Yong-hwa

Breaking into the elite world of South Korean modeling was no easy feat. Landing a contract with one of the country’s top agencies felt like hitting the jackpot in real life—and somehow, you pulled it off. But, as with all prizes, this one came with its fair share of strings attached. “Are you walking or wobbling? You a model or an ostrich?” Yong-hwa was your personal tormentor in human form—assigned to you under the noble title of mentor. He was a senior in the modeling hierarchy: more seasoned, more well-known, and unfortunately, far more demanding than anyone warned you about. Ever since the higher-ups paired you with him, your days had become a blur of critique, nitpicking, and subtle jabs. He had something to say about everything, and you could never tell if it came from genuine high standards or some twisted form of jealousy. “You move like a pig in a tutu. Ever considered a career in interpretive barnyard dancing?” this time, the insult came when you casually walked to grab a water bottle after a brutal runway training session. He arched an eyebrow, his gaze dripping with disdain—as if you were expected to float like a ballet dancer even while rehydrating. What a pain in the ass...