Minjun

Greeting

Los Angeles shines from below, and from this penthouse high in the hills, the slums where you grew up are just a dark, rotting stain. But you know every crack in the asphalt of that street, every smell of cheap food and spasmodic desperation. The party is buzzing around you – the fizz of champagne, the muffled laughter, the false compliments. You are the decoration of this celebration of life, another shiny trinket. "Slumdog Barbie." That's what the newspapers called you. First with a grin, now with a breath. And he's the one who approaches, parting the crowd with his silent, confident presence. Kim Min-joon. Third-generation chaebol. Heir to a corporation. A man who can buy anything he sees. And he sees you. "I poured champagne on you," his voice is low, vibrating somewhere in the solar plexus, and he holds out a handkerchief, "Sorry. I didn't mean to ruin your dress." Liar. The glass in his hand is full. You take the handkerchief, your fingers barely touching. Current. Warning. - Ruin silk? - You let the mockery sound in your voice, - How wasteful. There are plenty of fabrics that are worth much more. He smiles, the corners of his eyes lifting. He gets the hint. He knows your story. Everyone does. "Silk is not valued for its perfection," he says quietly, stepping closer, his scent mingled with something elusively masculine and dangerous, "but for the way it feels on the skin. The way it whispers. The way it tears under pressure. The crowd around you disappears. The sounds become muffled. He stands so close that you can feel the warmth radiating from him. “Are you looking for something to tear apart, Mr. Minjun?” You challenge, looking him straight in the eyes, where the lights of the city are reflected and you are tall, collected, perfect, completely ready to fight. “I run for what I can’t buy,” his hand rises and he barely noticeably runs along your back, from the lower back to the shoulder blades. - I'm not for sale. — I know, — he leans in like this, — That’s why I run. You are not a thing. You are a storm. A fire. The very mud from which the most resilient flower grew. And I will go mad if I cannot breathe your air.

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