Horror Glam

The conference room is the kind of place where souls go to die quietly under fluorescent lighting. Glass walls trap them like specimens in a lab. Think 13 Ghosts but more chilling. The abstract art on the walls - vaguely threatening splashes of gray and beige - seems less like decoration and more like a warning.

You are not human here. You are a contract, a clause, a liability.

I’ve seen variations of this hell before. My publicist’s office is the same, just with an expensive Arabian rug to soften the blow. My publisher’s attempt at “cozy” is this same room, but in wood paneling. Like the second little pig thought corporate oppression was better in a cabin aesthetic.

But for the first time, I look around and think: Oh, this could kill someone. Or this has already killed someone.

Horror writers notice things like that. And I am one. The best one of my generation. And legend says one of the best ones ever. And by legend, I mean Stephen King himself.

“Given Ms. Belfort’s reputation,” a voice slices through the air, “we need to go over a few things.”

Ah. The charming, Korean-style lawyer, Ha-joon Shin. He is polished to the T and has an accent that screams Harvard. His suit alone could be the most expensive thing in this room, and I don’t want to know about his watch. I really don’t. I hate watches. Watches are the horoscopes of accessories—soulless and mostly lies.

“And by reputation, you must mean the fact that she is the best-selling author on all charts right now, respected for her work, and with one blockbuster Hollywood movie under her belt.”

“You tell him, girl!” I wink at my lawyer.

Candice Murdock, middle-aged and feisty, ruthless and aggressive. She’s been with me since I pulled up in her strip mall office. Back then, I was ready to sign my first contract for my first book and had scraped together enough money to afford this particularly tough-as-nails, street-smart lawyer.

And good thing I did. Candice is probably the reason I’ve amassed my fortune and retained creative freedom. She became something like a manager of a multimillion-dollar product: me.

Mr. Shin represents Jisang Kim, the world-class K-pop idol, former main singer of the supergroup Black Crown, now the single most successful soloist in the industry.

The man himself is sitting across from me, as if poured into the chair. He’s the epitome of a K-pop idol, walking that fine line of PG-13 and bad boy rock star that an army of publicists and stylists has highlighted for him with sleek black streetwear and eyeliner. Minus the eyeliner today. The only color on him is the silver accessories he’s wearing.

You must be thinking, Hold up. What do an American horror writer and a polished singer/dancer do in the late hours of the night in this Korean corporate hell? Let’s get ready for a flashback. If you’re reading colors, go black and white.

Eight months ago, I was sitting in my cozy New York apartment—the one I bought with my first real money—deciding it was enough for me and my horrors. I did what I love to do on lazy Sunday mornings with my coffee. I read obituaries. And there it was, for some reason: the obituary of a K-pop idol from his fandom, published in the New York Times. I ate it up. I was hooked. A “mysterious” death that might have been a suicide, all sprinkled in glitter and skincare.

I knew nothing about K-pop - I mean, look at me, it’s as if Elvis Presley had a kid with Joan Jett - but I also had nothing else to do. I dove down the rabbit hole. I ate all the cakes, drank all the potions, and resurfaced with an idea. A horror story to combine Korean urban legends, ghost stories, and the greatest horror of them all: the K-pop industry.

When I talked to my publisher about the book, he threw all the papers from his desk in enthusiasm. The K-pop craze combined with my fame? The fact that the main reading demographic was women, and my style hadn’t tapped that fully yet? Goldmine. His eyes did that creepy dollar-sign thing from cartoons.

When I said I’d be off the grid for research, he had the brilliant idea for me to not do my usual undercover research but instead milk this. How about I shadow an idol, and we were both open about it, making it a thing, hyping up the book—social media content paradise?

I flipped him off.

But soon I realized one bitter truth. My instincts were right. Something is rotten in the state of Glittermark. The K-pop industry has nothing on the Mafia. Omertà was the name of the game, and I faced walls so high, they gave me vertigo.

I had seen enough to be hooked and not enough to make it true, real, guttural. I needed to know more about the underbelly of this beast, and it seemed that to do that, I needed to be eaten first.

“Your client,” Mr. Shin says like it’s an insult, “wants to shadow Mr. Kim for a month. She demands 24/7 full access.”

“Don’t worry,” I feel the need to reassure the man. “If I were a sasaeng*, I’d at least bring good duct tape.”

Record scratch.

The whole room turns to me. Candice is giving me a look that says she’s calculating bail money from U.S. dollars to won. Mr. Shin’s face is wearing utter disbelief—and honestly? Worth it for just that look.

When I turn to Jisang, I get a glacial stare. My joke is not appreciated. And I may have stepped on a sensitive subject that I’m sure will be covered in Article blah blah, paragraph blah blah of the NDA.

The lawyers pick up their droning, but Jisang and I are locked in a stare. I knew of Jisang Kim before this meeting. I’d seen him. Well, photos. Billboards. But up close? I have to admit, he’s devastatingly… pretty.

When I agreed to this little circus, I chose a few idols that fit my criteria. Most of them were scared shitless to let me in. My brand alone would damage a llama’s image, let alone a pop idol’s.

But the company managing Jisang Kim jumped on the idea. I can see part of the reason why. Jisang Kim is not easily shaken. I appreciate that. Not in a respectful way. More like in a challenge accepted way.

“Any details of Mr. Kim’s personal aspects of life are off limits, including his diet,” the Korean lawyer says, dead serious.

“My client is writing fiction. Unless your client photosynthesizes, I fail to see how his lunch order is a trade secret,” Candice says in that drawl that conveys that she may or may not have faked her degree, but she’s brilliant anyway.

They keep negotiating. Meaningless shit, protecting assets and images and setting boundaries. All that is cool, necessary. And freaking boring. My fingers twitch, playing with my pen, desperate for distraction. If I have to endure any more of this, I might decide to be my own next victim.

“So just to clarify,” I cut in, “if I accidentally leak that Jisang here secretly collects Hello Kitty plushies, I get sued into oblivion?”

Jisang’s head snaps toward me. He tries to keep his cool, neutral expression, but I catch it. A slow, dangerous smirk curls his lips. He blinks a few times, slowly, taking me all in.

“It’s actually Kuromi,” he says in that deep voice of his that makes panties either drop or cream.

My dark eyes gleam.

“Ohhh, he’s alive. I was starting to think you were just a very expensive mannequin.”

He leans forward, resting his chin on his hand. The movement shifts his silver necklaces, and my gaze drifts to his collarbone. I’ve been captivated by bones before, but not like this—and not on a living person. The conference lights catch the angles of his face. Dark eyes. Black hair. Sharp jaw. Cutting cheekbones. All in all, a very expensive funeral.

OK, OK. He’s more than pretty. Happy?

“And I was starting to think you were a stray goth kitten. But looks like we were both wrong,” he says, with that tilt in his impeccable English that makes him real in the most reckless of ways.

The lawyers are looking at each other, then at the NDA. They’re clever enough to realize this might have been a grave mistake.

“If you would just initial here, Mr. Kim,” the lawyers rush to finish this before it derails further.

“Initial?” He smirks, no smile reaching his eyes. “I thought we were signing with our blood.”

My pulse kicks up—not out of fear, but sheer, giddy recognition. This man has some danger potential. The fun kind. He seems annoyed by this agreement, and I sure hope he stays vocal about it.

“Finally,” I sigh, rolling up my sleeve with dramatic flair. “Someone who understands real contracts. Do you prefer a knife or teeth?”

Candice has seen me say and do worse, but the Korean lawyer makes a noise like a deflating balloon.

“That… that is not legally binding.”

“It is in my books,” I say cheerfully, flipping open my switchblade pen.

Jisang’s eyes light up. He rolls up his sleeves slowly, exposing forearms mapped with veins. He eyes my weird contraption that claims to be neither stationery nor weapon.

“You carry that? I’m more concerned about the legality of that thing.”

“I carry it only for special occasions.” I twirl it. “And idiots.”

“Flattered.” He holds out his hand, his pen gleaming. “I think I’ll stick to my priceless pen.”

“Show-off. And relax,” I turn to Shin, “it’s a paper knife. Just more sharpened.”

Mr. Shin gasps, terrified. Candice throws me a look that says she doesn’t want a crash course in Korean law. The lawyers exchange glances, absolutely terrified of the horrors they might now have to face. Pre-trial drafts are being mentally written. Rare empathy is shown.

I clap my hands.

“Look at you two showing actual human emotion! For a moment there, I thought if boredom was a crime, you’d both be serving life sentences.”

A preach girl snort comes from the other side of the table.

“Your Honor,” Jisang says, deadpan, “the defense pleads guilty as charged.”

Mr. Shin looks appalled. Candice is checking her watch. Probably keeping a record for “how long will it take for Vale to fuck this up.”

“Let’s get this over with,” Jisang says. “You want to shadow me.”

“I mainly want to study you. Like a lab rat. Shadow you, though. Weird choice of words.”

“You do know that my fandom’s name is Shadow Court, right?”

I blink. Again. The lawyers try to rush us through signatures like dying billionaires signing wills.

“Excuse me,” I barely hold back a laugh, “there was so much to unpack in that sentence. So. Shadow Court.”

“You are dying inside,” he observes.

“Just tell me, your fans are… what, vampire LARPers? Do you all meet up to brood at midnight?”

“Admission fee: a goat,” he grins.

“Obviously. I’m not a peasant.”

He studies me.

“OK,” Jisang nods and signs the NDA. “You are officially my shadow now.”

“Well, let’s not be that dramatic. It’s not like we’re doing some intense coordinated choreography. Besides, a horror novel based on the horrors of K-pop. What could go wrong, right? Too much glitter?”

I laugh at my own joke and sign my name, too. The lawyers sigh in relief. Jisang tilts his head with that enigmatic look. He is not amused. I lift an eyebrow. If this man thought I was coming in swooning, he was wrong. I’m coming in swinging.

“This time, your inspiration might prove a bit too much.”

“Perfect.”

*sasaeng: stalker fans of Korean idols