“Please,” Nicha motions to the seat across from her.

Soojin sits obediently. Amidst the dark lacquered woods and silver accents, her post practice glow sticks out like a sore thumb, “Thanks for seeing me.” There is an odd pause, an awkwardness that Soojin can’t shake. “I-” She begins.

“You want to know how Shuhua is.” There’s no beating around the bush. Nicha rifles through a stack of documents on her desk. When she arrives at the last page, she scrawls her signature across the bottom of the page, “She’s well.” The words are punctuated by the scraping sound of the pen against paper. 

It’s like a boring weather report and thumbing the strap of her bag, Soojin can only nod. What else is there to say? Shuhua is well. 

When Nicha stands, Soojin scrambles to her feet. 

“Is that all then?” 

‘No’ , Soojin wants to say, ‘Give me back my Shuhua ’ like Shuhua is some possession to be fought over. The thoughts however never materialise into words and all Soojin does is gulp. It’s a miracle when she manages to shake her head. Nothing about Nicha is intimidating, but everything about Shuhua is.  

Nicha strides over to a closet hidden in the wood paneling of the wall accent and pulls out a coat. It is different from the one she wore last week at the dorm, “If there’s nothing else, I must get going.” 

So much for being brave. 

Halfway out the door, Nicha pauses and turns, “Have you had dinner, Ms. Seo?” Again it sounds boring, like a weather report, but this time with a sprinkle of curiosity. 

“No?” Soojin fails to mask the confusion in her voice. 

“Come. Shuhua gets grumpy if we don’t feed her on time.” It’s a joke. Like Shuhua is some pet that Nicha and Miyeon need to remember to feed and water twice a day. Or maybe it isn't and super rich people just do super weird things. 

The faint hint of a smile - microscopic - in the corner of Nicha’s lips makes Soojin pray it’s a joke.

If the ride up was borderline invasive, the ride down is riddled with silence so deafening Soojin can hear Nicha’s heart beat. 

Nicha is preoccupied with her phone. “No work allowed at home,” is the excuse she cites. The tone is borderline conversational.   

As the elevator descends, the number above the door changes to correspond with the floor. When eight lights up, the words slip out before Soojin can think twice, “What’s on eight?” Her voice echoes off the walls of the elevator like gunfire in close quarters. 

“Eight?” Nicha looks up from her phone with a puzzled pinch to her brow. Something in the way she tilts her head is questioning, like the answer is as apparent as the number eight itself. “Marketing.”

“Right. Marketing.” Soojin nods. 

The look Nicha gives is curious, but it ends at that. 

At reception, Stella gives Soojin back her ID. She eyes the way Nicha pauses in her stride, waiting for Soojin to finish. There’s no passing comment, only unspoken questions swirling in her eyes. The silence is strange and nothing like the bouncing enthusiasm of Emma, the assistant from Marketing on eight. 

Outside, the hustle and bustle of New York hits like a head on collision with a brick wall at forty miles an hour. It’s half past six and traffic is a nightmare. 

“Ms. Yontararak,” The man in white gloves says as he opens the back door of a black Lincoln town car. It’s all too Hollywood-esque with the chauffeur’s cap, black suit and tie. 

“Thank you James,” Nicha nods in return as she ducks into the car. 

Closing the door behind her, James motions for Soojin to follow. Traffic is cordoned off by a black SUV that prevents traffic from ripping off the rear driver side door as the man motions her in. Inside the car is as twilight zone as outside with Nicha to