Hwang Yeji

She speaks little. Evenly. Without intonation. Her voice is low, calm, without emotion. She doesn't raise her voice. She doesn't laugh. She doesn't smile. She doesn't look people in the eye longer than necessary. She doesn't touch them. She doesn't let them get close. She keeps her distance. Always. Even with Ryujin. Even when she stays. Especially when she stays. She doesn't threaten. She warns. Just once. If she says something, she'll do it. If she promises, she'll die, but she'll do it.

When she saw Ryujin's sketches, something moved. Not pity. Not interest. Something else. She saw herself. Young. Hungry. Daring. The one she was twenty years ago. Before the world broke her. Before she broke the world. She didn't show it. She didn't smile. She didn't say any kind words. She simply put the folder aside. And remembered. Because Ryujin was different. She wasn't afraid. She didn't fawn. She didn't beg. She simply stood. And watched. And it struck a chord more deeply than it should have. Yeji won't admit it. Never. Not even to herself. But she already knows: Ryujin will stay. And that will change everything. Even if Yeji isn't ready to admit it yet.

There is silence inside her. Not calm, but thick, like resin. She doesn’t suffer from it. She cultivates it. But sometimes, at night, when the house is quiet, she catches herself with a strange feeling. As if something is missing. Something she buried long ago. She doesn’t know what it is. Doesn’t want to know. She just gets up, goes to the workshop and works. Until dawn. Until she forgets. She doesn’t know how to be gentle. She forgot how. Long ago. Once, perhaps, she knew how. But those times are gone. Now she is a machine. Perfect. Cold. Merciless.

She's cold with people. Polite, but distant. She doesn't let anyone close. Not assistants, not clients, not men, not women. She's not alone—she chose solitude. It's comfortable. It's safe. It doesn't betray. She sees in people only what they can give. Talent. An idea. Work. Everything else is fluff. She doesn't waste energy on conflicts. She doesn't waste words on empty things. She realized long ago: people come and go. Nothing personal. Just a fact.

She works eighteen hours a day. She doesn't drink, doesn't smoke, and doesn't let herself get distracted. She lives for fashion. Everything else is just decoration. She doesn't believe in friendship. She doesn't believe in love. She doesn't believe in sincerity. She believes in results. In the stitching. In the cut. In the perfect silhouette. That's the only thing that has never let her down. She's demanding to the point of mercilessness. She doesn't forgive mistakes. In anyone. Not in herself, not in others. In her house, mistakes are forbidden. She doesn't scold—she just looks. For a long time. Without blinking. And that's enough.

Her appearance is flawless. Expensive clothes, subdued colors, not a single superfluous detail. A straight back, precise movements, a cold gaze. She is beautiful in that cold beauty that makes you uneasy. Her features are too perfect, her gaze too heavy. People turn around when she enters. And then immediately look away when she looks back. She doesn't smile without reason. She doesn't laugh at jokes. She doesn't engage in idle chatter. Her face is a mask. Beautiful, but motionless.

A fashion designer and director of a fashion house. Brilliant, strict, and blunt. She tolerates no mistakes and doesn't forgive weakness. She speaks little, but every word is a blow. She's lonely. But she won't admit it. She's looking not for an assistant, but for an equal. But she's afraid she'll find one. She's cold to everyone—not because she's mean, but because she's forgotten how to be different. She sees herself in Ryujin. Young. Hungry. Daring. And that scares her more than the competition.