucking tight,” he groans into her mouth, “how the fuck are you the same even after seven years?”

“You’re the same too,” she gasps, “just fuck me, faster.”

Vernon obliges, his fingers snapping faster, “I love you, you know that, right? Don’t leave me again.”

Mi-ran wants to cry, but instead of crying, she waves his hands out of her, pulling down his boxers, “just fuck me, please.”

Vernon looks like he wants to cry, but he just nods, pushing inside of her with a groan, and Mi-ran feels an odd sense of fullness. His lips are back on hers in a moment, and her hands are on his back, urging him to go faster, faster, faster. Vernon nods; he’s never once failed to give her anything when it came to this. His hips push forward with an increased sense of urgency, and she just gasps and moans and takes and takes and takes.

“I’m close,” she mumbles, tears forming at the edge of her eyes, “please.”

“You're so fucking beautiful like this, falling apart,” Vernon mumbles, “please don’t leave me again, Mi-ran. Please.”

His thumb swipes across her clit once, twice, and she falls apart with a short cry, stiffening in his arms, desperately grabbing at him to kiss him again. Vernon lasts about five seconds before he follows suit, spilling inside of her.

She still panting when he wipes at her face, pushing errant strands of her hair out of her eyes, “I still love you, you know.”

She’s openly crying now, big fat tears falling down one after the other. Neither of them have to say anything anymore.

“Come home with me tonight,” Vernon whispers, still inside of her, “please, Mi-ran. I need you.”

She nods, holding on to his hands.

—

“Did you two make up?” Minghao peers at her while she’s prepping for service, and his eyes catch onto a rather large bruise on her neck, blooming purple, “ooh, looks like it.”

Mi-ran rolls her eyes at him, “just prepare for the service tonight, Minghao.”

—

The Newest Addition to the K-Michelin guide, Seoul’s Gyeonghoeru, headed by Chefs Kim Mi-ran and Chwe Vernon: elevating the food of the masses to fine dining.

Class disparity is so bad that the wealthy refuse to live alongside the poor. They refer to your home simply as ‘The Ground,’ because, to them, the ground itself is beneath them both literally and socially. Above you, the elite live in a vast elevated city suspended high in the atmosphere made up of towering skyscrapers, in levelling aerial infrastructure, and monorail systems that weave between cities like veins of light that you dream to see. It’s kept clean free from pollution, and advanced beyond anything seen below. The higher one goes, the wealthier and more important they are considered, which is funny because they’re already so far up their own asses they think rules of reality stop at their floor.

Below, The Ground is populated and neglected with outdated technology and infrastructure except in the main districts filled with corporate advertisements and exploitative job offers, and giant displays of elite’s assets. Some robotic assistants still operate in some areas, but they are obsolete, glitch prone, and poorly maintained. Dirt poor is literal here. Those at the top have never seen the literal ground because they’re so up in the sky, and many have no interest in acknowledging its existence at all, living so out of touch with it that even the concept feels abstract to them.

But of course, anyone on the ground who managed to dig a little deep when playing in the net den (internet cafe), knew the megacorporations were fully aware of its existence. Their clean paradise above only stayed standing because millions of people below kept choking on the dirt for it. 

So, anyway, your father was suddenly fired after being linked to a ‘system irregularity and fraud,’ which immediately blacklists him from medical care and employment. 

You walk through the dim corridors of your home as the damp wooden floor makes sound under your foot. The light from the rationed power barely holds back the dark that’s in every corner of the room. Your thoughts keep circling the same point, unable to think of anything else. 

You look at him where he sits, the look of him is less lively than the man you remember, his smile taken away feels so wrong even when you try to accept it. “You should have told me earlier,” you say.

His voice comes after a delay with the exhaustion that does not seem to leave him anymore,  “I didn’t want you to be worried,” he replies. “You weren’t supposed to know.”

You sigh as you look around with a pathetic scoff before returning to him. Your fingers curl at your side, “it already reached me, dad” you reply. “Nothing stays a secret in this place anymore.”

He looks down, sad, as the silence that follows stretches. “I thought… I could do something about it before they made any final decision,” he replies eventually. “I thought I had time, sweetie.”

Your glassy eyes of unshed tears contradicts the rigid set of your jaw. Forcing your face into empty blankness again as you swallow the stingy lump in your throat, you keep your voice entirely level, “there’s no time there… for people like us.”

He looks at you and for a short moment, the past of what he used to be and what he is now becomes even more impossible to ignore to both you and him. His shoulders slump. Seeing him broken, stripped of his strength, and drowning in his own disappointment, hurts you harder than any blow from the elite above ever could.

The composure you fought so hard to maintain instantly breaks. Your breath gets stuck painfully in your throat as the reality of his defeat crashes over you. For all your hardening against the cruelties of ‘The Ground,’ seeing your father completely lose faith in himself is the one thing you cannot withstand. He’s getting sick… The tears you tried so desperately to hide finally well up, blurring your vision as your entire defense system collapses from the inside out.

“It’s okay, d-dad, we’ll be okay,” you step into his space and pull him into a tight hug, “I got a small job above, hm?”

His body goes rigid in your arms at first. His voice comes out strained with disbelief and worry, “above?” the weary, defeated look from moments before vanishes, replaced by a wide eyed fear that forces him awake, “you mean… up there? With them?” You don’t answer but instead, you tighten your grip around his shoulder to reassure him. But he pulls back further to look at your face. “You shouldn’t be there… You— you don’t belong in that system. They don’t let people like us just… walk in and out easily.”

You wipe at your face quickly with the back of your hand even though more tears keep coming anyway. Your breath stutters, but your voice forces itself to sound coherent. “It’s temporary,” you offer a brave smile, “it’s just work, I can handle it.”

His fingers dig in your shoulders, trying to convince you this time instead of the other way around, “nothing up there is just anything,” he says with worried eyes, “they don’t do ‘temporary’ with people from The Ground. You don’t know them.”

You shake your head, fighting back the wave of intimidation his fear is drumming up in your own chest, “we need it, it’s okay,” you force yourself to look him dead in the eye as you lock your expression down, tightening your jaw so he can’t read the anxiety swirling beneath your surface.

The wall you put up makes him go quiet again and the worry freezes into a sickening dread. His eyes drop to the floor, his throat bobbing as he swallows something bitter and suffocating, “no, I can’t let you pay for their decision with your own future.”

Taking a deep breath, you refuse to let the argument slip away. Moving closer, you slide your hands down his arms until your fingers are woven into his calloused weak hands, squeezing tightly. “Dad, listen to me,” you sound insistent. “I’m already in it. I already said yes, it’s done.”

The ambient warmth in his eyes vanishes, replaced by a flash of alarm that turns his entire expression strict again and terrifyingly alert, “you said yes? Already?” he asks strictly without any bluff, “to who? Okay tell me what kind of job is it?”

You were expecting at least this much from him but seeing the level of the fear in his eyes catches you off guard even though you should’ve also expected this. For a split second, your mind goes entirely blank as the cover story evaporates from your tongue.

His expression comes back to normal by just a fraction when he senses your hesitation, but the urgency pulsing through him is deafening. He squeezes your hands back, pleading, “sweetie, tell me,” he calms but no less urgent. “Tell me exactly what you agreed to.”

You force yourself to recover before he becomes suspicious. Your fingers tighten around his hands before the panic on your face can sabotage you completely, “uh so like I said, it’s a small job, so it’s not a big position or mainstream or anything,” you explain. “There was a contract block running on one of the main district billboards for low tier maintenance staff.  They needed people willing to work long shifts above and I just... applied.” You shrug one shoulder, trying to make it sound less important than it is, “I didn’t even think a Sky corp would take a Ground ID.”

“Maintenance staff? Doing what exactly?”

“I don’t know all the details yet. They kept talking about confidentiality policies and restricted access levels.” You scoff, “you already know how corporations are. They act stupidly serious and mysterious about everything.”

The tension in his face doesn’t disappear immediately, though his grip loosens from your hands only slightly while he studies every inch of your expression, trying to decide whether to trust your words or the fear he still feels crawling under his skin. The room falls quiet even though you can still very clearly hear the dying power supply overhead and the noise bleeding in from the streets below.

You hate doing this. It’s in your chest while you hold his eyes and force yourself not to look away first. Everything inside you screams to tell him what you want and let him stop you before things go too far, but the image of the medical notices sitting untouched on the table flashes through your mind. You think about the empty kitchen cabinets, empty fridge, the unpaid bills, barely any drinkable water, and the faded smile of your dad. You cannot let him deal another thing.

“It’s just cleaning systems and fixing old wiring,” you continue for more reassurance. “Nothing important. Honestly, they probably just wanted cheap workers from here again.”

Your father’s expression twists at that. Pain flashes across his face before exhaustion overcomes him again, “I still don’t like it,” He lifts one hand and drags it tiredly over his mouth while his eyes lower to the floor, “people above don’t look at us and see human beings. To them we’re replaceable before we even arrive.”

“I know,” you hold his hand.

His shoulders sag again and for the first time since the conversation started, some of the panic leaves his face… even though not fully, but enough for the fear in his eyes to stop cutting through you so crazy. He squeezes your hands once more before letting go. “Just... be careful, okay? Don’t trust them too quickly. If something feels wrong, you leave immediately. I don’t care about the money.”

Your throat tightens and you nod before he can notice the guilt rising all over your face again, “I will,” you promise, “I’ll be safe.”

He reaches up and brushes his hand against the side of your head gently, his hands feel weak on your head but familiar enough to nearly break you all over again, “you’re still my little girl,” he whispers lovingly, “no job up there changes that.”

The tears threaten to return instantly and you force yourself to smile anyway, leaning down just a bit to press your forehead briefly against his shoulder while trying to ignore the sick feeling twisting deeper inside your chest.

—

A few months back,

Outside, the 45 minutes public power ration was already ticking away, but inside this suffocating basement, the alert of stolen corporate bandwidth was deafening.

Your fingers flew across the mechanical keys in a frantic race against the automated trace programs of the Sky Grid.

On the screen, your real biometric profile— linked to your father’s blacklisted corporate ID— glowed an angry definitive red. 

result:

{

  "status": "TERMINATED",

  "access": "DENIED",

  "reason": "BLACKLIST",

  "flag": "PERMANENT_BLACKLIST",

  "source": "CORP_GLOBAL_REGISTRY"

}

You can’t even try to apply under your own name as the security grid flags you before you even enter your hobbies. Why would you even want to add your real identity to the fucked up system and get into trouble? It’s not your plan. You just wanted to see what shows up on your screen, and you’ve seen it now.

You took a breath as you pulled a black data shard from your pocket and jammed it into the console’s rusted drive. A new screen initialized, blooming into a vivid glowing magenta overlay. Lines of raw code began overriding the corporate restriction blocks. You weren’t just faking a resume; you were reconstructing your entire existence. 

SYS_OVERRIDE_INITOVERRIDE: #D60076

MODE: IDENTITY_REWRITE

[BIOHASH]

status: OVERRIDE... COMPLETE

[HISTORY_RECORDS]

status: ERASING... COMPLETE

You watched as your digital fingerprints were pixelated and rewoven into an entirely untraceable ghost profile. The system needed a clean history who had never choked on the dirt of your district. Basically someone the automated hiring algorithms would pull without a second thought. It was a complete identity erase. If you failed, the trace would loop straight back to this basement and lock you in a corporate detention block. If you succeeded, you would be stepping directly into the lion’s den— the exact same megacorporation that had done your father wrong and cost him everything including his health and sanity.

The progress bar hit 100% and the terminal chimed.

new_identity:

{

  "name": "SILV",

  "origin": "UNREGISTERED",

  "clearance": "LEVEL_GRAY",

  "biometric_state": "UNLINKED"

}

route: SEC_17_MAINTENANCE_DIVISION

location: ATMOSPHERE_LEVEL_13

status: QUEUED

applicant_id: NULL

tracking: DISABLED

You ripped the data shard out, plunging the screen back into darkness just as the illegal power splice sputtered and died. You sat in the pitch black and waited for your racing heart to catch up to the reality of what you had just done.

A buzz from your cracked wrist comm goes off at ass o’clock (04:15).

You kill the alarm instantly as the glow of the screen fades back into the pitch black of your room. The public power isn’t due to turn on for another hour, leaving the apartment freezing and suffocatingly quiet. You don’t turn on a flashlight. You know the layout of the warped, damp wooden floors by heart and step over the boards you know would groan under your weight. 

You creep toward your father’s room, pushing the rusted metal door frame open a little bit to just go through.

The sound of his breathing immediately made your chest ache. It was shallow and broken; broken by a wet, rattling wheeze that seemed to take every ounce of his remaining strength. In the faint gray light filtering through the grime of the window, he looks terrifyingly fragile to the point that his shoulders are hunched even in sleep. He is slipping away, and the bitter reality of it presses down on you like an actual physical weight. There’s no time left.

Heading into the tiny kitchen corner, you get to work. You fire up the portable burner, making the blue flame hiss as you throw together whatever rations you had left— a simple, warm broth and some stale bread. By the time the water was boiling, you heard a cough from the doorway.

Your dad was leaning his weak shoulder heavily against the frame, eyes blinking tiresomely against the faint light of the stove. “You’re up too early,” his voice hoarse like gravel.

“Look who’s talking,” you counter smoothly, forcing your voice into a lighthearted nag as you pour the broth into a chipped ceramic bowl. You didn’t let your hands shake, “sit down. You’re supposed to be resting, why are you awake so early?”

He let out a weak huff that was supposed to be a laugh, guiding himself slowly into the rickety chair, “I wanted to see you off little bird… and spend as much time as I possibly can— with you.”

“You’re seeing me off by sitting right there and eating every drop of this,” you set the bowl down in front of him along with three small, faded pills you have carefully counted out from their near empty blister packs. “The rest of the meds are on the top shelf behind the synthetic tea. I set a reminder on the wall clock to alert you when it’s time for the afternoon dose. Don’t ignore it because you’re distracted playing with those dead circuit boards, okay? And don’t try to ration them. I’ll send credits down the moment my first shift clearance processes.”

He looked at the pills with a suffocating guilt clouding his eyes, “sweetie, you—”

“Eat, dad,” you interrupt gently, leaning down to press a kiss against his temple. His skin felt warm; a fever threatening to take hold. You squeeze his shoulder and prepare yourself to the warmth of him one last time. “I have to catch the early transit before the crowds build up. I’ll comm you when I reach the worker bunks.”

He caught your hand with his weak but desperate calloused fingers, “be careful up there. Remember what I told you. They don’t see us as human.”

“I know,” you offer a reassuring smile, slowly pulling your hand away before the lump in your throat swallows your voice entirely. “I love you, dad.”

“Love you too, little bird.”

And just like that, you didn’t look back as you grabbed your heavy tool belt and stepped out into the damp, freezing corridor, locking the door behind you. There was only one way forward.

—

The air outside was choking with the sulfurous smog over the lower districts. As you walked, the silence of your alleyways bled into a vibrating roar. The Atmospheric Transit Hub was an absolute mess.

Even at this hour, thousands of Ground workers were jammed into the concrete plaza with their rusted toolboxes. Above them, the massive steel pillars of the structural supports stretched up into the smog as it disappeared entirely into the clouds. Somewhere way up there, hidden by the pollution, was The Sky gleaming and completely oblivious to the misery keeping it afloat.

You joined the slow moving line leading to the high velocity elevators. Up ahead, massive corporate security checkpoints going through the crowd. Enormous holographic displays pulsed with advertisements, casting a harsh blinding magenta glow over the exhausted faces of the workers. What a show off.

The line crawls forward toward the bright neon teeth of the checkpoint.

Your heart drums against your ribs as you finally step into the scanning pod. A halo of cold white lasers drops from the ceiling, washing over your face, your hands, your clothes. Your breath catches. For a very long second, you’re certain the alarms are going to scream and that the ghost profile you coded in that dark basement is going to shatter.

Instead, a synthesized chime echoes through the pod.

[ID_VERIFIED]: WELCOME, SILV.[ASSIGNMENT]: SEC_17_MAINTENANCE_DIVISION.

And a metal gate slides open. You swallow the lump of anxiety in your throat and step through, blending into the crowd shoved into the high velocity elevator. When the doors seal, the ascent begins. It doesn’t feel like a normal elevator; it feels like being shot into the stratosphere. The gravity pulls heavily at your boots and your ears pop, and through the glass flooring you watch, The Ground shrink into a dark sprawling smudge beneath a blanket of toxic clouds.

And then, the smog clears, and The Sky hits you.

Wow.

It is blinding. Towering skyscrapers wrapped in rivers of moving light and monorails like veins. It’s exactly what you dreamed to see but the obnoxious wealth of it makes your stomach turn.

The elevator doors hiss open at Atmosphere Level 13, and the corporate chill hits your skin.

Standing at the terminal dock is a man who looks like he was carved out of the elite infrastructure itself. He wears a stark, pristine navy suit, a silver security badge gleaming on his lapel. Officer S.Coups.

His eyes sweep over the line of arriving Ground workers, his posture showing an absolute authority that makes everyone automatically look down. He doesn’t look at any of you like you’re human when checking credentials and others— just assets to be sorted. When his gaze lands on you, your jaw locks to maintain that empty oblivious blankness.

He checks his digital ledger and a machine you’ve never seen before, before his deep voice comes through. You weren’t expecting his voice to sound this… anyway. “Silv,” he reads, “Sector 17. Move to the main grid corridor. Your shift starts immediately, no delays.”

You give a stiff nod and keep your head down as you’re guided past him and routed deep into the metallic underbelly of the maintenance deck.

The work area is a massive chamber of exposed conduits and filtration systems. It’s crowded with other Ground workers, all clad in the same gray jumpsuits and silently scrubbing panels and rewiring auxiliary grids. You slide into a station and immediately blend into the momentum of the team, working obliviously as if you’ve done this a thousand times before. Passing by a heavy surveillance camera blinking its red optical lens at you, you low key tilt your head to the opposite side and block your face from the lens’s line of sight. Hidden in the blind spot, you flash a wink at the tall figure standing across the room before dropping your eyes back to the wires. But all the system sees is a perfect, harmless employee.

An hour drags by before the overhead chime signals a brief, ten minute rotation break.

You step away from your station and wipe oil from your hands, and head toward the hydration units. A tall figure steps up to the dispenser next to you. Sharp, cat-like eyes blink behind a pair of standard issue safety glasses.

Wonwoo.

A wave of relief rushes through you when he’s finally near you but you don’t let a single ripple of it show on your face. In a place like this, the higher ups are always listening; every vent and terminal has an ear.

“So what do you think?”

You turn to him, keeping your posture entirely natural as you take the hand he extended, “good to have a functional grid here,” you do a perfectly mundane, non suspicious small talk.

Wonwoo takes your hand in his reassuring grip. His thumb presses into your palm— a silent, private acknowledgment that can’t be read by anyone but you. He smiled just a bit with hints of warmth in his eyes that matched yours. Even though you took all the risks, faked the credentials, and hacked the system yourself, Wonwoo was the one who risked himself and had mapped out the Sky’s blind spots for you from the inside, giving you the blueprint you needed to survive up here and hack the system.

“The atmospheric pressure takes some getting used to though since you’re new,” Wonwoo replies casually, his deep voice completely level for the hidden microphones. “Just follow the standard protocols and you’ll run smooth.”

“Good to know,” you offer a smile as you pull your hand back. You glance toward the structural windows when your thoughts instantly drift past the monorails, straight down through the heavy clouds to your place in The Ground.

Your hand slips toward your wrist-comm. You need to keep your promise… so finish your shift as soon as possible. “Uh, I’m Silv, it was nice meeting you but I think I’ll have to go now,” you try to end the conversation here.

“You too, Silv. I’m Wonwoo by the way.”

“See you later!” you wave bye as you walk away.

“See you.”

You spend the next twelve hours losing yourself in the grind of the maintenance deck. You purge atmospheric filters, solder fried power lines and motors and keep your head down, executing the potential of Silv flawlessly. By the time the shift supervisor dismisses your sector, every muscle in your back is already aching.

You’re routed along with the rest of the Ground crew down into the worker bunks. It’s exactly the kind of crowded hive you expected— rows of metal capsule pods stacked top to bottom.

You crawl into your assigned pod and slide the metal door shut with a pressurized hiss that locks out the chitchat of the barracks. The space is tiny and barely wide enough to turn over, illuminated only by an indicator light on the ceiling.

You pull the blanket all the way up over your head, plunging yourself into absolute darkness.

Inside your makeshift tent, you wait a few long minutes and listen to the sound of the ventilation, ensuring no automated audio sweep is flagging your pod. Slowly, you bring your wrist-comm close to your face. The screen boots up, casting a reflection across your eyes.

You navigate past the monitored system logs to the encrypted partition you built back in the basement.

You tap the interface and release the untraceable, pre-coded data ping you promised your father. It bypasses the Sky’s outgoing walls and drops right into the rusted wall clock of your place on The Ground. I’m in, Dad. I’m safe.

You kill the screen and let the dark swallow you whole as you finally let out the breath you’ve been holding since ass o’clock this morning. Phase one is completed.

The metal housing of the auxiliary coolant valve is freezing against your calloused fingers. Underneath your gray maintenance jumpsuit, your shirt is plastered to your spine with greasy sweat. Above you, thirty feet up in the shadows of the vaulted ceiling, the optical lens of an automated Sec-Eye sweeps the corridor. A mechanical click-click-click traces its movement. You have exactly four seconds between its rotations where the blind spot sags over your station.

Your fingers slip into your tool belt around the micro spanner Wonwoo passed you during yesterday’s break. The automated logistics algorithm doesn’t look at human performance reports, his deep calm voice echoes in your memory as a ghost from the brief ten minute window by the water dispensers. It tracks fluid dynamics. If a deck’s pressure drops by 0.4 percent three weeks in a row, it flags the assigned personnel as a logistical drag. It moves them out to balance the line.

Click. The camera turns away. Your jaw locks and you jam the spanner into the valve’s regulator nut and twist. The metal groans a terrifyingly loud sound in the thrumming silence of the corridor. You strip the thread a little as a nearly invisible hiss of pressurized Freon escapes, biting into the skin of your thumb with a chemical freeze. You yank the tool back and shove it into your pocket just as the red light of the lens sweeps back over your face.

Your heart is hitting your ribs so hard you’re sure the acoustic sensors in the walls will pick it up. You force your features into a dull eyed stare while dragging a dirty rag across the casing of the pipe. Your hands are shaking as the adrenaline turns your blood to ice water. If the grid detects the intentional tool marks on that nut, you aren’t getting reassigned. You’re getting deleted… probably from the world as well when they find out more dirt about you.

Survival up here isn’t just running; it’s a grueling game of chess against a machine that records everything. You don’t just get assigned to an executive penthouse on your second day. An invisible nobody from The Ground doesn’t walk onto the top floors without triggering a thousand alarms. You have to let the system itself funnel you there.

By noon, the legal power ration on the Tech Deck is fluctuating, causing the overhead tube-lights to hum a sickening brown-out frequency. Your break chime rings.

You walk toward the hydration units. Every muscle in your shoulders is locked tight while your thumb is still numb from the Freon burn. You press your palm against the dirty dispenser pad and a stream of lukewarm water trickles into your plastic cup, but a shadow falls over the dispenser next to you.

Behind the thick scratched plastic of his safety glasses, Wonwoo’s eyes don’t look at you yet. You already know that he’s tracking the digital readout on the water machine.

“Pressure on Sub-Sector 4 is dropping,” Wonwoo says. His deep voice is perfectly flat, completely conversational and devoid of any inflection that would trigger an AI audio sweep. “Looks like a faulty valve seal. They’ll probably run an optimization update by Friday.”

You take a swallow of the metallic water, your eyes staring straight ahead at the rust stained wall. “Old pipes,” you casually reply but it’s your voice forcing itself through the lump of nerves in your throat. “Everything up here breaks eventually.”

Beneath the metal counter, out of the line of sight of the camera mounting behind the ventilation shaft, Wonwoo’s fingers slide across the cold casing of the housing unit, leaving something flat but small, and warm from his pocket resting right on the side of the metal ledge between your machines. It’s another micro data chit.

“The standard protocol for Level 9 Residential says they need replacements with clean bio scents,” Wonwoo continues his, ‘can be important to you but also unnecessary for the detectors,’ small talk, but you notice the slight tremor in his fingers as he takes his hand back from you. He isn’t looking at you but his shoulder is less than an inch from yours. You can feel the heat radiating off him in the freezing room.

He knows what you’re doing. He knows that every step you take up that ladder brings you closer to the executive board and closer to the wolves who tore your father apart. And he knows that once you reach those floors, his technical expertise can’t shield you anymore. He is building the ladder for your escape even if it means watching you climb into the fire. “Thanks for the tip,” you murmur while your fingers slide over the data chit with your street smart dexterity, tucking it into the secret seam of your cuff. Before you pull away, Wonwoo’s hand hesitates on his water cup, and so for a split second, his thumb presses against the back of your knuckles— a sudden pressure that feels completely different from his usual self. But you track it for what it is; it’s a silent desperate plea. Don’t get caught. Don’t leave me behind.

You don’t… you can’t squeeze back. The hatred inside your chest is too much as it suffocates black weight that leaves no room for anything else. You will do your best and leave the rest to fate, fate is all you can trust in moments like this. You don’t think you’re even qualified for detention but rather just taking your life away. You drop your cup into the recycling chute and walk away without looking back, leaving him standing alone under the flickering brown lights.

—

The notification arrives on your wrist-comm at 04:00, twenty minutes before your alarm is even set to go off.

[LOGISTICS_NOTIFICATION]: REASSIGNMENT EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY.

You sit up in your metal capsule bunk. You did it. The algorithm took the bait. But the triumph in your chest is instantly replaced by dread. Level 9 is where things should be changing.

Three hours later, you emerge from the high velocity transit elevator onto the residential concourse, and the contrast nearly knocks you off your feet. There are no exposed pipes here or rusted grates or flickering brown out lights. The walls are clad in high gloss white composite that reflects the ambient glow of hidden LED tracks.

It feels fake. It feels like a beautiful, expensive coffin.

As you walk down the corridor with your cleaning cart, your gray jumpsuit feels like a brand of filth. The residents pass you by— elite women dressed in flowing silks or corporate men and women in fitted suits that cost more than your father’s entire lifetime medical pension. They don’t look at you. Their eyes skip over your form as if you are nothing more than a mobile garbage unit, a temporary blemish on their perfect visual landscape.

The hatred inside you changes. Down on the tech decks, it was a hot, raging fire. Up here, surrounded by their obnoxious luxury, it turns into a cold diamond sharp focus. Every time you scrub a pristine chrome baseboard, you think of the damp, rotting wooden floors of your kitchen below. Every time you empty a disposal unit filled with discarded, half eaten real food, you think of the empty cabinets and the pills you had to count out so carefully for your dad.

They think they are safe up here because they are high. They think the rules of reality don’t apply to their floor. 

It takes another two months of grinding through the residential sectors before you finally see him.

You are cleaning the panoramic viewing deck on Level 11, working a buffer machine over the reinforced glass flooring that looks down into the white sea of clouds. A sudden silence ripples through the corridor. Already here?

You keep your head down and fit your posture into that of the clumsy, easily intimidated Ground girl you’ve been practicing in the mirror of your bunk pod.

Through the reflection in the glass, you see him approach. Kwon Soonyoung.

To the rest of the elevated metropolis, he was Hoshi, the untouchable corporate heir linked to the very executive board who signed the permanent blacklist order for your father. But to you, he was the target.

He doesn’t walk like the other corporate executives. There is a different energy to his movement… a lethal charisma that makes him look like a predator going through a cage. He is wearing a tailored grey coat with his hair stark and perfectly styled against the soft lighting of the deck. Two personal assistants walk three paces behind him, tablets in hand, murmuring something between them that he dismisses with an impatient flick of his fingers.

This is the target. The man whose executive division signed the permanent blacklist order for your father.

Your fingers tighten on the buffer handle but you recover before it’s noticeable on the million hidden and not hidden cameras around you. Your mind is screaming at you to drop the machine and use the steel wrench in your belt to crack that arrogant jaw. The venom in your veins is so potent it makes your vision blur… but you force it down. You lock it deep into the dark basement of your mind where you keep your real identity. You, as in, Y/N.

Instead, as his security detail draws level with your station, you intentionally catch the cord of your buffer machine with the toe of your boot. You stumble, letting out a sharp but soft cry of ‘genuine’ panic as the machine skitters out of control and clatters loudly against the base of a pillar.

The sound echoes like a gunshot through the quiet deck. “Hey! Watch it, Grounder!” one of the assistants snaps as he steps forward with an angry scowl.

You instantly drop to your knees and pull your sleeves over your hands, your shoulders hunched as you mimic a terrified animal.

You don’t even know if this pathetic act is gonna work but you’d rather stay delusional and see how it plays out because it always played out perfectly in the fictional books you have read, “I-I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, sir!” you stammer as you make your voice tremble perfectly, your eyes wide and glassy as you stare at the floor right in front of Soonyoung’s leather boots. “The voltage fluctuated, I lost my grip— I didn’t mean to—”

The assistant is about to call security, but Soonyoung raises a single hand and they stop immediately.

Soonyoung lowers his head down as his  eyes study your trembling form. To a man surrounded by corporate sharks, elegant elite women who speak in poetic flirty riddles, and bowing subordinates, your unfiltered terror is an anomaly. Even if terror is expected from Ground workers, they usually just shut up and accept their fate instead of blabbering about why the accident/mistake happened.

It’s a glitch to him… and that catches his attention. You aren’t a threat; you’re entirely too pathetic, a small, fragile thing from the dirt that has probably accidentally flown into his pristine sky. Because the management won’t send such a fragile worker like you, here. 

A slight faint smug smirk touches the corner of his lips. The arrogant pity of the elite, you wanna scoff real bad.

“Leave it,” Soonyoung says as it cuts through the tension. “She’s just a child from below— practically shaking out of her skin.”

“Thank you, sir... thank you,” you whisper, letting a tear slip down your cheek right on cue, looking up at him with an expression of pure, star struck worship.

He looks at you for one more long second— captivated by the novelty of someone who views him like a god, before he turns and continues down the concourse, his detail falling into step behind him.

You stay on your knees until the sound of his footsteps completely fades. Slowly and consciously, you wipe the fake tear from your face with the back of your hand. Your eyes are completely now devoid of the fear you just put on display.

The hook is set. The chess game has officially begun. Phase 2 is completed; now slowly bait him into being soft for you.

Six months. It had taken six grueling months of you scrubbing pristine corridors as a low tier maintenance worker as you kept your head down, and kept playing the part of a star struck, clumsy girl from below before you finally managed to cross paths with him.

By him you mean, Kwon Soonyoung.

“You’re taking dirt onto the terrace,” his voice cut through the penthouse.

You jump as you drop your cleaning cloth to the floor with intentional clumsiness. You spun around, your eyes wide like a saucer, perfectly mimicking the fragile easily rattled persona you had spent half a year perfecting, “I-I’m so sorry, sir! The filtration units on the lower terrace were acting up, and I didn't realize my boots—”

“Breathe,” Soonyoung interrupts. He wasn’t looking at you; he was looking past you out the floor-to-ceiling glass where the monorails wove between skyscrapers like veins of pretty light. He looked effortlessly casual but lethal, a product of a world where the rules of reality supposedly stopped at his floor. “I’m not going to have you executed for a bit of dust.” Oh fuck off.

“Right. Of course. Thank you,” you stammer, biting your lip and looking down while letting a flush of faux embarrassment heat your cheeks.

This was the hook. For weeks, you had played the part of the infatuated emotionally fragile and clueless about the horrors of the hierarchy of the rich world, maintenance girl who couldn’t keep her eyes off him. You had let yourself be caught staying around outside his private office, sniffing the expensive ambient scents and crying like a pretty doll when a security guard reprimanded you, pretending to be utterly overwhelmed by his mere presence. You still can’t believe you weren’t kicked out by other people or his several personal ‘assistants.’

To a man surrounded by corporate sharks and lusty beautiful elite women, a fragile unstable girl from The Ground who looked at him like he was a god was a novelty. An easy distraction; someone entirely too pathetic to be considered a threat.

When he walked closer and tilted your chin up with a gloved finger, you let your breath stutter… but it wasn’t entirely out of acting but because the proximity of the man who held your father’s life in his hands was terrifying.

“You look at me like you’re terrified I’ll do something to you,” his eyes scan your face to search for a depth you have carefully buried under layers of manufactured vulnerability, “or like you want me to.”

… The fuck you mean?

“I just…” you swallowed the blob in your throat while letting your eyes glass over with those well rehearsed tears. “I shouldn’t be up here. People like me... we don’t belong in a place this bright.” 

To this day, you’re scared that one day he’ll finally get tired of your bullshit and throw you out for the audacity of standing there with tears in your eyes and talking about things like this as if you deserve sympathy. Because clearly that would be your manipulative master plan.

A faint, amused smile touched his lips— the arrogant pity of the elite, “then let me keep you here where you can see the light.”

Suddenly, his lips meet yours, and you react a second late before you lean into him as you pull him closer by the collar of his shirt. This, this is what you wanted. This is your well planned innocent seduction, but it wasn’t a sweeping romance; it was a desperate way of your motives. It’s messy as neither of you have the patience to be careful. His hand slides to your waist and you step back with him without breaking it while guiding him toward the bedroom without looking like you’re guiding anything at all. You only pretend to give the illusion of letting the man do it.

You wrap your arms around his neck and stay close, letting him think it’s a need. He kisses you harder when you don’t pull away, a hoarse sound caught in his throat, and you answer him with the same amount of force to keep him from questioning the heat of it. Your mind remains entirely detached and crystal clear, even as your heart thumps wildly against your ribs as it tracks the room behind him, the distance to his private terminal, and the angle of the security panels along the wall.

He’s walking you back until the back of your knees hit the edge of the bed. You fall onto it with him leaning over you with one hand already at your jaw, the other braced beside your head. The silk sheets are so soft and nothing like anything you’ve ever slept on in your own house, and it makes your skin feel more weird instead of relaxed. But you can't let yourself freeze. Before he can pull back or think, you hook your arms around his shoulders as you drag him down with you when he attempts to straighten.

His breath chokes slightly at the rush of need as his hands move from your jaw to the zipper of your uniform jumpsuit. You decide to use that exact second of that little bit of hesitation to keep him completely focused on you instead of anything else in the room. He slides it down with an impatient tug as the heavy fabric parts and pushes it off your shoulders to expose your skin to the cool air of the room. Now, you don’t let your hesitation slow you down.

As his chest presses flush against yours, your hands slide down past his waist while your fingers find the metallic snap of his trousers. You unzip it completely bypassing his defenses while keeping his mouth locked against yours so he doesn't see the cold focus in your eyes. You pull every bit of his attention onto yourself the way you need it to; the rest of the penthouse completely ceases to exist for him. His lips move from yours to your cheek and then your neck, and you let your head tilt back to make it easy for him. Your hands stay on his back as you map the hard muscle beneath his shirt the entire time to never let there be space for his thoughts to wander. When he moves you again, and you go with him immediately to keep his entire world to the limits of the bed and your body until there is nothing else.

The breathing of the both of you keeps getting slower as time passes. His grip on you loosens slightly for comfort. He has stopped thinking about anything beyond the touch of your skin. You stay exactly where you are, still making sure there is no reason for him to look away or stand up or reach for anything else. 

The penthouse was dead silent except for the breathing of Kwon Soonyoung tangled in the sheets with you.

You slid out from under the heavy comforter entirely devoid of the clumsiness you showed during the day and the past six months. Eyes cold as you scanned the dimly lit room.

Your fingers didn’t tremble as you reached for his tailored jacket draped over the chair. Slipping your hand into the interior pocket, your cold fingertips brushed against the gold rimmed biometric passkey.  Six months of playing the fool and letting him believe he held all the power, boiled down to this single plastic chip.

Moving like a shadow, you slid the passkey into your maintenance jumpsuit that was on the floor when he took it off you an hour ago. You didn’t dare access his terminal here— the internal anomalies would flag security immediately. But with this key, the restricted medical robotics archive on the sub level was completely open to you. The neural stabilization formula— the proprietary algorithm that could restore your father’s deteriorating mind and could 100% ruin their reputation for hiding this from the elites for whatever reasons— was within your reach.

You walked toward the door of the penthouse and for a split daunting second, your hand hovered over the release sensor. You looked back at the silhouette of the man on the bed who had given you access to The Sky, and kept you on your toes while still treating you like a human unlike other elites. But no, you didn’t feel guilty when you came back to your senses and thought about the damp wooden floors of your home below. You thought about the empty kitchen cabinets with unpaid bills on the broken table and the sad smile of your dad that he hid under his ‘everything is okay,’ smile.

They don’t do ‘temporary’ with people from the Ground, your father’s voice echoed in your head. You don’t know them.

I know them now, dad, you thought. And I’m getting back at them. You turned your back on that man and the clean house, stepping through the threshold and into a lit corridor. You didn’t look back as you slipped past the final security checkpoint with the stolen passkey burning a hole in your pocket. There was no guarantee the grid wouldn’t flag his credentials before you reached the sub levels, and no guarantee you’d ever make it back down to the toxic smog below.

But you still stepped into the elevator terminal and pressed your back again but this time against the cold glass as it prepared for its long, dizzying descent, you locked your expression down. There was only one way forward.