Min-Hee's dressing room was supposed to be a sanctuary.
Soft lighting, comfortable furniture, a vanity mirror surrounded by warm bulbs, flowers sent by well-wishers who still believed in her. Instead, it felt like a cage. A beautifully decorated cell where she was supposed to prepare for her execution.
She sat at the vanity, staring at her reflection. The makeup artist had done excellent work—covering the bruises, brightening her eyes, giving her the illusion of health and vitality. The woman in the mirror looked like a star. Like someone who belonged on a stage.
The woman in the mirror was a liar.
"Stop fidgeting," the costume designer said, adjusting the back of Min-Hee's dress for the third time. "You'll wrinkle the fabric."
The dress was stunning. Deep crimson, the color of wine o
