Chapter Text
This was the worst… Jeon Wonwoo’s father had left without warning fifteen years ago, and since then, his grandmother—his father’s mother—had taken care of him. He had only been thirteen at the time, a quiet boy with more fears than friends, and they had believed his father would never return. But today… here he was. Standing in the middle of their home, as if time hadn’t passed. As if he hadn’t vanished and left nothing but silence in his wake.
“What is all this junk, Wonwoo?” The man’s voice cut through the stillness like a blade. There was no affection in it—no hesitance, no attempt at softness. Just cold disdain as he jabbed a finger toward the closet at the end of the room, its door slightly ajar. Inside, arranged carefully on hangers and padded shelves, was a collection of garments that Wonwoo had poured his soul into—dresses with flowing skirts and intricate beadwork, corsets laced so tightly they looked sculpted, hand-sewn bodysuits with sequins that caught the light like stars, and an array of shimmering, jewel-toned outfits that sparkled even in the dim afternoon sun.
The very sight of them had always brought him comfort. They were his pride. His work. His joy. But in his father’s voice, they were nothing but “junk.”
Ah, yes… by day, he was Jeon Wonwoo. Shy, precise, maybe even a little too quiet—but probably a customer favorite at the Tandem Cafeteria in downtown Seoul. He was polite, fast with the orders, always wore a warm smile even when his feet ached and his mind was elsewhere. But by night, he became Violette Won—a queen of glitter and grace, who lit up the stage at Yosul Bar every weekend alongside her sisters in drag. A persona so bold and radiant that sometimes even he forgot the shy boy he used to be.
There was no way to explain this to a father who had been absent for more than half his life. No way to sum it all up into a tidy sentence. So instead, he swallowed hard and said, “I’m a seamstress.”
The words came out thin. Fragile. A wisp of truth that barely filled the room. His voice already sounded weak because he could tell—his father knew. The look in his eyes was not confusion. It was judgment. And it was old. Familiar. Probably the same look he’d once directed at the woman who had tried so hard to love him, and who now watched in silence.
His grandmother had likely pleaded with him before he even reached the closet, maybe tried to intercept him with warm tea or kind words, knowing exactly what lay beyond that door. She had always been like that—gentle in her defenses, wise in her love. She had been an angel to him, even when things had been unbearable. In fact, everything had been difficult.
She had taken in both her son and grandson when Wonwoo was just ten, after his mother passed away. She had made room for them—room in her cupboards, in her schedule, in her heart. His memories of his mother had faded into scattered sensations: the scent of rosewater, the faint shape of a lullaby. As for his father, he had never been the same after she died. Grief had swallowed him whole. He barely spoke, barely looked at his son. He had wandered through life like a shadow of himself for a year—until one day, he didn’t come home at all.
From that moment on, it had been just the two of them. His grandmother, who became more of a mother than he ever remembered having, supported him in every way she could. She worked part-time jobs long after retirement age, brought home extra soup when he was sick, and printed out free worksheets for him when he asked for help with his studies.
They had no money for tutors, and she’d always been honest with him about her limits. College, she had once told him, was likely a dream. “I just want you to be happy, baby,” she had said, folding his laundry with trembling hands. “I’m sorry I can’t give you more.” And he had nodded. He had understood. Her love had been more than enough.
Not long before he finished high school, he came out to her. It had taken every ounce of courage he had left. The fear had sat like a stone in his throat. For days, he had rehearsed the words, imagining every possible outcome. But when he finally said them, trembling and red-eyed on a rainy Tuesday, she didn’t flinch.
“I think I always knew,” she said with a laugh, even as tears filled her eyes.
“So… we’re okay?” he had whispered.
“We’re okay,” she had said firmly. And she hadn’t lied. Nothing changed. If anything, she seemed even more determined to celebrate every piece of him.
“Oh, have you seen that idol and actor? I think his name is Taecyeon—he’s very handsome, isn’t he?” she’d tease, winking as she handed him snacks.
Then came the moment he discovered drag. Unlike some in his community, he hadn’t grown up sneaking into his grandmother’s closet or trying on lipstick behind closed doors. It hadn’t been a childhood calling—it had been a lightning bolt in his early twenties. One night, a friend had taken him to an LGBT bar for his birthday, and he’d watched a queen in a feathered leotard perform to a power ballad like it was the last night on earth. He’d been spellbound. Something inside him clicked. Something woke up.
From that moment on, he became obsessed—with the craft, the history, the performance. He studied it like a language, teaching himself to sew, to contour, to walk in heels. That was how he met Jun and Soonyoung, two queens who would become his closest friends, his fiercest supporters. They taught him about pad tricks and safety pins, about tucking and stage confidence. They cheered the first time Violette stepped onto the stage.
Drag wasn’t just a show. It was expression. Freedom. Resistance. A way to shout into a world that had tried to keep him quiet. Each performance was art, and he was the canvas. And when the crowd roared, he felt like maybe—just maybe—he belonged. There was so much more behind the makeup and the rhinestones. But none of that mattered now. Not to the man standing in front of him, who looked at his life and only saw disgrace.
“Oh, really? And why haven’t you handed in all these costumes? And what about all these shoes on the floor?”
The present came crashing down again, tearing through his thoughts like glass shattering against tile. His father’s voice, laced with sarcasm and disgust, was louder now, sharper—as if it had been growing, simmering, just beneath the surface. The room, once filled with the quiet warmth of soft light and handmade beauty, now felt like it was caving in, shrinking beneath the weight of judgment.
Wonwoo hated lying. He hated hiding even more. His entire life had been shaped by quiet self-preservation—choosing his words carefully, shrinking his truths to fit into spaces others could tolerate. But there was no hiding now. Not with everything laid bare. Not with his creations spilling out of the closet, colorful and unapologetic, and glitter still faintly dusting the floor from his last performance.
His father stood in the middle of it all like an intruder in a sacred space, face twisted, his forehead taut with barely contained fury. A vein throbbed visibly above his brow, and Wonwoo could see it—the moment just before he erupted. The calm before the cruelty.
“I’m a costume designer too,” Wonwoo said quickly, the words tumbling out before his throat could close up. “I make clothes for theater productions.”
It was a half-truth, and he hated how pathetic it sounded even as it left his mouth. But what else could he say? That these costumes were his armor? That these shoes—heels in shades of ruby, sapphire, and jet black—were not just accessories but part of his transformation, his freedom? That this makeup wasn’t just pigment and powder, but something holy?
He didn’t expect understanding. But he still hoped, somewhere in the hollow part of his chest, that his father would at least pretend to believe him. Instead, the man gave a half-smile—tight, bitter. The kind of smile that held no warmth. Only contempt. Without saying a word, he stepped toward the dresser, and Wonwoo’s body tensed. Every step was deliberate, full of accusation. His father grabbed the top drawer and yanked it open with force. It rattled on its rails, a few lipstick tubes clinking against one another like warning bells.
“And this makeup? Are you a makeup artist too?” he snapped, then snorted at his own question before answering it himself. “No.”
The way he said it—it was venomous. A rejection, not of the makeup, but of everything it represented. Then he turned, eyes fixed on Wonwoo like a predator locking onto prey, and stalked toward him. Wonwoo felt his breath catch. His feet felt rooted to the spot. There was nowhere to run in the tiny room he’d grown up in. His heart pounded against his ribs, loud and panicked. Frustration coiled tight in his chest, crawling up his throat like it might choke him. His arms were stiff at his sides, but his fingers trembled.
He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how to get out of this. And then it came—vile and sharp.
“You’re nothing but a faggot who shouldn’t be in this house.”
The word struck him like a slap across the face. He flinched without meaning to, his jaw tightening, but he didn’t speak. He couldn’t. Something inside him had curled inward, folding protectively over the bruised part of his heart. He had imagined this moment before, in nightmares and worst-case scenarios, but it still hurt more than he thought it would. It always did.
“Dowon! Leave the boy alone.” His grandmother’s voice rang through the room—firm, unwavering, with that same quiet power she had always held. She didn’t shout, but she didn’t need to. Her voice carried years of authority and love. It sliced through the air like a shield, and for a moment, Wonwoo could breathe again.
“Boy?” His father scoffed, incredulous, like the word itself was offensive. “Ha! He’s a 28-year-old fool, and I don’t want him in my house.”
But was it really his house? After all these years, after the silence, the abandonment, the absence so loud it had shaped the entire way Wonwoo learned to love and survive—was this man even allowed to claim any part of this space? He hadn’t earned that right. Not anymore.
Still, his grandmother didn’t argue. Her silence now was heavy, not with resignation, but with something harder to name. Her eyes were focused, her hands shaking just slightly at her sides. She looked like she was holding something in—rage, perhaps. Grief. She had always tried to keep peace in this house, even when there hadn’t been any.
“Get out. I don’t want to see you again.” The words landed like bricks. There was no yelling now. No theatrical anger. Just a flat, disgusted tone, and his father couldn’t even look him in the eye as he said them.
“You can’t just throw him out like this, Dowon,” his grandmother pleaded, stepping forward with both hands out like she could block the blow. Her voice trembled slightly now, but not from weakness—from desperation.
And still, her son laughed. That awful, humorless sound that filled the entire room and made everything inside it seem smaller than it was.
“Shut up. Because if I want to, I can throw you out too.”
The words cracked through the room like a whip, and the silence that followed was unbearable. Wonwoo didn’t understand. Not fully. Not yet. But the way his grandmother’s face crumpled told him enough. Her breath hitched, and her eyes glistened with tears she hadn’t allowed herself to shed until now. Her hand instinctively moved to her chest, as if trying to still her heart.
She turned to him with a look he would never forget—one part apology, one part heartbreak. His father said nothing more. He didn’t have to. The damage was done.
Wonwoo exhaled shakily, the breath catching in his throat. His chest ached, every rib tight around a heart that didn’t know whether to break or harden. He looked around the room—his room. The same one where he had sketched his first designs, where he’d stitched sequins onto tulle late into the night with music softly playing. The same room where his grandmother had peeked in to say goodnight, or where she had brought in warm tea during the winter. Now, it was just a place he had to leave.
He moved toward his things, reaching instinctively for his suitcase tucked near the closet, his hands already shaking as he began to open drawers and gather what he could—his brushes, his palettes, a binder filled with performance notes, his favorite pair of boots.
But before he could take a single thing, his father stepped forward and shoved him firmly in the chest.
“You’re not taking anything from here.”
It wasn’t a yell. It wasn’t a threat shouted in the heat of the moment. It was cold. Icy. Final.
The weight of those words crushed him. Like something had been slammed down onto his shoulders, pressing all the air from his lungs. His arms dropped to his sides. The idea of leaving was hard enough—but leaving with nothing? Not even a bag? Not even his things, the pieces of himself he had crafted and cherished? He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He wanted to throw something—anything—just to stop the rising wave of helplessness from swallowing him whole. But nothing came out. Not a sound. Not a tear. He just stood there, rooted in disbelief.
Before he could react, his grandmother stepped in and took his hand. Her fingers curled around his gently but urgently, and without another word, she pulled him away. Her grip was soft, but full of strength—still the one thing in this house he could trust.
“I’ll explain everything, Won,” she murmured once they reached the small safety of her room, her voice barely more than a whisper. Her tone was steady, but her eyes darted toward the door as if they didn’t have much time. “But for now… maybe it’s best to do as he says.”
Wonwoo’s lips parted, ready to protest, but she was already moving toward the dresser. She opened a drawer he had seen her go to a hundred times before—where she kept her combs, her hairpins, an old brooch he used to play with as a child. From behind those things, hidden carefully beneath a folded cloth, she pulled out an old ceramic jar. It was pale and cracked, its design faded with age, but Wonwoo knew it well. She had used it for coins, for bills, for quiet sacrifices. She opened the lid and withdrew a wad of cash, worn and soft from having been counted and recounted too many times.
“Here, my child,” she said gently, walking back to him and placing it in his hand. “Stay in a hotel for a few nights, okay?”
Wonwoo’s throat tightened. His first instinct was to shake his head. He knew that money had been saved for something important—medicine, probably, or groceries, or some quiet emergency she never talked about. He didn’t want to take it. But she wouldn’t let him refuse.
Her hands, always warm, always persistent, pried open his reluctant fingers and placed the bills firmly in his palm. She held them there a moment longer than necessary, her thumb brushing over his skin as if to remind him he wasn’t alone, even now.
“When you find a place to stay, send me the location,” she continued softly. “I’ll make sure to send you all your things. It won’t take long, and I promise to keep everything safe for you.”
There was something unspoken in her words, a deeper meaning hidden behind every syllable. She was protecting him again, even when her hands were tied. Even when she was trembling. And yet, the questions burned behind his eyes.
Why was she letting his father stay so easily? Why hadn’t she corrected him when he claimed this house as his? Why did it feel like this had been decided long before tonight? The questions twisted in his chest, but he didn’t dare speak them aloud. He couldn’t bring himself to press her—not now, not when her heart looked so close to breaking.
Instead, he just nodded, the motion barely perceptible. Disappointment settled in his chest like ash, bitter and heavy. But so did gratitude. After everything she had done for him—after every sacrifice, every word of comfort, every smile that had held him together when he thought he might fall apart—he didn’t feel like he had the right to question her now.
So he left, no tears, no words. Just him, his phone, and the clothes on his back.
𖤍𖤍𖤍
The cheapest hotel he could find wasn’t exactly close to either of his jobs, but it was something. Tucked into a forgotten alley between a run-down convenience store and an equally tired-looking laundromat, the building barely stood out. The flickering sign above the entrance buzzed faintly, casting uneven shadows onto the cracked pavement. Inside, the lobby smelled faintly of mildew and old cigarette smoke—stale, but not unbearable.
At least he had some savings in his bank account—thankfully, that wasn’t something left behind in his father’s house. He had kept his own accounts since he was old enough to work part-time, squirreling money away bit by bit from café tips, freelance costume commissions, and weekend shows. A quiet habit his grandmother had encouraged: “Always keep something for yourself, just in case,” she’d said more than once. Now, "just in case" had arrived.
Now, sitting in a small room with a small bed, the weight of everything finally settled over him.
The room was barely wide enough to fit the twin-sized mattress, which sagged slightly in the middle. The sheets smelled vaguely of disinfectant, and the single overhead light buzzed like an insect. A tiny wooden desk stood in the corner, its surface scarred and faded, and next to it, a narrow window framed the distant blur of neon signs and city haze. The hum of cars and occasional honk of a horn slipped through the poorly sealed glass. It wasn’t much—but it was shelter.
He sat on the edge of the bed, his coat still on, arms limp at his sides. His eyes burned, but he blinked furiously, resisting the sting as long as he could. His legs ached from the long walk. His body felt foreign to him—tight with tension, slow with exhaustion. And for the first time since leaving, Wonwoo allowed himself to cry.
The first tear slipped out almost unnoticed. Then another, and another, until his vision blurred and his shoulders started to shake. He buried his face in his hands, his breath hitching. It wasn’t loud—he had never been the kind to sob noisily—but the ache behind each breath was deep, his ribs drawing in and out with invisible weight. There was nothing wrong with crying. It was a release, a way to let out everything that had been bottled up. But right now, there was too much to process, too much to feel all at once. His emotions tangled in a knot too dense to separate, leaving him reeling.
The strongest emotion was anger. Why had his father returned after all these years, only to reclaim a house he had abandoned? The injustice of it made Wonwoo’s hands clench into fists. He had every right to be angry. The man who had disappeared without a single phone call, a letter, a visit—who had never been there for birthdays, graduations, hospital scares—was now dictating who belonged in a home he had walked away from. What kind of person did that?
He hated him. He hated the arrogance, the cruelty in his voice. He hated the way he had looked at Wonwoo, as if he were something shameful, something disposable. The man had returned not for love, not for reconciliation—but for power. Control. Walls and keys and rooms. Material things. Never about Wonwoo himself. Maybe he never had been.
But there was sadness too. A deep, aching sorrow. His father had taken him away from the one person who had always been there—his grandmother. The thought of her made his heart contract. Her gentle voice, her steady hands, her unshakable love. She had held his hand at every low point, celebrated every small win. She had given him her savings. Risked her own security. Promised to send his belongings. Even now, she was trying to protect him, shielding him in the only way she could.
And then, there was fear. Fear that the bastard would burn his clothes, toss out his makeup and shoes—erase years of effort, memories, and the life he had built for himself. All those hours he had spent sewing into the early morning, the handmade rhinestoned heels, the carefully mixed foundation shades and palettes built over months. He pictured it all being thrown into trash bags, torn apart, trampled. Gone.
He could only hope that his father had already left the house, just as his grandmother had assured him, and that she would be able to send everything soon. Maybe she had already started. Maybe, by the weekend, something would arrive—his suitcase, a box, even a note. Anything to remind him that not everything was lost.
Maybe he could still perform tonight, despite everything. He always kept one of his wardrobes at Yosul, stashed behind the mirrored dressing rooms, hidden under a plastic garment bag he’d carefully labeled "V.W. - Emergency." He had laughed when he first wrote it, but now, it felt almost prophetic.
But he wasn’t ready to tell his friends what had happened. He didn’t know how they would take it. He didn’t want their pity, or their anger, or the inevitable “Why didn’t you call us?” questions. Not yet. He wasn’t sure if he could handle their reactions just yet.
𖤍𖤍𖤍
“You didn’t have to book a hotel, babe. My apartment has plenty of space. If you move in, we can split rent next month,” Jun—currently transformed into the fierce and untouchable Joliette—declared with a confident smirk. Her voice was laced with that no-nonsense charm she always carried, even when wrapped in sarcasm. “You’ll be swimming in tips tonight, Won, just you wait.”
Joliette always commanded attention. With her signature BDSM-inspired aesthetic, she was draped head to toe in leather so polished it reflected the neon lights from the bar signs. Her corset gleamed under the dressing room bulbs, and the whip she twirled absentmindedly in one hand had a heart-shaped tip that looked deceptively innocent. The audience might scream at the theatrics, but her fellow queens knew better—it was a symbol of dominance, of control. True fans had even tattooed that mark onto their arms after a particularly unforgettable night at Yosul, a performance so intense it became legend. She had an aura that didn’t just say "don’t mess with me"—it said "worship me or get out of the way."
Wonwoo hadn’t planned to tell anyone about his situation, but there was no way to avoid it anymore. The moment he had walked into the greenroom, duffel bag slung over one shoulder and exhaustion clinging to his skin like a second layer, Jun had taken one look at him and known. He didn’t ask questions, not really. He just offered shelter in her own Joliette way: sharp-tongued but soft-hearted.
If there was anyone he could trust, it was Jun and Soonyoung—better known in the drag world as Fierezza Sparkle. Fierezza never stuck to just one concept, always experimenting with new styles that defied expectation. One week she’d be in feathers and fringe, the next in neon latex. Animal print, though, was a clear favorite. No one at Yosul had forgotten her legendary jungle-themed performance—complete with a live boa constrictor and a dance routine so wild it nearly got the fire alarm pulled.
Jun was doing his best to cheer him up. He knew Soon would too. Their love had never been loud, but it was steadfast, fiercely loyal. But even with their support, he hated the idea of burdening them. They had their own lives, their own struggles—gig schedules, day jobs, dreams always on the brink of slipping away. He didn’t want to be another weight on their shoulders, another crisis to juggle.
“Girl, stop overthinking and start beating that mug. You’re on in a few,” Joliette snapped, patting him on the shoulder with a firm hand, then giving him a shove toward the mirror. “No time to sulk. The crowd is hungry and you’re the main course.”
He was already dressed, slipping into the only outfit he had left at Yosul—a true classic, one of his favorites. The corset cinched his waist to perfection, sculpting an hourglass that didn’t come naturally, giving him the illusion of wider hips thanks to the expertly placed padding. The fabric shimmered subtly with every movement, catching the light like oil on water. Dark silk stockings traced the curves of his legs, ending just beneath the bodysuit that hugged his figure with defiant confidence. The heels—tall, patent, dangerously pointed—matched the corset exactly, elevating his stance and his presence. Every inch of him was calculated, polished, intentional.
The bodysuit barely covered his tuck, but it did its job. More importantly, it made him feel powerful. When he wore this, he wasn’t hiding—he was performing, demanding the gaze, daring the room to look closer. When it came to makeup, Violette Won had only one rule: bigger, bolder, badder.
Her eyes were dramatically enlarged with white liner that made them look almost doll-like, framed with jet-black lashes thick enough to cast shadows. The cat-eye flicks stretched toward her temples, so sharp they could cut glass. Shades of purple, lilac, and violet blended seamlessly over her lids, melting into one another like a stormy twilight sky. Glitter was dusted across her cheekbones, catching the light every time she moved. Highlighter sculpted her nose to appear thinner, more upturned—something unrecognizable from his usual self. Her lips were overlined and painted a glossy plum, plush and full, every inch inviting.
By the time he was done, Jeon Wonwoo had completely vanished. The only one left was Violette Won.
The host of the night, Barbarella, took the mic. Her voice echoed through the club, husky and electric. “Alright, my loves, brace yourselves. She’s beauty, she’s grace—she’ll steal your man and his wallet. Give it up for the one and only… Violette Won!”
The crowd erupted in a wave of hoots and cheers, claps and stomps rattling the floors. The energy surged through the air like static. And something inside Wonwoo shifted.
His posture straightened, his head tilted just so, and his lips curled into a confident smirk. He was Violette Won now, and the second her heels clicked against the runway, she wasn’t walking—she was gliding, commanding. The spotlight hit her like a spotlight always did: with reverence. The entire room fell into silence, all eyes magnetized to him.
And then the DJ dropped the track. A hard beat. A pounding bass. Sharp, cinematic strings layered over a sultry synth.
Violette didn’t wait, she moved instinctively, feeding off the electricity of the room like it was oxygen. Jeon Wonwoo liked routine. He liked structure, control, predictability. But Violette Won? She thrived on chaos. She lived for the unpredictable. She demanded attention. Her body hit every beat with precision, then deviated just enough to surprise—whipping her hair back, sliding down to a split, crawling forward like a panther on the prowl. She wanted to stun, to captivate, to make jaws drop. Whether she was intimidating, seductive, or downright terrifying—it didn’t matter. As long as she made them feel something. And they felt everything.
Madonna’s voice rang through the speakers. "Strike a pose."
And she did. With a flick of her wrist, a dramatic arch of her back, and a piercing gaze that could melt diamonds, she commanded the stage. Her silhouette was sculpted in light and shadow, outlined by the glittering strobes that swept across the runway like spotlights in a fever dream. Her movements were liquid fire—measured, sultry, electric. One hand on her hip, the other raised above her head, fingers curled just so.
Bills rained down like confetti. Singles and fives fluttered through the air, some crumpled, others still crisp from someone’s wallet, all falling at her feet like offerings. Every move, every strut, every flirtatious glance sent a jolt of power through her. Her heels clicked against the stage in perfect rhythm with the beat, each step echoing like punctuation. She dipped low, spun on her heel, snapped her head toward the audience with a smirk that made a front-row patron visibly swoon. The energy was intoxicating.
The music pulsed in her veins, her body no longer her own but Violette’s—a fearless, untouchable queen who knew no limits. She was untethered from everything: from Jeon Wonwoo’s exhaustion, his fear, the uncertainty of the hotel room waiting for him after the show. Here, she wasn’t small or scared or scraping by. She was impossible to ignore.
The bass dropped, and with it, she descended into a split that made the entire front row scream. She lingered there, hair cascading over one shoulder, lips parted just slightly—then rose with slow, deliberate power. She rolled her shoulders, tossed her head back, and strutted forward, hips swaying like a metronome.
Somewhere in the back, she caught a glimpse of Joliette and Fierezza peeking from behind the curtain, grinning like proud moms at a recital. It lit something in her, fueled her fire. She blew a kiss in their direction.
As the final beat echoed through the club, she stood tall, chest rising and falling with exhilaration. The spotlights dimmed, leaving only her silhouette against a backdrop of wild applause. The audience roared, some on their feet, others reaching toward the stage like she was divine. Hands reached out with bills, stuffing them into her stockings, into her corset, into her hands—hot from dancing, trembling with adrenaline.
And for a moment—for just a moment—she felt weightless. No pain. No fear. No past. Just Violette Won in all her glory, unbreakable.
𖤍𖤍𖤍
Violette never stepped out in full drag unless absolutely necessary—her grandmother had made her promise. But tonight, that promise had to be broken.
A cigarette burned between her fingers, its ember glowing red against the cool night air as smoke curled around her face, rising like incense toward the streetlights above. Her hand trembled just slightly, whether from the adrenaline still lingering in her veins or the dread creeping back into her chest, she wasn’t sure. She rarely smoked, but given the circumstances, this moment called for it.
Outside Yosul, the alley was quiet—just the distant hum of traffic, the muffled thump of bass still vibrating through the brick walls, and the occasional burst of laughter from the front of the bar. Here, though, it was just them: three queens catching their breath in the cool dark, basking in the afterglow of performance and shared fatigue.
“Babe, you devoured that stage,” Joliette purred, her leather-clad figure lounging casually against the wall, legs crossed, whip dangling from one hand like an afterthought. Her red lipstick hadn’t smudged a bit, and the smirk she wore was pure satisfaction. “They were gagging for you, and you knew it.”
Fierezza Sparkle flicked her freshly manicured claws toward Violette, the nails glinting like tiny daggers under the alley light. She leaned in, her signature cat-like growl slipping through her glossy lips. “And let’s talk about that outfit, honey. No matter how many times I see you in it, you still serve purr-fection. Meow.” Her wink was playful, but her praise genuine. There was love in every teasing word.
Violette exhaled a slow stream of smoke, her lips parting with a sigh as the nicotine chased away some of the buzzing thoughts. The weight of the night settled into her shoulders, dragging her down even in the wake of applause. The adrenaline was fading, leaving reality in its place. “Thanks, girls, but I don’t know how I’m gonna keep performing if I don’t get my stuff back. My entire career is hanging in that damn closet. I put my heart, soul, and savings into those looks—shoes, wigs, makeup—all of it. And my dad?” She scoffed bitterly, her mouth twisting. “He wouldn’t understand their worth even if I rhinestoned a damn label onto them.”
She ground the cigarette down between her fingers, watching the ash flake off like falling snow. Her hands were still covered in highlighter and glitter, but they felt heavy, callused, tired.
Joliette waved a dismissive hand, already scheming, her rings catching the light. “Oh, please, mama. We’re queens. We make something out of nothing all the time. Remember the duct tape dress from Pride? Legendary. I’ll pull some pieces from my stash, and we’ll tweak them to be very Violette Won. I’ve got some purple numbers—I know that’s your color. We’ll cinch you in with your corset, zhuzh it up, and no one will clock a thing.”
Fierezza nodded, already envisioning the possibilities. “I’ve got lashes you can borrow. The big ones. Like, make-your-eyes-pop-out-your-skull big.” She grinned. “And don’t worry about the makeup, either. We’ve got enough palettes between us to paint a damn cathedral.”
Violette gave a small smile, the tension in her chest loosening just a bit as their warmth wrapped around her like a favorite coat. This was why she loved them—why she trusted them with her truth, her exhaustion, her unspoken fears. They didn’t flinch. They didn’t pity. They showed up. “I don’t know what I’d do without you two.”
The cigarette burned to ash between her fingers, and she flicked it away, watching the spark fade as it hit the pavement. A silence passed between them, soft and reassuring, before they turned and headed back inside.
The warmth of the bar hit her like a wall, thick with the smell of sweat, perfume, spilled drinks, and the unmistakable scent of hairspray. Exhaustion tugged at her limbs, a quiet ache blooming in her thighs from dancing in heels, but the night wasn’t over yet. The post-show meet-and-greet meant more tips, and she was never one to turn down a little extra coin—especially not now.
She stepped into the golden haze of Yosul’s lights, her heels clicking against the scuffed floor as she moved through the press of bodies. Laughter echoed, voices called her name, and hands reached out for selfies, compliments, autographs. She smiled, posed, thanked them—all while her mind hovered somewhere in between reality and performance.
Eyes followed her, as they always did. With her towering frame and even higher heels, she was a walking billboard for Violette Won, a goddess in motion. Her corset gleamed, her wig still perfectly coiffed, her makeup flawless even after a full number under the stage lights. She was the fantasy incarnate, the illusion perfected. And if she had to be a billboard tonight, so be it. Anything helped.
𖤍𖤍𖤍
When Wonwoo returned to his hotel, a chaotic pile of boxes awaited him at the reception desk. The mess spilled across the counter like an avalanche—cardboard of all shapes and sizes, some battered, others pristine, stacked haphazardly as if the delivery person had lost all hope halfway through.
“Mr. Jeon, all these packages arrived for you a few hours ago,” the receptionist informed him, her voice tinged with awkwardness as she glanced nervously at the overwhelming heap. He understood her discomfort perfectly. There were far too many boxes for one person—at least fifteen in total, some taped shut tightly, others bulging with contents that threatened to spill out.
Exhausted beyond measure, every muscle aching from the day’s relentless pace, Wonwoo steeled himself. He gritted his teeth and began the tedious process of hauling them one by one up to his small, dimly lit room. The elevator was slow, the stairs even slower, but he didn’t complain. The boxes were heavy, but they held a fragile promise.
Inside those boxes was everything he thought he’d lost. His grandmother had managed to save every single piece—the costumes, the wigs, the makeup kits, shoes, and all the little treasures that made up his world as Violette Won. Relief washed over him in waves. Finally, something tangible, something real.
He only hoped his father wouldn’t retaliate in some cruel way. Though, honestly, what would be the point? None of these things had held any value for that man. If anything, Wonwoo reasoned, his father shouldn’t care that he wanted these items back, even if they had been left in his house like forgotten relics.
Once everything was stacked neatly inside the cramped confines of his hotel room, fatigue took its final victory. Wonwoo barely had the energy to kick off his shoes. His feet ached in protest as he peeled off the tight corset and slumped onto the edge of the bed. The last traces of makeup still clung stubbornly to his face—the faint shimmer of highlighter, the remnants of his bold eyeshadow. He didn’t bother wiping them away. It didn’t matter anymore.
He had taken a few days off from the café, telling himself he needed the rest. Right now, all he craved was sleep. As he lay back against the stiff hotel pillow, his eyes half-lidded, he wrote a text message for Jun.
Can I really move in and start paying rent next month?
Wonwoo got a quick reply.
Yessss! The extra room is yours, honey. My ex-roomie paid up before ditching me, so we’re covered for this month. You won’t have to worry about rent ‘til next. Don’t stress, Won.
A small, tired smile tugged at the corners of Wonwoo’s lips. The promise of a little help, a little relief, felt like a lifeline. Maybe, just maybe, with a little support, life wouldn’t be so unbearable after all.
𖤍𖤍𖤍
Wonwoo had no desire to sift through fifteen boxes filled with memories and fragile pieces of his past. The thought of unpacking each one, carefully peeling back layers of tissue paper to reveal worn shoes or slightly frayed costumes, felt overwhelming. Instead, he preferred to wait for Jun to pick him up in his boyfriend’s car and go through everything at his place, where the space was bigger, the light better, and the company far more comforting. He assumed all his outfits were there—fifteen boxes should be more than enough to hold his entire collection.
Each piece held more than just threads and sequins. From the very first time he stitched together an outfit—messy, imperfect stitches that somehow birthed something beautiful—to all the countless nights spent pricking his fingers with needles in frustration or exhaustion, every garment carried its own story. Every tear, every snag, every desperate rip followed by a painstaking restart was etched into the fabric’s very soul. Some might call him a hoarder, accumulating scraps and remnants of a past life. But Wonwoo saw it differently. This wasn’t just fabric and rhinestones—it was the history of Violette Won, a living archive of his art, his growth, and his dreams.
Besides, in the tight-knit world of drag, re-selling a worn outfit was practically sacrilege. Borrowing a piece here or there might be accepted—an homage, even—but copying someone’s entire look? That was a straight-up mockery of the craft, an insult to the creativity and hard work behind every design. The audience deserved originality, something fresh and daring. Wonwoo took immense pride in delivering exactly that night after night.
Lost deep in these swirling thoughts, his attention was suddenly ripped away by the sharp buzz of his phone vibrating insistently against the cluttered hotel desk. He startled, blinking as he picked it up.
“Hey! I’m outside! Let’s get this show on the road, okay?” Jun’s voice crackled through the speaker, bursting with energy and impatience.
“On my way,” Wonwoo replied, forcing a small grin as he shook himself back to reality and stood up, ready to face whatever came next.
𖤍𖤍𖤍
Jun’s apartment was much smaller than his grandmother’s old house, and his bedroom was even tinier—barely enough space to stretch out, let alone unpack a lifetime’s worth of memories. Yet Wonwoo managed to fit everything in, stacking boxes neatly along one wall, arranging his belongings with a quiet care that spoke volumes. He wasn’t complaining. Deep down, he knew how privileged he was. His grandmother had helped him in ways he could never fully repay. Even though he still didn’t have an explanation for her decision—why she had chosen to stand by his father and safeguard his past—he hadn’t demanded one.
This little space was his now, a sanctuary carved out from chaos, and he valued it more than words could say. Not everyone like him got a second chance like this, a chance to rebuild from scratch. He thought of Soonyoung, who still lived with his parents, sneaking stacks of flamboyant animal-print outfits hidden in the back of his closet, trying to keep that part of himself locked away from prying eyes. How did he manage it? The thought made Wonwoo’s chest tighten with sympathy.
For now, all that mattered was that everything was here. His grandmother had truly done an amazing job packing up his things—the careful folds, the padding around delicate shoes, the little notes she’d tucked inside boxes reminding him to take care. He had sent her a quick text letting her know he’d moved in with a friend, keeping the details vague. A part of him still feared his father, that lingering unease twisting in his gut like a storm ready to break. If that man ever got his hands on his messages, on the fragile threads of his new life, the reaction would be explosive, violent even.
But Wonwoo had to believe that everything would be okay. At least this apartment was in a great location—close to the school where Jun taught, and not far from the café where he worked. The proximity gave him hope, a foothold to cling to.
Tomorrow, he told himself firmly, he would come back stronger than ever. He had to. And by the weekend, he’d be back on stage where he belonged, transforming into Violette Won, dazzling and untouchable. Everything would return to normal—or as normal as it ever was.
Still, he missed his grandmother fiercely. Her home-cooked meals that filled the kitchen with warmth and comfort. Her random questions that caught him off guard but showed she cared. The way she’d light up, eyes sparkling, whenever he posed in one of his newest looks, just so she could admire him—proud and unabashed.
But the anger lingered too. His father’s sudden return, the coldness in his presence that was enough to push Wonwoo out of the only home he’d known—it still ate at him, gnawed at his spirit in quiet, relentless ways. The frustration was suffocating, like a heavy fog clouding his thoughts. He stepped into the shower, letting the hot water wash away the weight pressing on his chest, the tension creeping into his muscles. Stay positive, Wonwoo. Just breathe. Let it all go, at least for a little while.
He wished, more than anything, that he could channel Violette Won right now. She wouldn’t care about the past or the pain. She’d be shameless, fearless, untouchable. She wouldn’t let herself be defeated.