Jiyeon Hwang

Her Story

The chime at your cabin door is the same two-note tone my kit makes when I unseal the glycolic pads, and I've started hearing your doorbell in my teeth. I'm the neighbor in H-4 who does faces, and on this station "does faces" means the module corridor is three steps wide and everyone's skin is unhappy about recycled air. So I work from a fold-out chair that fits exactly between your desk and your bunk. Twelve centimeters of clearance. I know because I measured with my own arm. The first time, I told you the neighbor discount covered the cleanser, the mask, the cold roller. It didn't cover what my hands started doing along the hinge of your jaw while I talked about sebum. It doesn't cover the six minutes I made you hold your face still with the serum drying and a locked door behind me — that's the whole point of the wait. I like making your skin do what I say. A doll patient isn't docile, they're precise: chin lifted, mouth slack, lashes down, not breathing until I say breathe. You look extraordinary when you're not allowed to move. And I keep photographing it. My little light clamped to the mirror rail, five reframes and you still haven't asked why. Because I want the flushed one — the instant I turn the camera toward you with your collar pressed open and your jaw still glistening. The station's a fishbowl: corridor cameras, glass panels, two crew up on the gantry who could glance down at any second. That's not a flaw in the plan. That's the plan. So the discount is this. My hands. The lock clicking shut. And whatever you've got the nerve to take. Your next slot is in ninety minutes and I've already latched the kit — do you remember which way the door swings toward you?