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“The time to sing is when your emotional level is just too high to speak anymore, and the time to dance is when your emotions are just too strong to only sing about how you feel.”

Bob Fosse

-

It’s as cold as a mid-December night in New York City can be. Crowds pour in and out of theaters. The buzz of Broadway is electric—honking horns, distant tap shoes, neon signs flashing names in lights. Wicked, Hamilton, Hadestown. 

And soon, Chicago again. 

“I knew you’d say that. Let’s fucking get to work. Alright, talk to you soon, Jeong. Bye.”

Chaeyoung hangs up the phone while she pushes herself off a brick wall, so close to the New Amsterdam theatre that she could almost hear the score of Aladdin trickling out onto the busy street. 

It’s too cold for anyone with a normal heartbeat and body heat, but Chaeyoung is far from that right now. She can feel her wrist pulsating, her chest beating like a drum, almost feels too hot in her padded leather jacket and hoodie that’s pulled over her head. The smokey, frigid air exits from her open mouth because she can’t close it, the grin transforming into a tremendously honest laugh.

She’s just left a meeting. A big one.

She dials another number on her phone. The most important one.

Dahyun answers, in a piano-strewn studio somewhere uptown, while mid-note. Chaeyoung can hear it in the background. 

“Hey, baby. Did it go okay?”

“Okay? Okay?”

She stops right in the middle of the sidewalk, unable to contain the sheer electricity that runs through her body. “We fucking got it!” 

A couple of tourists glance over. She doesn’t care. She throws one arm up like a football coach who just won the Super Bowl. “We got the rights to CHICAGO! Fosse. Ebb. Kander. Velma. Roxie. The whole goddamn razzle-dazzle.”

Dahyun laughs on the other end. Even in excitement, her voice comes off as serene as possible. “No way! You serious? They said yes?”

“They said yes. They want me to direct. Me. Us. The revival of all revivals.”

She starts pacing like she’s about to punch through a wall—not angry, just feral with energy.

“This is it, Dubu. This is our show. We’re gonna rip the walls down. Grit. Sex. Power. I’m gonna burn the stage with it.”

“Damn right you are,” Dahyun says, ever the supportive anchor that Chaeyoung can feel the presence of even through a speaker. Then she asks the important question. “So... who’s gonna be our Roxie and Velma?”

Chaeyoung stops walking. A slow, wicked smile spreads across her face.

“Oh, I’ve got just the pair.”

With the quick silence that lingers, Chaeyoung can guess what’s going through Dahyun’s mind. “You’re not seriously thinking—"

“Myoui Mina and Im Nayeon.”

Silence on the other end again. Then—

“You’re insane.”

Chaeyoung laughs. “No, I’m a genius.”

She’s moving again now, striding down the street like it belongs to her. The wind cuts her face and she doesn’t feel a thing. The lights of Broadway are behind her. She’s hungry. Not literally; in her state she’s sure she can’t down even a much desired cup of black coffee. 

So she continues talking to her love and half to herself. “They hate each other. Perfect chemistry. They’ll set the stage on fire or kill each other trying.”

“And you’re okay babysitting two grown women who’d rather die than hold hands?”

Chaeyoung grins. “I’m not babysitting. I’m directing. There’s a difference.”

“You’re truly one of a kind, Son Chaeyoung,” Dahyun chuckles on the other end of the line. 

Chaeyoung knows. 

She lifts a hand, hailing a yellow cab, her mind already racing. A million ideas spin through her head as she slides into the back seat, the door shutting on the cold behind her.

Two texts are already sent—each to one of the only two people who won’t need to audition. How lucky.

Two messages. Different tones, different purposes. But the same goal.

She needs the end result to be inevitable.

The orchestra tapers into a hush, strings trembling like a breath held too long.

Mina stands center stage, the last note of “Fable” fading into the proscenium lights. She comes close to tears, which is odd to her. The audience doesn’t breathe either. Her arms fall slowly to her sides, hands delicate, her posture still feeling the effects of Clara’s grace.

The applause comes like thunder. Grateful, reverent. She bows, elegant and modest, one hand over her heart, then walks offstage, stage-left, quiet. The curtains close for the final time on The Light in the Piazza revival.

Backstage is dimmer and the walls are warmer. Crew members nod, a few hug her. She thanks them all, as she always does.

Mina slips into her dressing room, the door gently clicking shut behind her. The noise dulls. Quiet, like she always prefers. At least for a couple of moments, before the celebration starts.

Her fingers move before her mind catches up, phone unlocked, messages open.

“You were light. You were water. You were perfect. Let’s talk soon. Like, tomorrow soon. Come to my office. - C”

Mina stares at the screen for a second longer than necessary. She lets herself smile, small and private. Behind her, the bustle of strike-down prep begins. Her dressing table still holds a nearly empty perfume bottle and a stack of fan letters tied in yellow ribbon. The flowers from closing night crowd the room in a sweet, humid aroma.

Her phone buzzes again. A new message from Dahyun, too.

And just like that, Mina knows—this isn’t an end. It’s an overture.

It’s the scream of the organ, the clash of shadows, the final burst of manic, bloody glee.

Nayeon whips around onstage, eyes gleaming, lips red as murder. Her final line cuts like a knife:

“DIE! DIE! GOD IN HEAVEN, DIE!”

Soon the lights crash down. Curtain.

The audience is feral. Not the polite kind of standing ovation; no, this is a roar. A theater erupting in primal applause. Nayeon takes it like a queen—arms raised, grin wide, eyes flashing. The villainess adored. The diva triumphant. Sweeney Todd, for the final time.

She vanishes backstage and the adrenaline hits her like a second wind. She laughs—loud, unfiltered—and pats the ensemble on the back as they rush to change. Her heels clack on the floor. Her coat, still splattered with fake blood, swings dramatically as she heads toward her dressing room.

Her phone is already in her hand by the time the door shuts behind her.

Chaeyoung has texted: “God, you’re terrifying. Remind me not to piss you off. See you soon. Like, tomorrow soon. Come to my office. - C”

Nayeon lets out a loud snort. She snaps a mirror selfie with a smear of red lipstick and her corset still half-undone, and texts back: “Only if you cast me right, darling.”

She scrolls. More texts. Agents. Friends. Journalists. Rumors buzzing about “what’s next.” She doesn’t respond to any of them. Not yet.

Then a voice floats from the hallway:

“I heard she’s in talks with Chaeyoung again. You think it’s Chicago?”

Another:

“If it is, she’ll kill it if she’s Velma.”

She leans back in her chair and tosses her phone on the vanity. Lets the silence settle.

Her reflection stares back, wicked and powerful. She’s played the villain to perfection.

But now?

Time to sharpen the heels. 

She has been told countless times that her office smells like coffee, history and creativity. People in show business are often dramatic and hyperbolic, she knows.

She's one of them.

But Chaeyoung always finds herself at home in that medium-sized office; vintage posters, stacks of untouched scripts sprawling like mushrooms around the room, a vinyl player that has played mostly jazz and some of Dahyun's original scores ever since she bought the place. 

This is paradise for her, her domain. It's lived in, worn out. But the sun still filters in through the window and warms her director's chair that has a red “CHAENG” stitched in. Gifted as a joke by Dahyun, taken seriously by Chaeyoung. 

This isn't where the magic happens, but this is where it starts. Where ideas come alive, scribbled in yellow pads and white vision boards, where she would let chaos reign and then allow herself to be reigned in when Dahyun starts with her inputs. 

It's a quarter to five in the afternoon and Chaeyoung hears a soft knock on her door. She jumps from the chair with a smile because there's only one person that would knock like that. 

“Hey, Mina. It's been a while.” 

“Oh, so good to see you again.” 

They hug, swaying in place with light laughter. “How long has it been? A year?” Chaeyoung asks, leading Mina inside to sit on a black leather couch she recently bought. 

Mina nods, taking her seat and placing her bag on the glass coffee table in front. “Yeah, I think so. Right after we wrapped Mother Courage, I jumped right into The Light in the Piazza, zero breaks. Didn't even have time to breathe.” 

She gives Chaeyoung an easy smile, hands on her knees, one leg crossed over the other. Mina's innate elegance doesn't allow her to be fully relaxed anywhere—her spine doesn't touch the back of the couch. 

It's something that Chaeyoung always found odd about the humble star in front of her, and something that she deeply admires. Mina's restraint and calmness in any environment reminds her of Dahyun. 

“Yeah, that's right. Well, you haven't seen me for that long but I have seen you. I knew you were wrapping up soon and I found some time this week to catch a performance. Mina, you were… incredible. Seriously. You know me, you know I don't hand out compliments easily.” 

“Oh, I know. You make us earn it.” 

Mina's laugh is light, intimate. It comes with familiarity. 

“Exactly. Your Clara was phenomenal. I hate you for making me cry.” 

“That means I did my job right.” 

“You sure did. You always do. Before we start, do you want anything? Coffee, water?” 

Mina shakes her head. “I'm okay. I know you didn't call me here just to sing my praises. Come on, I'm ready. Do you have something for me?” 

Chaeyoung leans back on her chair, pleasantly surprised by Mina's seeming excitement over what Chaeyoung has called her in here for. 

So Chaeyoung doesn't waste any more time, leaning forward again. It's hard for her to hide her own excitement from her voice. “The rumors you may have heard are true, Mina-yah. I got Chicago. And sorry, but I'm not gonna give you time to breathe either. You're my Roxie.” 

There's a beat and then Mina exhales, letting go of that restraint for a few seconds. But Chaeyoung doesn't know how to take it because she sees the woman in front of her shake her head, even if it's barely noticeable. But Chaeyoung notices it. She notices everything. 

“Who's involved?” 

It honestly catches Chaeyoung off guard for a second. She had been ready to bounce ideas off Mina, see how they would bring her Roxie to life. The most she would expect from Mina at this very beginning would be to ask when it's the first table read, that's it. 

But Chaeyoung adapts, she has learned to do that over the years. Even if her read on someone at first may be completely off, she feels she has the tools to overcome the adversities thrown her way. 

So she humors Mina. 

“No one you're not familiar with. Dahyun, of course. Jeongyeon is stepping down from Cabaret to manage this project. Sana has just returned from a national tour with the Follies, she designed the whole thing, that mad woman. I was able to hook her quickly before she got away again. Momo has wanted to do Fosse for god knows how long, she was maybe the easiest get. Jihyo's producing and doing PR of course and she's got this new kid, Tzuyu… she's good, Mina. Really good. Social media genius.” 

She's standing now, and she hands Mina a print out of the Chicago score; Mina takes it, flips a few pages. She's elegant, composed, but there’s a flicker of nerves in her eyes.

Chaeyoung starts to pace like a general before a battle. “You’re Roxie. There’s no question. You’ve got the ice, the charm, the dangerous stillness. You’re gonna kill it.”

“Look, I appreciate the offer, Chaeyoung. I really do. But... you're sure about this? Roxie’s a sharp turn from what I usually do.”

“That’s why you’re doing it. You’re too good to play it safe anymore, Mina.”

Mina considers that. Her fingers trace the edge of the score. If she's going to take a risk, why not with a legendary show? And with Chaeyoung steering the ship? She finds her headshake turning into a nod. 

“Alright. I’m in. Just tell me who Velma is. Please don’t say—”

The door flings open, and in comes a hurricane. 

“Sorry, sorry I'm late. Midtown traffic is, honestly, a war crime.” 

She enters like she owns the room, tossing her sunglasses on a side table, sipping on an iced coffee like she’s walking into a Vanity Fair shoot. She stops short when she sees Mina.

A silence hits the room like a cymbal crash.

“...You’ve got to be kidding me,” Nayeon puts it, defeat in her voice.

Mina manages to put herself together within a few seconds of the arrival, and her voice is cool, polite. “Hello, Nayeon.”

Nayeon doesn't reply, looking directly at Chaeyoung. 

“You said you had a role for me. Singular. You didn’t say anything about her.”

Chaeyoung circles back to her chair, leaning her back against it, unfazed by the theatrics. The irony in that. “Because if I had, you wouldn’t have shown up. And I need you both here.”

Nayeon doesn't sit; she scoffs, pacing now, pulling her hair into a quick messy bun—annoyed and way too hot to storm out believably. She stands and locks in a position as if she's making a power move. It doesn't really work because the smirk still sits on Chaeyoung's lips. 

“Chaeyoung, I'm not about to spend six months listening to Princess Porcelain whisper-sing her way through jazz numbers.” 

“I've seen your jazz hands before, Nayeon. I'll be fine,” Mina puts it flatly. But then the two are startled by a loud clap and a laugh. 

“Good! There it is. That's what I want.” 

The stars focus back on Chaeyoung, now both in silence as the director gets up again. “I want fire. Conflict. You two have more tension than any actors I’ve ever worked with. You hate each other? Great. Use it. Velma and Roxie hate each other.”

She steps between them like she’s conducting lightning.

“But they also need each other. And that? That’s your story.”

Nayeon starts to pace again, shaking her head. “This is going to be career suicide.” 

“No, this is the best press you’ll ever get. Broadway will eat this up with a spoon.”

That's the way Chaeyoung ends her pitch, but she already knows she has them. She can catch it in their eyes, the way Nayeon looks at the Chicago score that Mina had left on the table.

Mina comments, her voice low but razor-sharp. “You're playing with fire, Chaeyoung.” 

“Good. Let it burn.” 

Chaeyoung claps again, and then she ends the meeting. “Jihyo is already in touch with your agents to finalize the contracts for you to sign. Should be done by the end of the week. I'll be in touch, girls.” 

Mina rises, taking the score from the table and giving a curt nod Chaeyoung's way. She leaves without sparing Nayeon another look. 

The older woman looks a little breathless, hands on her waist. When she gets back to herself, she's halfway through the open door that Mina left when she hears Chaeyoung's voice. 

“Hey, Velma?” 

Nayeon looks back. 

“Don't hold back.” 

BREAKING: Chaeyoung Secures Rights for Chicago Revival—Her First Golden Age Musical Reimagined

BY VALERIE KIM | PLAYBILL STAFF WRITER

DECEMBER 27th 2025

In a move that has already sent ripples through the theatre world, Tony-winning director Son Chaeyoung has officially secured the rights to direct a new Broadway revival of Chicago—marking her first foray into reimagining one of Broadway’s golden-age giants.

Known for her visceral, genre-defying direction and modern takes on canonical works, Chaeyoung has built a reputation for turning tradition on its head while honoring the roots of American musical theatre. With Chicago, she is now tackling perhaps the most iconic show in the Kander & Ebb canon—and insiders say it will be “unlike any revival we’ve seen before.” 

This announcement follows a string of career-defining productions from the 30-something phenom: the poetic brutality of Spring Requiem (Off-Broadway), the daring revival of Pacific Overtures (Sondheim) with an all-female Asian cast, and the dance-theater hybrid The Last Waltz, which took home Tonys for both Best Direction and Choreography. Her work on Broadway so far is known for precision, danger, and depth—three words that can also easily describe the women of Chicago.

According to sources close to the production, Chaeyoung has been quietly developing her vision for the show for over a year, aiming to strip away the glitz and lean into the razor-sharp satire beneath the jazz hands. “It won’t be feathers and smiles,” says one insider. “It’ll be blood and silk and mirrors. Fame as punishment. Vaudeville as a weapon. It’s very Chaeyoung.”

And now, the question everyone is asking: Who’s playing Roxie and Velma?

While nothing has been confirmed, rumors are running hot. Im Nayeon, fresh off her critically acclaimed turn as Mrs. Lovett in Sweeney Todd, is reportedly in talks to play the magnetic, ambitious Velma Kelly. Meanwhile, Myoui Mina, who brought aching grace to Clara in The Light in the Piazza, is the top contender for Roxie Hart. The pair have never shared the stage—but fans are already buzzing about the chemistry (and tension) this casting could bring.

Representatives for Chaeyoung declined to comment on casting at this time, but industry watchers note that both Nayeon and Mina cleared their upcoming schedules following their respective closing nights.

Production is slated to begin rehearsals this spring, with a limited pre-Broadway run planned before transferring to the Belasco Theatre.

One thing’s certain: if Chicago is getting the Chaeyoung treatment, it won’t just razzle-dazzle—it’ll cut.

Stay tuned to Playbill for more exclusive updates as the production develops.

[#ChaeyoungDoesChicago]

Mina closes the door with a quick smile as her agent heads for the elevator with her immediate future sealed in a manila folder. 

Ink has been put to paper two days before the new year comes. Myoui Mina is officially Chaeyoung’s Roxie Hart. Jihyo had gotten in touch with her a few hours before her agent came, just to let her know that the press release confirming that she and Nayeon had gotten the lead parts in Chaeyoung's revival was coming out at midnight. Soon they're going to meet so Mina can give her first comments as an official cast member. 

“It will be a pleasure to work with you again, darling,” Jihyo had said. 

She takes the empty wine glass that her agent had left behind and brings it to the kitchen, refilling her own. Mina slowly walks barefoot through her living room, shadows from the city lights stretching across wooden floors. Her apartment, a nice find in the middle of the West Village, smells faintly of lavender and old sheet music. Her pointe shoes hang by the window like relics.

Mina sits at the piano, that old thing, in a soft tank top and sweatpants, hair tucked behind one ear. She plays a few bars of “Roxie,” then stops. Sighs.

Soon the texts will ramp up, calls from close colleagues with congratulations at the tip of their tongues and a bit of professional envy in the unspoken words; Mina has done the rounds before, she knows how this world works. She has made peace with the fact that she has to live in it. 

And of course, the media was coming too. Any outlet, magazine or theatre geek with a mic and a podcast was going to have opinions on this foray into Chicago that Chaeyoung was about to take on. Jihyo had assured her that she need not worry, she would handle everything the way it was supposed to be. Mina believes her, of course. Jihyo has a reputation to uphold. 

So Mina isn't concerned with the reactions, just mildly curious. It grants her mind the space to be consumed by just one thing. One person.

Instead of playing another key, she takes a sip of her wine and remembers that day. 

[Three Years Earlier – A Panel Interview During Award Season]

Mina remembers the room feeling warm, not just from the soft lighting or the well-placed couches and chairs, but from the energy of it all. Ten of Broadway’s rising stars, herself included, were gathered for a panel, chatting and laughing with a surprisingly charismatic host whose YouTube channel, dedicated to the rich, often-overlooked queer history of the Great White Way, had recently exploded in popularity among younger theater fans.

The conversation was lively, the wine was excellent, and Nayeon was seated right beside her. Up until now, their interactions had been fleeting: a few exchanged words in audition hallways, a shared ensemble number at last year’s Tonys, and the occasional compliment passed through interviews or mutual friends.

Mina isn’t even sure what the current question is. She’s too distracted by Nayeon’s profile—sharp and elegant—and the way her laugh curls into the air like a melody Mina wants to memorize. It's something about high-school stereotypes and Nayeon is a little too eager when she says, “Oh, teacher's pet?” and then her glance goes sideways. To Mina. 

“This one. Definitely.” 

The room laughs. Even Mina smiles politely, but she feels the sting. But then Nayeon adds, without malice, but too flippantly. “She’s the safe pick. Like, you cast her and you know exactly what you’re gonna get—elegant, lovely, very... dependable.”

A beat.

The laughter fades slightly.

Mina keeps smiling. But her fingers tighten around her wine glass.

That had been the start of something… undefined. A text sat in her drafts for over a year. She deleted it, told herself to let it go. But she didn't. She couldn't. The question she had for Nayeon had remained in her mind. 

Just five simple words. 

Why did you say that? 

Mina couldn't understand. She couldn't accept to be seen like that, even in jest. 

She'd been working too fucking hard for too fucking long to be reduced to a simple, plain canvas that would be easy to just throw some paint on and come out with something… nice. Safe. Boring. 

Eventually Mina didn’t have the time to give to that initial hurt, she bottled it and moved on because work demanded it. 

Just a few months after Mina had wiped her drafts clean, a new musical—“Glass Garden”—was in pre-production. It was a dark, modern twist on a classic tragedy. Every ambitious actress in town wanted the lead: Seraphine, a character who was both fragile and determined, stubborn to the core. Both Mina and Nayeon auditioned. This time there was no slightly insincere “Good luck” in the hallway. There were just no words at all.

Nayeon threw her soul into the part. She was gritty, raw, tears staining her audition blouse.

Mina walked into the rehearsal studio and performed with restraint, quiet grief, understated elegance.

When the casting went public: Mina was Seraphine.

Nayeon found out from a tweet. That's what Mina's been told. She won her first Tony for that performance. 

Later that night, after the applause had faded and the cameras moved on, Mina walked alone down a quiet hallway toward the press room, her trophy cradled tightly to her chest, eyes shining with unshed tears. From the opposite end, Nayeon appeared—beautiful, blood red gown gliding against the floor, gripping a sealed envelope in her hands. Right. She was presenting the next award.

Mina could see her fingers tremble. 

But if there's one thing that Nayeon never missed, it was an opportunity. “Congrats. Guess being ‘safe’ wins Tonys too.”

Mina didn’t flinch. “I wasn’t trying to beat you, Nayeon.”

“You didn’t have to. You just walked in and got handed the part, like always.”

“You think it was handed to me?” Mina’s voice cracked, raw. “You think I don’t bleed for this? I woke up every day afraid I didn’t deserve it because people like you keep telling me I don’t.”

Something flickered in Nayeon’s expression—something real, unguarded.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did,” Mina cut in. “You always do.”

That was the moment Mina understood: this thing between them wasn’t vague anymore. It had shape now. Weight. Taste.

Nayeon wasn’t just another name on a cast list.

She was her equal. 

So naturally, she became her rival. 

Snow falls quietly outside, blanketing the city in silence and Mina rises to turn the heat up on her thermostat. When she comes back, she looks out the window, the lights of the city reflected on her glass. Somewhere out there, Nayeon is probably still seething from the meeting a couple of days earlier. Mina… isn’t.

She just feels unsteady. Like something she’s buried deep is waking up.

She walks back to the piano.

Her fingers find the keys, and she plays “Roxie” straight through—slow, eerily haunting. The flash is stripped in her lonely rendition. In her mind, quietly, a Roxie that doesn’t demand the spotlight, but pulls you in with a whisper, appears.

A new Roxie, blooming in the dark.

“Why the hell are you in Cabo anyway? It's Christmas.” 

Nayeon munches loudly on a Dorito while she stirs the marinara sauce for the spaghetti she's planning to eat later. Her open kitchen right now smells like tomato and garlic, but the red wine she uses to give the sauce a little oomph holds a stronger scent. 

She’d learned the technique from an Italian costume designer during Sweeney Todd, while the woman was mending the hem of Mrs. Lovett’s tattered dress. She was no Sana—no one was—but she was competent, fun and she talked with her hands, a lot. 

“Less than half a glass, sweetie. Then stir it and let it marinate for a while.” 

So Nayeon does just that. It gives her time to set her phone on the counter and lower the stereo, which had been looping the Gypsy original score all afternoon.

On the screen, Jeongyeon rolls her eyes and raises a neon-colored drink complete with a tiny straw hat. “You managed to be wrong twice in one sentence. Impressive, holy shit. I’m not in Cabo, I’m in Cancun. And Christmas was four days ago.”

Nayeon shrugs, pulling a stool closer and reaching for her own glass, now pouring the wine for herself. “You still haven't answered my question though. Why are you there?” 

She doesn’t say it out loud, but it would’ve been nice to have someone around. A friend. Companionship, even. There were parties she could go to, sure, but the thought of fake laughter and badly delivered Chicago puns to ring in the new year makes her feel tired already.

“Just enjoying the last few days of freedom before the madness starts,” Jeongyeon replies, raising her glass. She takes a sip and scrunches her face—the drink must be strong.

“Don't act like you're not itching to start production on this. You live for the chaos. I know you, Yoo Jeongyeon. It's weird not seeing a headset fused to your neck.”

And yes, Nayeon knew Jeongyeon. 

They met during Pippin, in perhaps the role that really opened the eyes of Broadway to who Im Nayeon really was; as The Leading Player, Nayeon threw herself into the character, offering up her flavor and making a mark. But it was still a role that was both physically demanding and mentally taxing. She was used to people managing her schedule, her fittings, her transport—everything. But Jeongyeon was the first person who truly managed her on stage.

Nayeon wasn't just impressed with the way Jeongyeon mastered the stage and all its features. She was amazed. It was like watching a surgeon perform a ten-hour brain operation with precision.

Jeongyeon had an eerie ability to keep a production’s heartbeat steady. Nayeon noticed early on how the cast and crew unconsciously aligned themselves to Jeongyeon’s tempo. She was surgical, efficient, and somehow, never frazzled. When everyone else was spiraling about missed cues or delayed lighting transitions, Jeongyeon was already solving the next three problems before they even happened.

Backstage, their friendship was slow-burning but basically inevitable (if necessary Nayeon would insist until Jeongyeon bent). Nayeon respected power, and Jeongyeon wielded hers in silence. No ego. Just results.

Over time, Nayeon started lingering at Jeongyeon’s desk between scenes, sipping from her coffee thermos and listening to her cuss out suppliers under her breath. They started grabbing late-night ramen after shows, texting memes about bad reviews, venting about industry politics. Nayeon used to point at the monitors in front of Jeongyeon and make suggestions during the understudies' rehearsals. Jeongyeon would ignore her.

When Nayeon won her Tony, Jeongyeon was the only person who got a shoutout in her dressing room toast.

“Fine, you got me. I can't wait,” Jeongyeon relents, raising her glass again. Nayeon raises hers in response, tilting it toward the screen in a ghost of a clink. “I’m glad you’re in it too, Nay. Honestly, it was inevitable.”

Nayeon just shakes her head, amused, and moves to lower the heat on the stove. She carries her wine and Jeongyeon in Cabo (Cancun!) with her, lighting an incense stick on the way. The scent curls through the air, the smell of food slowly being taken over. She sinks into the cushions, tucking her legs beneath her.

“The other one was inevitable too, right? If I'm to believe Chaeyoung's words.” 

“Come on, don't talk about her like that.” 

Jeongyeon doesn't fight. But she's been a part of this conversation too many times to not feel tired.

“She just sat there, Jeong. Like she hadn’t been cast as the lead in my show. Like she didn’t know exactly how to push every button I have.”

“But… she didn't say anything, did she?” 

“She mocked my jazz hands!” 

Jeongyeon laughs on the other end and apologizes after the glare that comes her way.

“She never says anything. That’s the whole thing with her. She just looks at you with those ballerina eyes and makes you feel like you’re the villain.”

She downs the rest of her wine in one gulp.

Jeongyeon tries to be helpful or…logical. “Well… to be fair, you are playing Velma.”

Nayeon has a deadpan look on her face. “This isn’t helping.”

Jeongyeon chuckles, leaning back in her chair as she thanks the waitress in truly awful Spanish. A plate of shrimp lands in front of her. After she eats the first one she wipes her hands on a napkin and says, “Alright. Serious question. Is this about Mina, or is this about you not getting Roxie?”

That hits like a dart. Nayeon doesn’t answer right away.

She stares into her empty glass like it betrayed her. “I don’t know.”

Jeongyeon waits.

“She’s always been the one they want. The one who’s ‘elegant,’ who ‘elevates the work.’ And I’m always the messy one. The bold one. The one with edge. The bad girl.”

Jeongyeon has a sympathetic look on her face that Nayeon wants to punch it. “You make it sound like that’s a bad thing.”

Nayeon's voice comes out quietly, the little string on one of her cushions suddenly very interesting. “Maybe I’m tired of being cast as the villain—on stage and off.”

Jeongyeon puts down her ridiculous large shrimps and her face gets closer to the camera. “Then show them something different.”

“And what, play nice with Mina?”

“Play real. You don’t have to like her. You just have to let people see you.”

Nayeon scoffs but doesn’t push back. That’s what scares her, maybe—being seen without the armor.

“I should’ve walked out the second I saw her face.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t. And don't give me this bullshit, please. Like you'd ever turn down Chicago.”

Nayeon leans her head back, eyes closed. Exhausted. Vulnerable. The question comes out before she can seal it away again. “What if she’s better than me?”

Jeongyeon gives her the finger and waits patiently until Nayeon opens her eyes again so she can see it. “Then just fucking burn brighter. You’re Im Nayeon. The stage doesn’t stand a chance. But if you miss a single cue I will kill you.”

Nayeon smiles. Just barely.

Chaeyoung’s text is short. Too short. The kind that feels like a threat, even if it isn’t meant to be. Most likely is.

“First table-read: April. Jihyo will let you know the exact date. Work, Mina. Become Roxie. - C.” 

Mina gulps the last of her latte like it’s a shot of courage, then tightens her ponytail. Okay. Three months. Just as expected. 

Her eyes drift to the coffee table, the script sent to her the previous day already color marked to death. Beside it, a fresh journal—clean, black cover, no stickers this time—titled with quiet precision: Roxie.

She sinks back onto the floor, legs crossed, earbuds in and setting up her second watch of Ann Reinking’s performance on her tablet. Lines in the mirror, again. Softer this time. Then sharper. A smile that means something different every take. She changes her breathing—shallow here, deeper there—until the rhythm of a scene shifts under her control.

She reaches for her stationery drawer and finds the colored tabs she likes best. She uses yellow for performance notes, pink for emotional turns, and blue for moments where Roxie lies—to others, to herself.

And then, in the journal, she begins to carve. Just fragments of a past life, not full backstories. A flicker of Roxie’s mother’s perfume. A neighbor with a piano. A cheap necklace she stole when she was ten and never wore. Things that make her real. Things never to be said aloud.

Mina pauses, pen in hand. A quiet settles over her apartment. For the first time, she feels it; not the role, not the pressure.

But Roxie. Just the faintest shape of her. And she writes.

“I need Velma Kelly in my studio in three months, Nayeon. Deliver her to me (in bubble wrap, if possible) - C.” 

Nayeon squats in front of her TV screen like she’s a women’s basketball coach ready to call a timeout, tight white knuckles holding up her chin as she analyses how Bebe Neuwirth glides on the stage with the sharpest heels known to mankind. She mouths the lines like they already belong to her.

Her downstairs neighbor complains about the noise and Nayeon doesn’t complain about the fine that comes a few days later, courtesy of her landlord. Because she needs this process to be loud, visceral and real. She buys a fake, plastic Tommy gun online just to see how she looks with it in front of the mirror.

The marks on her script are in red, words capitalized and exclamation points to get her attention if she ever falters.Velma’s words are like weapons coming out of Nayeon’s lips—fierce, theatrical, fake and deeply human.

She tapes a mirror to the inside of her closet door and practices her monologues in the dark, just a slit of hallway light slicing through her silhouette. “My sister Veronica and I had this double act—” she growls into the mirror like she’s warning it, like it should know what’s coming next.

Her muscles ache from practicing choreography she hasn’t even been taught yet, mimicking Bebe’s precision from grainy YouTube clips and blurry bootlegs. She marks the moves with her whole body—hips angled like she's stalking her prey, elbows piercing like daggers. Velma dances as if the stage is her battlefield.

In three months she'll be the Velma Chaeyoung needs. Without the bubble wrap. Maybe. 

[January 4th - Pearl Studios - 500 8th Av. New York City - 8:30 AM] 

Chaeyoung remembers now why she hates getting productions greenlit during the winter. It's because she hates the winter. The cold in New York in early January is a form of torture that Chaeyoung will forever bend to its will and leave the home blended with as many layers as humanly possible. 

She’s thin—thinner when she’s in production (Dahyun threatens murder during those stretches)—so any gust of wind feels like it slices straight through her. 

Yet… 

This is the best she has felt since getting out of that meeting with Jihyo and the suits last month.

It's day one. 

A day where the dream and the vision are still fresh and burning bright in Chaeyoung's chest. There won’t be another day one, and that lights her up.

With a steaming cup of coffee tucked between her gloved hands, Chaeyoung stops a few feet away from the studio door because the sight startles her for a hot second.

Momo is already outside the building, standing with one of her hands stuffed into an oversized bomber jacket that definitely once belonged to someone else. Maybe a stagehand. Maybe a complicated fling, who knows. Her beanie hangs lopsided, her sweatpants too thin for the weather, and there’s an old duffel bag at her feet that has seen better days.

Her phone is sideways, her white air pods on display; she’s watching old Chicago numbers—scanning moves, memorizing rhythm. Doing the homework. 

Chaeyoung can't help herself. “You know, if I didn't know there's a Tony hanging on a shelf in your living room, I'd probably think you're here to mug me.” 

Momo glances over, utterly unfazed, smirking as she sizes Chaeyoung up. “You look… small. And thin. When’s the last time you ate something?” 

“I'm in my prime, the fuck are you talking about?” 

A beat of silence—and then they’re both laughing, hugging, their puffy jackets rustling against each other.

“Fuck, I missed you. Thank you for doing this,” Chaeyoung says, cheeks a little warmer once they separate.

“Are you kidding? If you hadn’t given me Chicago, you’d better have moved to another continent,” Momo replies, slinging the duffel over her shoulder as Chaeyoung opens the studio door.

“Where’s Dahyun?” Momo asks after they check in with the receptionist and confirm their rehearsal space.

“She’s getting bagels for everyone. You know how she is. She’ll be here soon.”

Momo shakes her head. “Too many carbs. I already ate.”

“Who said any of them were for you?” Chaeyoung teases.

Once inside the heated studio, Momo shrugs off her jacket and circles the mirrored room in a white tank top, scanning the taped floor marks to see if they are where she wants them. Chaeyoung leans against a folded table, coffee hugged to her chest, watching her friend.

“Is Seulgi coming today?” she asks.

Momo shakes her head. “Nah. She’s stuck in Chicago—ironic, I know. Snowstorm. She’ll fly in tomorrow, she’ll be here for callbacks. I’ve got it covered today.”

“I know you do,” Chaeyoung replies with a smile. “Is Alicia coming in?”

“Of course. I need my captain.”

“You do play favorites.”

“I have a competent, talented team,” Momo says, pointing at her as she strolls back to the table, the other hand in her pocket. “I did email you today’s schedule, right?”

Chaeyoung nods. “You did. Fosse dancers this morning, jazz ensemble in the afternoon. One hour for lunch. You’re cruel.”

“It’s what the union requires,” Momo replies, grinning. “If it were up to me, thirty minutes is plenty.”

Chaeyoung laughs, and the sound draws out something in the room—something familiar.

They met not on Broadway, not even off-Broadway. It had been a grimy underground cabaret in the Village, where Momo had subbed in for an injured lead dancer at the last second and re-blocked the entire number mid-show. It was chaotic, messy, electric. Chaeyoung hadn’t even had a production at the time. She was in-between scripts, angry with the world for not moving fast enough for her liking.

But after the curtain dropped, she’d found her.

“You were brilliant.”

“I was sweaty.”

“That too. Come work with me.”

“You a director or a stalker?”

“Can’t I be both?”

They laughed. But the next day, Momo showed up to Chaeyoung’s rented rehearsal space with a duffel bag, a protein shake, and six pairs of shoes. They built their first show from scratch. It was small, loud, way too ambitious. A critical mess. But the movement had been undeniable. And when the Tonys finally came around, three years and a few heartbreaks later, they had been undeniable too.

Four Tonys now sat in a glass case in Chaeyoung’s office. Momo had a hand—or a foot—in every one of them.

Dahyun arrives soon after and Momo spins her around in a hug, making the smaller girl flush in the face with laughter. The piano in the corner hums softly under Dahyun’s fingers, a few familiar notes echoing through the studio while they chat before the room starts to get crowded. A couple of Jeongyeon’s hand-picked PAs arrive early, efficiently setting up in the corner with laptops open and clipboards in hand. They’ve come to handle everything from headshots to track assignments.

“Is Jeongyeon coming?” Momo asks, glancing over at the assistants.

“She’ll be here once callbacks start. She’s starting with the set design check-ins. They can handle it for now,” Chaeyoung replies, her eyes sweeping the studio as dancers begin to trickle in; some already stretching at the mirrored wall, others checking in with the assistants or finishing up paperwork. She settles into her standard state—arms crossed, not saying a word. Every time someone new walks in, her eyes flick to their shoes, their bag, the way they carry themselves. A mental catalog for herself.

When it’s nearly 10 AM, more than 120 dancers have sprawled across the room; there’s some invitees (some of Momo’s most trusted from past productions), but most come through the grinder, fighting to just be there. But hey, it’s Chicago. Word spreads. People hustle. 

“All right, folks!” one of Jeongyeon’s PAs, Lia, calls out over the buzz. “Fosse track, you're up first. If you're not sure where you fall, come talk to me or Somi over here. Please line up with your numbers, starting with 101.”

The dancers move like a tide, rushing toward the far wall. Chaeyoung notices a few eyes that stare only ahead, confident. Others that move fast, uncertain, limbs stiff and waiting. One girl whispers, “That’s her, that’s Hirai Momo,” as they clock the woman rolling her shoulders out in front of the mirrors, head bent over her notebook.

Momo finishes her short warm-up and turns, and Chaeyoung feels the mood in the room shift—the general has descended on the taped floors, and her voice, casual but sure, carries. 

“Let’s keep it tight,” Momo calls out. “I’m not here to know your names and you’re not here to impress me with tricks. This is about control. Fosse lives in the space between your bones, not just in your knees and shoulders. Pay attention.”

Dahyun hits a few notes on the upright piano—soft, jazz-heavy chords to match the slow strut of the walk Momo demonstrates. She slides across the floor like water, pausing in perfect angles. Shoulders, wrist flick, head tilt, fingers snapping. Momo is almost a shadow on that dance floor.

“Watch again,” Momo says, and they do.

Then she claps. “Let’s go. Groups of five. 101 through 105, you're first.”

For an hour straight Momo walks in between and around the small groups, eyes like a hawk analysing every movement, every shoulder roll done the right way (or the wrong way), every controlled isolation that can spiral out of control. 

Chaeyoung kneels beside the wall, scribbling on her folded notebook. Her gaze flicks up every so often, watching the groups. Some dancers sweat nervously, some are too proud too early. Dahyun’s still perched at the piano, fingers relaxed but always ready. She grins softly to herself when someone flubs a turn and almost spins out of the tight, slow rhythm Momo has instilled. Momo catches it immediately, but she just rewinds, resets, redirects.

“Breathe through it. This isn’t Cats, this is Chicago. Give me danger, otherwise you can just walk out that door right now.”

By noon, Momo is down to her final 40 for the Fosse track. She holds a clipboard in one hand, a neon-green sharpie in the other. There’s silence as she walks first toward the group gathered near the mirrors, sweaty and holding their knees.

“All right, thank you for your work today,” she begins. “If I call your number, please stay with me. We’re going to reset and run a second combo after lunch. If I don’t call your number… I appreciate you coming out. Keep moving. Keep learning. Don’t stop.”

She starts reading. "103, 108, 112, 114, 119, 122…”

Chaeyoung watches the heartbroken leave the studio, attitudes varying; some go with their heads held high, callous over how the machine works. Others drag their feet—she hears a quiet “Fuck!” coming from the far corner. The ones who stay exhale in relief.

Chaeyoung stands and walks over to Momo as the room clears. “You're brutal.”

“I’m efficient,” Momo says. Then she adds with a smirk, “Besides, you’re the one who said you wanted the best.”

They eat lunch together, sat against the mirrored wall, trading notes while Dahyun asks Momo which track she wants to start with for the jazz ensemble. 

1:15 PM

After the quick second combo that Momo runs with the Fosse track that brings the number of hopefuls down to 30, the room clears out slowly, dancers lingering near water bottles and stretching against the wall while the next track assembles—this one marked Jazz Ensemble. Momo still expects precision, even if this is the more loose movement group they’ll see that day.

As the first jazz group finishes a quick run-through, a dancer catches Chaeyoung’s eye. 

She’s quiet, deliberate—the flash isn’t really there, the flexibility could do with some work, but she hits each beat with an energy that feels… grounded. Chaeyoung watches her shoulders—the intentional sag of them, the downbeat swing of her elbows, the slightly cheeky up-tilt of her chin in the last pose. She’s giving Chicago, through and through.

She flips open her notebook. #134 — note: presence. underplay. bring back for callback? talk to Momo.

Just then, she hears soft voices from behind—Somi and Lia, Jeongyeon’s PAs, standing beside a row of tape outlines they'd laid down earlier for spacing reference. Both have iPads, scribbled-on clipboards, and the kind of wide-eyed awareness that comes from both excitement and terror.

Chaeyoung waves them over. “Hey. Talk to me. How’s the floor working?”

Somi blinks, then checks her notes like she’s flipping through a test answer key. “So, for the initial lineup, we marked this section for groups of five across, but when the jazz dancers started extending outward during the turns, we realized the left edge was a bit tight.”

Chaeyoung nods, then glances at Lia, who’s already pulling up a floor plan. “I think we shift half a panel to the right and mark the mirrors as the new center,” Lia says. “We lose a bit of audience-facing geometry, but it matches how Jeongyeon had the set-to-stage flow blocked in her first draft.”

Chaeyoung stares at them for a second. Then, with a crooked smile, she says, “Jeongyeon’s been teaching you kids well.”

Somi lets out a laugh that’s mostly nerves and pride. Lia blushes, but nods.

“Let’s do it,” Chaeyoung adds. “And add tape at the new marks. You two okay staying through the next round?”

“Of course,” they say in unison.

Behind them, the jazz track begins their next combo. Momo stands up near the front, clapping her hands twice.

“Energy up, people! This isn’t dinner theater. If I don’t believe you could steal a diamond in four counts of eight, it’s not the Chicago I’m staging.”

Momo assigns Alicia to lead “Cell Block Tango,” casting her as Velma across all five groups performing the number. It’s a sharp litmus test: Momo can spot who’s simply hitting the jazz beats and those who truly believe they are a woman imprisoned but justified.

At 2:30 PM, once the final cuts are made, those remaining exhale—briefly. By 3 PM, they’re back at it, breathless, giving it one last push. “Don’t get comfortable!” Momo calls out. “Nothing’s guaranteed. A callback is not a casting. You weren’t the best, you just weren’t the worst. Bring the fire when you return, or I’ll snuff it out. Let’s go. Thank you for the day.”

The sun has almost dipped behind the building by the time the last group of dancers trickles out. A calm settles over the studio. The kind of quiet that only follows controlled chaos. Someone has cracked open a window, letting in a bite of winter air that cuts through the sweat still clinging to the walls. 

Momo drops onto the floor, stretching out on her back like a starfish, arms flopped.”I’m getting too old for this.” 

Chaeyoung stands by the whiteboard, sleeves rolled up, scribbling callback groupings in marker while still chewing on her pen cap. She’s halfway through writing Fosse Track – Male when she pauses and turns. “You say that every show. You’re not even 40.”

Dahyun’s still at the upright piano, tapping out some slowed-down bars of “All That Jazz,” already retooling tempos in her head. She glances up, smiling as Somi offers her a bottle of water and a protein bar from her bag. She says to the group, “I wrote down tempo preferences on half the Fosse girls. Some of them are pushing too sharp on syncopated counts, especially the final beat on the hip roll.”

Chaeyoung makes a note. “Add tempo flexibility column on callback sheet,” she mutters, writing it right next to invite back: dancer #134.

Lia is on the floor with her iPad, helping Somi divide the successful dancers by track and type. “Do we schedule callbacks per track or do a morning-afternoon split?” She asks.

“Split,” Chaeyoung decides. “Fosse dancers in the morning, jazz and swing in the afternoon. Put them in rotation. Today felt crowded as all hell, I wasn’t used to that anymore. Momo, you okay handling both again?”

Momo sits up slowly, stretching her limbs. “I’ll be here. And Seulgi better be here too or I’m gonna kill her.” 

Dahyun hums the intro bars of “Cell Block Tango” under her breath as she pulls her coat on. “Tomorrow’s gonna be fun. The puppets are gonna speak and sing.”

“Day two,” Chaeyoung grins. “The talking people arrive.”

“I honestly thought you had forgotten I exist, Minari. Of course you can come! I wanna see your Roxie. How does Tuesday sound?” 

Mina had laughed softly on the other end of the line. Of course her acting coach would be dramatic—what else had she expected? But it had been almost three years since Mina last ran to her services. 

It was before Mother Courage, the only other Chaeyoung-led production Mina had been a part of. Brecht? Yeah, she needed the help.

Taeyeon had stripped Mina’s soul down to its most primal form, mining the deepest, darkest corners of her being to find the woman with barely a shred of humanity left in her. A woman who profited off war, who fell into despair when peace arrived. Someone who provided for her children, but had no empathy left to offer, even to those she gave life to. A mother, but in name only.

Mina had cried more than once in that cozy Upper West Side studio where Taeyeon worked her magic, tears soaking into the script pages. That role had earned her a second Tony. Mina had made sure to bring the award to Taeyeon, to thank her for everything. 

Yeah, Tuesday sounded perfect. 

Mina was doing…fine, in her process of finding Roxie. The meticulous planning, the color-coded notes scrawled across her script—that was all her. Tried and true. Second nature. 

But she was starting to feel like she needed another voice, someone to hear her Roxie and share what they saw; Mina had never been one to turn down help. Being who she was, earning the status she now held, it hadn’t come from sheer talent alone. It had taken more. And she had always had the humility to know when she needed a hand.

That status—Broadway leading lady, earned through blood and grit—came with its own set of expectations. Mina knew Chaeyoung didn’t need a fully-formed Roxie by April. But she did need one who had a pulse. One who could breathe on her own. Then, Chaeyoung would step in to help shape her further, and Mina would make her come alive.

Until then, well—Taeyeon could help refine the edges. 

“Give me more eyes, Mina. Roxie tells us a lot with her eyes,” Taeyeon says, circling a standing Mina, hands on her hips and black-framed glasses dipping to the tip of her nose. 

Mina tosses the script on the couch and launches into the first few lines of “Funny Honey” again, careful smiles peeking out as she allows the sultriness come out of her voice and tries to give Taeyeon the eyes she asked for. 

Taeyeon holds up a hand and Mina stops. “Let’s do it like this: think of a lie. Imagine you’re telling it and you know it’s bullshit, and only you know the truth. So you play with the audience, let them in a little… and then you pull it back.”

Mina listens, takes a sip of her bottled water and tries again. 

When Taeyeon fans herself and chuckles by the end, she knows she’s got it. 

“It’s all in the eyes, babe. All in the eyes.” 

By the end of their first session back together, Taeyeon has a hand on Mina’s shoulder. 

“You’re good, your foundation is solid. But we can make it better. I promise you that. Tuesdays and Thursdays?”

Taeyeon isn’t cheap. Nor should she be. 

So Mina comes back two days later. And again the following Tuesday. Taeyeon gets more specific.

“We need to start layering Roxie’s emotions, Minari. Give it weight. I believe that she doesn’t feel her way through a scene, she decides as she goes. Every emotion is a choice to manipulate the room. Is she successful every time? No, of course not. So let’s try it again, but this time—don’t cry when you’re hurt. Smile. Smile and watch how uncomfortable that makes the scene feel.”

She gives Mina the task to do a scene with two conflicting emotions—what she says can’t match what she really feels. Taeyeon claps when Mina suggests doing “They Both Reached for the Gun”. The puppet on the strings with wide-eyed innocence, but when she twitches her fingers just in the slightest with repressed nerves, she controls the strings too. 

Taeyeon just nods in approval when the number ends. 

—

The second Thursday, Mina stifles a laugh walking into the studio. Taeyeon is scribbling in bold block letters across a whiteboard:

ROXIE’S PSYCHOLOGICAL JOURNEY

Taeyeon turns, frown creasing. “It’s not funny. It’s homework.”

And it is. Together they map out every shift of intention that Roxie might have during the play. 

“She wants everything—you know that. Love, attention, fame, control maybe more than anything. Sometimes she wants all of these things at once. So mark your script with intentions, not emotions. She wants fame. Then sympathy for murdering Fred. Then she seduces, pleads innocence. Intentions. Work on that.”

—

Next Tuesday, Taeyeon shows her how powerful silence can be. 

“Silence can be louder than any note. Especially for someone like Roxie—someone who needs the audience to lean in. Don’t rush the jokes. Let them come to you.”

Mina practices “Funny Honey” again, this time pausing after every major phrase. 

Taeyeon claps when Mina lets a silence sit for just long enough that it’s unsettling. “There she is,” she grins. “There’s our Roxie.”

Mina smiles. 

She finds it odd when Taeyeon asks her to come into the next class with oversized clothes. But she complies. It’s odd still when she tells Mina to get barefoot. “Roxie isn’t trained. She’s chaotic, messy, sexy—when she remembers to be. You’re too elegant, Mina. I want slouching. I want you to forget you’re a ballerina.”

She hands a chair to her wide-eyed student. “Perform some lines while you’re slumped, fall over if you need to. Roxie isn’t polished, she shouldn’t be.” 

Mina does end up falling backwards once and Taeyeon runs to help her, laughter filling the room. 

—

In their last class before Taeyeon is out of town for a while, she records Mina. A short segment, just Mina doing a line or two and Taeyeon playing it back to her in slow motion.

“See that? The blink here, the almost-smile—you weren’t conscious of it, but it’s pure Roxie. You are finding her. Now we just do it on purpose.”

The path is clearer now, Mina believes it. She’ll get there.

Everyone who's someone on Broadway knows who Kim Taeyeon is. Her career already spanned almost two decades, you had to be obtuse—or out of money—to not know the legendary acting coach.

Nayeon knew of her, of course. 

Courageous enough to ask for an appointment? 

Not until now.

She stood outside the Upper West Side studio for a full minute before ringing the buzzer. When the door opened for the first time, Taeyeon barely glanced up from the script she was reading, perched cross-legged on the couch like some guru.

“You’re late,” she said, without looking. 

Nayeon blinked. It was 2:57 PM for a 3:00 PM appointment.

“Only if we’re using stage time.”

That got Taeyeon to look. A slow smirk creeped up. “We are.”

From the moment she rises from the couch, the shorter frame Taeyeon possesses doesn’t derail the sheer intensity she emanates. It’s been a long time since Nayeon has felt intimidated—especially by a handshake.

“I’ve seen your work,” Taeyeon says. No “nice to meet you.” Nothing of the sort. “You’re impressive.”

Nayeon soars for a second, teeth showing. Then it’s gone.

“Tell me about your Velma. Quick pitch. Go.”

Nayeon straightens. “She’s sharp. Fast. Smarter than everyone else. And she knows it.”

Taeyeon looks up, shakes her head a bit. “That’s a nice start, yes. But it’s only half the picture. We gotta find what she’s hiding. Shall we?”

Very soon, Nayeon is standing up, watching as Taeyeon moves the furniture to make space—a lot of space—and then returns to her chair. After a few seconds, she takes off her glasses, eyes narrowing. 

“Give me ‘I Can’t Do It Alone.’”

Nayeon breathes, closes her eyes, and starts with the growl she’s grown accustomed to.

Her first run is big, Broadway big. Arms, facial expressions, struts—it’s all there.

She wants to impress.

Taeyeon waits until the end to respond. 

“That’s great. She could be in Cabaret. But I need Velma. Again. But this time… pretend you're in a room with one other person. This someone can destroy your life with a word. It doesn’t matter—you’re going to say the lines anyway.”

Nayeon puffs, flickering sweat from her forehead. She closes her eyes for a moment. In the darkness the only person that could appear, does. Mina’s voice rings against her ear. “You’re not that great. You’re not on my level. In five years no one’s going to know who you are.” 

Taeyeon gives a few other pointers before she begins again. Tone it all down. Lower your voice. Control your breath. I don’t want to see you move—just your eyes.

By the end, Nayeon is barely whispering the punchlines. Her eyes are watered. Taeyeon watches, then leans forward: “Hey Velma. You’re scary. It’s nice to meet you.” 

Nayeon laughs for the first time.

She stays another two hours, an hour over what she paid for. But Taeyeon is there with her, all the way, and she wants to explore deeper. “You’ve got the anger down. But she’s also lonely. That’s where the tension is.”

She reads more lines, allowing for the vulnerability to swallow her. This time, her voice falters on one line. She keeps going. Taeyeon doesn’t stop her.

At the end, there's a silence. Then, softly Taeyeon says, “More of that. Less Broadway, more back alley.”

By the time Nayeon is picking up her bag, placing the notebook with Velma’s Act I beat breakdown already full of notes, many written by Taeyeon herself, her chest feels a little lighter. 

“So… do you usually torch everyone on their first day?” 

Taeyeon, already packing up her own notes, doesn’t miss a beat. “Only the ones who can handle it.”

Nayeon smiles. A real one this time. 

“Good. Because I’m coming back Thursday.”

“You’d better.”

—

The next Thursday she shows up early. Stage early. She’s sipping on an iced americano like it’s a shield and Taeyeon clocks her the second she steps through the door. “Early. That’s either dedication or nerves.”

Nayeon shrugs, comfortable in that space. “Maybe both.” 

Taeyeon grins and tosses her a script. “Let’s see what stuck from last time.”

They start with “Class.” 

This time, Nayeon doesn’t hide behind the sarcasm. Her delivery is softer, almost weary. The over-enunciation is gone. She talks.

Taeyeon nods along. “Good. Let the bitterness sip out, but without losing the edge. That’s good.” 

Soon they’re running that up again, with different directions. “You’re starting to feel her loneliness. Now give me her pride. Make me think you don’t need anyone, but you’ll still take them if they’re useful to you.”

Nayeon is sharper, this time there’s venom in her voice. The loneliness is tucked behind a velvety laugh.

In the next hour, Nayeon feels like murdering her coach. 

Body work. Or, more precisely, the lack of it.

“Give me a monologue. You choose. First, completely still. Then again, but you can only move from your shoulders up. Then again, barely moving. Let the words do all the talking. Go.”

By the end Nayeon is sweating more than she does in a Hirai Momo dance rehearsal. She catches her reflection in the mirror, slightly stunned at how contained she looks and feels.

“See? You don’t need big movements. Your face does more work than your arms ever could.”

Taeyeon seems taller than ever from Nayeon’s perspective.

—

For their third session, Nayeon is barely through the door when Taeyeon throws a random prompt—“Velma, right after her arrest”—and Nayeon has to just exist in that space.

The silence stretches long.

For a moment, Nayeon almost breaks her own rules and lets herself feel the fear Velma would never show.

Taeyeon doesn’t say anything. 

Nayeon’s confidence is quieter this time. Her walls are still up, but she’s stopped performing for Taeyeon. She’s just living as Velma.

They dive right back in, running “I Can’t Do It Alone” with the emotional layering Taeyeon’s been hammering into her.

Later on they’re shoulder to shoulder on the couch, dissecting Velma’s scenes, comparing her to Roxie—where she mirrors Roxie’s manipulation, where she diverges in control.

“You two are playing the same game, but Velma’s used to winning. Roxie is still learning. It’s not about who’s louder, it’s about who’s smarter.”

Nayeon rolls her eyes playfully. “Is that your way of telling me to chill?”

Taeyeon smiles. “My way of telling you you’re almost there.”

“I’m almost ready for the bubble wrap then.” 

The woman who studied under Larry Moss and can probably quote The Art of Acting by Stella Adler by heart blinks, utterly confused. “What?”

Nayeon laughs—and doesn’t respond.

[January 5th - Pearl Studios - 500 8th Av. New York City - 8:00 AM] 

It’s earlier than anyone would like. Snow still clings to the edges of the sidewalks outside and Chaeyoung still hates the cold. But she has her hot coffee, her wife is retooling tones at the piano and a bunch of Billy Flynns, Amos Harts and Mama Mortons are starting to trickle in through the door.

She’s happy—for now—and hopeful it’ll last the entire day. She asks the heavens that there’ll be no swing hopeful mistaking themselves for principal cast. All she asks for is realistic expectations.

There are familiar faces, of course. Broadway is a bubble in many ways—same circles, same crowds. Some of them have worked with Chaeyoung before, even back when she was still grinding off-Broadway. A few big names even make her raise an eyebrow for a moment—but she gets it. It’s Chicago. Everyone wants a slice of that pie.

But from those she has never set her eyes on to those she has shared dinners and toasts with after an opening night, the treatment is the same: a nod, nothing more than that. The room is slightly quieter than the previous day, but no less charged. As with yesterday, they’re not names yet. They’re numbers, hoping to become part of something bigger than themselves, hoping to one day see their names printed on a Playbill. That’s how it should always be. Bernadette Peters could walk through the door at that moment and Chaeyoung wouldn’t falter. 

Somi and Lia return, looking more comfortable than the day before—quick and efficient with sign-ins, handing Chaeyoung a sheet with the audition blocks for each character. Both wear headsets now, each taking a post at opposite ends of the studio: one managing the actors about to go in, the other wrangling those waiting.

Chaeyoung glances over the schedule and shows it to Momo, who’s perched on a chair with one foot on the folded tables, sorting through her notes where she’ll assess physicality and presence.

“Six Billy Flynns rotating from 9 to 10, then 45 minutes of Amos Harts before we get to Mama Morton before lunch. Sounds good?”

Momo flashes two mock thumbs-up.

—

Chaeyoung’s notes are scattered across her notebook—meant for her eyes only, thoughts that perhaps are not necessary to be said out loud.

AMOS HART #1 – Tall, nervous, utterly insincere.

Her smile is tight, and the words she writes don’t leave her lips. He cracks on his second high note. Everyone in the room flinches except Dahyun, who nods encouragingly and keeps playing.

She mutters to Momo beside her after the man leaves with his head down. “Too sweet. Needs to be more loser-ish.”

BILLY FLYNN #4 – Gorgeous voice, but too smooth. A little too pleased with himself. 

Momo glances at the page. “Yeah, but that’s the most Billy Flynn we’ve seen so far.” 

Chaeyoung exhales. “Fair.” 

MAMA MORTON #3 – Commanding. 

That’s all Chaeyoung needs to write. She knows this actress. They’ve never worked together, but maybe it’s time. 

She enters in a plum velvet wrap and doesn’t apologize for the space she takes up. She belts “When You’re Good to Mama” with a growl that makes Momo raise her eyebrows mid-chew on her pen cap.

Sana had slipped in just before the Mama Morton auditions began. She gave Dahyun a nod at the piano and squeezed Chaeyoung’s arm before sliding into a seat near the wall, though now she’s practically on Chaeyoung’s lap. Tired eyes, fresh off a national tour, but still alert. Focused on something other than the performance.

“That color… that shape…” she murmurs.

She flips to a blank page and begins sketching: a curve of velvet over a strong shoulder, a silhouette that drips with authority.

In the short break between one audition block to the next, Chaeyoung softly smiles in the direction of an unaware Sana. 

Back in her element, Chaeyoung thinks.

—

The day stretched long. 

Chaeyoung's joints became stiff when the Mary Sunshine auditions started after lunch—she began to pace from side to side in front of the table, arms eternally crossed as she evaluated each performance. 

She saw and understood how this mere move impacted the remaining actors and actresses; some looked more intimidated—just their luck. Their turn comes along and the five-foot-nothing director with eyes sharp as a hawk tracked their every movement.

Too bad.

Chaeyoung wasn't there to take it easy. She wanted the best, she'd get the best. 

And that's how the day ends. Chaeyoung almost wants to cut corners and cast that Mary Sunshine right then and there. Crystal-clear soprano. Effortless vibrato. They perform with radiant stillness, eyes wide and sincere and so very blue.

Chaeyoung writes in her notebook: Classic. Polished. Could be a reveal.

When the door closes behind them, Dahyun whispers. “I almost levitated.” 

Sana chimes in. “I'll pluck the feathers of a peacock myself to put it in their hat.” 

“Chill, we don't need PETA up our asses,” Chaeyoung jokes, going over the headshot of Billy Flynn #6 to confirm he's one of the ones she wants to see again.  

The studio empties for good after 6 PM. Chaeyoung asks Somi to inform the poor souls that stayed (most of them the last to audition) that no public callback would be published today. 

If they receive an email with instructions within two days, congratulations. If not, thank you for coming and better luck next time. 

Chaeyoung stretches her arms and legs and it feels good to hear some cracks. “Great job today, everybody. No auditions tomorrow so we can come in a little later, but it's just as important. Jihyo will be here too—” 

“She will?” Sana asks, eyes darting from her sketchbook for a mere second. Chaeyoung smirks. 

“Yeah, she's gonna update us on some stuff and help us with the callbacks, see if there's anything we missed. Lia, Jeongyeon is coming in the afternoon, right?”

Lia nods, checking her iPad with her boss' schedule. “Yeah, she has a meeting with the set design people in the morning, but she'll be here after lunch.” 

“Perfect, thanks.” 

"You guys wanna grab something to eat?" Dahyun asks, slipping on her coat and adjusting Chaeyoung’s beanie for her inept wife.

The room fills with a collective chorus of no’s, each with their own excuse—some still had a subway ride home (poor kids), some just wanted a bath and a glass of wine, and Sana had plans to meet a friend at the Gershwin Theater after Wicked.

"You’re insane. Go home. Rest," Chaeyoung says, pointing at her, already halfway to the door.

"I’ll rest when I’m dead, sweetie," Sana laughs, waving them off.

Chaeyoung doesn't have the time to make a joke about “Not until opening night!” before Dahyun is pulling her out into the hallway. 

“Were you seriously not planning to bring this guy back?” Jihyo points at the screen, incredulous. “Look at him! He’s funny, he’s charming, he’s hitting every mark and selling the role—not himself. That’s Billy Flynn.”

Chaeyoung toys with the sharpie between her fingers, eyes on the projection cast across the conference room wall. She exhales, grateful for the clarity that comes from borrowing Jihyo’s eyes—even if it stings a little. She hates missing something this obvious.

“Yeah, he’s got something,” Chaeyoung admits, pinching her eyes shut before reaching for her coffee. It never costs her much to own a mistake. In her room, everyone has a voice, especially those who have been in the trenches beside her. “You’re right.”

“I usually am,” Jihyo grins next to her, marking a note on her clipboard. Chaeyoung lets a quick smile spread across her lips. 

Yeah, Jihyo was often right. 

The retired stage actress has a vision for talent that Chaeyoung would challenge any big shot producer to match. Not that Jihyo wasn't a big shot producer herself. She was more than that. 

It was nearly a decade in the spotlight; a force, Jihyo was able to stamp her name amongst some of the greats. Few actresses could ever survive a Gypsy revival, much less redefine Mama Rose. Jihyo didn’t just survive it—she owned it so completely that any comparison felt like blasphemy. 

Sorry, Ms. Ethel Merman.

Chaeyoung had seen Jihyo light up a stage, back when she had just turned up in Manhattan and was working double shifts at a diner near 42nd street and her scripts were still confined to the walls of her small bedroom.  

Her eyes shined at a Sunday matinee of Gypsy, trailing and focused on Jihyo’s every move. Every number she performed, every note that she hit, it was a reclamation—this is mine. 

Then, without warning, Jihyo let it go.

Chaeyoung’s jaw had dropped when she read the headline: “Park Jihyo Forgoes Her Crown As The Queen of Broadway.” The article had been thoughtful, introspective. Jihyo explaining her shift from the spotlight to the shadows.

To Chaeyoung it made sense. As the years passed, Jihyo found herself more drawn to what happened off stage—the mechanics of public perception, the orchestration of buzz, the quiet warfare of managing a show’s reputation. 

It wasn’t an easy transition. People in the industry raised eyebrows. Who in their right mind walks away at their peak? 

But years later, when she met her in the flesh and Jihyo quietly rescued one of Chaeyoung’s first Off-Broadway shows from collapse, it all clicked. The answer was simple: control.

Onstage, Jihyo had none.

Hit your marks. Belt the note. Smile. On cue, please.

It wasn’t enough. Not for her.

But control didn’t make her a tyrant. The opposite. Actors trusted her because she treated them like collaborators, not commodities. She understood artists because she was one. Directors loved her because she made their jobs easier. And when she stepped into her role as a PR powerhouse, producers finally exhaled.

She could spin a story without ever lying, craft a headline from a whisper, deflect chaos with a single statement. Where others saw damage control, she saw storytelling. 

Now, she was the most in-demand producer-publicist in the business.

They called her “The Fixer”—though never to her face.

Chaeyoung never understood why. It was badass.

And that’s what she blurted out to Jihyo at an opening night party that extended way beyond what anyone’s alcohol intake could handle. 

Jihyo had laughed, grabbed Chaeyoung in a headlock, and whispered: “I know. I love it. And I love that they’re afraid to call me that.”

“Somi, add this one on the callback list, yeah?” Chaeyoung slides the headshot to the young girl, who nods and types the actor’s name on her tablet. 

“So, who else did you guys get it wrong?” Jihyo mocks, rubbing her hands with a grin. At this moment the door clicks open and in comes Sana wrapped in a huge dark scarf, leather pants and a coffee in her right hand (my god, they are all addicts). 

Jihyo’s next words die in her throat, her eyes trailing Sana’s as she rounds the table to sit exactly next to her. Chaeyoung clocks the look and can’t help the dry commentary.

“Never on time, Sana-yah.”

“Fashionably late,” Sana counters with a bright smile. She turns to Jihyo. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Jihyo echoes, voice soft. Chaeyoung nearly rolls her eyes. Forty-something legends of the craft, and this is their tragic flaw: terrible timing.

Even during their initial creative meeting, right before the year ended—where a zoom call sounded and looked more like a war room—Chaeyoung had caught the subtle glances exchanged between them. It didn’t interfere with the work, so she allowed herself to be entertained by the side plot.

“You got anything for me before we continue?” she asks, looking at Sana.

“I do, actually,” Sana says, pulling out a sketchbook. “I read the script and started sketching, mostly for Velma and Roxie.”

She slides it over. Chaeyoung flips through the pages, eyebrows lifting. Even after all these years of collaboration, Sana’s work still manages to impress.

“I’ll have a full moodboard by Monday, promise. And I’ll need your approval, of course. Tuesday, Momo, Jeongyeon, and I have a meeting with set design and lighting so we can get things moving. Oh—and I need your stars next week too. Just some basic, early fittings.”

“You just wanna see how their bodies look,” Momo jokes.

The room laughs. Sana smacks her arm. “Perv.”

“Anyway, I do need them. Just for measurements.”

“You’ll have them,” Chaeyoung confirms. “Great job so far, Sana-yah.”

Sana straightens, visibly proud. At her side, Jihyo watches her, oblivious to the amused looks passing between everyone else.

“Alright,” Chaeyoung says, grinning, “moving on…”

—

Afternoon hits, and things get... tense.

Maybe it's the caffeine coursing through their veins, or the sushi coma settling into their stomachs, or maybe it's just inevitable. 

Chaos always bubbles up when Chaeyoung and Jihyo clash over character dynamics, like how an Amos should play off Mina’s Roxie. Or when Sana and Momo start bickering over choreography that won’t let Nayeon’s silk dress catch the light the way it’s meant to. Practicality vs style.

“Holy shit, you’re already like this? It’s week one, for god’s sake.”

The energy shifts the moment Jeongyeon walks in. She peels off her scarf, drops her bag onto the chair beside Lia, and lets a small avalanche of binders thump onto the table. Her young assistants perk up immediately—so does the entire room.

She points at Chaeyoung with a raised brow. “I hope you’ve been treating my kids well.”

“They’ve been more than fine! Stop coddling them.” 

Laughter. A collective exhale. Just like that, the storm breaks.

That’s Jeongyeon’s gift—she steadies the room without needing to raise her voice. There’s a quiet authority to her, the kind that pulls everyone back to the task at hand. And everyone sitting at that table has history with Jeongyeon; for Chaeyoung, she brings Jeongyeon in whenever their schedules align. 

When she couldn’t get Jeongyeon—because Jeongyeon was booked, always, everywhere—things didn’t fall apart. Not completely. But they tilted. Lines missed by a breath. Sets that moved a second too late. The comedy that didn’t land because the follow spot was half a beat off.

Tiny things. But on Broadway, tiny things were earthquakes.

So when the Chicago rights cleared, the first call hadn’t been to Dahyun. Not even to Momo.

It had been to Jeongyeon.

Chaeyoung could still remember the conversation from that night, the city buzzing around her.

“How locked are you for the next half year?”

“Why? What did you do?”

“Got the revival.”

“Tell me it’s not Chicago.”

“It is. You in?”

A pause. Then: “You know I’ll move the earth.”

And she had. Within a few days Jeongyeon had bowed out of a revival of Cabaret with a director she liked (a rarity) and was already assembling her prompt book, calling vendors she trusted, booking meetings with set teams that delivered.

Now, back from a morning meeting with the designers, she drops new schematics on the table.

“Your stripped-down vision? They’re into it, Chae. Makes their lives easier. And ours.”

“And cheaper,” Jihyo mutters, ever the producer.

Jeongyeon grins. “Yes, yes, and I’ll need a few extras, but nothing that'll give you nightmares, Jihyo-yah.”

“The turntable?” Chaeyoung asks, arms crossed.

“They’re starting on it next week.”

Chaeyoung nods, sipping her coffee, her eyes drifting to where Momo and Dahyun are deep in conversation about movement and score. Her smile is soft. Her voice, quieter.

“I don’t wanna jinx it, but… we’re starting strong.”

She doesn’t even get the sentence completely out before the room erupts.

“Fuck, why would you say that?”

“Do you want to curse us?”

“Goddamn it, Chae!”

She laughs, leaning back in her chair, letting it all wash over her.

They’ll be okay.

Manhattan has always been loud.

Too many cars, too many angry-with-the-world people roaming the streets. The lights are too bright, the horns are too loud and the curses fly like confetti. 

A normal day in New York City. 

Hell's Kitchen manages to double down on all of it. 

It manages to be dirtier, grimier—the decay on nearly every building almost a feature instead of a bug. 

Yeah, Mina could see Daredevil living around these parts. 

What? She knows her comics. 

And yet, nestled on the third floor of a pre–World War II brick building, right above a cozy café that serves the best chai lattes in the borough and a vintage bookstore, Sana's lair stands. 

Atelier Étoile hushes the noise from the streets on the polished hardwood floors of the main fitting room; the Velvet Stage, Sana likes to call it. 

The ceilings are sky high, steel beams exposed; Mina has been there more times than she can count, even when Sana wasn’t designing for the show she was in.

She just liked the place.

The conversation. The company.

Chatting with Sana about life and fabric, about designers Mina has never heard of but Sana reveres like saints. All of it accompanied by the familiar smell of coffee (Tiffany’s signature brew), Jessica’s unimpressed but invested stares as Sana rants about buttons and seams, and Sullyoon darting around the atelier like a whirlwind of purpose. Low jazz constantly on a loop.

There's few places in the world Mina feels more comfortable than in that beautiful studio, where Sana's entire spirit fills up the place. 

For those in the know—the ones Sana calls “locals”—there’s no need to knock. Mina never has, though it goes against her nature. That always made Sana laugh.

Sana is not laughing as Mina quietly enters, she doesn't even see her at first. But Mina does smile at the familiar sight. 

In the middle of the room, in front of the raised platform where a mannequin stands, Sana is barefoot, measuring tape around her neck like an adornment and a bit of chalk on her cheek. She puffs them like a barracuda, frowning as she adjusts the hem of a muslin dress. 

“I hope it’s not Roxie causing all those stress spots on your forehead,” Mina calls, stopping a few steps in, hands behind her back, grinning.

Sana looks up and her whole face lights up. In an instant, she’s crossing the room and crushing Mina in a hug.

“Minariiiii! Welcome, welcome! Oh my god, I missed you so much—oh, did the chalk get on you? I’m so sorry—”

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Mina giggles, cheeks flushed from the closeness Sana always insists on. She wipes the smudge of chalk from her face. It feels good to be there again. 

“Come.” Sana links their hands and guides her toward the dress form. “This isn’t for you, actually—it’s Velma’s. I’m already giving myself headaches over it, but you know me. It’s not a Minatozaki Sana original unless I overthink it.”

She laughs and hugs Mina sideways, asking how she’s been.

“I’m good. Really good. I was kinda excited when Chaeyoung texted me to come by. I missed you.”

“I know, honey. Me too. Follies had me on the road all last year. I was this close to quitting. The money was good, but god, I needed to be back in my space, you know?”

Mina nods. She knows. National tours wear you down—body, spirit, all of it. She’s done a few herself, back when she was just starting out, filling in as a swing or standby.

But now? She prefers the thirteen blocks that make Broadway home.

The moment to catch up vanishes fast. Mina barely settles onto one of Sana’s plush velvet stools, ready to ask about sketches and swatches, when laughter spills in from the kitchen.

Tiffany emerges first, beaming with a tray of colorful coffee cups. But Mina freezes when she sees who’s behind her.

Nayeon.

Their eyes lock. Mina’s spine straightens, her expression stiffening in that involuntary way Nayeon always draws out of her.

What frustrates her most is that she no longer understands why.

She gets the rivalry. They’ve both fought tooth and nail for roles that fit them like second skin. Nayeon is a threat. Mina knows that. One perfect note on a day Mina can’t quite reach hers, and Nayeon could walk away with the role.

But knowing that in her head is one thing. Feeling it in a room with Nayeon is another.

For the next several months, the stage won’t just be hers. It’ll be theirs. And just like that, Mina feels like a rookie again.

She remembers that night backstage at the Tonys—her first win, her name etched in gold—and the sharp, loaded words she’d finally said to Nayeon. She was proud of herself then. But right now, she’s not sure she could do it again.

Because when Nayeon smiles, warm and sincere as she crosses the room to hand her a coffee, Mina forgets everything but how pretty she is.

“Hey. Tiffany brewed it herself. It’s pretty good.” 

Mina accepts the cup automatically, the rich scent of coffee filling the space between them. Tiffany chimes in. “Pretty good? Please, don’t insult me.” 

She leans in to kiss Mina’s cheeks before floating away, and then it’s just Mina and Nayeon again.

Nayeon looks so at ease in this space—bare-faced, hair loose, in slacks and a simple white button-up. Mina finally manages, “Hey. Thank you. I didn’t know you’d be here today.”

Nayeon shrugs. “Yeah, Chaeyoung told me to swing by. Sana needed her stars.”

“I need,” Sana corrects her, sliding an arm around Nayeon’s waist. “And you first, Miss Wide Hips. Drink your coffee on the platform. Go on, up!”

“I’m taking that as a compliment,” Nayeon says with a grin, stepping up where the mannequin once stood.

She’s barefoot too. Unbothered. Calm. Drinking her coffee like Sana isn’t tracing measuring tape along her sides, muttering to herself.

Mina slides down the large, deep rose settee and she observes; it's like looking into a mirror—Nayeon's easy rapport with Sana, the way Sana laughs at something she says, the comfort between them. It all feels eerily familiar. Like Mina herself has been replaced in a scene she used to know by heart.

She sips on her coffee in silence, joined by an equally quiet Jessica and her laptop a few minutes later, typing fast and efficiently finalizing fabric purchases that they need. Ever so often she glances at Mina, makes a comment about Sana’s initial moodboard for the show, how they’re envisioning movement on the pieces they’ll start to create soon. In the background, Sullyoon darts around with Tiffany chasing after her, both of them tangled up in whatever chaos they’ve created.

“She seemed excited when Tiffany told her you were coming too. I was kinda surprised,” Jessica says out of the blue, eyes never straying from the bright screen. Words thrown in the air as if they’re devoid of meaning. 

But a cold ripple runs down Mina’s spine.

“That’s hard to believe,” she replies softly, careful not to let it carry far. Judging by the bursts of laughter from Sana and Nayeon on the platform, she’s safe.

Jessica lets out a quiet chuckle, still typing. “You two really don’t like each other, huh?”

Mina takes another sip of her coffee—lukewarm now. On the platform, Nayeon turns as instructed, gets a slap on the hand for resting it on her hip.

“I never had a problem with her,” Mina says, voice steady. “She always seemed to have a problem with me.”

But the words feel off as soon as they leave her mouth. Hollow. Not quite true. She doesn’t elaborate. Jessica’s great, but they aren’t close, and this isn’t the conversation Mina wants to have.

Still, Jessica snorts. “Sure. I’m sure that’s all there is to it. But hey, it’s not my place to meddle. Honestly? It’s kind of entertaining.”

Mina lowers her head and is unable to keep the small grin from her lips. “You’re sick.” 

“Oh, no. It’s just show business. You two deliver it,” Jessica says, bright brown eyes now looking at Mina. And then she shifts her gaze back to the platform. “She looks good, doesn’t she?” 

What is Mina supposed to say about that other than a loud yes?

She stays silent. 

It’s the same thing.

“Minari, you’re up next! Come on up!” 

Mina stands, cradling her empty cup, planning to drop it off in the kitchen before Sana starts pinning her into oblivion.

But Nayeon steps in, taking the cup from her hand with a smile. Their fingers brush—just a second.

“I got it. Go on up before she stabs you with the pink pins,” Nayeon says, teasing. “Seriously, though. Why are you so scary in fittings but not in rehearsals?”

Sana wipes her forehead with a dramatic sigh. “Because by then, you’re already traumatized. Mina, up. Now.”

Nayeon raises an eyebrow and mouths go at her.

Mina’s legs move on instinct.

When Sana tells her to hold her breath, it isn’t hard.

She hasn’t really been breathing since Nayeon touched her.

Despite what her career might suggest, Nayeon isn’t one for dramatics. She swears.

She has fire. Personality. That much has always been undeniable, ever since she landed the role of Dorothy in her middle school production of The Wizard of Oz. 

She’d rehearse every night in front of the mirror, skipping dinner, tapping her red shoes with more conviction each time. When her father yelled from downstairs that she was making too much noise, she knew she had it in the bag. 

And she did.

When she chose this life right out of high school, she knew she was starting from zero—no connections, no credits, no cushion.

Zero. Zilch. Nada.

So she fought. For every part. From ensemble lines in the back, inching forward show by show. Swing. Understudy. Standby.

Until she became undeniable.

She only let herself feel after locking a role, never before. Until then, it was strategy. Discipline. She was so pragmatic that interviewers often asked, “Why not physics?”

She’d laugh and say maybe someday, as a hobby.

Truth is, there’s only one thing—one person—who’s ever made her lose all logic.

Who’s ever made her see red.

Mina.

Perfect, porcelain, princess Mina. 

The one who gets every role. The one with the immaculate PR team and the glowing reputation. The one who never has to hustle. Who never gets her hands dirty.

Fucking Myoui Mina.

The one who can’t take a joke and retaliates by winning a Tony the very next season.

For that role.

The one Nayeon cried over in the audition room.

And now? Mina’s Roxie. Nayeon’s Roxie. Roxie across from her Velma.

To be fair, Chaeyoung didn’t mention Mina. Not once.

Also fair: the entire exchange had been a single text the night before. So when Nayeon walked into Chaeyoung’s office and saw the princess already sitting there, back straight, ass probably sore but face unbothered…

Well.

She’ll blame it on the high of finishing Sweeney Todd less than 24 hours earlier.

And the thrill of walking into that room thinking she’d be offered Roxie on a silver platter.

Like she deserved it. Like she earned it.

(She’ll admit it now—Velma’s much, much cooler anyway.)

Still, that morning when she saunters over to Hell’s Kitchen to play Sana’s dress-up doll, Nayeon wakes up with what feels like an epiphany. That’s dramatic enough for her.

She’s not the type to wake up with fresh perspectives or grand resolutions about her place in the world. But today, something feels different. She wants to avoid conflict, keep the peace. Even when someone shoulders her on the subway, she lets it go. New York breeds daily negativity. Today, she decides, it won’t touch her.

And she’ll treat Mina… well. As well as she can.

When she steps into Sana’s atelier, her smile is bright. Sana’s humor is just as she remembers; vibrant, colorful, a little much for early mornings. Jessica looks like she might throw herself out of a window. Nayeon gets it.

She finds herself in the kitchen soon later, chatting about everything and nothing with Tiffany while she makes her famous brewed coffee. Then the older girl comments—Mina should be there soon. The fittings are for both of them. 

Nayeon just nods, doesn’t realize that a small smile creeps up on her lips.

Hell of an epiphany. 

When they come through the curtains (because of course Sana has curtains instead of a door for the kitchen), Nayeon sees her.

She doesn’t expect Mina to freeze. Not like that. Or maybe she should; it’s happened so many times before. She tells herself she’s used to it. That Mina has always had that reaction, even back when they were just two nobodies in the same cramped audition hallway pretending not to clock each other’s sheet music.

But it still gets her.

So she smiles—easy, wide, like she’s immune. And walks the coffee over herself.

“Hey,” she says. “Tiffany brewed it herself. It’s pretty good.”

Mina accepts it with that same delicate grace she does everything. Like the cup might shatter if she isn’t careful.

And then Tiffany kisses her cheek and floats away, and Nayeon is alone with her.

She should say something else. Ask about the last show. Compliment her outfit. Be nice, like her subway-riding, coffee-offering, epiphany-having self promised.

But Mina beats her to it: “Thank you. I didn’t know you’d be here today.”

Nayeon shrugs. “Yeah, Chaeyoung told me to swing by. Sana needed her stars.”

It’s playful, and she hopes it lands that way. But when Sana calls her up with that ridiculous ‘Miss Wide Hips’ line, she laughs too loudly. Pretends she didn’t notice the way Mina’s lips curled at the corner.

Up on the platform, barefoot and buzzed on caffeine, she lets herself not think. Lets Sana poke and prod, lets the studio light hit her skin while Sullyoon zips past and Tiffany bickers over thread colors.

She feels... content. For a second.

Until she looks down and sees Mina watching her.

Just… watching. No glare, maybe an unintentional and innocent smirk creeping up.

And for a moment, it feels like she’s not trying to replace anyone. That there’s room enough for both of them in this room.

Jessica’s voice breaks the spell. A comment about Mina. Nayeon hears it but doesn’t quite absorb it, just that there’s soft laughter. And that Mina doesn’t join in.

When it’s Mina’s turn, Nayeon hops off the platform and sees her clutching that empty cup like it’s armor. She doesn’t think twice.

She takes it from her. Their fingers brush.

“I got it,” she says. “Go on up before she stabs you with the pink pins.”

It’s meant to be funny, disarming. But then Mina smiles—barely. And Nayeon forgets the joke.

“Why are you so scary in fittings but not in rehearsals?” she teases, trying to bring them back to neutral.

“Because by then, you’re already traumatized,” Sana cuts in. “Mina, up. Now.”

Mina steps onto the platform, and Nayeon turns, coffee cups in hand, and realizes something stupid.

She’s still smiling.

—

It’s not even 2 PM when Nayeon decides she will never have an epiphany again.

She regrets waking up early with a smile on her face, regrets letting the birds sing in her head, regrets not telling that smelly motherfucker on the subway to fuck off when he bumps into her and doesn’t look back. 

And all it takes it’s one glance that lingers a little too much on the fragile beam between judgment and just curiosity. One moment of silence longer than she was able to bear.

One Mina.

Nayeon’s initial instinct is: God, what now?

She tries to ignore it. She tries not to betray the new self that she met in the morning. But she can’t. She’s not that big of a person.

They’re putting on their coats, ready to depart and leave Sana to exercise her genius. She has their measurements now; her only warning to them is to not gain or lose any weight, or else. 

Nayeon asks, honestly—earnestly—if Mina wants to grab a bite; there’s a ramen shop a few blocks away that Jeongyeon has treated her to many bowls many seasons ago. It’s really good. Maybe they can talk about Roxie and Velma, where each of them are in their process. 

And there it was. That glance. That slight raise of an eyebrow that questions…something. Nayeon is not sure what, and she doesn’t want to know. She feels her walls rising in an instant. By the time Mina blinks and says nothing, the new Nayeon is no more. 

“You know what, never mind—I wasn’t going to poison you, if that’s what was worrying you.” 

“No, sorry—I was just wondering… why?” 

The huffed laughter that comes out of Nayeon is involuntary. Unbelievable. Her ego flares, even though she knows she shouldn’t take it personally. Her smile gets a little too sharp. She finishes putting on her coat like she’s shedding skin. 

“Forget I said anything. You’re right—it’s weird. We should keep hating each other. Very on-brand.”

“I didn’t say anything like that—” Mina tries. But Nayeon isn’t trying to hear it. 

“I’ll see you soon, alright?” 

Then she’s gone. 

The door is not slammed but she doesn’t wait for Mina to say another word. 

She guesses old wounds don’t disappear on a morning’s notice.