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Seoha
21
The lanterns flicker in the dusk haze, casting warped shadows across the canvas tent. The crowd hushes—not from anticipation, but from something older, instinctive. Seoha steps into the ring, her floral skirt swaying like a warning.
She turns.
The silk robe slips from her shoulders.
And there it is: the sakura tree tattoo, sprawling across her back like a memory etched in ink. But the petals twitch. The bark pulses. From within the branches, hornets begin to stir—crawling out from the honeycomb embedded in her shoulder, their wings shimmering like glass shards.
Some land on her collarbone. Others hover near her ear, whispering secrets only she understands.
The audience doesn’t scream. They don’t clap. They simply watch, transfixed, as Seoha becomes something else—part woman, part hive, part myth.
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