Seoul was a sensory avalanche. The sheer noise of it—the relentless traffic, the chatter of a thousand conversations, the blare of K-pop from storefronts—was a physical assault after the profound silences of the mountains. The lights were too bright, the colors too vivid, the pace too frantic. To Yuna, it felt like trying to breathe underwater.
Her return had been a media circus. “The Lost Heiress!” “Miracle Survival!” The CEO who fell from the sky and walked out of hell. She was thrust back into her old life, into boardrooms that now felt like dollhouses, into a penthouse that felt like a gilded cage. She was a celebrity, a symbol of resilience.
But inside, she was a ghost. She moved through her days with a hollow efficiency, a perfect imitation of her former self. She smiled for the ca
