A Kwon Jiyong Story
Ambition rules. Obsession lingers. Connections corrupt.
Kwon Jiyong has lived like a star -brilliant, admired from a distance, and destined to burn alone. Mia has existed in quiet obscurity like a constellation emerging from darkness. When their worlds collide, it is a reckless act of defiance - a spark of passion and danger before a cataclysmic collapse.
Prologue below ⬇️
JIYONG (2026)
It's blasphemous, really - that someone so driven by passion could take harbor in a world so rehearsed, so painfully performative.
News of your engagement reached me while I was shackled to my military service. I felt powerless. Tormented. But the news was as ridiculous as the thought of my own heart crawling up my throat and signing away its autonomy.
All in the name of what? Money? Prestige? The last laugh?
I've come to see this spectacle for myself. Surely, I've misheard. Surely, you - of all people - did not rot before my very eyes.
In this meticulously decorated castle, where pastels and muted colors swirl like watered down oatmeal, you reigned. You stood out in your lavender dress. My Persephone in the flesh. Statuesque and sharp, like an icicle menacingly hovering over heads, waiting for the perfect moment to come down with unflinching precision.
I ride with the wave of the crowd, as they all dance for you. I join, catching swift glimpses of you, then hiding behind my partner's frame as your dark eyes scan the party - sensing something adrift but seeing nothing past the expected.
Your right hand is gloved, unlike the other, in a beautiful lace color that matches your dress. A ribbon is tied at the wrist, a little dragon charm dangling from the satin as you lift a champagne flute to your blood-red lips.
All that whimsy reduced to mundaneness, yet I still see traces of you deep within this hardened exterior.
At your side, in a common tuxedo with no inkling of individuality, is your 'fiance' . He's handsome in the traditional sense, his eyes carry that ease that comes with being born into a trust fund. He cackles with his friends, as they heckle him from beneath the high table perched on a stage.
Ha. How you hated being the center of attention, and now not an eye can tear itself from you - the brightest of moons.
But I see the distaste. You hate this spectacle as much as you hated being in the light I forced you into. You smile, but there's a hardness in your eyes. Only the people that have seen your brilliant smile, can see that this is no smile at all.
Word of my arrival spreads like wildfire. People start flocking toward me, and it seems I can't fly under the radar any longer. I take in one last look at the masked placidity in your face and brace for the beautiful retribution of your attention.
It comes when I'm catching up with all the people that once made your life a living hell. How quickly their loyalties changed when they found out who you were.
"I thought you were still enlisted?"
"Aren't you supposed to be in Singapore?"
"What about the World Tour?"
I plaster a smile of contempt as the questions come. They're all vultures, and I didn't come to explain myself to them.
A voice - your voice - rings like the beautiful yet ominous chimes of a church bell. I have half a mind to fall to my knees in reverence.
"Jiyong, is that you?"
I look toward the heavens as if that's where I'd find you, then turn, slowly, fully knowing that your gaze has the power to turn me to stone.
It's been years since I've seen you in the flesh. I feel the weight of destiny, of something cosmic in the distance bringing me back to you. Like a red string pulling me to you. Or the way a child makes his way back home after frightful moments of being lost in the world.
Our eyes meet, electrifying and foreboding, I almost shiver at the impact you still have on me. I half-hoped I'd imagined the power you hold - the power I've laid at your feet. For a moment, all the words I imagined saying tumble one after the other, catching in my throat.
You don't have that problem. You are as devastating, and quick, as I remember.
"What are you doing here?" Your tone, accusatory - perhaps reverting to the distrust I've earned in many ways but one.
I recover from your appearance, but my hand tremors at my side with the aftershock. It wants to reach out, caress the softness of your cheek, the cupid bow of your lips.
But I haven't touched you in years. And you are disciplined in your habits, and the habit of hating me has become a pattern you'll revert to. How can I compete with that kind of willpower?
"I was invited," I manage.
You tilt your head, like a cobra sizing up her meal. "You were not," you say, bluntly.
I feel a spike of adrenaline rush through me. Your ruthlessness has always flustered me.
I act unaffected. "Hm. I imagined my invitation was lost in transit."
"It wasn't. But I'm not surprised. You always did have a habit of overstepping."
You do that not-smile again. It burns me. I hate to have you perform in front of me. But it seems that's your style now. You're a contradiction of everything you once stood for.
"I only care that there's an uninvited guest at my engagement party." You brush a curl away from your face, with the simple intent of revealing the diamond twinkling on your left hand.
Vile rises up my throat, but I return that blasphemous smile laced with all the sins of my past. If you want to go low, I'll see you in hell.
I chuckle darkly. "But a guest, all the same."
In a swift moment, playing entirely on shock and lack of reflex, I slip the ring off your finger.
Your eyes widen - from predator to prey. A doe, unable to do anything but watch as the headlights race forward.
The diamond ring twinkles in my fingers. I'll make sure to wash my hands with bleach after touching this dark artifact.
"I would have gotten you something bigger," I say - it's cruel but honest.
Your nostrils flare. "It was his grandmother's."
"It's small."
"It's special," you defend.
"It's not enough." I growl, with a bit more ferocity than I intended.
How dare you defend him to me? How can you not see that what you're doing is beneath you? Business marriages are for those who have lost all faith in souls, in passion, and the unpredictable beauty of human emotion.
I'd understand it from someone who had never experienced a soul-altering connection. They didn't know any better, they didn't know what wonders waited outside the rigid lines of conformity.
But you.
You knew better.
"Jiyong, my ring." You command.
And for a second, I fold at your will. The initial reaction to relent to your every wish is etched into my being but I fight against it.
"You are not yourself." I accuse, and I make sure to leave every bit of venom I could fathom in those four words.
A flicker of something flashes in your eyes. But it is fleeting, and I wonder if I've imagined it.
You strike at me again, by now a few eyes have started to take in our interaction. Your eyes are pleading, but I won't give in to you. Not yet.
I catch your wrist, and pull you to me. Our chests touch and I'm lightheaded by the proximity to you but I push past the intoxicating feeling.
The dragon charm dangles from your glove. "This is you," I say, shaking your hand.
Your eyes widen, the points of your lashes puncture your darkened eyebrows.
"This?" I hover the diamond ring between us. "Is not."
The music has stopped playing, or maybe the whole world has gone silent for this. I can't stand the sight of you, not like this. I know the woman I know is in there, but this new side to you is alien to me. It saps me of hope. Of desire. I need a minute before this version of you bleeds me of all the good intentions I came here with.
"Jiyong," you half-whisper, half-scream. Everyone is staring, and this time its your persona you're protecting.
I let go of your hand, and take step back. I need to go. I slip the ring into my pocket. Is there any place in this godforsaken place I can go to collect myself?
I leave you to your guests. My eyes flash towards your fiancee, his eyes are cold as they follow me. But they return to the young woman next to him, he's been talking to in your absence.
Yeah, asshole. Mind your business.
I catch sight of a velvet staircase leading to the second floor. I walk toward it, feeling the intensity of your gaze drilling holes in the back of my head. That's all you can do for now. You won't risk letting wandering eyes see how much I've unsettled you.
The porcelain is cracking.
I smile.
You still exist under that hardness. But I'm not here to fracture. I'm here to break that shell you're hiding in.
To melt porcelain with fire.
MIA (2026)
The music comes back as Jiyong disappears up the staircase.
And below, in the ruins of our little performance, I am left to hold the tension he's created. Every eye in the room has moved on.
I feel the echo of him everywhere. I flex my hand at my side; his touch still lingers on my wrist.
I wander back to the enclosure, to the high table where my fiance waits for me, his gaze pointed and chastising.
I remind myself that a life built on feelings is like a house built on sand; collapsible, easily crushed. But a life fixed on vision and strategy, untouched by childish whims - that is stone.
And stone does not bend to passing shadows.
I say this to myself over and over again. A soft mantra to keep myself from spiraling.
I remind myself of the years I watched my dreams kicked apart. How I was trampled over for having feelings.
That girl needs to die. Now. Here. There's no place in this world for her.
A new life demands a death to keep the balance. Not the burial of a corpse, but a burial of a self and all of the ideologies it carried and identified itself with.
To some, this is a celebration.
To me - it's a vigil.
The grand room reflects all of that. The flowers look like funeral wreaths, the suits are as stiff as mourning garb, old women dab at their faces with monogrammed handkerchiefs.
And above it all, perched on an altar looms of a portrait of the one being laid to rest.
I sit in the center of all this, ramrod straight, with a practiced Mona Lisa expression. Cameras flash endlessly.
At my side, my fiance Mino, pins my hand under his to keep me close. I've wandered too far for his liking.
We pose as the picturesque couple. Everyone wants to know who claimed the country's most coveted bachelor. They want the winning shot of the working-class girl turned heiress and the Prince of Entertainment.
My name will be dragged through the mud.
The thought is not meant to be pessimistic but pragmatic.
The sky is blue. The media will defile.
i can't control that. But what I can control is the image I project. And until the dreaded lenses find their shot, I will smile and then when they scatter back to their hovels, I'll drop the act.
The weight of my ring - or rather, its absence - weighs heavier than ever. Every figure that passes, makes me tense. I see him everywhere and nowhere at once.
i tell myself that its absurd to be affected by his return. I knew I'd see him again, but I didn't expect it to be so soon or here.
My pulse betrays me. i hope Mino doesn't feel the way it rattles through me. But the memory of him, the amber blaze in his eyes and the hardly contained nature of our meeting. . . it envelops me entirely.
I sit here, like the most lifelike ornament. Disassociating. Like grains of sand blown by a gentle breath, my memories scatter - dying flashbacks, moment after moment, each one devouring the last, marching towards an endgame I couldn't defend against.
I float back to a time I loved sandcastles more than concrete fixtures.
Summary: Jiyong fucked up--bad-- and he needs to fix it.
Kyoto, Japan 2015
The dancers kept to their huddle, stretching and kicking their legs occasionally to keep their limbs warm. Because it was sound check and rehearsal they had to stay close to the stage area, even though they weren't doing anything. The waiting was always the worst part.
At center stage, they could see the concert director drawing diagrams on a clipboard and talking to the present Big Bang members about changes that had to be made to accommodate the stage size. Their leader was noticeably absent.
Bored nearly to tears, Sarang nudged the dancer next to her and nodded towards the side of the stage. The other dancer nodded that she understood and Sarang walked quietly away. She rolled her neck and stretched her shoulders as she opened the creaking exit door, stepping into the sunshine. She sat on the edge of the loading dock, partially hidden by a pillar. While scanning through her Twitter feed and laughing at some of the memes, she heard a car screech to a halt and doors slam. She ignored it. There was a scuffling of feet that sort of captured her attention, but she didn't look up. Then, from the other side of the pillar, she heard yelling that she couldn’t ignore. It was partially in Japanese, some words were in Korean, but mostly the voices spoke in English.
“ . . . Not what I said!”
“Kumanhe! I don't want to fight!”
“If you don’t want to fight, why do you keep bringing it up?!”
That peaked Sarang's interest, but she knew whatever was happening on the other side of that pillar was none of her damn business. Hearing that their voices were getting louder and closer and that she was understanding more and more of what the fight was about, she knew it was time to go. She hastily stood to go back inside. At the door, she fumbled with the sticking latch and dropped her phone. She reached down to get it and looked over to see the absent leader and his model girlfriend looking back at her.
“I was already out here,” she told them with her hands up as if she had been caught. She pulled and pulled until the door opened at last, bowed slightly in their direction and ran inside.
“What took you so long?” one of the Kwon twins asked when she got back to the stage.
“I stepped out for some air and the door got stuck. Sorry.”
“Is that all that happened?” he asked with his eyebrow raised, looking over her shoulder to see Jiyong standing there; seething.
“That's all,” she answered as she moved to her spot. All of the dancers knew very well what wasn’t their business and to never speak, even among themselves, about things they saw in passing.
Standing in formation under the lights, Sarang couldn’t stop her brain from replaying that scene from outside. She had nothing personal against Kiko. From all that she could tell, Kiko was a perfectly fine human being. But Jiyong was obviously unhappy. It showed through in his lyrics, it was written all over his face, could be seen in his posture when the cameras weren't rolling. Kiko might not have been making him unhappy, but the relationship sure was.
Not that it was any of Sarang’s business.
* * * * *
Sarang finished dressing for the stage and fastened her heels. She hated dancing in heels, but it was part of the uniform. And because she was slightly shorter than the other dancers, her shoes were taller to even things out. One of the stylists walked over to her and thrust her chin up to make sure her makeup was complete. With a nod, the stylist walked away and Sarang took a deep breath. Though she was 'only' a backup dancer there were strict standards for her appearance which surprised her. Who watched the dancers?
It had been eight months since she joined the team and she still got nervous before every performance. Touring with Big Bang could easily be considered the highlight of her life. No one could prepare her for the immensity of the crowds and the electricity when Big Bang stepped on stage. It continuously shocked her night after night. Along with the nerves, the excitement was always present.
Tired of standing still in the small dressing room, Sarang let herself out quietly. Heading nowhere, in particular, Sarang walked down the corridor until she found a quiet corner. She prayed for a safe and successful show for herself, and everyone involved. She did a few squats and practiced the steps she had had trouble with during practice. She was understandably tense-no, excited- but overall she felt good.
“Stupid and immature! . . . .” she heard from farther down the hall. Sarang rolled her eyes and laughed quietly at the fact that she had stumbled into yet another argument. “You're about to go on stage. Give me the bottle, JiYong!” She heard his manager yell. Shaking her head, Sarang walked away from the sound of raised voices and went to rejoin the other dancers.
Again, none of her business.
* * * * *
During the concert, the dancers remarked among themselves on G-Dragon’s performance. He was all over the place; screaming randomly into the microphone, wandering around the stage, rudely interrupting the other members’ solo moments. He was a mess, but no one knew what was wrong or dared to ask. Sarang knew.
'Crooked' had always been one of her favorite songs to dance to. It was upbeat despite the lyrics, and the choreography was fun and relatively simple. She could sail through it with little concentration, allowing her to fully enjoy being in the moment.
But on that night, Jiyong was even wilder during the song than usual. From the start, he staggered and stumbled around the stage doing his raps. He missed large portions of the lyrics and would just stop and smile charmingly at the crowd from time to time. And because Sarang knew what was wrong with him, she felt compelled to keep an eye on him.
During the second verse, he walked backward on the catwalk, away from the main platform. The dancers were lined up on either side of the slim stage hyping the crowd. Sarang should have been doing that too but her conscious screamed at her, so she broke from the formation to stay near to him. The other dancers shot her questioning or dirty looks, seeing that she wasn’t where she was supposed to be. She ignored them, keeping close to the secretly inebriated rapper.
Sarang saw it coming before it happened. Jiyong had his head tipped back, screaming nonsense into the mic while spinning in circles. Closer, and closer to the edge he went. Sarang ran at him, grabbed the back of his jacket and swung him away from the edge. Still singing obliviously, Jiyong threw his arm out and pushed away the hands that touched him.
Her heel caught on the side of the stage. . . . . . . .There was no way to right herself; nothing to grab onto. .
. . . . . . . So Sarang met the fate from which she had just saved Jiyong.
Sarang could remember the feeling of weightlessness. Then the wave of intense pain as she hit something solid. She remembered nothing else after that.
* * * * *
Jiyong finished the song and stood on the platform. With the crowd still cheering his name he sank below the stage, grinning stupidly and waving. He took a deep breath as the platform stopped and smiled as he stepped off. There was nothing like the high he got from standing on stage.
Still immersed in that heady sensation, he didn’t immediately notice the charged atmosphere as he walked down the corridor. He passed clusters of dancers and crew members; some were crying, some were glaring at him. Looking around in confusion, his eyes landed on his manager who looked just as livid as the rest. The manager grabbed Jiyong by the collar of his shirt and roughly pulled him to a dressing room.
“Yah, let go!”
“Do you know what you’ve done?!” his manager screamed while furiously shaking him.
Drunk Jiyong shrugged his shoulders and took off his sweat-soaked shirt. He noted the ill-shaped neckline and frowned at it. He liked that shirt, dammit.
He sank down into the couch and opened a bottle of water. Halfway through a gulp, his manager snatched the bottle from his hand and pushed his head until he could see an iPad on the table.
“What’s wrong with you?!”
“Shut up and watch.”
Jiyong rolled his eyes but did just that. He watched himself on the stage, not really remembering how the performance had gone. He could feel the manager’s eyes burning into the side of his head and looked at him again.
“Pay attention!” he shouted.
Jiyong rolled his eyes again and watched as the second verse started. Everything looked normal to him until he noticed the dancer out of line. He stopped watching himself and focused on her. He saw the way she watched him, creeping close, eyes tracking his movement while still dancing. He watched himself spinning and saw the moment when she grabbed him to stop him from teetering over the edge.
And then he watched himself push her off the stage and dance away without a backward glance.
He gasped and held his hands over his mouth to stifle a scream. He sobered instantly. “Is . . . is she okay?”
“She’s not dead, or at least she wasn’t when the ambulance picked her up,” the manager explained. He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. Looking at a monitor in the corner, both he and Jiyong watched as Seungri and Youngbae stood on the stage to apologize to the crowd. His limited Japanese allowed him to understand that they would be praying for the fallen dancer and that she would want them to continue to show. So they would, and Daesung’s solo stage started.
The manager turned the TV off and silence spread thickly over the room. They could hear the cheering crowd, muted by the thick walls. Jiyong couldn’t move. Silent tears streamed down his face as a ball of anxiety and regret formed in his chest.
He heard his manager move to the door. The other man had his hand on the knob but didn’t open it. After a few seconds, he turned back to look at the weeping star. “You need to fix this. I don’t care how but you will fix this. That girl saved your life.”
* * * * *
As soon as the concert was over Jiyong wanted to go to the hospital, but no one would let him. They didn’t want him to cause a scene where she was healing, so on they went to the next tour stop. They made him perform, do interviews, and smile like nothing was wrong. That wasn’t the case.
Jiyong was guilt-ridden. He barely ate. He tortured himself watching the performance over and over again. Every time his eyes closed, he saw himself pushing her. In his dreams, it was the other way around and he was the one falling. He often woke up screaming.
The other Big Bang members did their best to keep him encouraged. YoungBae though, always a straight shooter, chastised him first for the drinking and his general irresponsibility that led to the accident, and then for all the weeping. ‘You aren’t in the hospital, you are not injured; what are you crying about? Don’t cry, do better.’
The dancers, who he didn’t socialize with much on a normal day, gave him the coldest of cold shoulders. They barely danced through his performances; no smiles and minimal energy. When he asked about her well-being, he was met with immediate hostility by the team leader. ‘Her name is Sarang. Not Sora.’
And then he felt even worse.
Finally, after three agonizing days, Jiyong overheard a group of dancers saying that Sarang had woken up. So he waited and waited until the managers had gone to their rooms for the night and snuck out of the hotel in the wee hours of the morning. He took the train from Nagoya back to Kyoto.
As luck would have it, the night nurse in the hospital recognized him even with a hoodie, a beanie, and sunglasses on. She knew about the dancer who had fallen, so she walked Jiyong to her room for the cost of a hug and an autograph, even though it was way, way before visiting hours.
Jiyong was scared to walk in the room, afraid of what he would see, afraid to see the damage his carelessness had caused. But he went in any way. And immediately teared up. She was covered in wrappings, braces, hard casts, and several visible bruises. He felt physically ill as he sat down in the chair beside her bed. Jiyong took hold of her uninjured hand and gripped her fingers lightly.
“I am so sorry,” he whispered as the tears came in earnest. He tried to muffle the sobs, but was louder than he intended and woke her up. Sarang shifted uncomfortably to see who was touching her. “Hey, hey, don’t move. Sorry I woke you.”
“Who are you?” she asked the primarily dark room.
“Oh, um. It’s- It’s me,” Jiyong stuttered and fumbled with the light. His watery eyes met hers and they hardened in recognition. “I-I, uh, I wanted to check on you. See how you were doing.”
“And how does it look like I’m doing?” she asked coldly.
“I-um, uh, I--”
“Just leave,” she ordered. When he continued to stand and stare at her, she added, “Seriously. Get out.”
Jiyong bowed his head and stood his ground. “I owe you for what you did for me. I would have fallen if you hadn’t grabbed me--”
“And I wouldn’t have fallen if you hadn’t pushed me. Get. Out,” she repeated.
Jiyong knew he deserved her anger, so he persisted. “I’m so sorry that I hurt you. It was an accident--”
“That probably wouldn’t have happened if you weren’t drunk,” Sarang spat the words at him. When his eyes went wide, she chuckled humorlessly. “Yeah, I know.”
“I am so--”
“Save it, I don’t care,” Sarang cut in cruelly. She tried to adjust her position in the bed, wincing at every movement.
“Here, let me--” he said as he moved forward to help.
Sarang gave him a glacial scowl. “What do you not understand?! I don’t want you here! I don’t want to look at you! I don’t want your fucking pity! Just get the fuck out!”
The machines around her started beeping loudly and Jiyong backed away with his hands up. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” And fled the room.
He staggered to a bench not far away, shaken by the force of her truly understandable rage. He drew his knees up to his chest and held himself tightly, rocking slowly back and forth. A nurse ran into the room he had just gone out of and he heard distinctly Sarang’s order for him to never be allowed in again.
So he kept rocking, and praying, and thinking about how to fix the situation. He didn’t know what to do. What could he do? How was he supposed to help someone who obviously didn’t want his help?
He wasn’t sure how long he sat there but eventually, he heard footsteps coming at him. A male doctor and an older woman came around the corner. When the woman stopped and looked into Sarang’s room, it made Jiyong sit up. The woman closed the door softly and wiped a tear from her cheek. Can it be . . . ?
“Thank you for waiting, Mrs. Im. I’m sorry I couldn't speak to you sooner,” the doctor spoke in Korean as they sat just close enough for Jiyong to hear.
“It’s fine. This is what I get for not taking my Japanese lessons more seriously,” the woman replied with a dry laugh.
“Was your flight okay?”
“It’s a long way from Melbourne to here, but the flight crew was sweet about me crying the entire time and pacing the aisle.” It was quiet between them as she wiped her cheeks again. “So how bad is she? Please just tell me all of it.”
The young doctor rubbed his hands together as he prepared to deliver bad news. “Because of the position she landed in, all of the damage is on her left side. Because of the force of the landing, it knocked three vertebrae in her lower back out of place. Nothing disconnected, but it was close.
“Her leg was broken in several places. Her knee . . . came apart entirely. We did a complete knee replacement the first night she was here. We’re going to have to replace the hip as well. It’s a ball-and-socket joint, you know?” he asked and demonstrated with his hand wrapped around his fist. The mother nodded. “The ball pushed through the socket and shattered it. We’ll need to have the part specially made because of the damage to the pelvic bone. Her left arm is broken also, and we’ll need to do surgery on her rotator cuff eventually.”
“What does all that even mean?” her mother said with a sad laugh.
“It means that for the next month, we’ll be doing several rounds of surgery to correct the damage done from the fall. It means that for the back and pelvis to set properly, she will have to be immobile for at least three months. It means there will be intense and torturous physical therapy when the body cast comes off. It means that she’s going to have to learn to walk again, . . . and will very likely never dance.”
Her mother made an anguished sound and held her hands over her heart. She took a minute to compose herself. Jiyong could hear the stifled tears in her voice when she spoke again. “That’s going to be the worst part, you know. Not dancing. She’s always danced. All she’s ever wanted to do was dance. She refused to go to university in Australia and went to entertainment company auditions behind my back. Dancing was it for her; there was no backup plan.”
“Another part of her treatment . . . “ he began hesitantly, “will be pain management. I’ve seen it happen with athletes and people who use their bodies in their careers, where depression sets in. Not being able to do the one thing they love is very hard to adjust to. It’s going to be a constant balance between managing her pain and not getting her addicted to the medication.
“This whole process, the constant surgeries, the closing and opening of skin and muscles . . . it won’t be pleasant. It might even be unbearable at times.”
“So what you’re saying is, my daughter has months of excruciating pain to look forward to.”
“More like years,” he corrected slowly. “And I hate to say this, but she’s lucky to be alive. She won’t feel that way initially, but it will be true.”
“Years? I can’t--I have a business, a husband and a young son in Melbourne. I can’t be here for that long to take care of her. And we can't afford that kind care.”
“Conservatively, I say it’ll be three to four months before she can even leave the hospital bed. Maybe another month after that for recovery and observation. Then the physical therapy will start, and she can be moved to Australia for that.”
“But how? How am I supposed to take care of her?” she asked herself more than the man beside her.
The doctor’s pager went off before he could give her any further assurances. “I’m needed in surgery. We can finish this conversation later? We can talk more at that time about the recovery process and plan for her care.”
Her mother nodded and thanked the doctor again for taking the time to explain things to her. Not long after the doctor walked away, Jiyong watched Mrs. Im cry into her hands. When she settled a bit, he knocked softly on the wall to get her attention.
“Yes?” she asked, both curious and annoyed.
“I . . .” Jiyong paused to take a deep breath. “I want to help your daughter, Sarang.”
“What do you know about my daughter?” she asks, looking at him suspiciously. Jiyong knelt down and pressed his forehead to the floor at her feet. He heard it when she gasped, but held the pose for a few seconds before sitting back on his heels. He took another breath before looking up at her. ”I am so sorry. This was all my fault.”
Mrs. Im’s eyes narrowed as she looked down at him. “It’s you then. You’re the careless boy that pushed my daughter.”
Jiyong bowed again, partially to hide his eyes that were near to tears again. “It was an accident, I swear. I thought it was part of the choreography and I didn’t realize we were so close to the edge. I am sorry. I am truly sorry. I want to make this right.”
She glared at him, scanning him up and down, trying to gauge his sincerity. “How?”
* * * * *
One day bled into the next for Sarang. Time became meaningless. For five months she was tethered to a bed with nice but impersonal nurses, TV she couldn't fully understand, and occasional visitors to occupy her time. She ate meals that she didn’t remember tasting. She slept, or she stared at the wall, or she was in pain and wished she was asleep. The whole experience was a painfilled and depressing blur.
Her mother visited monthly for two or three days at a time. The police came to visit and asked if she wanted to press charges. She told them no. A few YG dancers stopped in, which she had mixed feelings about. She was on the team, but they never made her feel like a part of the team. After being passed over so many times for minor mistakes, she didn’t trust them. A few she outright disliked because they had made her life hell in general. But she was polite enough when they were there. Any company beat no company.
The most surprising visit was when YG himself came to check on her. He vowed to pay for all of her medical expenses and continued care. He also slyly asked if she was planning on suing the company or Jiyong directly. She had no such plans. Once she said that he offered her an obscenely large sum of money as a settlement. She agreed.
On the day of her release, her mother was with her. Sarang expected to go home to Melbourne with her family but instead, they flew to Korea. Upon arrival, two large men in a luxurious black van, equipped to carry a wheelchair, picked them up from the airport. Sarang’s pain medication kicked in not long after the ride started, so she had no idea where they were headed. Nor did she particularly care.
The next time she woke, she was in an elevator going up with just the two men. “Where’s my mom?”
Neither man responded. At the 17th floor of some anonymous building, they pushed her chair to the end of the hall and knocked loudly on a door. Kwon Jiyong answered it.
“Please, come in,” he spoke politely and gave room for them to enter.
“No,” Sarang said with a voice filled with venom. She put her good hand down to stop the wheels from moving. “I’m not going in there. Where’s my mom?” she asked again.
“Your mom will be up in a little while. She wanted to get some things to make dinner tonight,” Jiyong explained quietly.
“This has to be a joke,” she replied with a snort. She knew in her gut that it wasn't though. Her mother had been unusually tight-lipped about what would happen to her. Now she understood why. “Unbelievable.”
“I’ll take it from here,” Jiyong told the men and took his position behind the wheelchair. After bowing to the men, Jiyong pushed her around his well-appointed apartment for a tour. Sarang never said a word.
“This will be your bedroom, the master bedroom. I put in one of those adjustable beds so that you can rest comfortably. And this is the bathroom. I had rails installed to keep you stable while you move around. You can go right into the shower in your wheelchair. That long string is a panic button in case you need help,” he explained. “It will ring inside the apartment first and if no one responds in a minute, an ambulance will be called.”
He parked her at the foot of the bed and sat in one of the chairs nearby. “My mom and sister are going to make sure you have meals and help you with dressing and stuff. You have physical therapy every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I’ll take you whenever I can. I’ll help you however I can.” Jiyong waited for her to speak, but again, she said nothing. Just looked out the window to the park below. “I’ll . . . go. Call out if you need anything. I’ll be in the living room.”
Jiyong had just opened the door when she finally spoke.
“When can I leave?” she asked, still not looking at him.
“When you can walk out of here,” he responded with a short bow of his head and closed the door behind him.
