Seoul had been left the same way that Drema Lee had left it nearly four years prior.  The sidewalks were still dirty and congested, the architecture uncomfortably modern, the people preoccupied and self concerned.  Her duffel bobbed behind her with every step that she took, her eyes scanning her surroundings, trying to retrace the avenues she once knew so well that had faded to a haze from lack of use.  She paused at a window display and pulled out a guide she had stolen from the pocket of her seat on the plane. To her frustration, it was the one written in Korean – which she was unquestionably rusty with.

       It had been easy when she toured with her father, a Korean American soldier.  Being an army brat, she was accustomed to being uncomfortable in unfamiliar places.  But the LED signs that lined street side shops were beginning to flicker – a sign that it would soon be dark, and this made her admittedly nervous.  She rubbed a manila envelope concealed in the pocket of her sweatshirt with her thumb and forefinger.  Her own form of worry stone, all seven hundred dollars she had to her name (over 700,000 in Korean won, which made her feel not quite as poor).

        She was sure her father’s heart would break if he found out she had forgone expensive prep school tuition, and in addition, took the cheapest red-eye she could find to Korea for what would either pan out as a career as an import model or an au pair.  Drema did not like to be called careless.  Though her parents could deny it, for their sake, she had weighed her options with as much care as she could muster.  But the truth was, sitting still for a long enough period of time made her itch.  Familiarity bored her and she constantly longed for something to uproot her.

        The most common emblem that followed army brats was a white headed dandelion, something that could take root and thrive no matter where it went, and Drema was just that.  She was clever, maneuvering around any legal roadblocks that would prevent her from completing an intercontinental expedition successfully.  She was also pretty, but in an unpretentious way, and being unpretentious, laughed when the agency she’d signed with sent her a hard copy of her portfolio they had posted to the company website.  To her basic understanding of hangul, and limited help from google translate, her hair color had been listed as a “rich chestnut”, which now hung limply down her back after a ten hour flight.

        Her eye color was stated as blue, even though that was incredibly misleading, and any possible clients would feel pretty jipped when they realized that her eyes were in fact a very dark and cloudy shade of steel grey, each with a small green halo.  The milky white skin depicted in her headshots was in fact puffy and dehydrated from artificial recycled air in the plane’s cabin, and she was literally so tired, she could have fallen asleep on the side of the street, which really did not exemplify her “charming” and “professional” personality.  But she did in fact have the turned up nose of a doll.  Long legs, slim, but curvy where it counted.  Big lips, bigger eyes.  She a face you’d “see and never forget”, she was told.  And she wasn’t sure if being called “haunting” was a compliment or an insult.

Drema’s/your POV

“Deureema!”

You winced at the mispronunciation of your name.  A man clad in a crisp navy suit and skinny tie ambled toward you.

“Deureema!”  He said again with enthusiasm, smiling with both rows of teeth. “Deureema you look terrible!”

“Oh.” You deadpanned.  You forced yourself to smile as politely as your could muster.  "Nice to meet you too."

“Manager Yoon.”  He retorted in only slightly flawed English.  he extended an arm.

        His hand was large and tanned, and it completely covered yours.  You continued bobbing your interwoven arms in a handshake for several minutes without saying anything and staring at each other without blinking.  It was incredibly uncomfortable.

“I saw you come out of the station.  The dorms are that way.”  He pointed in the direction completely opposite to the one you were walking in.

“Why didn’t you stop me?”

“You didn’t look like you were getting that far.” He replied, smile unwavering.

“I really can’t say you .were wrong there.”

 

        Manager Yoon led you back towards a futuristic looking complex not unlike the other building that surrounded it.  Unique from the other complexes though, it had a large iron gate encasing it.  He dug through his lapel pocket and retrieved a small card, which he swiped on the gate’s lock box.

“You’re a lucky lucky girl, Deureema.” Yoon exclaimed, clamoring up the complex’s staircase, leaving you about ten feet behind him, lugging your duffel bag in lethargy.

“It’s pronounced Dreh-mah.”  You tried sheepishly.

“Very lucky, Deureema!”  Manager Yoon said again, ignoring what you just said.  “No one else is home now.  You get the place all to yourself.”  He held the lobby’s elevator door open with his arms and waited until you had heaved your obnoxiously large bag and yourself into the cab to swipe the same card on the elevator key box.

        You sighed in delight at what seemed like the most tempting offer all day, and rocked back and forth on your toes, waiting for the elevator to reach your floor.  The only thing you were prioritizing on was a hot shower and a long nap.  The elevator dinged at its destination and you nearly died when the doors to the elevator swung open.

“My God, the tub has jets!”  You squealed, crouching in the porcelain bathtub off to the side of the house.

        Yoon had watched you scurry from room to room for the past five minutes, picking up decorative vases, inspecting kitchen hardware, and smelling silk flowers, perplexed at whether it was safe to leave you in the apartment alone or not.

“Don’t get too comfy.  This arrangement is just until you meet with management for a trial shoot.”

“No promises.”  You said, your voice muffled from the down comforter on the four poster bed you were currently lying face down on.

“Well, in that case, get comfy.  Designer bags are good except when they’re under your eyes.”

“You’re hilarious.”  You retorted in a tone that was just too ecstatic for sarcasm.  “Who lives here anyway?”

“It’s just a spare.”  He explained, adjusting four glass tumblers on a marble counter next to the bathroom.  “Employees use it when they need it.  You’re lucky.  Management didn’t think it would be available.”

“I’ll live in one of the closets.  I don’t care.”

Manager Yoon chuckled. “Ahn-nyeong-hee joo-moo-se-yo.”

“Ahn-nyeong-hee joo-moo-se-yo.” You repeated back as he made his way back to the elevator. 

“Be ready bright and early tomorrow morning.” He said before the steel doors shut.