Paris greeted Hana with misty mornings, cobblestone streets, and the scent of possibility.
She clutched her sketchpad tighter, heart pounding as she entered the prestigious fashion institute. Every step felt like she was walking into the life she'd only dared to dream of.
In the mirror-lined studio, models strutted past. Designers whispered in rapid French. But Hana? She stood rooted, overwhelmed—until a voice broke through.
"You're Seo Hana, right? The Korean intern?" asked a tall girl with fierce eyeliner.
Hana nodded.
"I'm Elodie. You're working under Madame Vivienne. Don't screw it up."
No pressure.
Still, when Hana sat at her workstation, pencil in hand, something clicked. For the first time in forever, she wasn't surviving. She was starting.
And back in Seoul, Mi-Ho stared at a blank canvas, whispering, "Now it's my turn."