Fatescript

"Help, I'm Being Reshaped"

                               🥀🥀🥀

The morning light filtered through the large windows, golden and soft—mocking in its serenity.

Jisoo stirred from her sleep, head pounding from yesterday’s chaos. She sat up groggily, only to freeze when the sound of moving boxes and plastic hangers reached her ears.

Her bedroom closet was wide open, and familiar women were bustling inside. Her clothes—every frock, every pair of jeans, every T-Shirt—were being unceremoniously pulled out, folded, and stuffed into labeled bags. In their place came a wave of colorless garments: tailored blazers, pencil skirts, silk blouses, nude heels, shapewear. Jewelry boxes clicked open to reveal pearl studs, minimalist chains, diamond rings. Her world was being rearranged like a retail display.

“What the hell are you doing?” she snapped, shoving her blanket off and marching to the closet. “Put those back.”

The women barely looked at her, continuing to arrange hangers and press suits into place.

“I said—”

“Enough.”

The familiar, sharp voice sliced through the room like glass.

Hwa-jin stood in the doorway, arms crossed over her pristine white dress. Her heels tapped against the floor as she walked in like she owned not just the house, but Jisoo’s entire existence.

“From today onward,” she said coldly, “you will be undergoing a full schedule of training. Tutors will be here in thirty minutes.”

Jisoo stared, still trying to make sense of it. “Training for what?”

“Table manners. Walking. Speaking. Public demeanor. Fashion. Business etiquette. You’re going to be shaped into someone respectable.”

“I am respectable,” Jisoo spat.

“You’re wild,” Hwa-jin replied flatly. “Untamed. Loud. And completely unequipped to carry our name.”

“I didn’t ask to carry your name,” Jisoo snapped, voice rising. “You can’t just mold me into something else because you’re ashamed of me!”

Hwa-jin didn’t flinch. “This is not about shame. It’s about image. Legacy. You’re the heir now. That means sacrifices.”

“You mean personality removal,” Jisoo muttered.

Hwa-jin gave a tight-lipped smile, then glanced at her with surgical coldness. “You still need to lose weight.”

Jisoo’s breath caught.

“If you want to fit into the wardrobe designed for a professional, you need discipline,” Hwa-jin continued, completely unfazed. “We’ll assign a dietitian.”

Jisoo’s hands balled into fists at her sides. “You think if you throw enough money at me, starve me, dress me up and teach me how to say ‘thank you’ like a doll, I’ll forget that you left me to rot?”

Hwa-jin’s expression hardened. “I think you’ll learn to survive in a world that doesn’t care about your tantrums.”

And with that, she turned on her heel and walked out.

The women resumed their work in silence.

Jisoo stood frozen, her throat tight, vision blurry with unspent tears and a fury so sharp it cut her from the inside.

She looked at the suits lined in her closet.

Each one felt like a prison bar.

---

The zipper screeched a little as Jisoo pulled it up the side of her fitted dress, the fabric hugging her curves like a second skin—far tighter than anything she would have ever chosen for herself.

The cream-colored sheath dress stopped just below her knees, paired with nude heels that made her feel like a mannequin. Her collarbones were sharp, her posture stiff, and every breath felt calculated.

She stared at herself in the mirror, barely recognizing the woman staring back. No ripped jeans, no oversized hoodies, no freedom. Just sleek hair, neutral makeup, and a necklace she didn’t even pick out.

A knock at the door broke her thoughts.

One of the staff peeked in. “Your tutor has arrived, Miss Jisoo.”

Jisoo rolled her eyes. Of course.

She walked stiffly to the lounge where a poised woman in her late forties stood by the window, clipboard in hand and lips pursed like she’d bitten into something sour. She wore a gray pantsuit, glasses perched on her nose, and an air of quiet judgment.

“You must be Miss Jisoo,” the woman said in clipped English.

“Unfortunately,” Jisoo muttered.

“I’m Ms. Park. I’ll be overseeing your training. We’ll begin with posture and etiquette today. Please, sit.”

Jisoo slumped onto the velvet chair.

Ms. Park’s brows twitched. “No. Sit like a woman. Straight back. Ankles together. Chin up.”

Jisoo exhaled heavily but obeyed, awkwardly repositioning herself under the woman’s hawk-eyed stare.

“We’ll start with how to enter a room. Then move to greetings. Business handshakes. Conversation tones. And eventually, you will learn how to walk, talk, and eat like the face of a conglomerate. Not a wild horse.”

Jisoo raised an eyebrow. “Is that how you describe your students? Or just me?”

Ms. Park offered a thin smile. “Just the ones with a temper.”

Jisoo’s jaw clenched.

They spent the next hour with Jisoo walking up and down the room, balancing a book on her head, correcting her handshake, and practicing how to say “good afternoon” with the “right amount of breath.” Every mistake earned a small sigh from Ms. Park. Every attempt felt like a punishment.

“You hold your fork like a weapon,” she noted dryly when they got to the mock dining setting.

“Maybe that’s because I feel like I’m at war,” Jisoo snapped.

Ms. Park didn’t flinch. “Then win gracefully, Miss Jisoo. That’s what real power is.”

Jisoo went quiet at that, lips pressed into a thin line.

The lesson ended with Ms. Park handing her a thick binder. “Review these. You’ll be tested.”

Jisoo held it like it was a brick of lead.

As the tutor left, Jisoo sank back into the chair, the dress digging into her ribs, the heels cutting into her ankles, the silence suffocating.

She wanted to scream.

Instead, she stared out the window and whispered, “They can change my clothes, but they won’t change me.”

TBC...