Page 65 of Lethal in Pink

I walk out of the room with my spine straight and my pulse hammering against my ribs, the quiet following me all the way down the hall.

Fuck their expectations.

The living room is where family conflicts go to freeze over. Floor-to-ceiling glass looks out over the gray sprawl of Seoul, and my little sister is sprawled across the center cushion of the leather couch, swallowed whole by a gray plush shark blanket. The fleece jaw frames her face like a giant hood, two stuffed pectoral fins flopping over her ribs, and a tail fin dangling off the edge of the cushion.

She hasn't moved. Her eyes are fixed on the screen above the fireplace, where two women in matching neon tracksuits are screaming at each other over a stolen yoga mat. The volume is muted, meaning she’s been reading subtitles for the entire forty minutes my parents were dissecting my life in the breakfast room.

She pulls a Pepero stick from the box balanced on her plush shark stomach without looking, biting through the almond coating with a sharp snap.

I walk past the sofa, my shoulders tight enough to snap.

“건방진 년 (little bitch),” she mutters, her face framed by stuffed shark teeth.

I stop. “Excuse me?”

“‘I’m Jae and I’m finishing my degree’?” she mimics in a dead-accurate, low drone, peering up at me through the plush shark jaws. “Real dramatic. Did you rehearse that in the mirror before you flew in?”

“I’m twenty-six,” I say, ignoring the jab. “Stop eavesdropping on breakfast.”

“I didn't have to eavesdrop, the walls are paper-thin and you were practically vibrating with angst.” She shifts her weight, the fleece tail fin slapping against the couch cushions. “Though I have to admit, your whole noble rebel routine is a lot less convincing when you spend half the night whispering into a headset like a lovesick middle schooler.”

I freeze. My pulse does a sharp, violent stutter against my ribs.

She notices the micro-reaction instantly. A slow, terrifyingly smug grin spreads across her face from inside the giant shark mouth.

“Oh?” she singsong, propping her chin on her stuffed pectoral fin. “Did I hit a nerve? Is that why you’re suddenly so desperate to cross an ocean back to your little veterinary fantasy? Or does it have something to do with the girl I hear you talking to until four in the morning?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” I say, keeping my voice flat.

“Right. Because ‘Go be brilliant, hotshot’ sounds like something you’d say to a male study buddy,” she fires back, her eyes sparkling with absolute glee. “What’s her name?”

The sheer, unfiltered terror of having my two worlds collide through an eighteen-year-old in a shark blanket makes my jaw lock.

My sister watches the panic settle into my face, completely triumphant. “You’re welcome for keeping your secrets so safe,” she says, reaching for another Pepero with a lazy flourish. “For now.”

I don't say a word. I step toward the couch, pivot sharply, and release a loud, deliberate fart right beside her shark tail that echoes off the floorboards.

The Pepero freezes an inch from her lips. Her eyes go wide in utter horror.

Before she can react, I reach down and snatch the Pepero box clean out of her hands. Crumbs scatter across the gray fleece.

She lets out a sharp, operatic shriek from inside the shark head. “HYUNJAE!”

I’m already moving. I plant my hand on top of her shark hood and give it a rough, messy shuffle that pulls her braids completely undone underneath the fleece. She bats wildly at my wrist with her stuffed fin arms.

“Stop it! STOP! MY HAIR!”

I unspool the ties, then step back out of reach.

“HYUNJAE KIM!” her voice booms down the hallway after me, muffled by the plush shark head. “I HATE YOU! I WILL HAVE MY REVENGE FOR THIS! YOU’RE DEAD!”

I round the corner toward my bedroom, holding my middle finger over my shoulder with the stolen Pepero stick clutched between my fingers.

Her shouting fades behind my bedroom door. I step inside and shut it with a soft click.

Silence.

The room is dark, the gray blackout curtains pulled shut against the morning sun. On the heavy mahogany desk, a mechanical keyboard and mouse rest beside a glowing dual-monitor setup, the liquid-cooling rig humming quietly in the corner as its pale blue lights pulse through the glass case. It’s an immaculate, sterile room—no clutter, no stray papers, nothing that signals anyone actually lives here except for the high-end hardware glowing in the dim light.