Snacks

The press had begun, cautiously, to float stories of its own. Starlight Lotion was a revolutionary cosmetic no one in the beauty world could hope to match, so ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of course it claimed the top of every beauty desk.

Reporters could hardly investigate in person, though. The Starlight Guild's power saw to that, and most of the pieces were written from copy Starlight Cosmetics itself had put into circulation. Displease the Guild for no good reason, and life in Korea became very difficult indeed—though the major outlets, to be fair, watched their step a little less than the rest.

The executives of Starlight Cosmetics wore pleased expressions as they watched the articles pour in. An opening to raise the price had presented itself. They hadn't orchestrated it themselves, exactly. It was less a plan than a happy accident—the sort of luck where you stumble backward and land on a prize.

"Handle this well, and we could raise the price and still have the customers cheering us on."

Kim Seyoung said it while scrolling the flood of coverage on her computer. Starlight Lotion's net profit, unlike what the articles claimed, was extraordinary. The press was guessing twenty to thirty percent. The real margin was more than double that. Nor did those sales belong to Starlight Cosmetics alone. The Starlight Research Institute held a stake, and so did Hana, the one who supplied the ingredient.

That stake wasn't large yet. But the contract raised her share the older she grew, which meant they had to sell as much as they could while the early days lasted.

"That's right. We've borrowed the Starlight Guild's marketing team, and we're pushing these articles hard across the internet."

"We're seeding coverage that frames the Starlight Lotion shortage as a lack of raw materials. Consumers aren't pleased, but they do seem prepared to understand—up to a point."

If the public ever learned that a single strand of Hana's hair was all it took to make Starlight Lotion, the condemnation would be ferocious. Like a bucket of ice water dumped straight over their heads.

Kim Seyoung only smiled, just a little. So long as the secret never reached the public, they were in the clear. And even if it did, once people saw the price attached to that hair, wouldn't they understand?

Besides, the public cared about nothing but the supply. The ingredients that went into Starlight Lotion, the process that made it—none of that interested them much.

The factory, which had been turning at the bare minimum, was shut down now. They had run out of the ingredient: hair. Even so, they had already earned so much that paying the staff a furlough allowance was no hardship at all.

There were shadier options, of course. They could have forced people to burn their annual leave, or handed out unpaid time off. But once you hung the Starlight Guild's name on the door, you didn't play those tricks. There was no ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠telling what fault her older brothers might find later. Kim Seyoung was running the company as reasonably as she could.

"Here are the market-response findings on an appropriate price for Starlight Lotion."

An executive brought up a presentation. Most people who used the lotion had answered that, set against its effects, the price was cheap. Looking at the chart, Kim Seyoung smiled a quiet smile of triumph.

Raise it too far, though, and consumers' psychological line of resistance would harden, so after a long meeting they settled on a ten percent increase. Once the decision was made, there was no taking it back.

"Huh? My hair's growing again."

Two solid weeks of eating well and resting, and I could see it coming back. The moment I woke that morning, I felt hair against my back. A bob had been comfortable, back when my hair was short—but there was no helping this.

I gathered it with a practiced hand and tied it off with a hair elastic. Once upon a time Bora or Haru had to do it for me. Now I could tie it perfectly without so much as a look in the mirror.

"Hehe."

I laughed, angling the new growth toward the mirror. If my hair stopped growing, my reason for being would start to fade, so it mattered to me too. They wouldn't throw me out just because it stopped, of course—but I was living like a layabout, and that made me painfully aware of how I looked to everyone else.

I was lying on the bed watching television when the door opened and Bora came in. She looked just as amazed to see my hair growing again.

"Oh my! Hana, your hair's growing back?"

"It is. It's growing again. But why did it stop in the first place?"

"That's... shouldn't you know? You're the one it belongs to."

"It's my hair, and even I don't know..."

"Hnn..."

My hair refused to do as I wished. Was it because the last two weeks had been such a vicious winter? The researchers had studied it, and even I—the one the hair belonged to—couldn't say why it had stopped. A complete mystery.

It'll come to light someday. It has to.

"Hana, let's go eat!"

Bora scooped me up and headed for the dining hall. I hadn't eaten a thing that morning, and my stomach was already complaining, so I nodded against her.

Shff. Shff. Shff.

Lunch hour, and the office sat dark and utterly empty.

I moved like a burglar, body tucked low, making for one particular place: the pantry. I held my breath and rose onto my toes, softening my footsteps as much as I could. There was no one in the office to hear me, but every thief on television walked exactly like this.

Maybe because I was so small, the whole office looked enormous—but I found the pantry. The counter came up to about my chest. Eyes flicking this way and that, I helped myself to the snacks one by one. Delicious things were piled in there like a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠mountain.

Whenever I ran out, I came by to replenish the stash. In the old days a convenience store would have done, but I was banned from those now, which left me no way to get snacks at all. I could have asked Bora or Haru to buy them—except that asking every day earned me a scolding about why I ate so many.

So they only bought me snacks once every two or three days, and the rest of the time I was supposed to endure on an empty stomach. An empty stomach, however, was the one thing I absolutely could not endure.

And then something caught my eye. Not rice crackers, not the usual cookies—instant coffee mix. I'd asked them to buy me coffee once, because I wanted some, and Bora had refused, telling me it was like alcohol, a thing only adults ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠drank. Honestly, wasn't eating snacks all the time worse for you?

In any case, Bora said I shouldn't make a habit of high-caffeine drinks. I did not submit. I closed one hand around a whole fistful of coffee-mix sticks. I'd brought a bag, and I dumped them in.

I happened to glance at the clock. More than half of lunch hour was already gone. This was when the employees, finished at the cafeteria, would start filing back into the office. I ducked out of sight and hurried back to my room.

Fortunately I didn't run into anyone on the way. Giggling, I pulled out the bag. Inside, all sorts of things to eat were piled high—enough to last me a day or two.