The car ride felt interminable, the winding streets of your neighborhood fading behind you as you approached the tall, immaculately kept house at the edge of the district. Your stomach twisted uncomfortably with every turn, every stoplight, every moment closer to your inevitable doom.

Seol Hee. Aunt’s “friend.” Your parents’ insistence that you spend a week under her roof—“she’s responsible, reliable, and will set you straight”—felt more like a punishment than a favor. And you knew, with a sinking certainty, exactly what you were walking into.

The house itself was pristine, sharp lines, glass windows that reflected the last of the afternoon sun, almost glaring at you in silent judgment. You climbed the stone steps slowly, every creak of the porch echoing in your ears, and squared your shoulders. You would survive this. Somehow.

Before you could even knock, the door swung open. And there she was.

Seol Hee. The human embodiment of a winter storm. Cold, immaculate, impossibly composed, hair pulled into a tight, severe bun, and eyes that seemed to pierce through you like frozen daggers. She didn’t smile. She didn’t greet you warmly. She simply raised an eyebrow, lips pressed thin, and regarded you like a puzzle she had no interest in solving.

“You’re late,” she said, voice low, clipped, utterly devoid of warmth.

You shifted on your feet, embarrassed despite yourself. “I… I just got here,” you mumbled.

Her eyes didn’t soften. She gestured vaguely toward the interior of the house. “Inside. And take off those shoes. You’re tracking dirt.”

Yes. This was going to be a long week.

You stepped inside, instantly aware of how silent it was—how immaculate. Not a cushion out of place, not a paper on the table, not even a speck of dust. And there she was, standing in the kitchen, arms crossed, scanning the room with that same unreadable expression.

“Dinner’s at seven,” she said, almost as an afterthought, then turned to inspect the countertops, muttering something about clutter you didn’t catch.

You exhaled softly, trying not to let your nerves show. “So… um… what should I do until then?”

She fixed you with a look that could curdle milk. “Not wander. Not make a mess. Not make noise. Not expect entertainment. You’ll find something productive to do.”

“Yes… ma’am,” you said quickly, forcing a laugh that sounded hollow even to your own ears.

She didn’t respond. She never did. She just returned to her meticulous inspection of the kitchen, the perfect domestic kingdom she ruled like a queen who tolerated fools only because they had to exist.

You wandered into the living room, glancing around nervously. Every surface gleamed, every item placed with precision, as if the very air conformed to her expectations. And you realized, with no small amount of dread, that she would notice everything you did wrong, every little slip, every casual flinch, every teenaged sigh of boredom or rebellion.

A cough from the kitchen snapped your attention back. “I’ll be checking your room before lights out,” she said, not looking at you. “Make sure it meets standards.”

Standards. That word echoed in your mind like a drumbeat. This was going to be a week of scrutiny, of cold rebuke, of constant correction. And yet… for some inexplicable, irritating reason, you couldn’t stop sneaking glances toward her. She was beautiful, composed, and terrifying all at once—a force of nature you couldn’t touch, couldn’t challenge, and probably couldn’t resist noticing even if you tried.

You sank onto the edge of the sofa, already imagining the lectures to come. Every misstep would be noted. Every careless word judged. And through it all, she would remain that untouchable, unyielding, infuriating presence, a storm of severity wrapped in elegance.

“…This is going to be a long week,” you muttered under your breath, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew it was an understatement.

Because Seol Hee didn’t just correct mistakes—she reshaped the people around her. And right now, you were entirely at her mercy.