#skyfieldsbio

[skyfields]

biography: kang yumi

it begins in the early winter of 1999, and kang sohyun screams in a delivery room. the baby screams louder (she carries that habit for the rest of her life). kang sohyun was not a flashy woman. she did not sugarcoat her words or say more than she ever needed to. so rather than talk about the impact it brought about to her children, she would be pleased to know her obituary simply stated her date of birth (june 8, 1964), her date of death (november 17, 1999), and her cause of death (died in childbirth). the mother doesn't have the breath to name the child, so the oldest sister, yura does-- and like a flame flickering to life, kang yumi enters the world.

yumi is six, and her oldest sister yura is twelve, and her middle sister yuna is eleven when they begin to save money to move to america. their father left after the death of their mother— they’ve been placed into the care of their paternal uncle, and they like it that way. their uncle ignores them, and they like it that way. they only have each other, and they like it that way.

their uncle is the same as them; abandoned by the same people, not really knowing what to do or where to go. he hardly tolerates them besides their pocket money he leaves on the table and the food he leaves in the fridge. he is never home; it is as if the kang siblings have a house all to themselves, because their uncle never uses it, preferring to snooze at bars instead.

yura plays baseball, and she plays it so well and with such a passion that yumi boasts her sister will be in the big leagues somewhere in america. she even learns english to prepare for it. yura is lean, strong, and besides their uncle, they depend on her the most. yuna, with her long, flowing hair and captivating eyes and moonlight skin, is the opposite. yuna always has boys on the doorstep, making the kang uncle cranky on the rare occasions he’s home and wakes up to them serenading his niece.

“unnie,” yumi says one day with a bowl of tofu soup on her lap. yuna is out with a boy, probably flirting him into buying her and her siblings dinner for that night. yura has taken up a job fixing their neighbor’s kitchen light and let yumi tag along to hand her tools as she needs them. “your eighteenth birthday is tomorrow,” yumi continues, “are we going to america then?”

“no,” yura responds with a grunt, “we’re going down the street.”

yura had decided that america was unrealistic; pulling her sixteen and twelve year-old sisters out of school just so she could follow her baseball dreams simply made no sense.

instead, yura buys out a building at the end of the road where their uncle’s home sits. it has two bedrooms, a living room, and a kitchen above a storefront. yumi takes one bedroom, yuna takes the other, and yura takes the sofa. their uncle becomes a neighbor; he also becomes kinder and more present without the stress of raising three children, and takes up a job under yura for the new store: kang sisters restaurant.

(it’s a little ridiculous, but it works.)

yura and yuna butt heads more than anyone yumi knows. one sister is personable and clever and the other is vain and haughty, and the kang household is always filled with yelling between the two sisters.

it always stops when yumi cries her loud, loud cry and yura and yuna hold her apologetically, despite throwing dirty glares at each other.

(they always make up later anyway and fall asleep with yumi held tight between them.)

the year is 2006. the day is june 12th. yuna is eighteen and serving a squid bowl to a customer when he looks her up and down lewdly and explains that he is a scout for wonder records and wouldn’t you be perfect for our upcoming girl group? yuna blushes prettily and smooths out her flour-covered apron and admits that yes, i’ve always thought i’ve been meant for something bigger.

the year is 2007. the day is august 5th. yuna debuts with a girl group called pandora at the age of nineteen, and yumi is right up there in the front row with an unsettled yura who’s proud of yuna anyway. seven-year-old yumi decides right then and there that even if it kills her, she’ll become an idol just like her big sister.

as the youngest of three, yumi always gets what she wants anyway, but it’s nothing to this extent. yura is hesitant to give her dance lessons (“isn’t one idol in our family enough?”) and even more hesitant to give her singing lessons (“kang yumi, don’t be ridiculous— you’re tone deaf!”). it’s only after yumi sheds tears, lies face-down on the floor for three hours straight, and threatens to call yuna who’s in the middle of her promotions, that yura finally relents and lets yumi learn to sing and dance. yuna’s stardom brings publicity to their restaurant anyway, and yura’s food is so good she supposes she’s alright with her other sister becoming an idol to attract more hungry customers.

yumi is hell-bent on debuting at nineteen, just like yuna, so she works harder and harder till she’s better than everyone in her class. even her terrible singing becomes something passable, and she makes sure to learn all sorts of languages so that she has something to boast when auditioning for the company.

it all comes to a halt when yura is killed at the age of twenty-six.

kang yura was not a flashy woman. she did not sugarcoat her words or say more than she ever needed to. so rather than talk about the impact it brought about to her sisters, she would be pleased to know her obituary simply stated her date of birth (march 18, 1987), her date of death (february 13, 2013), and her cause of death (fatally stabbed in a mugging gone wrong).

she’d been walking home after dropping yumi off to her audition for worldwide records, and yumi returned to an empty home. yura was found in the alleyway down the street the next morning. she was known among the community as the big sister everyone wanted, and her disappearance hit hard.

what started as a local attack goes national when it’s discovered that the woman is the sister of one of the nation’s top girl group members. yuna doesn’t even find out about her sister’s death until three days later; none of yumi’s calls could be patched through due to yuna’s strict promotion schedule, the kang uncle is away on a yuna-paid vacation in tahiti, and so yumi spends the first three days after yura’s death weeping alone.

when yuna arrives in their small restaurant (she has to push her way through mourners and media alike), she breaks down.

“i found out through the news,” wails her bell-like voice, her jewel-clad hands waving around her face in panic. “we were too busy promoting and i didn’t even know—”

she takes in a gasping breath before passing out onto the floor right then and there, and yumi has to drag her sister upstairs away from the cameras. they turn it into a sob story much later, and yumi wishes the headlines would be silent.

(even when she finds out later that she was accepted into worldwide, she barely registers any joy.)

yuna locks herself up in her room for the next three months, clearly under the same impression as yumi that their eldest sister was invincible. she gets kicked out of pandora in that time period for refusing to show up to any practices or shows. thirteen-year-old yumi just barely manages to keep her second-oldest (or now, her only) sister alive by forcing food into her mouth and making her swallow. and worldwide media— now that yuna’s lifeless and yura’s dead, yumi forces herself to practices for their company. their uncle runs the shop while yumi dances her heart out.

yuna emerges one day, emaciated and sallow.

the first thing she does is fix the light in their kitchen. It had broken only days after yura’s death.

yuna becomes more beautiful in her grief, her idol days long behind her. she rolls up her sleeves and ties back her hair and captains the shop, her face taking on a natural, surreal sort of loveliness in the determined lines that set in her jaw. yumi clings hard to yuna, expecting her to collapse in on herself. she never does, and yumi never understands how yuna changes from a vain, spoiled girl to a decisive, capable young woman. the older kang sister still receives double-takes when people realize that the flannel-clad girl serving their food is the same sundress-wearing idol who used to be splashed across the front pages of magazines. who yuna becomes after pandora is respectable enough that yumi’s name isn’t ruined for her own debut, and yumi is infinitely proud of her sister after that.

so slowly-- painstakingly slowly-- yumi starts piecing herself back together.

she still visits the now-married yuna in their restaurant, which has begun franchising under the name “three kang sisters restaurant” and is well on its way to becoming a multi-million dollar food chain. whenever yumi can, she spends the night in their two-bedroom apartment; yuna’s husband is kind enough to take the second bedroom on these nights to allow the sisters to cling to each other until far past the sunrise.

on the days she can’t be with her sister, she turns to her group instead; three days alone is three days more than she cares for. netizens comment on how she follows them around like a puppy, occasionally getting distracted by something pretty but always coming back to show her group members with an excited smile.

so it goes that yumi learns to heal. she builds up her name and image and separates it from yuna’s. she might still be piecing herself back together, and she might have gone through far too much for any seventeen year old, but she knows that she has a strong support network to turn to. and whether it takes years or even decades to fill the hole that one sister left behind, kang yumi has more to turn to, and she’s more than ready to go along for the ride.

[skyfields2]

biography: kang yumi

it begins in the early winter of 1999, and kang sohyun screams in a delivery room. the baby screams louder (she carries that habit for the rest of her life). kang sohyun was not a flashy woman. she did not sugarcoat her words or say more than she ever needed to. so rather than talk about the impact it brought about to her children, she would be pleased to know her obituary simply stated her date of birth (june 8, 1964), her date of death (november 17, 1999), and her cause of death (died in childbirth). the mother doesn't have the breath to name the child, so the oldest sister, yura does-- and like a flame flickering to life, kang yumi enters the world.

yumi is six, and her oldest sister yura is twelve, and her middle sister yuna is eleven when they begin to save money to move to america. their father left after the death of their mother— they’ve been placed into the care of their paternal uncle, and they like it that way. their uncle ignores them, and they like it that way. they only have each other, and they like it that way.

their uncle is the same as them; abandoned by the same people, not really knowing what to do or where to go. he hardly tolerates them besides their pocket money he leaves on the table and the food he leaves in the fridge. he is never home; it is as if the kang siblings have a house all to themselves, because their uncle never uses it, preferring to snooze at bars instead.

yura plays baseball, and she plays it so well and with such a passion that yumi boasts her sister will be in the big leagues somewhere in america. she even learns english to prepare for it. yura is lean, strong, and besides their uncle, they depend on her the most. yuna, with her long, flowing hair and captivating eyes and moonlight skin, is the opposite. yuna always has boys on the doorstep, making the kang uncle cranky on the rare occasions he’s home and wakes up to them serenading his niece. 

“unnie,” yumi says one day with a bowl of tofu soup on her lap. yuna is out with a boy, probably flirting him into buying her and her siblings dinner for that night. yura has taken up a job fixing their neighbor’s kitchen light and let yumi tag along to hand her tools as she needs them. “your eighteenth birthday is tomorrow,” yumi continues, “are we going to america then?” 

“no,” yura responds with a grunt, “we’re going down the street.” 

yura had decided that america was unrealistic; pulling her sixteen and twelve year-old sisters out of school just so she could follow her baseball dreams simply made no sense.

instead, yura buys out a building at the end of the road where their uncle’s home sits. it has two bedrooms, a living room, and a kitchen above a storefront. yumi takes one bedroom, yuna takes the other, and yura takes the sofa. their uncle becomes a neighbor; he also becomes kinder and more present without the stress of raising three children, and takes up a job under yura for the new store: kang sisters restaurant.

(it’s a little ridiculous, but it works.)

yura and yuna butt heads more than anyone yumi knows. one sister is personable and clever and the other is vain and haughty, and the kang household is always filled with yelling between the two sisters.

it always stops when yumi cries her loud, loud cry and yura and yuna hold her apologetically, despite throwing dirty glares at each other.

(they always make up later anyway and fall asleep with yumi held tight between them.)

the year is 2006. the day is june 12th. yuna is eighteen and serving a squid bowl to a customer when he looks her up and down lewdly and explains that he is a scout for wonder records and wouldn’t you be perfect for our upcoming girl group? yuna blushes prettily and smooths out her flour-covered apron and admits that yes, i’ve always thought i’ve been meant for something bigger.

the year is 2007. the day is august 5th. yuna debuts with a girl group called pandora at the age of nineteen, and yumi is right up there in the front row with an unsettled yura who’s proud of yuna anyway. seven-year-old yumi decides right then and there that even if it kills her, she’ll become an idol just like her big sister.

as the youngest of three, yumi always gets what she wants anyway, but it’s nothing to this extent. yura is hesitant to give her dance lessons (“isn’t one idol in our family enough?”) and even more hesitant to give her singing lessons (“kang yumi, don’t be ridiculous— you’re tone deaf!”). it’s only after yumi sheds tears, lies face-down on the floor for three hours straight, and threatens to call yuna who’s in the middle of her promotions, that yura finally relents and lets yumi learn to sing and dance. yuna’s stardom brings publicity to their restaurant anyway, and yura’s food is so good she supposes she’s alright with her other sister becoming an idol to attract more hungry customers.

yumi is hell-bent on debuting at nineteen, just like yuna, so she works harder and harder till she’s better than everyone in her class. even her terrible singing becomes something passable, and she makes sure to learn all sorts of languages so that she has something to boast when auditioning for the company.

it all comes to a halt when yura is killed at the age of twenty-six.

kang yura was not a flashy woman. she did not sugarcoat her words or say more than she ever needed to. so rather than talk about the impact it brought about to her sisters, she would be pleased to know her obituary simply stated her date of birth (march 18, 1987), her date of death (february 13, 2013), and her cause of death (fatally stabbed in a mugging gone wrong).

she’d been walking home after dropping yumi off to her audition for worldwide records, and yumi returned to an empty home. yura was found in the alleyway down the street the next morning. she was known among the community as the big sister everyone wanted, and her disappearance hit hard.

what started as a local attack goes national when it’s discovered that the woman is the sister of one of the nation’s top girl group members. yuna doesn’t even find out about her sister’s death until three days later; none of yumi’s calls could be patched through due to yuna’s strict promotion schedule, the kang uncle is away on a yuna-paid vacation in tahiti, and so yumi spends the first three days after yura’s death weeping alone.

when yuna arrives in their small restaurant (she has to push her way through mourners and media alike), she breaks down.

“i found out through the news,” wails her bell-like voice, her jewel-clad hands waving around her face in panic. “we were too busy promoting and i didn’t even know—”

she takes in a gasping breath before passing out onto the floor right then and there, and yumi has to drag her sister upstairs away from the cameras. they turn it into a sob story much later, and yumi wishes the headlines would be silent.

(even when she finds out later that she was accepted into worldwide, she barely registers any joy.)

yuna locks herself up in her room for the next three months, clearly under the same impression as yumi that their eldest sister was invincible. she gets kicked out of pandora in that time period for refusing to show up to any practices or shows. thirteen-year-old yumi just barely manages to keep her second-oldest (or now, her only) sister alive by forcing food into her mouth and making her swallow. and worldwide media— now that yuna’s lifeless and yura’s dead, yumi forces herself to practices for their company. their uncle runs the shop while yumi dances her heart out.

yuna emerges one day, emaciated and sallow. 

the first thing she does is fix the light in their kitchen. It had broken only days after yura’s death.

yuna becomes more beautiful in her grief, her idol days long behind her. she rolls up her sleeves and ties back her hair and captains the shop, her face taking on a natural, surreal sort of loveliness in the determined lines that set in her jaw. yumi clings hard to yuna, expecting her to collapse in on herself. she never does, and yumi never understands how yuna changes from a vain, spoiled girl to a decisive, capable young woman. the older kang sister still receives double-takes when people realize that the flannel-clad girl serving their food is the same sundress-wearing idol who used to be splashed across the front pages of magazines. who yuna becomes after pandora is respectable enough that yumi’s name isn’t ruined for her own debut, and yumi is infinitely proud of her sister after that.

so slowly-- painstakingly slowly-- yumi starts piecing herself back together.

she still visits the now-married yuna in their restaurant, which has begun franchising under the name “three kang sisters restaurant” and is well on its way to becoming a multi-million dollar food chain. whenever yumi can, she spends the night in their two-bedroom apartment; yuna’s husband is kind enough to take the second bedroom on these nights to allow the sisters to cling to each other until far past the sunrise.

on the days she can’t be with her sister, she turns to her group instead; three days alone is three days more than she cares for. netizens comment on how she follows them around like a puppy, occasionally getting distracted by something pretty but always coming back to show her group members with an excited smile.

so it goes that yumi learns to heal. she builds up her name and image and separates it from yuna’s. she might still be piecing herself back together, and she might have gone through far too much for any seventeen year old, but she knows that she has a strong support network to turn to. and whether it takes years or even decades to fill the hole that one sister left behind, kang yumi has more to turn to, and she’s more than ready to go along for the ride.

[skyfields]

00. Your pretty face reflects upon gargantuan Seattle buildings. It looks up at the joy of rare cloudless days, bright and beautiful, before the sky gobbles up the sunshine again. It pouts at a cafe on the top of a museum— observing an apathetic city, with a pretty, porcelain, doll-like gaze.

01. You are Kim Jinae, and you were born to Kim Sooah and Daejung, two immigrants from Daegu. Your father, everyone swears, loved you and eomma more than anything else. You never believed them. After all, if he loved you so much, then why did he leave you to go to Hell?

02. (At least, that’s what your maid says. Daejung gambled and scammed and drug-dealt till the day a bullet found its way into his brain. A man like that has surely gotten his due reward.)

02. When Richard Levy comes into your life, you are four and he is tall with salt-and-pepper hair and he looks down on you, his stormy suit slicing through the dove-wing Pacific sky. Yet his eyes, pitch black and brooding, glimmer with kindness as he looks into your own watery ones. You have always been easily lost, and all you wanted was an ice cream bar. The convenience store was not too far down the street from the children’s home, but you’re lucky it’s Richard Levy who appears like a guardian angel. He stoops to guide you.

03. You dive deep, deep into the crowds of people, unafraid with the gentle giant at your side. He and the aging old woman who runs the home step into her office and have a chat, glancing at you through the window all the while.

04. He is a bank mogul in Seattle, Washington. It is no difficult choice for the other children to wave as you drive away to Richard Levy’s Pike’s Place condominium.

05. Age ten, and you are the happiest you’ve ever been.

06. “Jinae,” croons Ingrid King, “is too difficult to say. Darling, give her another name.”

07. Ingrid King. You hated her from the moment you saw her. Father always told you to marry a person with kind eyes— someone who looked at you sweetly with love and affection, and you have always assumed he would do the same. But Ingrid— her eyes are pale, pale blue and dead, dead, dead. Her skin is stretched tight across her skull, her fingers skeletal, and her updo’d hair poorly-spun yellow yarn with expensive pearls slapped on. She is the sister-in-law of a friend of a friend… and she, the demon, has her sights set on your sweet father.

08. They plan a June wedding.

09. You attend as Juniper Levy. You chose the name carefully with your father. Juniper— Juniper, like the beloved trees that dot Puget Sound.

10. The bride’s side is surprised to see that the flower girl in her sweet lavender dress, famously beloved by the millionaire Richard Levy, princess of Seattle’s most prestigious banking family… has straight brows over pretty monolids over warm, chocolate eyes. “Juniper...” they coo, “Juniper…” And just like that, they love you.

11. When Ingrid Levy-King has her first child, you become Juniper Levy-Kim. The Levy-Kings, and the Levy-Kim— Juniper Levy-Kim, the fake-fake-fake who was born Jinae, the mousy little Asian girl playing pretend amongst aristocrats. Your father calls you still, with affection on his baritone voice— “Jinae, can you come down here a moment!”

12. “Jinae, my love,” he says, rugged fingers gentle when they pinch your jaw. Ingrid’s bone-stare regards you coolly. “Your brothers and sisters—” Her daughters and sons, you correct bitterly in your mind, “—will need an influence to look up to as they grow. Ingrid suggested you make a name for yourself.”

13. What Ingrid suggested with that slithering, slimy tongue, was to get you away. She can barely contain the disgusted looks, the smiles that are just a little too sweet, too saccharine— it is you, and you alone, who will always be the light of your father’s life. So you, Juniper Levy-Kim, age fourteen, beneath the wing of a private jet, kiss his cheek goodbye. And like that, you’re off.

14. You are to study abroad in Seoul. A surgeon, Ingrid says, or maybe a newscaster. But the plane touches down, and they— Worldwide Records— oh, do they have a different vision.

15. Your pretty face and rosy cheeks and sweet disposition are reminiscent of that of Cherish. Street-casting: it’s brutal and effective, and they lure you in with the promise of fame and love— and maybe, just maybe, they saw your eyes, red and puffy from a long flight spent crying— but maybe they understood that you were lonely.

16. Your father cancels your dorm and enrollment to the private academy and instead rents you an apartment suite right in the glitzy Worldwide neighborhood. There’s nothing that can be done about the tuition; nearly hundreds of thousands of dollars lost cancelling tuition then signing you to Worldwide, but his voice, soft over the phone, assures you that it’s nothing. That there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for his little girl. You bark out a laugh then; even miles and miles away, not even Ingrid King can diminish your father’s love for you.

17. You train for two years. Never mind that you’ve never counted on a beat in your whole life, or that you hardly even know what a pitch is. But your voice is good enough that you debut, at sixteen, with Luxuri.

18. The Nation’s First Love, they call you. One of the Sweethearts of Worldwide. The Next Dahye. You’re glitzed in pink skirts and curled hair for miles. You even have a catchphrase: “Don’t leave me lonely, ‘kay?” It was something stupid from an idiot lip gloss commercial. But you, Juniper Levy-Kim—

19. You’ve fallen in love with love.

20. Every kiss you blow, every heart you make; it’s love, sheer love. Love for your fans, love for your group, love for your father, maybe even a little bit of twisted love for Ingrid King who sent you here. And you gobble up the love you receive in return, lick your sweetly-glossed lips and beam for the crowds who go wild at your request.

21. Then you meet him one day: Woojin. Woojin, Hero’s Woojin; it’s a miracle you haven’t met each other before, being signed under the same company. He’s heard of you— Luxuri has, by now, long since earned the name of the Holy Trinity. He’s charming and handsome and everything everyone says he would be. You’re surprised you thought you knew what love was before, because Woojin— he is it. Your nineteen-year-old heart is smitten.

22. But they find out. Worldwide always does. Woojin walks away unscathed, but you? You are made to fall to your knees and beg forgiveness for a hateless, heart-full crime. You were desperate to feel less lonely, and he gave you that fulfillment; yet he moves on, taking fragments of your heart with him, and you are left behind to scavenge what pieces you can.

23. And what sharp, jagged pieces they are. You go from one of the most loved women in the country to the most hated. You learn what it is like to be controlled, to be manipulated, to be made to beg for forgiveness on a national scale. They call you so many things after; there is no word too low for the girl who stole the heart of the Nation’s Boyfriend. Diva, slut, vixen.

24. That’s all you are.

25. Is that all you will ever be?

[skyfields]

2002. Chaem Choi spends monsoon season in the garden. When the flooding gets high like this, it dips into the canals that her father dug by his own hand many years ago, when he was still fit and able. There’s a small little community built around these canals, tin-roof-topped and close-knit. In one of those homes, there is a dancer.

Her name is Achara— unlike most in this little community, she’s a modern woman, rather young for to be living so independently. Not traditional dancing, no— instead, Achara moves her body with feline power and feminine confidence.

And because Chaem Choi spends monsoon season in the garden— she can spend the day watching.

2004. It was some time ago that her mother left for bigger and better ventures. Some time ago— some time before Chaem Choi started dancing, but after her father was paralyzed waist-down from a fall off the neighbor’s roof. So it’s just her and dad and the garden nowadays. Chaem Choi has exactly two pairs of pants (one after she cuts this one into shorts, and here’s hoping she doesn’t outgrow the other), one pair of shoes, and three shirts. Having learned to sew at a young age, she has to be extra careful when she dances with Achara because good thread is expensive.

2006. The best gift she’s ever received is a new-to-her pair of shoes. They’re far too big because Achara’s nearing thirty and Chaem Choi is only nine, but tying the laces tight means that they stay on well enough. Her movements when she dances become more precise; they have to be, to avoid tripping over the large sneaker tips.

2009. Chaem Choi is used to spending most of the day in the city; for the past year, she’s picked vegetables and fruit from the garden to sell, then when she finishes up, closes up her stall and walks another hour to a coffee shop for a five hour under-the-table shift. She’s not fifteen yet, but is tall for her age and the owner took pity on her. She pays him back with whatever vegetables she didn’t manage to sell.

 It’s at least three hours walking commute each day, so her legs and core grow tough.

2014. She leaves before the sun rises and returns around the time it’s setting. Achara uses her lunch breaks between work to start a fire for the Pravat patriarch and breaks the neck of a couple chickens so that Chaem Choi doesn’t have to worry about that. On her way up, she picks some vegetables and fruit and gets to work on dinner. They don’t have much but each other, and love doesn’t mean a full belly— it does for her father, Nattapong Pravat, because Chaem Choi gives him the biggest portions and wraps a meal in saran wrap for his breakfast. Thus, it’s typical that she becomes skinny.

Achara usually returns from work around the time Chaem Choi is washing up their dishes. It’s a mutual understanding that because the Pravats aren’t well-off, it’s quite alright that Achara doesn’t get a plate herself. Chaem Choi hops the creek and through the leaves to Achara’s house where they dance until the moon is high.

And every day, it goes like that. She doesn’t have many goals beyond taking care of her father and the small happiness she earns from dancing. She dances in the coffee shop sometimes, when she’s cleaning and there’s no one else around. Just a hobby, of course.

2015. But maybe. . . she’s actually pretty good at this.

It’s a thought that comes when, on a day like any other, the owner hands her a card and says that a woman had given it to him.

Chaem Choi knows exactly which woman he’s talking about. She stuck out like a sore thumb, glowing like a star in a sleek pencil skirt and lovely blouse. Her features were Korean and her heels were clean, as if even the mud was afraid of her. The woman had seen her dancing and given the manager the card to give to her: Starscape Entertainment.

2016. Chaem Choi takes a deep breath that day. She had passed the global audition held in downtown Bangkok and left right in the middle of monsoon season. She would not have left if not for Achara’s reassurances that she’d take good care of her father.

Everyone in Korea, it seems, is perfect. That woman was one of many with clear skin and wavy, chocolate-brown hair. Chaem Choi is immediately self-conscious of her strong, calloused body among a sea of girls more soft and supple than she is. She keeps up easily with the dancing— surpasses expectations, in fact, and her singing isn't half-bad either. The trainee debt is daunting, and the allowance is small; still, it’s more than she used to live with.

2017. The second round of PopStar Survival, she gets the call that Achara broke her leg dancing. It’s heartbreaking but… it’s fine.

Chaem Choi returns to Thailand with two years of training under her belt and a month of Korean public eye— so it’s not like it’s a huge deal when she shows up back at Bangkok Coffee Roasters and asks for her old job back. It’s been nearly eight years she’s been working there, and the owner, with his kind eyes and kind heart and aging face, allows her to return to work. It’s not so difficult to fall back into the routine of selling vegetables and making drinks again— although it was nice while it lasted to be able to think that there might be more out there. 

It was just a dream anyway.

But her biggest dream is to be able to provide for her father, and while Achara is healing, she’s the only one who can. It’s honest work and far less fanciful to actually be out there in the workforce instead of something as unstable as the idol career, she tells herself. It may not be much, but at least it keeps food on the table. It’s enough to fortify her until she gets the call from the CEO months later: perhaps she would like to return to Pop!Stars?

It’s far too good to be true, she thinks as Cho Dahye herself explains that it would be a guaranteed position in the debuting group, and that all she would have to do is finish out the last few episodes and train a little while longer, because her dance skills simply are that good. She says from the comfort of her own room that it’s just not reasonable. Dahye says from Korea to maybe think it over.

She’ll say no, of course, she fortifies herself as she removes her shoes on the way into the house. It’s too much to ask of a neighbor to care for her ailing father.

It’s what she says to Achara on the last night they dance together.

The next day, Chaem Choi returns to an empty home, because her father has moved in with Achara.

It makes sense, the two of them say, because Chaem Choi can’t remain here forever. She was destined for much better than the canals of Bangkok, Thailand. She refuses at first, and it takes an entire night to convince her to call Cho Dahye and return to Korea. Between Achara and Chaem Choi’s boss, it’ll be enough to make ends meet to care for her father. Chaem Choi won’t go without the promise that they’ll accept a check from her each month, and that’s about as good as it’ll get with her inflexible sense of duty.

So she returns and finishes out the show. She debuts as an idol. Like her meals, she saves most of her money for her father and Achara, even as her paychecks grow and grow and grow. Don’t lose sight of the money, she tells herself resolutely. Because this is all only a means to an end, and eventually, she will be with her father again with a large house and a full belly. Perhaps she will even eat an entire meal with him someday and be completely satisfied.

After all, it’s still just a dream.

[skyfields]

biography: jeon aera

Ok, ok, ok, so here’s the deal with Jeon Aera:

She’s, like, a mess.

As in, A MESS a mess. As in, the “Let’s try snagging some tickets to Aera jangling her wrist to make sure her keychain’s on it but it’s actually a bunch of bracelets” kind of mess.

That being said, she’s a hot one.

This hot mess was born in beautiful Busan (Aera thinks everything’s beautiful, but whatever) in March 1999 and was wailing like nobody’s business because, hey, she’s gotta be the center of attention always! Never mind that the human equivalent of finally-finding-an-earring-you-thought-you-lost, Jeon Areum, was born seven whole minutes later. Probably came out of the womb very polite or something. If Aera was born screaming like she was witnessing someone try to wear a traffic cone as a stylish hat, Areum was probably the well-mannered young lady like, “Well, I think that the cone is a very flattering style on you! Here, have a cookie,” or some nonsense equivalent.

That is to say, the Jeon twins are night and day.

Regardless, Areum is the absolute light of Aera’s life and there’s nothing that can ever change that, but man, by the time they’re six it’s glaringly obvious the girls are on two different paths. Aera, specifically, has this weird obsession with her own damn face. Her smile is tongue-in-teeth and eyes permanently alight with kittenish mischief, and she’s mastered the flip-hair-and-wink trick. Not that it’s totally a bad thing; that kind of mindset makes it pretty easy to foster confidence and happiness in a sweet little girl, but also maybe a bit dangerous, and probably pretty bad parenting that her mom and dad encouraged vanity more than confidence. “Our little starlet,” they always said, ‘cause it was obvious that, as Aera got poutier and leggier, she was gonna end up somewhere Fabulous. With the capital “F” and all.

And that was exactly why they slapped Aera in a ballet studio and said the equivalent of “Go nuts!” before pretty much deciding that it’d all work out.

What they didn’t expect was Hamin to take on the mantle of family fame.

Hoooo, Hamin. If there’s One (1) person in her life she looks up to, it’s her older brother. Jeon Hamin, golden child, soccer king, oppa extraordinaire! He’s pretty much everything that a girl needs in a brother, and Aera snaps her teeth at mostly any girl who’s not good enough for him. Which is, like, everyone. So imagine her surprise when they move to Seoul for Hamin to debut in Hero, and suddenly everyone’s in love with him or whatever.

Um, how is Aera supposed to fight every girl in Korea? Who even has time for that? She has dance lessons at six, school at eight, tutoring at three, dance lessons again at five, and then beauty sleep at eight. And now she’s supposed to clear her schedule to get in a fistfight with any creepy weirdo who looks at her brother? For, like, a month after, she walks around looking like the “:/” emoji because that’s just too high of expectations from her.

You know what, though? It’s a learning experience.

‘Cause if there’s one thing she’s learned? It’s that people always look at her with a sense of awe when they realize that THE Jeon Hamin is her actual brother. Not that stupid “oppaaa~! uwu” but rather “Oppa, I will absolutely deck you if you don’t convince mom and dad to make hot and sour soup for dinner tonight.”

Also, she’s not above admitting how smug she gets when people say she’s pretty enough to be an idol herself.

In fact, like many of the other compliments Aera has received in her life, it goes straight to her head. More, even, since it’s the highest compliment one can pay to her:

You deserve attention, Jeon Aera.

“Yeah, I do,” she croons quietly to herself, vain smile in place as she waits in an audition room at the age of fourteen. And waits. And waits. And waits. She doesn’t understand; wasn’t she supposed to go sooner than this?

Finally, a man steps out: tall, scrutinizing, taking in a shaking Aera. Any confidence she’d had before is shot now, and she’s a mess, hair sticking up palms sweaty. She wipes them on her skirt and enters the audition room. She introduces herself, but the scouts don’t really… react. That’s a first.

She has a dance routine that she’s been practicing for a while now. Aside from her face and her siblings, dancing is her number one passion. So she takes a deep breath, ‘cause you’ve been training for this for years, Jeon Aera.

“Years” is over in the course of a couple beats. One of the auditioners holds up his hand like Gordon Ramsay eating an undercooked chicken and basically tells her to scram.

That night, she cries, and it’s really not pretty, so she ignores Areum and Hamin knocking on the bathroom door while she wails in the bathtub clutching pearls that she borrowed from her mom’s jewelry box for the occasion.

Drama? Yes. Healthy coping mechanisms? Lacking.

But she’s not Jeon Aera if she doesn’t bounce back for nothing. When she opens the door to her concerned siblings, her hair is immaculate, her mascara is wiped off, and her puckered smile says, “Look out, world!”

Unfortunately, the middle Jeon finds in coming months that this is a repeat experience. For all her visuals and charisma and surprisingly good energy when dancing, she, well— oh, what’s a polite way to put this?— she’s about as forgettable as a loaf of raisin bread. But at least a raisin bread’s got some pizzazz to it.

So imagine her absolute shock when her sister, Areum— sweet, quiet, unassuming angel Areum— announces that she’s been scouted at a company called Starscape.

Aera could write a book about her opinion on that news. She’d title it, “Oh, Um, Okay, That Makes NO Sense Whatsoever But That’s Fine, Areum. It’s Really Fine.” (It’s not fine.)

Don’t get her wrong. She’s proud of her sister like crazy, but frankly it’s a huge hit on her own pride to have auditioned for over sixteen companies (seventeen after she tries her hand at Worldwide tomorrow) and been solemnly rejected from every single one when her younger twin doesn’t even have to lift a finger. When Aera’s jealous, she’s mean. When she’s mean, people cry. If Areum cries, Aera becomes ten times more upset than she was before.

So she tamps down her jealousy, inhales through the nose, focuses her energy on all the good feelings, and says, “Maybe I should audition too.”

She said it originally as a joke, but hey, that’s actually a good idea. She really should do that. It would be nice to be in the same company as her sister, especially since she got rejected from the same company as her brother; the Jeon sisters are, after all, two sides to the same coin. Different in all ways, but never detachable from the other.

If you ask the now-twenty-one-year-old Aera how the hell she got into Starscape, she’d bite her lip playfully, peer at you through thick, lowered lashes, then twirl a strand of chocolate hair around a finger before flipping it over a shoulder.

“Don’t be ridiculous. They just loved my charm and talent.”

If you ask the Starscape scout who discovered her, he’d blink at you, flip through the notes on his clipboard, and say, “That Jeong Aera who debuted with Cherrysoda now? Yeah, Starscape knew they needed more girls on Pop!Stars. She’s somewhat pretty, I suppose.” Then he’d ask you to get him a coffee, because he wants to double-check his notes on who actually did end up letting Jeong Aera into the company.

Her name’s not even Jeong Aera, for God’s sake. That’s how utterly forgettable she was at the audition. But pretty? Yes, that’s one thing she’s been her whole life. Prettiness and well-meaning shallowness and a dorky grin. Oh, and the mean streak. It’s easy to forget the mean streak, considering she’s usually so nice, but then again, she’d argue that everyone’s got one.

How she actually got in?

Hard work.

It’s not really something a person would expect from Aera. When it comes to ditzy, she’s about as much as a person can get. Her parents never really pushed her for much aside from expecting her to model with that impressive height of hers. The only reason they wanted her to dance was because a dancer’s physique has always been desirable. But she has… what’s a polite way to put it…

Severe tunnel vision when it comes to achieving her goals.

You see, when Aera realized that the opportunity to live, work, and dance with Areum was too good to pass up, she spent every waking moment in the practice rooms. It was easy to give up on the other companies, but Summit specifically— no way could she let that go. She already wasn’t that good at school to begin with— studying time became dancing time. Tutoring time became singing time. Beauty sleep time stayed beauty sleep time, ‘cause the idol triple threat was very obviously vocals, dance, and visual. It’s how she came in second place on Pop!Star Survival; she’s not naturally talented, but damn if she can’t fake it.

[skyfields]

biography: lucas lazanski

Lucas Lazanski. How does a person even begin to describe him? He’s the guy who you call when you’ve got a flat tire, even if you’re hardly acquainted, ‘cause he put his number in your phone and said to call if you needed anything⁠— and you could tell he meant it. He’s the guy who the quiet girls at school crushed on, just ‘cause he’d go out of his way to praise them during Capture the Flag in P.E. then jog away to high-five his boys and do a backflip.

He’s the guy who— for some reason— moved out of L.A. halfway through senior year of high school to go and become an idol in South Korea.

You ask Zanski ‘bout his history, he’ll tell you; the man’s an open book. Someone like that’s gotta have some tragic backstory, yeah? Cool Asian kid at school, friends with everyone, single Hills mom, Stanford and Harvard sisters; what’s his deal, you’d ask? A shrug, then:

“It’s not that complicated, man. My parents were Korean, couldn’t take care of me. My mom’s husband passed, could take care of me. My sisters were studying abroad; mom missed having a kid around. I was cute even back then. How would she not adopt me?”

Then a flirty eyebrow wag, a teasing grin, and he’s off to find his next adventure.

And it actually isn’t that complicated, really. Mother: Jackie Lazanski, elementary schoolteacher who happened to marry a loving real estate tycoon who left everything, including his multimillions, to her after he died.

Sisters: Ava and Mia Lazanski, grad school and pre-med, respectively, at least back then. Successful engineer and surgeon nowadays. Also his home screen wallpaper, but not his lock screen, ‘cause he doesn’t wanna bother them if Dispatch sees his phone and tries to contact his sisters.

Home: Beverly Hills, baby!

Closest friends: Ryan, Max, Abdul, Alex, Mateo, and Biceps Miles. (That last one wasn’t ‘cause his biceps were ripped, but ‘cause he ripped his biceps in middle school. Lifting accidents, man.) All best friends since pretty much childhood. All ending up running different social circles in high school, but staying close as hell.

Girlfriend: half the high school woulda claimed Hayley Bradburn asked him out a month ago, the other half woulda argued that no, actually, Sophie Coram-Connell said that she was dating him, but Zanski himself woulda told you that it was Zoey Kim, the Korean exchange student during junior year.

Zoezanski, Ryan used to tease him about, ‘cause when Zanski’s got it, he’s got it bad. Pretty embarrassing the way he, so tall even as a high-schooler, seemed to forget just how big he was around Zoey’s cute long hair and accented voice and pink denim miniskirt. Thank God his mom said that he should keep in touch with his heritage and made him learn Korean as a kid, ‘cause he’s got a leg up in talking to her. And Misun, as he later discovers Zoey’s Korean name is— she’s a singer, man. Got one of the prettiest voices Zanski ever did hear. It’s why he ended up joining choir way back when, and realized he actually liked it a lot even after she left.

She used to sing a lot in the car, charmed by the cherry red color of the convertible his mom got him as he’d cruise down the coast with his hand on her knee. K-pop was what she listened to, and by extension, it’s what Zanski listened to even after they broke up.

And what a breakup it was. Remember Sophie? Sophie Coram-Connell who was rejected so nicely by Zanski that she didn’t even realize she was rejected at all?— oops! Turns out that not wanting to ruffle any feathers is a fatal flaw, ‘cause Sophie heard from Tina who’s dating Kyle who’s on Biceps Miles’ pole-vaulting team who’s following Zanski’s sister Ava that Ava posted a photo of herself, Zanski, and Zoey having dinner with the caption . . . “Glad to finally meet my brother’s girlfriend!” And Sophie freaked.

She bullied Zoey for the rest of junior year, despite Zanski’s pleading efforts to get her to stop. And Zoey begged Zanski to stop being friends with her . . . but how could he ever choose a side, burn a bridge? Turns out, the consequences of trying to rationalize and make amends between two people leads to even more friction. In hindsight, he does wish he defended his girlfriend way back when, but it doesn’t even matter now, ‘cause Zoey dumps him three months before she has to go back to Korea.

What sticks with him, though, is everything he picked up in his efforts to impress her. Is he heartbroken? Yeah, but he’s got his friends. He’s got his mom. He’s got his sisters, even if they’re plane rides away. But it’s hard to let go of the music, the singing, not when he’s finally discovered a talent he’s proud of.

And he guesses Zoey’s proud too . . . ‘cause she emails him, halfway through his senior year, with a link to Worldwide Records global casting in L.A. and nothing but the words “Go try out :)”. Well, what’s he got to lose?

It’s how he ends up having a going-away dinner with his mom and friends, and even Mia’s flown in from Harvard to attend her baby brother’s celebration. His heart is pounding as he boards the plane in early ‘11. ‘Cause he’s gonna be a K-pop idol— whatever that entails.

What it entails is Zanski having to water himself down. God, they even make him start going by Lucas again! No one’s called him that since pretty much the second grade. He’s too Western; the first few years he accidentally calls people “unnie” ‘cause he’s still getting used to honorifics. He has to be slapped on the wrist to stop hugging his seniors and clapping them on the shoulder and start bowing to them instead. He’s miserable the first few years as an idol. Even his mom notices it when he debuts in ‘14 and she comments on how he seems too tame.

But time goes by, and Prism starts garnering a bit more respect in the industry till eventually, Max is texting him and telling him that even the people in L.A. are starting to freak out over him. (But also, who the hell is Lucas?) We love to hear it, brother. (It’s me, dude. Lucas is me. Did you seriously not know my first name is Lucas?! We’ve been friends since kindergarten.)

What’s nice about respect is that people seem to start seeing his Westernness as more of a quirk than something to scoff at. Maybe it was a good thing he censored so much of himself in their early years— maybe not. But maybe it’s also pretty cool that people are starting to see him more as a hype man than the guy who was just a bit too big and a bit too jock-y. Either way, it becomes easier and easier for him to step out into the cameras, smile a casually playful smile, click his tongue with a wink, and give ‘em two thumbs up.

[skyfields]

biography: park daehyun

prelude. park daehyun is born in the most golden corner of brooklyn, new york, to sleek-imaged socialites who want nothing but the best. he is ready to give it; after all, he may be born with a silver spoon in his mouth, but he wants nothing but the gold.

01. daehyun learns before most children with his social standing that the way to a businessman’s heart is through his ears, through words of polished flattery and sweet charisma. by age nine, he is fluent in english, japanese, mandarin, and most importantly, his parents’ mother tongue: korean. (he’s fluent in the language of liars, too, though he’d lie if you asked.)

02. at eleven he has perfected his friendly, boyish grin and has begun using it on the teachers at school. he has long since grown cold, manipulative, accustomed to the way his father and mother treat each other the indifference of their arranged marriage. it is at this age he discovers music: a girl, the only other korean student in his class, brings a cd for show and tell. it’s in his parents’ tongue, and he understands the lyrics to be those of hatred. the other students who don’t understand swoon over the song, assuming it’s a romance ballad, but daehyun knows better. he grins.

03. daehyun befriends the girl, jinah, and they chat about their music and sometimes about other students (it’s never flattering when daehyun is the one talking). they learn to dance together, and daehyun becomes fluid. they learn to sing together, and daehyun becomes magnetic. jinah becomes his only real friend; the others only become friends with his smile.

04. daehyun falls in love with the music. though maybe it’s not the music; maybe it’s the girl who showed him that the song that day so many years ago wasn’t a song of hatred after all. he confesses on a spring day when he is a sophomore in high school. she rejects him.

05. “you’re my friend, daehyun, but i couldn’t fall in love with you.”

06. “why?”

07. “you’re too cold.”

08. jinah is talking about his smile, of course. she’s been the only one who’s seen through the charm, the charisma, the polite helpfulness, all to mask a freezing marble statue that couldn’t care about jinah. not in the way she deserved.

09. he becomes a flame after that, fiery and burning and wrathful. brokenhearted, he severs ties with jinah so quickly it’s whiplash, and whether she ever missed him or not he couldn’t tell. the music is all for him now, and at sixteen, he demands to his parents to let him pack up and move to seoul. stunned at the disappearance of their courtly son, they say “yes” without thinking and daehyun knows they’ll change their minds, so he’s on a plane as soon as the word comes out of their mouth. he hardly glances back.

10. he auditions for a scrappy company with hardly a name in the business. they’re going to debut him as the main dancer of a boy group, and he trains for one year. their debut is only months away when the company (he never should have trusted them) finally goes bankrupt. so at eighteen, he transitions to worldwide.

11. he’s got quite the captivating audition, a fast-paced dance that he learned with jinah and bleeds sheer sex appeal. of course, it would probably be more impressive with a partner, but he doesn’t think about that. worldwide takes him, claiming he’d be the main dancer for a group they’re debuting in 2011. in hindsight, he has to wonder if they meant it.

12. they train him nonstop on singing. singing, singing, singing, till it’s almost as if his throat’s totally raw. till he can’t speak the next morning. he questions silently if they want him as the main dancer at all, and at last, they tell him that he will not be debuting. he should have known.

13. pride wounded, he acts even more kindheartedly, while the fire that jinah ignited burns hotter and brighter and angrier than ever before. worldwide trains him for two more years (“you’ll be a soloist. is that okay?” / “oh, thank you for thinking of me. i’d be perfectly fine with being a soloist,” daehyun replies through gritted teeth, not fine with being a soloist. he checks himself when the producer flinches away from the murderous glint that slips into his eyes, and daehyun laughs).

14. finally, he debuts in 2013. he’s glad that he has at least some say in the direction of his music, and that dance plays a strong role in it. though he doesn’t have the best start, he garners popularity over the times; he’s excellent at keeping image. to idols and managers and producers, he’s the ideal gentleman . . . yet what frustrates him to no end is how some netizens who haven’t even met him once somehow manage to call him out for the disguised maliciousness set deep in him. perhaps it’s those few interactions where he smirks at and just walks by a fan who drops her drink, or the time he subtly tripped an idol who’d gotten on his last nerve, but they know.

15. he hates them for it. he hates almost everything, almost everyone.

16. aren’t you tired?

[skyfields]

biography: anya choi-katzayev

anya knows how to love. to love the sugar-snow beneath her skis on the canadian rockies. to love the romantic atmosphere as she walks a lonely parisian night. to love the neon markets in downtown seoul. to love the furious scottish seaside, or the tender californian cliffs.

to love the promise of adventure.

her mother, you see, was a showstopper— a monster, if you will, in the world of business as well as in the basest sense of the word.

as a woman who grew up poor in rural colorado, all that stephanie lewis wanted was that she would never again want for a thing. when she moved to seoul for a business internship, three months turned into a year, and one year turned into five.

she did care for anya, at least a little. it was her father she didn’t care for: choi dongwoo, a humble chicken-store owner with the kindest eyes of any man on the planet and a stout, welcoming build. stephanie loved him— really, she did. but they say she was a white bird in a blizzard, or a blue dolphin in the sea: someone like choi dongwoo never had a chance to catch her. when stephanie drops week-old anya on dongwoo’s porch, it’s carelessly, with a warning to allow visits at least once a week.

in the end, though, it was dongwoo who named her.

“my sweet, sweet eunhye,” he whispers as he kisses her small head each night.

age 4.

andrei katzayev comes into their lives on a simple business trip to propose a partnership with stephanie. they want to expand their fine liquor empire’s reach into south korea, you see, and anya’s mother is the clearest choice for her notoriety. she is obviously obsessed with the sheer power that andrei bleeds from every pore. anya, on the other hand, falls in love with his presence.

he is handsome, with blond hair and a fine-boned jawline. he is the heir to the katzayev group, who are affluent and well-spoken and practically russian royalty. but, above all, he is patient and kind: his laugh is a deep, rich baritone, and he has no shortage of it.

one small business trip turns into him staying in seoul out of concern for the way stephanie treats anya. he becomes close with both her and dongwoo, and winds up buying a high-rise in seoul to split his time between in order to keep an eye on stephanie. to keep her in check when it comes to her daughter and ex.

andrei is the one who practically raises anya for her formative years. it’s interesting, the way anya was named by two fathers; he always had a difficult time saying “eunhye.” it’s how the name anya came to be.

it’s through andrei’s intervention at dongwoo’s request that monthly visits with stephanie go from four, to three, to two. and before she knows it, anya is on a private jet to moscow once every few weeks to visit andrei, the generous man who has taken in this girl and her father as his own.

one day, she thinks, she might become a pilot.

age 5.

if the affair between a businesswoman and a nobody was the talk of south korea, then the custody battle between a businesswoman and that same nobody is even bigger news.

this time, though, it’s different. this time, andrei is there to protect the child.

the trial hardly lasts a week; andrei’s brought in the best lawyers money could buy, and the best bodyguards who keep the camera’s from anya’s face. stephanie lewis returns to the states in shame, never to see her family again, and is labelled a cheater, a liar, a minx— but there’s only one label that anyone really cares about.

she is unfit to keep custody.

age 6.

moscow isn’t where andrei wants to raise his child, but cameras aren’t good companions. both andrei and dongwoo agree that anya needs some time away from seoul until the media circus dies down.

when anya and andrei move their belongings into a ridiculously large mansion on the outskirts of paris, it’s with a scream of glee that she leaps into dongwoo’s arms, for andrei had spent the past year applying for a working visa for the younger man. it’s important, he believes, that anya grows up with as many positive influences and support systems as she can. so in come the katzayev aunts and uncles, the grandmothers and grandfathers, the cousins and nieces and nephews, to greet the newest addition to their family. andrei isn’t set to take over the company until the current matriarch passes, so much of his time he devotes to his adopted daughter.

dongwoo earns his keep as the personal chef to the katzayev family and eventually remarries a lovely french artist, cecilia beaulieu, and within a year they introduce anya to her newest half-sister anne-marie. they stay in the katzayev guest house for a few years before purchasing their own townhome in the city.

the choi and katzayev families begin an alliance and friendship that, unbeknownst to them, will last for many more generations to come.

age 10.

but the story isn’t over yet. what proper adventure ends just when things are getting good?

it’s at andrei’s insistence that his daughter grows up to be a clever, well-adjusted, independent young woman. her dream of pilotry is not yet forgotten, so he buys her a plane that he promises she will be able to fly as soon as she is licensed.

as for anya herself . . .

anya is bored. she’s not technically allowed to start practicing pilotry till she’s fourteen, nor is she really supposed to lift a finger. clean? the maids do that. cook? the chefs do that. if there was a way for andrei to spoil her into not having to go the restroom herself, he would.

with that, a permanent nest is set up in the corner of the estate library with strict orders by her-ten-year-oldness herself not to touch it. not even her beloved cousins are allowed in, for anya loves to learn. andrei has hired a tutor for her to learn latin, french, brush up on her korean and russian and english. the nest is complete with soft blankets, overstuffed pillows, and books— admittedly— dog-eared. it’s anya’s second home.

her third home is parisian streets. anya looks often mismatched when she slips on her well-loved tennis shoes, muddy with adventure, with a light sundress. and over that comes her favorite woolly cardigan, too large but satisfyingly fuzzy. then over that, a purse: one that her stepmother cecilia crocheted herself, and in it anya religiously stuffs a frozen apple, some cheese crackers, jam, and an orangina bottle with a couple scoops of sugar. the gps tracker goes on and attaches to her stockings. the navy blue baseball cap is painstakingly adjusted over a lovely low bun. jingling with coins, young anya sets out everyday in search of a new story to tell.

age 13.

her frozen apple for the day has thawed out enough to eat when anya decides to settle down next to a trash can by the mona lisa and eat her meal. she’s used enough to the routine that she’s good at sneaking food behind security guards’ backs. andrei is out for the next week, and it happens to be one of the weeks that dongwoo is working on opening his own restaurant and cecilia is going to be at her art house. so for tonight, anya’s got paris.

the venus de milo is stupid, and the seine smells a little bit gross, and anya’s hair is down as she walks the same streets with a sense of romantic languidness.

but that— that’s new. curiosity piqued, anya steps closer to a little glass door. the light refracts off it in a vibrant rainbow. she hasn’t seen this building before; and what she hasn’t seen in paris is that with which she is in love.

it’s the movement of an angel, accompanied by voices— resonant, clear, in an octave where anya cannot tell if it is a man or a woman. she peeks through the door, colors falling upon her face, and watches and listens for hours. their legs are like marble sculptures, contrapposto— their arms like paintings, chiaroscuro. the old masters catch her eventually, of course. they chase her away with a broom, because who cares if she’s the heiress to the katzayev empire? she laughs with glee as she hikes up her skirts and teases them over her shoulder, the wind catching her hair as she makes her grand escape.

she knows now.

she has to dance.

age 18.

to give up one dream for another is a dangerous game. her flying lessons have been going spectacularly, and the door is open for her to inherit the katzayev liquor business. she’s everything to make her father proud, and an outspoken, opinionated, fierce young lady.

even more dangerous is the return to korea, where the face of her younger self was plastered across tabloids. but five years of being a dancer aren’t enough to cut it, not for anya; she’s made up her mind to return to korea, where she’ll work with performance groups, then return to france or russia or america, and bring the culture there. she sings until her voice gives out, dances until her ankles are sprained, then dances after they’re snug in a compress.

eventually, she hears about an audition opportunity, and to her, it’s her next big chronicle-in-the-making. she becomes a main dancer for starscape records on hard work alone.

age 23; present-day.

anya katzayev, which she shortens in korea to anya katz for the sake of pronunciation, fancies herself a well-rounded person. educated, skilled, protective, commandingly charismatic. . .

. . . and a bit of a spitfire. maybe it’s the environment in which she grew up, but it’s a bit of a tough role to chew as she snags a spot on popstar survival. She’s talented enough that she manages to land a spot in the group, but her family always told her to speak her mind. in conservative korea, that’s a bit of a vice. it’s obvious how much she tries to bite her tongue. but when she can’t . . .

“why are you feeding her so little?” she says critically to a staff member who buys only a salad for one of her fellow trainees. “don’t starve my sister.”

“it’s not fair that those luxuri girls had to conform to what the public thinks their concept should be,” she mentions offhandedly with a resolute nod as the group walks through the airport. “let strong women be strong women.”

“someone should give prism a break,” she announces, the bold words at odds with the delicate way she eats her kimbap. “they have to deal with sasaeng fans— who, by the way, hardly pass as fans— and strict schedules? it shouldn’t be allowed.”

“my mother is nobody to me, no matter how influential she may have been,” she declares, because by the time people realize that anya katz is businesswoman stephanie lewis’ daughter, cat.eye has debuted. “my father raised me to understand that family doesn’t treat each other the way that woman treated me.”

all on camera, too. “she’s a handful,” is what the staff members say about her. “that anya is a handful.” but she is a fighter. she so obviously cares for her group members in that way that her russian family raised her to. it’s that which sings to the public.

anya katz: the flaming dancer who can take on the force of the world.

[skyfields]

biography: holiday han

every girl has her place in the world, and yours is at your father’s feet. you are made to flit across cool marble floors in lavender dresses that catch the breeze, and like he owns everything else, your father owns you. the white-sand beaches, the clouds that paint the sky— it all belongs to your father, and so it belongs to you.

you’re expected to change your place from one at your father’s feet to one at your husband’s. he is decided for you at a young age. he is the son of a friend of your mother’s; the family he comes from is humble and not as affluent as yours. when you question why him and not someone richer, your father’s gold wedding band tightens around white knuckles and your mother’s red lips purse tight around a wine glass and turn away.

you learn that a place at your father’s feet is not the place to ask questions.

every little heiress with a social standing like yours is meant to be beautiful and cultured, and able to hold pleasant conversations with her husband when he wants it and entertain him when he needs it. you are no different. you haven't met the young man yet, but you are still below him, no matter how high above him you are in the ranks of society. and so your parents put forth all the best for your future husband, training your voice into that of an angel and your fingers into a single unit with the keys of a piano. they educate you for him, turning you into a clever young girl by the time you are five.

but clever doesn't necessarily mean well-mannered, and you demand the best and shiniest trinkets to be yours, and yours alone. your skin grows pretty and clear under the warm jeju sun, and you sip cool water in the lobbies of your father’s hotels. but enough is never enough, and you rage for more and more; perhaps it is attention you seek, because your parents simply refuse to give it to you.

they say that you are a problem. if you are a problem, then boyeon is the solution.

boyeon is ugly and knobby-kneed and beady-eyed and being paid a hefty sum by your father to strike the fear of god in you. all the other nannies have tried, and all have left your mansion with tear-stained faces and scratches along their cheeks where you slapped them and holes in their heart where you tear into them with cruelly honest words. boyeon, everyone insists, is different. you own everything but the sky itself-- but that won't stop old, cranky boyeon from putting you in your place. you discover so when your six-year-old hand reaches out and gives her coarse gray hair a mighty tug-- and the hag cackles at you, and lets the rest of her hair down, and dares you to try pulling harder.

effectively, boyeon is everything you fear you will become: ancient, wrinkled, and rigid, but she earns your respect faster than a whip when she towers over you with that disapproving gaze. no matter how much you beg or scream or threaten, she won’t give you what you want. in that sense, you want to be boyeon.

the clock ticks by and you spend most of your young years with boyeon. you don’t think she ever learns to care for you— you’re just another brat to her who needs to be straightened out, but she quickly becomes your world, and everything revolves around pleasing her and making her approve of you. when she pins your hair back into a curly updo and paints pink your pretty lips, her touch is gentle, not loving— but you can pretend anyway.

when you are ten, you are old enough to meet your future husband. he is handsome, but not gorgeous. courteous, but boring. four years older than you, he has a level of maturity that makes him tolerate you like you’re a child throwing a neverending tantrum, and that throws you off-balance even more than boyeon does. you’ve never been tolerated before. you’ve always been loved and adored like the princess you are (you ignore that boyeon has only barely tolerated you till now). you hate him immediately.

your complaints to boyeon fall on unattentive ears, for the woman has heard your voice too many times to care. eventually, she snaps at you as she always does, telling you that it’s ridiculous for you to judge the man before you even know him. still, you do not understand why your family insists that you marry this man when you turn eighteen— but when you see your mother gaze lovingly, longingly at his father in the way she never looked at yours, boyeon snatches the top of your head and roughly turns your eyes away.

the attention you crave isn’t given by this future husband of yours, nor is it given by your father and mother. only by boyeon, and she’s outgrowing you anyway. you seek release. you find it one day at twelve as you sit in a pretty dress, fanning yourself on the open air porch of your father’s sleek, white hotel. your friends surround you. they croon over your silky hair as they let it fall through their fingers and stroke the back of your milky hand as you recline, bored of listening to them marvel at how soft your skin is or how you ought to buy them a dress as lovely as yours so they can deserve to be seen beside you.

it is then that they enter: five girls who can’t be much older than you, strutting across the lobby with photographers and young men holding their bags. you are rudely abandoned by your friends as they shriek and run to take pictures with those girls and you stare alone, envy forgotten as you carnivorously drink up the sight of not one, but five girls who dare to be above you.

later, boyeon explains that those girls are a part of a famous girl group away on holiday, and that’s why they got so much attention. you want to do that too. you want the attention of all five to be on yourself. and what you want, you get.

you get your greedy hands on an audition at worldwide records and make it into the company on account of your voice, thanks to all the fine arts lessons your parents paid for. boyeon, in perhaps the only loving thing she’s ever done for you, signs the contract in place of your legal guardian.

for the first time in your life, you have something to work for, and your desire to be an idol becomes true in its passion. it’s the only thing you can call yours. you spend every day in their practice rooms, singing and dancing till your lungs give out— for once, you look in the mirror and see dark circles scored beneath your eyes, and you are proud of them.

the boy you are meant to marry reaches out, for you are fourteen and he is seventeen, and he does not wish to marry you when you are eighteen without knowing you at all. you are flattered that he wishes to get to know you beneath the hotel-chain heiress, but take a smug satisfaction that he doesn’t realize you won’t marry him at all. you will become an idol, and leave him in the dirt.

but your future husband is kind, polite, generous— his distant etiquette that bored you at ten makes your heart flutter at fourteen. you are falling in love, and boyeon looks at you in pity.

it is getting difficult to manage your time— you will stop for nothing to become an idol and garner this attention you so desire. but your fiancé has begun to give that attention to you, and now your heart is torn.

at sixteen, you are selected for the lineup of a group called luxuri. a group; not a solo act, which you had intended. that sets your decision: you will choose love over attention, and you will decline the contract to join luxuri.

you run to tell him once you decide. and as always, he is there, in the lobby of your father’s hotel— and he has a girl in his arms.

she is simple and plain and boring. her clothes are not expensive like yours, and her skin isn’t both moon-beamed and sun-kissed in the way yours somehow manages to be. she is obviously common, so clearly in the same lowly economic class as his. yet despite this, she is still taller and prettier and older than you, with a certain warmth emanating from her that you know you do not possess. he kisses her softly and bids her goodbye, love for her shining in his eyes. as she leaves, he catches sight of you and smiles that same polite, at-arms-length smile, and you burst into tears.

he did not love you. he thought you knew that. boyeon had told him of your idol dream and he had gone ahead and fallen for someone else, assuming that you would not fall for him in the way you did. he is regretful— he kneels at your feet and cries for how he hurt you. your heart aches— yet in the first unselfish thing you’ve ever done, you let him go, and tell your parents that you will not marry him at eighteen, and continue on with your contract for luxuri.

you debut with jewel at sixteen. the way you carry yourself is one that you are ashamed to look back on. without your beloved to temper you, you revert back into the same selfish, foolish, material girl who cares little for those around her. you are little more than a middle school bully, worsened by the adoring screams of fans who can’t see past the good-girl front you put up. you make a name for yourself at bc— and it isn’t a good one.

the way you treat your members isn’t much better— any kindness you show them is just enough to make sure they don’t flinch away from you on-camera. before all your labelmates, you flaunt your riches, your beauty, your talent— they are yours, the same way the sun and sea and sky of jeju all belong to you.

then in 2014 when you are twenty-one, boyeon passes away.

you hold her hand as she dies— you lovingly stroke the silver hair that you had pulled when you were six. the only person you care about looks you in the eyes and says,

“Han Jiae . . . you are a disgusting, hateful, selfish girl, and I wish I never loved you.”

she barely gets the words out before she dies, and you, rattled to your core, run from the room weeping. boyeon never had to stay with you so many years— she loved you, truly, but somehow hated you just the same. nobody can blame her. for every part that you are loved, you are two parts hated— and for that, you cut all ties and leave luxuri, leaving scandals in your wake.

you move to a small oceanside home in busan, where your father buys you a quiet, private beach in unspoken exchange for you staying away from him. there, you cry alone and stay away from rumors of why you left GROUP— if they had known the true reason, you would be ruined forever.

you learn to garden. you learn to cook. you learn to make money online, and learn to spend only what you earn instead of what you’re given. you learn to appreciate small things, like the beauty of the sunrise over the ocean, which you never would have woken up for before. you learn that your ex-fiancé married that girl from the hotel, and that boyeon had grandchildren who just started their first day of elementary school (you fund their studies anonymously and plan to do so well into their lives, and you open an education charity under boyeon’s name).

you learn the feeling of shame when you watch luxuri’s stages without you and realize that they never needed you in the first place. you learn that they are talented young women, far more talented than you ever were, and that bc is better off without you. you learn how rotten and wicked and ugly you were on the inside, and that everything boyeon was on the outside was you all along.

you learn the meaning of humility, and with it comes the fear of turning back into who you once were. you learn just how much you love to sing, and that attention is not worth having if you are stepping on others to have it.

the next chapter in your life begins when you finally manage to work up the courage to open your own little vegetable stall. you’re carrying a heavy basket of garden-grown veggies home for the day and looks up and— ohmygodinheaven that is the most beautiful man you’ve has ever seen in your entire life—

turns out it’s jeon hamin from hero.

it’s been so long since you’ve seen his face that you didn’t even recognize him for a moment. any thoughts of hiding how floored you is are totally gone when your eyes meet, and you can’t even duck for cover anymore. but loneliness is a powerful motivator— in a split-second decision, you calls out for him. you’ve gotten quite good at cooking; perhaps he would like to come in and have a bite?

time goes on and before you knows it, he’s proposing to you and you’re saying yes and he’s quietly paying for your dream wedding and people are screeching because suddenly, holiday han is back from the dead. your wedding is attended by his two sisters-- one of whom isn’t your biggest fan-- and victoria lee, your ex-leader. it’s victoria you apologize to-- and it’s victoria who says that perhaps it’s time to leave the past behind.

when you decide to return to the industry with all your new knowledge, you do so quietly as a soloist underneath starscape— you cannot bear to show your face to any worldwide artist, too ashamed of how you once were and too guilty of the pain you caused them.

you are too aware of kindness now. the monster is brewing beneath you, waiting to come out, and you fear it. you treat other starscape artists with all the compassion your husband shows you and humble yourself beneath them— even though you debuted before them, your years with luxuri are ones you wish to forget.

you fear that you will be poison to luxuri, but try not to concern yourself with the what-ifs. you are working hard to better yourself, working hard to become a better person who doesn’t care about the attention, but rather about the footprint she leaves in the ocean-darkened sand.

[skyfields2]

biography: holiday han

every girl has her place in the world, and yours is at your father’s feet. you are made to flit across cool marble floors in lavender dresses that catch the breeze, and like he owns everything else, your father owns you. the white-sand beaches, the clouds that paint the sky— it all belongs to your father, and so it belongs to you.

you’re expected to change your place from one at your father’s feet to one at your husband’s. he is decided for you at a young age. he is the son of a friend of your mother’s; the family he comes from is humble and not as affluent as yours. when you question why him and not someone richer, your father’s gold wedding band tightens around white knuckles and your mother’s red lips purse tight around a wine glass and turn away.

you learn that a place at your father’s feet is not the place to ask questions.

every little heiress with a social standing like yours is meant to be beautiful and cultured, and able to hold pleasant conversations with her husband when he wants it and entertain him when he needs it. you are no different. you haven't met the young man yet, but you are still below him, no matter how high above him you are in the ranks of society. and so your parents put forth all the best for your future husband, training your voice into that of an angel and your fingers into a single unit with the keys of a piano. they educate you for him, turning you into a clever young girl by the time you are five.

but clever doesn't necessarily mean well-mannered, and you demand the best and shiniest trinkets to be yours, and yours alone. your skin grows pretty and clear under the warm jeju sun, and you sip cool water in the lobbies of your father’s hotels. but enough is never enough, and you rage for more and more; perhaps it is attention you seek, because your parents simply refuse to give it to you.

they say that you are a problem. if you are a problem, then boyeon is the solution.

boyeon is ugly and knobby-kneed and beady-eyed and being paid a hefty sum by your father to strike the fear of god in you. all the other nannies have tried, and all have left your mansion with tear-stained faces and scratches along their cheeks where you slapped them and holes in their heart where you tear into them with cruelly honest words. boyeon, everyone insists, is different. you own everything but the sky itself-- but that won't stop old, cranky boyeon from putting you in your place. you discover so when your six-year-old hand reaches out and gives her coarse gray hair a mighty tug-- and the hag cackles at you, and lets the rest of her hair down, and dares you to try pulling harder.

effectively, boyeon is everything you fear you will become: ancient, wrinkled, and rigid, but she earns your respect faster than a whip when she towers over you with that disapproving gaze. no matter how much you beg or scream or threaten, she won’t give you what you want. in that sense, you want to be boyeon.

the clock ticks by and you spend most of your young years with boyeon. you don’t think she ever learns to care for you— you’re just another brat to her who needs to be straightened out, but she quickly becomes your world, and everything revolves around pleasing her and making her approve of you. when she pins your hair back into a curly updo and paints pink your pretty lips, her touch is gentle, not loving— but you can pretend anyway.

when you are ten, you are old enough to meet your future husband. he is handsome, but not gorgeous. courteous, but boring. four years older than you, he has a level of maturity that makes him tolerate you like you’re a child throwing a neverending tantrum, and that throws you off-balance even more than boyeon does. you’ve never been tolerated before. you’ve always been loved and adored like the princess you are (you ignore that boyeon has only barely tolerated you till now). you hate him immediately.

your complaints to boyeon fall on unattentive ears, for the woman has heard your voice too many times to care. eventually, she snaps at you as she always does, telling you that it’s ridiculous for you to judge the man before you even know him. still, you do not understand why your family insists that you marry this man when you turn eighteen— but when you see your mother gaze lovingly, longingly at his father in the way she never looked at yours, boyeon snatches the top of your head and roughly turns your eyes away.

the attention you crave isn’t given by this future husband of yours, nor is it given by your father and mother. only by boyeon, and she’s outgrowing you anyway. you seek release. you find it one day at twelve as you sit in a pretty dress, fanning yourself on the open air porch of your father’s sleek, white hotel. your friends surround you. they croon over your silky hair as they let it fall through their fingers and stroke the back of your milky hand as you recline, bored of listening to them marvel at how soft your skin is or how you ought to buy them a dress as lovely as yours so they can deserve to be seen beside you.

it is then that they enter: five girls who can’t be much older than you, strutting across the lobby with photographers and young men holding their bags. you are rudely abandoned by your friends as they shriek and run to take pictures with those girls and you stare alone, envy forgotten as you carnivorously drink up the sight of not one, but five girls who dare to be above you.

later, boyeon explains that those girls are a part of a famous girl group away on holiday, and that’s why they got so much attention. you want to do that too. you want the attention of all five to be on yourself. and what you want, you get.

you get your greedy hands on an audition at worldwide records and make it into the company on account of your voice, thanks to all the fine arts lessons your parents paid for. boyeon, in perhaps the only loving thing she’s ever done for you, signs the contract in place of your legal guardian.

for the first time in your life, you have something to work for, and your desire to be an idol becomes true in its passion. it’s the only thing you can call yours. you spend every day in their practice rooms, singing and dancing till your lungs give out— for once, you look in the mirror and see dark circles scored beneath your eyes, and you are proud of them.

the boy you are meant to marry reaches out, for you are fourteen and he is seventeen, and he does not wish to marry you when you are eighteen without knowing you at all. you are flattered that he wishes to get to know you beneath the hotel-chain heiress, but take a smug satisfaction that he doesn’t realize you won’t marry him at all. you will become an idol, and leave him in the dirt.

but your future husband is kind, polite, generous— his distant etiquette that bored you at ten makes your heart flutter at fourteen. you are falling in love, and boyeon looks at you in pity.

it is getting difficult to manage your time— you will stop for nothing to become an idol and garner this attention you so desire. but your fiancé has begun to give that attention to you, and now your heart is torn.

at sixteen, you are selected for the lineup of a group called luxuri. a group; not a solo act, which you had intended. that sets your decision: you will choose love over attention, and you will decline the contract to join luxuri.

you run to tell him once you decide. and as always, he is there, in the lobby of your father’s hotel— and he has a girl in his arms.

she is simple and plain and boring. her clothes are not expensive like yours, and her skin isn’t both moon-beamed and sun-kissed in the way yours somehow manages to be. she is obviously common, so clearly in the same lowly economic class as his. yet despite this, she is still taller and prettier and older than you, with a certain warmth emanating from her that you know you do not possess. he kisses her softly and bids her goodbye, love for her shining in his eyes. as she leaves, he catches sight of you and smiles that same polite, at-arms-length smile, and you burst into tears.

he did not love you. he thought you knew that. boyeon had told him of your idol dream and he had gone ahead and fallen for someone else, assuming that you would not fall for him in the way you did. he is regretful— he kneels at your feet and cries for how he hurt you. your heart aches— yet in the first unselfish thing you’ve ever done, you let him go, and tell your parents that you will not marry him at eighteen, and continue on with your contract for luxuri.

you debut with jewel at sixteen. the way you carry yourself is one that you are ashamed to look back on. without your beloved to temper you, you revert back into the same selfish, foolish, material girl who cares little for those around her. you are little more than a middle school bully, worsened by the adoring screams of fans who can’t see past the good-girl front you put up. you make a name for yourself at bc— and it isn’t a good one.

the way you treat your members isn’t much better— any kindness you show them is just enough to make sure they don’t flinch away from you on-camera. before all your labelmates, you flaunt your riches, your beauty, your talent— they are yours, the same way the sun and sea and sky of jeju all belong to you.

then in 2014 when you are twenty-one, boyeon passes away.

you hold her hand as she dies— you lovingly stroke the silver hair that you had pulled when you were six. the only person you care about looks you in the eyes and says,

“Han Jiae . . . you are a disgusting, hateful, selfish girl, and I wish I never loved you.”

she barely gets the words out before she dies, and you, rattled to your core, run from the room weeping. boyeon never had to stay with you so many years— she loved you, truly, but somehow hated you just the same. nobody can blame her. for every part that you are loved, you are two parts hated— and for that, you cut all ties and leave luxuri, leaving scandals in your wake.

you move to a small oceanside home in busan, where your father buys you a quiet, private beach in unspoken exchange for you staying away from him. there, you cry alone and stay away from rumors of why you left GROUP— if they had known the true reason, you would be ruined forever.

you learn to garden. you learn to cook. you learn to make money online, and learn to spend only what you earn instead of what you’re given. you learn to appreciate small things, like the beauty of the sunrise over the ocean, which you never would have woken up for before. you learn that your ex-fiancé married that girl from the hotel, and that boyeon had grandchildren who just started their first day of elementary school (you fund their studies anonymously and plan to do so well into their lives, and you open an education charity under boyeon’s name).

you learn the feeling of shame when you watch luxuri’s stages without you and realize that they never needed you in the first place. you learn that they are talented young women, far more talented than you ever were, and that bc is better off without you. you learn how rotten and wicked and ugly you were on the inside, and that everything boyeon was on the outside was you all along.

you learn the meaning of humility, and with it comes the fear of turning back into who you once were. you learn just how much you love to sing, and that attention is not worth having if you are stepping on others to have it.

the next chapter in your life begins when you finally manage to work up the courage to open your own little vegetable stall. you’re carrying a heavy basket of garden-grown veggies home for the day and looks up and— ohmygodinheaven that is the most beautiful man you’ve has ever seen in your entire life—

turns out it’s jeon hamin from hero.

it’s been so long since you’ve seen his face that you didn’t even recognize him for a moment. any thoughts of hiding how floored you is are totally gone when your eyes meet, and you can’t even duck for cover anymore. but loneliness is a powerful motivator— in a split-second decision, you calls out for him. you’ve gotten quite good at cooking; perhaps he would like to come in and have a bite?

time goes on and before you knows it, he’s proposing to you and you’re saying yes and he’s quietly paying for your dream wedding and people are screeching because suddenly, holiday han is back from the dead. your wedding is attended by his two sisters-- one of whom isn’t your biggest fan-- and victoria lee, your ex-leader. it’s victoria you apologize to-- and it’s victoria who says that perhaps it’s time to leave the past behind.

when you decide to return to the industry with all your new knowledge, you do so quietly as a soloist underneath starscape— you cannot bear to show your face to any worldwide artist, too ashamed of how you once were and too guilty of the pain you caused them.

you are too aware of kindness now. the monster is brewing beneath you, waiting to come out, and you fear it. you treat other starscape artists with all the compassion your husband shows you and humble yourself beneath them— even though you debuted before them, your years with luxuri are ones you wish to forget.

you fear that you will be poison to luxuri, but try not to concern yourself with the what-ifs. you are working hard to better yourself, working hard to become a better person who doesn’t care about the attention, but rather about the footprint she leaves in the ocean-darkened sand.

[skyfields2]

biography: anya choi-katzayev

anya knows how to love. to love the sugar-snow beneath her skis on the canadian rockies. to love the romantic atmosphere as she walks a lonely parisian night. to love the neon markets in downtown seoul. to love the furious scottish seaside, or the tender californian cliffs.

to love the promise of adventure.

her mother, you see, was a showstopper— a monster, if you will, in the world of actors as well as in the basest sense of the word.

as a woman who grew up poor in rural colorado, all that stephanie lewis wanted was that she would never again want for a thing. when she moved to seoul for a business internship, three months turned into a year, and one year turned into five.

she did care for anya, at least a little. it was her father she didn’t care for: choi dongwoo, a humble chicken-store owner with the kindest eyes of any man on the planet and a stout, welcoming build. stephanie loved him— really, she did. but they say she was a white bird in a blizzard, or a blue dolphin in the sea: someone like choi dongwoo never had a chance to catch her. when stephanie drops week-old anya on dongwoo’s porch, it’s carelessly, with a warning to allow visits at least once a week.

in the end, though, it was dongwoo who named her.

“my sweet, sweet eunhye,” he whispers as he kisses her small head each night.

age 4.

andrei katzayev comes into their lives on a simple business trip to propose a partnership with stephanie. they want to expand their fine liquor empire’s reach into south korea, you see, and anya’s mother is the clearest choice for her notoriety. she is obviously obsessed with the sheer power that andrei bleeds from every pore. anya, on the other hand, falls in love with his presence.

he is handsome, with blond hair and a fine-boned jawline. he is the heir to the katzayev group, who are affluent and well-spoken and practically russian royalty. but, above all, he is patient and kind: his laugh is a deep, rich baritone, and he has no shortage of it.

one small business trip turns into him staying in seoul out of concern for the way stephanie treats anya. he becomes close with both her and dongwoo, and winds up buying a high-rise in seoul to split his time between in order to keep an eye on stephanie. to keep her in check when it comes to her daughter and ex.

andrei is the one who practically raises anya for her formative years. it’s interesting, the way anya was named by two fathers; he always had a difficult time saying “eunhye.” it’s how the name anya came to be.

it’s through andrei’s intervention at dongwoo’s request that monthly visits with stephanie go from four, to three, to two. and before she knows it, anya is on a private jet to moscow once every few weeks to visit andrei, the generous man who has taken in this girl and her father as his own.

one day, she thinks, she might become a pilot.

age 5.

if the affair between a businesswoman and a nobody was the talk of south korea, then the custody battle between a businesswoman and that same nobody is even bigger news.

this time, though, it’s different. this time, andrei is there to protect the child.

the trial hardly lasts a week; andrei’s brought in the best lawyers money could buy, and the best bodyguards who keep the camera’s from anya’s face. stephanie lewis returns to the states in shame, never to see her family again, and is labelled a cheater, a liar, a minx— but there’s only one label that anyone really cares about.

she is unfit to keep custody.

age 6.

moscow isn’t where andrei wants to raise his child, but cameras aren’t good companions. both andrei and dongwoo agree that anya needs some time away from seoul until the media circus dies down.

when anya and andrei move their belongings into a ridiculously large mansion on the outskirts of paris, it’s with a scream of glee that she leaps into dongwoo’s arms, for andrei had spent the past year applying for a working visa for the younger man. it’s important, he believes, that anya grows up with as many positive influences and support systems as she can. so in come the katzayev aunts and uncles, the grandmothers and grandfathers, the cousins and nieces and nephews, to greet the newest addition to their family. andrei isn’t set to take over the company until the current matriarch passes, so much of his time he devotes to his adopted daughter.

dongwoo earns his keep as the personal chef to the katzayev family and eventually remarries a lovely french artist, cecilia beaulieu, and within a year they introduce anya to her newest half-sister anne-marie. they stay in the katzayev guest house for a few years before purchasing their own townhome in the city. 

the choi and katzayev families begin an alliance and friendship that, unbeknownst to them, will last for many more generations to come.

age 10.

but the story isn’t over yet. what proper adventure ends just when things are getting good?

it’s at andrei’s insistence that his daughter grows up to be a clever, well-adjusted, independent young woman. her dream of pilotry is not yet forgotten, so he buys her a plane that he promises she will be able to fly as soon as she is licensed.

as for anya herself . . .

anya is bored. she’s not technically allowed to start practicing pilotry till she’s fourteen, nor is she really supposed to lift a finger. clean? the maids do that. cook? the chefs do that. if there was a way for andrei to spoil her into not having to go the restroom herself, he would.

with that, a permanent nest is set up in the corner of the estate library with strict orders by her-ten-year-oldness herself not to touch it. not even her beloved cousins are allowed in, for anya loves to learn. andrei has hired a tutor for her to learn latin, french, brush up on her korean and russian and english. the nest is complete with soft blankets, overstuffed pillows, and books— admittedly— dog-eared. it’s anya’s second home.

her third home is parisian streets. anya looks often mismatched when she slips on her well-loved tennis shoes, muddy with adventure, with a light sundress. and over that comes her favorite woolly cardigan, too large but satisfyingly fuzzy. then over that, a purse: one that her stepmother cecilia crocheted herself, and in it anya religiously stuffs a frozen apple, some cheese crackers, jam, and an orangina bottle with a couple scoops of sugar. the gps tracker goes on and attaches to her stockings. the navy blue baseball cap is painstakingly adjusted over a lovely low bun. jingling with coins, young anya sets out everyday in search of a new story to tell.

age 13.

her frozen apple for the day has thawed out enough to eat when anya decides to settle down next to a trash can by the mona lisa and eat her meal. she’s used enough to the routine that she’s good at sneaking food behind security guards’ backs. andrei is out for the next week, and it happens to be one of the weeks that dongwoo is working on opening his own restaurant and cecilia is going to be at her art house. so for tonight, anya’s got paris.

the venus de milo is stupid, and the seine smells a little bit gross, and anya’s hair is down as she walks the same streets with a sense of romantic languidness.

but that— that’s new. curiosity piqued, anya steps closer to a little glass door. the light refracts off it in a vibrant rainbow. she hasn’t seen this building before; and what she hasn’t seen in paris is that with which she is in love.

it’s the movement of an angel, accompanied by voices— resonant, clear, in an octave where anya cannot tell if it is a man or a woman. she peeks through the door, colors falling upon her face, and watches and listens for hours. their legs are like marble sculptures, contrapposto— their arms like paintings, chiaroscuro. the old masters catch her eventually, of course. they chase her away with a broom, because who cares if she’s the heiress to the katzayev empire? she laughs with glee as she hikes up her skirts and teases them over her shoulder, the wind catching her hair as she makes her grand escape.

she knows now.

she has to dance.

age 18.

to give up one dream for another is a dangerous game. her flying lessons have been going spectacularly, and the door is open for her to inherit the katzayev liquor business. she’s everything to make her father proud, and an outspoken, opinionated, fierce young lady.

even more dangerous is the return to korea, where the face of her younger self was plastered across tabloids. but five years of being a dancer aren’t enough to cut it, not for anya; she’s made up her mind to return to korea, where she’ll work with performance groups, then return to france or russia or america, and bring the culture there. she sings until her voice gives out, dances until her ankles are sprained, then dances after they’re snug in a compress. 

eventually, she hears about an audition opportunity, and to her, it’s her next big chronicle-in-the-making. she becomes a main dancer for starscape records on hard work alone.

age 23; present-day.

anya katzayev, which she shortens in korea to anya katz for the sake of pronunciation, fancies herself a well-rounded person. educated, skilled, protective, commandingly charismatic. . .

. . . and a bit of a spitfire. maybe it’s the environment in which she grew up, but it’s a bit of a tough role to chew as she snags a spot on popstar survival. She’s talented enough that she manages to land a spot in the group, but her family always told her to speak her mind. in conservative korea, that’s a bit of a vice. it’s obvious how much she tries to bite her tongue. but when she can’t . . .

“why are you feeding her so little?” she says critically to a staff member who buys only a salad for one of her fellow trainees. “don’t starve my sister.”

“it’s not fair that those luxuri girls had to conform to what the public thinks their concept should be,” she mentions offhandedly with a resolute nod as the group walks through the airport. “let strong women be strong women.”

“someone should give prism a break,” she announces, the bold words at odds with the delicate way she eats her kimbap. “they have to deal with sasaeng fans— who, by the way, hardly pass as fans— and strict schedules? it shouldn’t be allowed.”

“my mother is nobody to me, no matter how influential she may have been,” she declares, because by the time people realize that anya katz is businesswoman stephanie lewis’ daughter, cat.eye has debuted. “my father raised me to understand that family doesn’t treat each other the way that woman treated me.”

all on camera, too. “she’s a handful,” is what the staff members say about her. “that anya is a handful.” but she is a fighter. she so obviously cares for her group members in that way that her russian family raised her to. it’s that which sings to the public.

anya katz: the flaming dancer who can take on the force of the world.

[skyfields2]

biography: park daehyun

prelude. park daehyun is born in the most golden corner of brooklyn, new york, to sleek-imaged socialites who want nothing but the best. he is ready to give it; after all, he may be born with a silver spoon in his mouth, but he wants nothing but the gold.

01. daehyun learns before most children with his social standing that the way to a businessman’s heart is through his ears, through words of polished flattery and sweet charisma. by age nine, he is fluent in english, japanese, mandarin, and most importantly, his parents’ mother tongue: korean. (he’s fluent in the language of liars, too, though he’d lie if you asked.)

02. at eleven he has perfected his friendly, boyish grin and has begun using it on the teachers at school. he has long since grown cold, manipulative, accustomed to the way his father and mother treat each other the indifference of their arranged marriage. it is at this age he discovers music: a girl, the only other korean student in his class, brings a cd for show and tell. it’s in his parents’ tongue, and he understands the lyrics to be those of hatred. the other students who don’t understand swoon over the song, assuming it’s a romance ballad, but daehyun knows better. he grins.

03. daehyun befriends the girl, jiah, and they chat about their music and sometimes about other students (it’s never flattering when daehyun is the one talking). they learn to dance together, and daehyun becomes fluid. they learn to sing together, and daehyun becomes magnetic. jiah becomes his only real friend; the others only become friends with his smile.

04. daehyun falls in love with the music. though maybe it’s not the music; maybe it’s the girl who showed him that the song that day so many years ago wasn’t a song of hatred after all. he confesses on a spring day when he is a sophomore in high school. she rejects him.

05. “you’re my friend, daehyun, but i couldn’t fall in love with you.”

06. “why?”

07. “you’re too cold.”

08. jiah is talking about his smile, of course. she’s been the only one who’s seen through the charm, the charisma, the polite helpfulness, all to mask a freezing marble statue that couldn’t care about jiah. not in the way she deserved.

09. he becomes a flame after that, fiery and burning and wrathful. brokenhearted, he severs ties with jiah so quickly it’s whiplash, and whether she ever missed him or not he couldn’t tell. the music is all for him now, and at sixteen, he demands to his parents to let him pack up and move to seoul. stunned at the disappearance of their courtly son, they say “yes” without thinking and daehyun knows they’ll change their minds, so he’s on a plane as soon as the word comes out of their mouth. he hardly glances back.

10. he auditions for a scrappy company with hardly a name in the business. they’re going to debut him as the main dancer of a boy group, and he trains for one year. their debut is only months away when the company (he never should have trusted them) finally goes bankrupt. so at eighteen, he transitions to worldwide.

11. he’s got quite the captivating audition, a fast-paced dance that he learned with jiah and bleeds sheer sex appeal. of course, it would probably be more impressive with a partner, but he doesn’t think about that. worldwide takes him, claiming he’d be the main dancer for a group they’re debuting in 2011. in hindsight, he has to wonder if they meant it.

12. they train him nonstop on singing. singing, singing, singing, till it’s almost as if his throat’s totally raw. till he can’t speak the next morning. he questions silently if they want him as the main dancer at all, and at last, they tell him that he will not be debuting. he should have known.

13. pride wounded, he acts even more kindheartedly, while the fire that jiah ignited burns hotter and brighter and angrier than ever before. worldwide trains him for two more years (“you’ll be a soloist. is that okay?” / “oh, thank you for thinking of me. i’d be perfectly fine with being a soloist,” daehyun replies through gritted teeth, not fine with being a soloist. he checks himself when the producer flinches away from the murderous glint that slips into his eyes, and daehyun laughs).

14. finally, he debuts in 2013. he’s glad that he has at least some say in the direction of his music, and that dance plays a strong role in it. though he doesn’t have the best start, he garners popularity over the times; he’s excellent at keeping image. to idols and managers and producers, he’s the ideal gentleman . . . yet what frustrates him to no end is how some netizens who haven’t even met him once somehow manage to call him out for the disguised maliciousness set deep in him. perhaps it’s those few interactions where he smirks at and just walks by a fan who drops her drink, or the time he subtly tripped an idol who’d gotten on his last nerve, but they know. 

15. he hates them for it. he hates almost everything, almost everyone.

16. aren’t you tired?

[skyfields2]

biography: lucas lazanski

Lucas Lazanski. How does a person even begin to describe him? He’s the guy who you call when you’ve got a flat tire, even if you’re hardly acquainted, ‘cause he put his number in your phone and said to call if you needed anything⁠— and you could tell he meant it. He’s the guy who the quiet girls at school crushed on, just ‘cause he’d go out of his way to praise them during Capture the Flag in P.E. then jog away to high-five his boys and do a backflip.

He’s the guy who— for some reason— moved out of L.A. halfway through senior year of high school to go and become an idol in South Korea.

You ask Zanski ‘bout his history, he’ll tell you; the man’s an open book. Someone like that’s gotta have some tragic backstory, yeah? Cool Asian kid at school, friends with everyone, single Hills mom, Stanford and Harvard sisters; what’s his deal, you’d ask? A shrug, then:

“It’s not that complicated, man. My parents were Korean, couldn’t take care of me. My mom’s husband passed, could take care of me. My sisters were studying abroad; mom missed having a kid around. I was cute even back then. How would she not adopt me?”

Then a flirty eyebrow wag, a teasing grin, and he’s off to find his next adventure.

And it actually isn’t that complicated, really. Mother: Jackie Lazanski, elementary schoolteacher who happened to marry a loving real estate tycoon who left everything, including his multimillions, to her after he died.

Sisters: Ava and Mia Lazanski, grad school and pre-law, respectively, at least back then. Successful engineer and surgeon nowadays. Also his home screen wallpaper, but not his lock screen, ‘cause he doesn’t wanna bother them if Dispatch sees his phone and tries to contact his sisters.

Home: Beverly Hills, baby!

Closest friends: Ryan, Max, Abdul, Alex, Mateo, and Biceps Miles. (That last one wasn’t ‘cause his biceps were ripped, but ‘cause he ripped his biceps in middle school. Lifting accidents, man.) All best friends since pretty much childhood. All ending up running different social circles in high school, but staying close as hell.

Girlfriend: half the high school woulda claimed Hayley Bradburn asked him out a month ago, the other half woulda argued that no, actually, Sophie Coram-Connell said that she was dating him, but Zanski himself woulda told you that it was Zoey Kim, the Korean exchange student during junior year.

Zoezanski, Ryan used to tease him about, ‘cause when Zanski’s got it, he’s got it bad. Pretty embarrassing the way he, so tall even as a high-schooler, seemed to forget just how big he was around Zoey’s cute long hair and accented voice and pink denim miniskirt. Thank God his mom said that he should keep in touch with his heritage and made him learn Korean as a kid, ‘cause he’s got a leg up in talking to her. And Misun, as he later discovers Zoey’s Korean name is— she’s a singer, man. Got one of the prettiest voices Zanski ever did hear. It’s why he ended up joining choir way back when, and realized he actually liked it a lot even after she left.

She used to sing a lot in the car, charmed by the cherry red color of the convertible his mom got him as he’d cruise down the coast with his hand on her knee. K-pop was what she listened to, and by extension, it’s what Zanski listened to even after they broke up.

And what a breakup it was. Remember Sophie? Sophie Coram-Connell who was rejected so nicely by Zanski that she didn’t even realize she was rejected at all?— oops! Turns out that not wanting to ruffle any feathers is a fatal flaw, ‘cause Sophie heard from Tina who’s dating Kyle who’s on Biceps Miles’ pole-vaulting team who’s following Zanski’s sister Ava that Ava posted a photo of herself, Zanski, and Zoey having dinner with the caption . . . “Glad to finally meet my brother’s girlfriend!” And Sophie freaked.

She bullied Zoey for the rest of junior year, despite Zanski’s pleading efforts to get her to stop. And Zoey begged Zanski to stop being friends with her . . . but how could he ever choose a side, burn a bridge? Turns out, the consequences of trying to rationalize and make amends between two people leads to even more friction. In hindsight, he does wish he defended his girlfriend way back when, but it doesn’t even matter now, ‘cause Zoey dumps him three months before she has to go back to Korea.

What sticks with him, though, is everything he picked up in his efforts to impress her. Is he heartbroken? Yeah, but he’s got his friends. He’s got his mom. He’s got his sisters, even if they’re plane rides away. But it’s hard to let go of the music, the singing, not when he’s finally discovered a talent he’s proud of.

And he guesses Zoey’s proud too . . . ‘cause she emails him, halfway through his senior year, with a link to Worldwide Records global casting in L.A. and nothing but the words “Go try out :)”. Well, what’s he got to lose?

It’s how he ends up having a going-away dinner with his mom and friends, and even Mia’s flown in from Harvard to attend her baby brother’s celebration. His heart is pounding as he boards the plane in early ‘11. ‘Cause he’s gonna be a K-pop idol— whatever that entails. 

What it entails is Zanski having to water himself down. God, they even make him start going by Lucas again! No one’s called him that since pretty much the second grade. He’s too Western; the first few years he accidentally calls people “unnie” ‘cause he’s still getting used to honorifics. He has to be slapped on the wrist to stop hugging his seniors and clapping them on the shoulder and start bowing to them instead. He’s miserable the first few years as an idol. Even his mom notices it when he debuts in ‘14 and she comments on how he seems too tame.

But time goes by, and Prism starts garnering a bit more respect in the industry till eventually, Max is texting him and telling him that even the people in L.A. are starting to freak out over him. (But also, who the hell is Lucas?) We love to hear it, brother. (It’s me, dude. Lucas is me. Did you seriously not know my first name is Lucas?! We’ve been friends since kindergarten.)

What’s nice about respect is that people seem to start seeing his Westernness as more of a quirk than something to scoff at. Maybe it was a good thing he censored so much of himself in their early years— maybe not. But maybe it’s also pretty cool that people are starting to see him more as a hype man than the guy who was just a bit too big and a bit too jock-y. Either way, it becomes easier and easier for him to step out into the cameras, smile a casually playful smile, click his tongue with a wink, and give ‘em two thumbs up.

[skyfields2]

biography: jeon aera

Ok, ok, ok, so here’s the deal with Jeon Aera:

She’s, like, a mess.

As in, A MESS a mess. As in, the “Let’s try snagging some tickets to Aera jangling her wrist to make sure her keychain’s on it but it’s actually a bunch of bracelets” kind of mess.

That being said, she’s a hot one.

This hot mess was born in beautiful Busan (Aera thinks everything’s beautiful, but whatever) in March 1999 and was wailing like nobody’s business because, hey, she’s gotta be the center of attention always! Never mind that the human equivalent of finally-finding-an-earring-you-thought-you-lost, Jeon Areum, was born seven whole minutes later. Probably came out of the womb very polite or something. If Aera was born screaming like she was witnessing someone try to wear a traffic cone as a stylish hat, Areum was probably the well-mannered young lady like, “Well, I think that the cone is a very flattering style on you! Here, have a cookie,” or some nonsense equivalent.

That is to say, the Jeon twins are night and day.

Regardless, Areum is the absolute light of Aera’s life and there’s nothing that can ever change that, but man, by the time they’re six it’s glaringly obvious the girls are on two different paths. Aera, specifically, has this weird obsession with her own damn face. Her smile is tongue-in-teeth and eyes permanently alight with kittenish mischief, and she’s mastered the flip-hair-and-wink trick. Not that it’s totally a bad thing; that kind of mindset makes it pretty easy to foster confidence and happiness in a sweet little girl, but also maybe a bit dangerous, and probably pretty bad parenting that her mom and dad encouraged vanity more than confidence. “Our little starlet,” they always said, ‘cause it was obvious that, as Aera got poutier and leggier, she was gonna end up somewhere Fabulous. With the capital “F” and all.

And that was exactly why they slapped Aera in a ballet studio and said the equivalent of “Go nuts!” before pretty much deciding that it’d all work out.

What they didn’t expect was Hamin to take on the mantle of family fame.

Hoooo, Hamin. If there’s One (1) person in her life she looks up to, it’s her older brother. Jeon Hamin, golden child, soccer king, oppa extraordinaire! He’s pretty much everything that a girl needs in a brother, and Aera snaps her teeth at mostly any girl who’s not good enough for him. Which is, like, everyone. So imagine her surprise when they move to Seoul for Hamin to debut in Hero, and suddenly everyone’s in love with him or whatever. 

Um, how is Aera supposed to fight every girl in Korea? Who even has time for that? She has dance lessons at six, school at eight, tutoring at three, dance lessons again at five, and then beauty sleep at eight. And now she’s supposed to clear her schedule to get in a fistfight with any creepy weirdo who looks at her brother? For, like, a month after, she walks around looking like the “:/” emoji because that’s just too high of expectations from her.

You know what, though? It’s a learning experience.

‘Cause if there’s one thing she’s learned? It’s that people always look at her with a sense of awe when they realize that THE Jeon Hamin is her actual brother. Not that stupid “oppaaa~! uwu” but rather “Oppa, I will absolutely deck you if you don’t convince mom and dad to make hot and sour soup for dinner tonight.”

Also, she’s not above admitting how smug she gets when people say she’s pretty enough to be an idol herself.

In fact, like many of the other compliments Aera has received in her life, it goes straight to her head. More, even, since it’s the highest compliment one can pay to her: 

You deserve attention, Jeon Aera.

“Yeah, I do,” she croons quietly to herself, vain smile in place as she waits in an audition room at the age of fourteen. And waits. And waits. And waits. She doesn’t understand; wasn’t she supposed to go sooner than this?

Finally, a man steps out: tall, scrutinizing, taking in a shaking Aera. Any confidence she’d had before is shot now, and she’s a mess, hair sticking up palms sweaty. She wipes them on her skirt and enters the audition room. She introduces herself, but the scouts don’t really… react. That’s a first.

She has a dance routine that she’s been practicing for a while now. Aside from her face and her siblings, dancing is her number one passion. So she takes a deep breath, ‘cause you’ve been training for this for years, Jeon Aera.

“Years” is over in the course of a couple beats. One of the auditioners holds up his hand like Gordon Ramsay eating an undercooked chicken and basically tells her to scram.

That night, she cries, and it’s really not pretty, so she ignores Areum and Hamin knocking on the bathroom door while she wails in the bathtub clutching pearls that she borrowed from her mom’s jewelry box for the occasion.

Drama? Yes. Healthy coping mechanisms? Lacking.

But she’s not Jeon Aera if she doesn’t bounce back for nothing. When she opens the door to her concerned siblings, her hair is immaculate, her mascara is wiped off, and her puckered smile says, “Look out, world!”

Unfortunately, the middle Jeon finds in coming months that this is a repeat experience. For all her visuals and charisma and surprisingly good energy when dancing, she, well— oh, what’s a polite way to put this?— she’s about as forgettable as a loaf of raisin bread. But at least a raisin bread’s got some pizzazz to it.

So imagine her absolute shock when her sister, Areum— sweet, quiet, unassuming angel Areum— announces that she’s been scouted at a company called Starscape.

Aera could write a book about her opinion on that news. She’d title it, “Oh, Um, Okay, That Makes NO Sense Whatsoever But That’s Fine, Areum. It’s Really Fine.” (It’s not fine.)

Don’t get her wrong. She’s proud of her sister like crazy, but frankly it’s a huge hit on her own pride to have auditioned for over sixteen companies (seventeen after she tries her hand at Worldwide tomorrow) and been solemnly rejected from every single one when her younger twin doesn’t even have to lift a finger. When Aera’s jealous, she’s mean. When she’s mean, people cry. If Areum cries, Aera becomes ten times more upset than she was before.

So she tamps down her jealousy, inhales through the nose, focuses her energy on all the good feelings, and says, “Maybe I should audition too.”

She said it originally as a joke, but hey, that’s actually a good idea. She really should do that. It would be nice to be in the same company as her sister, especially since she got rejected from the same company as her brother; the Jeon sisters are, after all, two sides to the same coin. Different in all ways, but never detachable from the other.

If you ask the now-twenty-one-year-old Aera how the hell she got into Starscape, she’d bite her lip playfully, peer at you through thick, lowered lashes, then twirl a strand of chocolate hair around a finger before flipping it over a shoulder.

“Don’t be ridiculous. They just loved my charm and talent.”

If you ask the Starscape scout who discovered her, he’d blink at you, flip through the notes on his clipboard, and say, “That Jeong Aera who debuted with Cherrysoda now? Yeah, Starscape knew they needed more girls on Pop!Stars. She’s somewhat pretty, I suppose.” Then he’d ask you to get him a coffee, because he wants to double-check his notes on who actually did end up letting Jeong Aera into the company.

Her name’s not even Jeong Aera, for God’s sake. That’s how utterly forgettable she was at the audition. But pretty? Yes, that’s one thing she’s been her whole life. Prettiness and well-meaning shallowness and a dorky grin. Oh, and the mean streak. It’s easy to forget the mean streak, considering she’s usually so nice, but then again, she’d argue that everyone’s got one.

How she actually got in?

Hard work.

It’s not really something a person would expect from Aera. When it comes to ditzy, she’s about as much as a person can get. Her parents never really pushed her for much aside from expecting her to model with that impressive height of hers. The only reason they wanted her to dance was because a dancer’s physique has always been desirable. But she has… what’s a polite way to put it…

Severe tunnel vision when it comes to achieving her goals.

You see, when Aera realized that the opportunity to live, work, and dance with Areum was too good to pass up, she spent every waking moment in the practice rooms. It was easy to give up on the other companies, but Summit specifically— no way could she let that go. She already wasn’t that good at school to begin with— studying time became dancing time. Tutoring time became singing time. Beauty sleep time stayed beauty sleep time, ‘cause the idol triple threat was very obviously vocals, dance, and visual. It’s how she came in second place on Pop!Star Survival; she’s not naturally talented, but damn if she can’t fake it.