Part 1, Chapter 3: Nonhyeon-dong, Greedy Gazes
In Gangnam, the sun seemed to set earlier at night than it ever did by day. Before the noise of the streets above had even begun to settle, the underground world of Gangnam was already lighting its lamps. Buried in the seat of Han Siljang’s rough black foreign car, Dohee stared blankly out the window at the scenery of Teheran-ro whipping past. Inside the car, the stench of the cigarettes Han Siljang had been chain-smoking mixed with some unidentifiable sweet, heavy air freshener until her stomach churned without end. Where the car finally stopped was a reservation-only hair salon with no signboard at all, tucked into a shadowy, secretive alley on the border of Sinsa-dong and Nonhyeon-dong. To Dohee—who ordinarily scraped by in such crushing poverty that even a ten-thousand-won cut at a campus-area barbershop felt like a luxury, and who trimmed her own hair with a pair of scissors—the oppressive weight of those softly blinding gold lights and the soundless, sleek marble floors was considerable.
“Director, this one’s a total greenhorn just arrived at our place. Give her special attention today. The moment she started college they were already calling her the department goddess. She did the trainee thing at an agency for a long time too, so that ‘all-natural’ pure charm of hers is still right there—keep that feeling, but set her up so that when she walks into a room the men lose their minds. Make her smell fatal.”
At Han Siljang’s bold, unrestrained demand, the Salon Director—a woman of advanced years decked out in every kind of luxury brand—lightly caught Dohee’s chin and turned her face this way and that, her mouth falling open.
“My goodness, Manager Han. This time you really reeled in a proper big catch. She’s a completely different grade from those Gangnam unnies the plastic surgeons stamp out by the dozen these days—noses built up, jaws shaved down, fillers pumped in. Look at this skin. So translucent. It must be because the college freshmen these days are so fresh and green—she’s got that refined air soaked right into her.”
It was meant as praise, but Dohee felt not the slightest flicker of pleasure. She felt instead like a cut of fresh meat laid out on a butcher’s counter, waiting for her grade to be stamped. The moment she sat in the chair, several staff members swarmed her at once, running their hands through her long hair and layering thick cosmetics onto her face. Ordinarily Dohee wore nothing more than sunscreen and a light tint. In the mirror, the plain, wholesome face of college student Yoon Dohee was gradually erased, and in its place a meticulously sculpted “doll” took shape—eyes deep and bewitching, lips blood-red—crafted solely to seduce and bewitch the men of the night.
They loosened the hair she had tied back carelessly, worked it into rich, lush waves, and then she changed into the tight black halter-neck dress the Director had brought. The neckline plunged so perilously that every breath laid bare her collarbones and the valley between her breasts; the hem rode up to mid-thigh in a deliberately provocative cut. Staring at the strange, unfamiliar woman standing in the mirror, Dohee felt her heart hammering as she endlessly hypnotized herself.
It’s fine. This isn’t me. This is just a mask I’m wearing for a little while. It’s nothing but a performance that ends the moment I earn the hospital money.
Dohee was certain of it. Just three weeks—a month at the absolute longest—and once she had covered her mother’s surgery costs, the ICU deposit, and the overdue rent, she would strip off these filthy clothes without a shred of regret. She wasn’t selling her body and going out for a second-round service like the others. She was simply doing a high-paying part-time job where she sat for a few hours at night and made conversation. The second the money came in she would quit and go straight back to the library in her neat department jacket, living cleaner and more diligently than anyone. Twenty-year-old, naive Dohee still had no idea how addictive the world of the night could be, or how easily a soul, once stained, began to rot. She had not the faintest dream of what ruinous abyss that complacent, pure arrogance would drag her into.
“Well, Sea? Looking in the mirror, you can see what an incredible weapon you’re packing, right?”
Han Siljang had somehow drawn close and laid a hand gently on Dohee’s bare shoulder, fully exposed in the mirror. The sticky warmth of his palm made her flinch with a sudden rush of goosebumps, but he paid it no mind and whispered against her ear like a snake.
“The second you walk into a room tonight, those oppas are going to go crazy and empty their wallets. Come on. Let’s go. To Cheongdam-dong—where your life’s about to change.”
The car stopped in the underground parking garage of a massive building tucked behind the main boulevard of Cheongdam-dong. The moment the door opened, the space vibrated with the rough throb of club music booming through the basement, the sharp sting of strong whiskey, and the mingled smell of human sweat. Following Han Siljang down a dark marble corridor that twisted like a maze, Dohee stopped short and held her breath when they opened the large door marked “Female Staff Waiting Room.” The spectacle inside was overwhelming.
In the vast waiting room walled entirely in floor-to-ceiling mirrors, dozens of women sat packed tightly together. There were women in outrageous clothes that left their chests fully exposed, blowing long streams of cigarette smoke and mixing curses into their conversation; women with legs crossed, pulling scarlet lipstick from designer bags to touch up their mouths; women sprawled exhausted on sofas, staring into delivery apps on their phones. The distinctive energy they gave off—decadent, cold, and fiercely competitive—filled every corner of the space.
“Oh my, Manager Han. Who’s the new girl? Wow, the goods are seriously good.”
“She reeks of college student. Manager, which team is she on tonight? Put her on ours.”
The instant she stepped inside, dozens of pairs of sharp, piercing eyes poured over her. The greedy, envy-laced gazes of the women of the demimonde seemed to carve Dohee’s entire body to pieces, inch by inch. Without thinking she tugged at the hem of her dress, trying to pull it down even a fraction lower, and pressed herself tight behind Han Siljang.
“Hey, everybody listen up and say hello. This is ‘Sea,’ starting with us today. No hazing, no touching. She’s precious stock we’re raising into this place’s ace, so take good care of her.”
Han Siljang sat Dohee down on a battered leather sofa in the corner of the waiting room, its surface pocked with cigarette burns. As she sat there trembling with nerves, the woman right beside her—short dark hair, a flashy leopard-print dress—spoke up in a friendly tone.
“Hi. I’m Miran. How old are you? Just looking at you, you’re either twenty or twenty-one at most.”
“……Twenty.”
“Oh my, what a good age. I’m genuinely jealous. First time here, right? Don’t be too scared. Before you walk in everyone’s terrified and crying, but once you’re actually in the room, shake a tambourine a few times, and the oppas start handing you tips because they’re having a good time, you adapt fast. But you’re really pretty. Looking at you, aviation major or model type, right?”
“Ah…… yes. Aviation.”
When Dohee carefully nodded, a fleeting light of peculiar jealousy and bitterness crossed the depths of Miran’s eyes. But she quickly arranged her face into the practiced business smile unique to this world and tightly clasped Dohee’s cold hands.
“You came to the right place. For making money, there’s nowhere in Korea that beats this. But Sea—don’t put too much faith in the things the managers and madams whisper to you. On the outside they act like they adore you and look out for you, but in the end we’re just machines that fill their wallets. You’ve got to look after your own body and your own interests. Especially……”
Miran drew a deep pull on her cigarette, then scattered the smoke into the air and murmured low.
“The girls who come here all start out like you. ‘I’ll just tough it out a few months, pay off the debt, and get out.’ ‘I’ll grind hard for the hospital bills and walk away clean.’ They start out under the delusion that they’re different from the other machines. But it never works out the way they think. The taste of money—and the swamp this industry is—is a lot stickier than you’d expect.”
Miran’s pointed, chilling warning reached Dohee’s ears, but inwardly Dohee scoffed.
I’m different from those unnies. I have a real campus to go back to, and a mother I have to keep alive. My purpose is clear, so the second I save up just ten million won I’m getting out of this hell without looking back.
Dohee tried hard to isolate herself as a thorough outsider and observer in this decadent space, building the walls around her heart high and solid.
Just then the waiting-room door slammed open hard enough to break, and a massive manager in a black suit bellowed so loud the room seemed ready to collapse.
“Alright! Choice for Room 7 and Room 9! Everyone working tonight with any Size at all, line up in the hallway! Move it!”
In an instant the air in the waiting room froze solid. Miran, who moments before had been chatting kindly with Dohee over a cigarette, was already fixing her lipstick darker in the mirror with cold eyes, as if none of it had happened. Dozens of women rose as one, smoothed their clothes, and shoved their chests up high. Dohee’s own heart began to pound as if it would burst. Her throat burned dry.
“Sea, you come this way too. It’s your first Choice, so don’t freeze up from nerves—just smile pretty the way I taught you. Your face is the weapon.”
At Han Siljang’s urgent call, Dohee was practically shoved out into the corridor. Along the dark, endless hallway walls, gorgeously dressed beauties formed a line without end. Wedged among them, her own shabby, precarious figure felt like a slave or a luxury commodity put up for auction, and her throat clenched tight. She could almost hear the sound of her pride being ground into the floor.
At the manager’s sharp hand signal, the massive door of VIP Room 9—sealed shut at the far end of the corridor—swung open. From inside drifted dim, dreamlike purple light, the scent of top-shelf liquor, and the rough laughter and vulgar jokes of men already thoroughly drunk.
“Gentlemen! These are the fresh, brand-new girls who just joined our place today. Take a look!”
With the manager’s booming voice, Dohee swallowed hard and followed the person ahead of her into the room. The gazes of the three men sprawled across the plush sofas inside locked all at once onto every inch of the lined-up women’s bodies. Their greedy, sticky stares drifted slowly—and finally came to rest on Dohee’s face and collarbone line, whiter, purer, and more luminously fresh than any of the veteran women in the corridor.
Under the rising tide of terror, Dohee instinctively clenched her fists like a cat on a car hood. In the pain of her nails biting into soft flesh until it seemed blood would well up, she chanted inwardly, Just one month. Hold on for just one month—and took her first step into the abyss where Gangnam’s true darkness lay waiting.