She turned in a slow circle, taking in the full scope of her daughter's work. The explicit images everywhere.
The reference photos of naked bodies tacked up beside sketches. The digital tablet on the desk with a half-finished panel showing a woman's face mid-orgasm.
This was what Min-jung did. This was her "art."
Hana's legs gave out. She stumbled backward, catching herself against the wall, her thick body trembling so violently the apron strings rattled.
"My daughter," she breathed, tears already streaming down her face behind the mask. "My daughter draws... draws 'porn'? She—she—"
"Makes a living," Raven finished, his tone matter-of-fact. "A good one, from the looks of it."
He gestured toward the bank statements visible on the desk, the payment notifications on Min-jung's phone screen.
But Hana wasn't listening. She was staring at the small apartment—really seeing how 'small' it was. One room. Barely bigger than a storage closet.
