The dressing room was a fever dream of neon lights and the cloying scent of hairspray and cheap perfume. It was a long, narrow vein in the heart of the underground Hell, buzzing with a frantic, desperate energy. Makeup tables were cluttered with shattered powders and stained sponges, while racks of silk and lace outfits—designed to reveal more than they covered—loomed like skeletons in the corners.
Vivian stood like a statue amidst the chaos. Two stylists moved around her with mechanical efficiency, their hands cold as they cinched the waist of a short black dress. The heels she wore were high and unstable, making her feel like she was walking on the edge of a cliff.
She clutched the hem of the dress, her knuckles white. I can't breathe, she thought, the air in the room feeling thick and recycled.
"Don't move," one stylist snapped, tightening a strap until it dug into Vivian's skin. "Clients don't like sloppy girls."
The second stylist stepped forward, pressing an ornate black masquerade mask into Vivian's shaking hands. The lace was stiff and scratchy. "Wear this," she commanded. "Clients don't like remembering faces either."
Vivian raised the mask, the lace clicking into place behind her head. Behind the dark eyeholes, her gaze was wide and terrified.
"Everyone ready?" a woman in a sharp suit—the Handler—called out from the door. "Follow me. Do NOT speak unless spoken to."
Vivian fell into line with the other masked girls, a row of ghosts marching toward the sound of laughter.
The VIP club was a world away from the gritty hallway outside. It was a cathedral of excess: crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling like frozen rain, and gold accents glinted against deep velvet couches.
The air was blue with expensive cigar smoke.
At the center of the room sat the city's elite—assemblymen and businessmen, the very people Vivian used to see from the stage of her concerts And in exclusive "elite people only parties"They laughed loudly, their voices booming over the soft clink of crystal glasses.
KA-THUNK.-
The Handler opened the heavy, soundproofed door. The noise of the party spilled out, hitting Vivian like a physical blow. The men fell silent for a heartbeat, their eyes raking over the new arrivals like predators scenting prey.
"Oh? New beauties tonight," one man smirked, his eyes lingering on Vivian's frame.
"Girls, start working," the Handler said, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. "Don't disappoint the clients."
The music swelled, and the girls began to move—slow, nervous sways that were more about survival than dance. The men whistled and drank, their gazes heavy. Vivian felt the weight of it, a suffocating pressure that made her stomach churn.
She was led to a table and told to sit beside a man whose breath reeked of expensive whiskey. He leaned in far too close, his heat radiating off him in waves. Vivian sat perfectly still, her shoulders locked, her eyes fixed on anything but his face.
Suddenly, she felt it. A hand, heavy and damp, crawling onto her thigh. Her body jolted. Please don't... she pleaded silently.
She shifted her leg, just a fraction of an inch, trying to escape the touch.
The man leaned in, his lips brushing the edge of her mask. His voice was a low, cruel crawl against her ear.
"I know you killed Assemblyman Han. Stop moving."
The world stopped. The music, the laughter, the clinking of ice—it all vanished into a vacuum of pure, icy terror. Vivian froze, her eyes dileding behind the lace of her mask.
The client stood up, his grip on her wrist tightening. It wasn't a violent grab, but it was absolute. "Follow me. Now."
As he led her away, the table erupted into drunken jeers. "Guess he's gonna have a good night!" one man shouted, followed by a chorus of "Lucky bastard!"
They walked into a dim hallway, lit only by a faint red glow. A "RESTRICTED STAFF ONLY" sign hung crookedly from a single hinge, swaying slightly in the draft.
The man stopped. Vivian kept her head down, her breath coming in fast, jagged gasps. She waited for the blow, for the handcuffs, for the end.
"Look up," he commanded. His voice was no longer a drunken slur; it was cold, precise, and hauntingly familiar.
Vivian hesitated, then slowly lifted her head. The mask tilted, revealing the pale, trembling line of her jaw.
Her eyes met his, and the air left her lungs.
It wasn't a stranger.
It was Baek Soryeon. The Assemblyman's former assistant.
The man who had taken her 5 billion won and watched her vanish. He was dressed in a sharp black suit that screamed of his new power, a cigarette dangling between his smirked lips.
"It's been a long time..." he mocked, his eyes glinting with a sadistic triumph. "Babygirl."
Vivian's hand flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp. "...No... you...?"
[Fate wasn't cruel. It was sadistic.]