Smoke- lee heeseung

IV

"I am in that temper that if I were under water I would scarcely kick to come to the top."
— John Keats

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The mirror reflected Yuwon's scarred wrist, her disheveled hair, and the hollow gaze of someone who carried far too many burdens. She lingered on her reflection, eyes tracing over the imperfections she hated but couldn't escape. She was never the kind of thin that people in South Korea admired. The excess weight clung to her in places she despised, a constant reminder of how far she was from society's unreachable ideals of beauty. It wasn't that she judged anyone else for their bodies—just herself, trapped in the skin she couldn't love.

Her hand brushed over the soft curve of her stomach, resentment gnawing at her insides. She had learned to hate the body she lived in, as if perfection were just out of reach, waiting for her to force herself into its mold. Her eyes fell to the scar on her wrist, the angry red line, a symbol of weakness she wanted to forget, but one that never fully disappeared. It itched now, as if begging to be split open wider, deeper.

A shuddering breath escaped her lips, and she closed her eyes, forcing the dark thoughts away. She couldn't allow herself to fall apart again, not after last night. The impulse that had driven her to tears in the dark had to be buried, swallowed up in the cold facade she wore every day. She had to be like her father—stoic, untouchable. She couldn't afford to let anyone see her scars, either the ones on her wrist or the ones beneath her surface.

Steeling herself, she stepped into the shower, letting the hot water wash away the filth she imagined clung to her. The shame, the fear, the inadequacies—all of it rinsed away in the scalding heat. When she finally stepped out, she felt raw but composed, her emotions locked away, her face a mask of indifference once more.

Her school uniform clung neatly to her body, the full-sleeved jacket a necessary armor that hid her scars, while the tights under her skirt shielded her from the biting cold and her own insecurities. She slipped on a Vivienne Westwood wristwatch, fastening the band tightly around her scarred wrist. There was something about the weight of the watch that gave her a sense of control, an odd comfort in its presence as if it could ground her when nothing else could.

After lacing up her black platform shoes, she tucked her vape into a hidden pocket of her bag, the small rebellious act something that made her feel a little more alive. Heading downstairs, Yuwon moved swiftly, offering a shallow bow to the house staff, but she didn't slow down. Not until Mrs. Han's concerned voice cut through her thoughts.

"You should have breakfast, miss. You look pale," Mrs. Han's gentle plea stopped her in her tracks.

Yuwon smiled weakly, barely a curve of her lips. "I'll be fine. I'm walking today, and I don't want to be late."

Mrs. Han's eyes widened in surprise. "Walking, miss? Is the car not comfortable enough for you?"

Yuwon shook her head. "No, I just want to enjoy the weather."

"But it's cold outside. Please eat something first," Mrs. Han's voice softened, almost begging.

Before Yuwon could respond, Danyi's sharp voice cut through the room. "Let her walk. She should lose all that weight she's put on from the luxurious life my husband provides her."

Yuwon's jaw clenched, her nails digging into her palms. But she forced a smile—calm, cold, polite. "How could I ever disobey your orders, mother?"

She turned on her heel and walked out, refusing to bow this time. The door clicked behind her, and she welcomed the crisp morning air on her face, her tense body relaxing—until she felt a small tug on her sleeve. She glanced down to find her younger stepbrother, Yohan, standing there with a serious look on his face.