Designing the Underground Studio
"Hic... sniff..."
The sobs of Cha Su-ah, who had been rubbing her cheek against my hand like a child and shedding tears, began to quiet down. A position higher than others. From that lofty perch, wrapped in vanity—the arrogant shell of Gangnam's top designer had been completely stripped away. What remained was just a wounded young woman, trembling in poverty and yearning for true art.
I silently pulled a tissue from the box on the table and handed it to her.
"That's enough now. Wipe it up before your eyes swell shut."
"Hic... Y-yes..."
Cha Su-ah took the tissue with both hands and dabbed at her messy face. Her eyes, red and bloodshot behind her glasses, still glistened with moisture, but the way she looked up at me was markedly different from before. Having bared her very soul, she hadn't been fully understood, but there was a strange sense of relief and budding trust toward me—a glimpse of shared kinship.
"You brought the basement blueprints, right? Now let's get to the real work."
"Ah, yes. I have them."
Cha Su-ah fetched the basement floor plan and a pen from her bag. Her lower half was still bare, no panties, but she didn't seem to care anymore. Instead, she pressed close to my side, waiting eagerly for my next instructions.
I led her to the basement door in the corner of the first-floor living room. Opening it revealed stairs leading down. Don't imagine some moldy, musty rat hole like the old basement studio I'd lived in before. This was prime Yeonnam-dong real estate in the heart of one of Korea's priciest areas—a 100-pyeong, two-story luxury mansion. As we descended, sensor lights flicked on one by one, illuminating a vast space.
"Wow..."
A short gasp escaped Cha Su-ah's lips. The 100-pyeong basement had been gutted, leaving only the concrete skeleton. As the previous owner's private home theater and wine cellar, it boasted a ceiling height rivaling a typical storefront's first floor. Buried HVAC systems and vents lined the walls—top-tier setup, so there was no underground dampness or odor, just crisp, dry air.
A massive gray canvas, spotless and demolished to perfection. I walked to the center and drew a deep breath. This place stood in stark opposition to the sunlit art studio on the first floor. It was the crucible of capital to repay my starving days as a failed filmmaker and obscure photographer—a shadowy studio for the cruelest aesthetics.
"Su-ah. If we line the walls with 150mm soundproof panels edge to edge, we'll get about 85 pyeong of usable floor space, right?"
I began the briefing, tracing imaginary lines in the air. Cha Su-ah had stopped sniffling; her eyes sharpened over the floor plan.
"We'll tear this huge canvas into six zones. Subtract a hallway and a small waiting room cum dressing room, and each room gets around 10 to 12 pyeong. And..."
I pointed to the wide corner right off the stairs.
"My main control desk goes here at the entrance. Like the director's chair on a film set."
Cha Su-ah's pen flew across the plan.
"No blind spots in any of the six basement rooms. Wall corners, ceiling centers, even low-angle shots from the floor looking up."
"Dozens of cameras, at least."
"Exactly. Not cheap cams that lose quality—high-end broadcast ones with zoom lenses, dozens of them. We'll reinforce the ceiling beams for rail cams too."
She adjusted her glasses as my orders poured out. A cold, expert calculation slipped from her lips.
"To handle dozens of simultaneous camera feeds, regular wiring won't cut it. We'll need dedicated fiber optic conduits in the wall frames, and a compact, silent liquid-cooled server rack under the control desk. Exposed cams or hidden behind objets?"
"Mix depending on the room concept. Some need overt filming to pressure the subject; others capture her unraveling alone, cams invisible."
Her lips twitched upward at my answer. The ex-filmmaker's precise lens math meshing perfectly with the top designer's technical execution. The intellectual thrill of our mad ping-pong was visibly heating her blood.
"Good. Six mise-en-scènes—let's dive in. Room 1: sterile white clinical chamber."
I tapped the first box on the plan.
"Blood, tears, sweat, women's fluids—the rawest, dirtiest bodily liquids must pop in the lens. Background: perfect sterile room."
"An actual clean room...?"
"Concept. You might've seen that famous revenge movie—dry, cold white tones. Ceiling gets shadowless surgical lights."
She slashed lines on the plan, grasping my vision instantly.
"White tiles alone won't do it. Grout lines cheapen it. Full walls and floor in premium 1200x2400 white glossy panels."
Spot-on response.
"Epoxy grout matching the tiles perfectly—one seamless white mass. Center floor: minimalist trench drain for fluids. Easy clean, killer visual contrast."
Damn. This woman's insane. She translated my abstract visuals into materials without a hitch.
"Room 2: industrial cage. Raw textures like a movie set—rough concrete, rusted H-beams. Electric winch and chains on ceiling rails to hoist subjects. Must hold three adult women thrashing."
"Chemical anchors deep in the ceiling concrete, cross-braced steel beams. Hang a one-ton truck, no problem. Chain and winch noise could ruin audio, so special lube finish on rail bearings for heavy friction sounds only—acoustics tuned."
"Room 3: fallen study. Elite pretense—dark wood moldings, leather sofa, bookshelves. Make her spread her legs vulgarly in that hypocritical elegance. Hide all cams from her sight."
"Floor-to-ceiling bookcase partitions. Micro lenses in fake books; one wall faux decorative cabinet, actually magic mirror hiding main zoom lens."
She got it completely.
"Exactly. Voyeurism aesthetic."
As the meeting dragged, the 100-pyeong basement air grew thick with heat. Cha Su-ah's breaths quickened visibly; her hands on the plan showed no hesitation. Any fear of ending up bound and writhing in these rooms had long evaporated. Just the designer's passion for crafting this unprecedented brutal artwork with a client who got her.
"Next. Room 4: grotesque red velvet chamber."
I paused, lit a cigarette from my pocket, and stared her down.
"David Lynch vibes. Floor, walls, ceiling lamp shades—everything in blood-red, deep dark velvet. Light- and sound-devouring, sticky, suffocating womb. White flesh flailing on red carpet—fill the lens with that color contrast."
I exhaled smoke, tossing the challenge.
"But Su-ah, visually perfect, practically fucked. Girls sweat and squirt all day; natural velvet or carpet rots from fluids. Keep premium velvet texture on lens, but fluid-proof. Can your knowledge solve it?"
My finicky obsession. But she didn't flinch—instead, smirked deeply, eyes gleaming with certainty behind her glasses.
"Director. I've done tens of Gangnam hotels and private clubs. Sofas soaked in all kinds of fluids."
She sketched the red room boldly.
"Ultra-microfiber special fabric via flocking. Visually and texturally identical to Italian top-grade red velvet, same light absorption. But heavy water-repellent coating—blood or fluids bead and bounce off."
She leaned in close, thigh brushing my pants, pointing at the plan—unfazed.
"Hose it down, wipe with tissues post-shoot—like new. Line soundproofing inside with it for absorption: only her heartbeat and gasps inside. I'll import the creepiest blood-dark red myself."
Whoa. Chills for real—I gaped. She'd stitched my physics-compromised vision with the perfect material, zero hesitation.
"Fuck... you're the best."
She nailed exactly what I wanted. Her shoulders twitched at my crude praise.
"Room 5: Gothic confessional. Heavy space lit only by stained-glass lamps, like a church booth. Sound design for sacred echoes."
"Arched ceiling curves, tuned stone absorber density. Flesh slaps and moans reverb holy—residual time calculated."
"Final Room 6: mirror abyss on all sides. Subject faces her shame no matter where she looks. Lenses behind mirrors?"
"Of course. Control reflectivity and lighting precisely—no cam reflections. Perfect shame hell."
Click. She set down the pen. The plan brimmed: six insane concept rooms filling the empty 100-pyeong basement, linked organically by halls, overseen by the main control desk—packed with precise dimensions and materials.
Just my one-way imagination fused with her mad detail genius. Perfect blueprint.
"Haa..."
Cha Su-ah exhaled hot breath, wiping sweat from her brow. Her eyes glazed in adrenaline haze. The ultimate orgasm of two aesthetics-obsessed souls.
I nodded satisfaction at the plan, puffing the last smoke.
"Su-ah."
"Yes... Director."
"Looking at this... makes me wanna direct movies again."
A soft smile bloomed on her lips at my honesty. Pure creator-to-creator solidarity, no money or vanity taint.
"I'll make it happen. Every mise-en-scène you want, I'll build physically."
Her voice trembled faintly. I'd dredged her true self from this deep basement floor—the soul sold serving dirty old men's drinks to escape poverty, rotting as money's slave in an empty shell.
Or rather, our meeting as obscure artists had revived it. Lucky timing: her 2.2 billion embezzlement, me targeting her. Her swelling ego post-humiliation crashed back to rock bottom—intersecting with my pure idealism.
That's why, maybe. Her shell had mostly molted. Clear fluid trickled down her inner thigh, plip, plop on the cement.
She was riding a whole other dimension of orgasm right now.
