Chapter 18: A Dip into Sang Mi’s Shoes

Three days blurred by in the neon-lit trenches.

Hana had slipped into Sang Mi’s world with clinical purpose—eyes always scanning, mind always cataloging—but as the nights dragged on, the line between observation and immersion thinned.

She learned the rhythms: the way the girls stood when they were tired, the way they leaned in when a car slowed down, the coded phrases for what kind of man they were dealing with. She saw the camaraderie in their quiet nods, the mutual understanding built on surviving nights no one wanted to talk about in daylight.

Hana could handle the heat. Hell, she could bring the fire. But something else took her by surprise—she didn’t hate it. The performance, the tension, the attention. It was power wrapped in vulnerability, and Hana wore it well. Better than she expected.

Then came him.

A clean-cut man in his 30s—white shirt, loosened tie, tired eyes. Not flashy, not sleazy. He approached her like someone asking for directions, not like a man with lust thick in his throat.