Seoul, 2028.
The white spotlight sweeps across the Gocheok Sky Dome stage, blinding me for a split second. Before me, five silhouettes stand tall amidst the lingering smoke of the fireworks. Thousands of blue lightsticks sway in unison, creating an ocean of light that calls out the name of my idols: HIGH-5!.
I stand in the VIP Lounge, clutching a crystal glass of champagne that is as cold as my heart. My black velvet robe brushes against the marble floor. On the giant screen, the face of my center, Min-ho, smiles at the camera. It is a million-dollar smile that I created from nothing.
"Congratulations, CEO Hana," a top-tier investor whispers beside me. "Who would have thought a starting capital of two billion won could grow into an empire this size? You are a true genius."
I sip my champagne, letting the bubbles tickle my tongue. I do not return the compliment. I only stare at my own reflection in the high glass window.
Genius? I almost laugh.
They only see the golden crown. They do not know that beneath this designer gown, my back still feels stiff from sleeping on a plastic sofa for months. They do not smell this expensive perfume; they have no idea that two years ago, my scent was a mixture of sewing machine oil and fried chicken gizzards.
I close my eyes, letting the roar of the fans fade into a much harsher sound.
TWO YEARS EARLIER.
My eyes snap open. It is not because of the applause, but due to the rhythmic vibrations of the uneven ruko floor.
I am not at the Sky Dome. I am sitting on a second-hand office chair with only three wheels left, in an empty floor I just rented. In front of me is no crystal glass; instead, there is a cup of cold instant coffee already surrounded by ants.
I turn toward the small, dusty window. Across the street, the neon sign for "Dae-a Sewing Machine" flickers near death, reflecting a pale blue hue onto my face. The sharp scent of fried chicken gizzards from the floor below creeps in through the door gaps, piercing my nose that is usually accustomed to the scent of Le Labo.
This is the third floor. The only vacant space left in this building because no sane person would ever want an office here. Below me, a man is sewing school uniforms with a roaring machine. On the second floor, someone has just started their Chameleon Karaoke session with a very off-key 90s ballad.
On my shaky plastic table lies a worn-out ledger and a check worth 2,000,000,000 won.
The check looks so clean, so holy in the middle of this messy shophouse. It is the "living inheritance" my father threw at my face as if it were mere pocket change.
"Spend that money in a year, Hana. Then come home and admit that you failed to be anything other than a spoiled princess." My father's voice still echoes, cold as ice.
I pick up a black permanent marker. With a trembling yet steady hand, I write a single word on the wooden office door where the paint is already peeling. I write it right over the remnants of a "Plastic Wholesale Store" sticker that hasn't been fully removed:
L E G A C Y.
I take a deep breath, inhaling the mixed aroma of photocopy paper and stir-fried gizzards.
"Okay," I whisper to the empty room. "Let's see how far two billion won can take me on top of this sewing machine shop."