Chapter 5: Marionette

The studio was warm and harshly lit, the spotlights beaming down onto their targets, framing them in an angelic halo, pure as heaven, hot as sin. Haeun stood at the center of the set, draped in more fabric than she had worn in months—a beige wool coat cinched at the waist with a leather belt, a calf-length skirt of muted plaid, and sturdy knee high boots that clunked faintly against the floor as she moved. Beneath the coat was a pale blouse of silk, its high collar and long sleeves modest, almost puritanical.

“Shoulders back, chin slightly down,” the photographer called, his voice reverberating across the cavernous space, drawing her attention. Haeun obeyed with practiced ease, her body pliant, her face a mask of serene perfection. The camera clicked rhythmically, a mechanical heartbeat to accompany her inner thoughts.

The coat’s weight was unfamiliar but not unwelcome, a sudden burden after months of showing bare skin. It had not been her choice—nothing ever was, and until the day she retire nothing really may be. The decision had come down from the company’s top brass, trickling like molasses through their many layers of handlers and PR strategists. She had seen the memo passed through whispered meetings and thinly veiled excuses: “We’re changing Haeun’s image. We must act before it becomes a scandal.”

A scandal. She nearly smiled at the irony. The controversy had been born from nothing more than a careless wind, a miniskirt, and a camera lens wielded by someone observant enough to catch her trembling. It had been a bitterly cold day, the air sharp and unforgiving, the incessant wind drawing any remnant heat from their bodies. Haeun could still feel the ache in her knees as she knelt on the frost-laden pavement, arms spread in a calculated pose while her hair whipped like silk ribbons in the wind. She remembered how her thin stockings clung uselessly to her legs, how the shivering grew violent the longer she held still.

And then that moment. A split-second captured forever, her eyes brimming with tears, gazing down the camera. Her lips, painted a vivid red that looked almost obscene against her pale skin, parted in a silent cry for help.

It was some of her fans that started the movement. A silent plea from their beloved Haeun, trembling in sheer stockings and too-thin sleeves, fragile as a doll in a winter storm. The internet had ignited, sparking like dry leaves catching fire. People from across the country, even from abroad, rallied in her defense, their voices loud enough to reach even the boardroom, high up in their glass tower. “Protect Haeun!” they demanded. “Boycott the company!”

Haeun’s face had been everywhere that week—articles plastered with her tear-streaked gaze, captions calling her the industry's “brave angel.” The company, **** to quell the storm, finally pivoted. Her shoots were changed, her outfits lengthened, her choreography softened. The pendulum swung back with haste, as though all her sultry dances and provocative photoshoots had been a mistake—a lapse of judgment for which Haeun had been an unwilling victim.

“Beautiful. Hold that look,” the photographer said, crouched low to capture her from a flattering angle. Haeun’s eyes lingered somewhere beyond the lens, her expression carefully vacant.

The truth of the matter sat quietly within her, unmoving as stone. She had not been begging anyone for help that day. She had not even been suffering—at least, no more than usual. The shivers were familiar, the cold as constant as the hunger in her gut and the aching in her joints, all part and parcel for the life of an idol. She had grown accustomed to the skimpy clothes they handed her, to the hollowness that came with selling herself, inch by exposed inch, to a world that never grew full.

Her expression had been misunderstood, her gaze misread - the tears came not from the cold, but from stifling a yawn. She had been exhausted, sleep-deprived from late rehearsals and pre-dawn alarms, and as she’d blinked against the burn of her fatigue, her gaze had swept over the crowd. She could not even recall the camera that had captured her in that moment, the sea of lenses blending into a singular monstrosity before her.

And yet—she had let them believe. Why fight the wave, when it could carry her higher than ever before? Haeun had played her part to perfection, bowing before cameras with grateful hands pressed to her chest, a bright, trembling smile plastered onto her face. She had thanked her fans profusely for “saving her.” She’d promised to be strong, to take better care of herself for them. She’d played the grateful victim so well that even her manager, Mr. Kang, had applauded her poise.

She stepped forward now as instructed, turning slightly so the coat would catch the light. It was an elegant shot, the model clean and chaste—untouched. But beneath the fabric, her skin still remembered - the tightness of those clothes that had sculpted her body into the shape of desire, the warmth of Jihoon's hands as they entangled in desire and passion the previous night.

“Perfect, Haeun. That’s a wrap for this look,” the photographer called, pulling her back to the present.

She nodded faintly and smiled, though the expression faded the moment she turned away. Striding towards the dressing room with measured steps, she left the studio behind, thoughts already on the lunch waiting for her.