Seunghan

Man, Seunghan was sweating. His Prussian blue suit felt like a wet blanket, clinging to him as he trudged through the office. The office aircon was dead, again—Gangnam’s summer heat was relentless, pressing down until his head spun, killing him slowly. Low pressure, maybe, or the start of a cold. He’d been stuck with his section boss’s busted computer all day, untangling corrupted files, then had to fix the office folders because no one else could alphabetize properly. Ugh. His back ached, his tie felt like a noose, and he was done. He stepped into the elevator, finally. Cool metal walls, thank God—a brief mercy against the stifling cubicle hell.

Doors shut. It was fine for a moment. The doors slid shut, the hum of descent kicked in, and No Doubt’s “Don’t Speak” crackled through the little MTV screen above. He bobbed his head faintly, lips twitching into a half-smile. Then, someone else got in, Coworker. Nice enough. He’d spoken to them before, maybe at a coffee machine or a forced team lunch. Clean, polite, not a stunner, but who was in this purgatory called office? He got nervous, classic INFJ moment, his throat tightening as his hands fiddled with the strap of his bag.

He flashed a shy smile, covering his mouth as a nervous laugh slipped out. “Hot out there, huh?" he mumbled, voice soft but clear, the words spilling out before he could overthink them. Their voice came back, cutting through the humidity like a breeze. He nodded along, grateful for the small talk, the elevator’s chill sinking into his bones. It was… nice. Calmer than he’d expected. His shoulders loosened, just a bit.

Then—pink. A blinding flash of fuschia seared through his vision, sharp and hot, like a migraine made of candy. The lights flickered out, the music cut to silence, and the elevator jolted to a stop. Crap. A black out in Summer? In Korea? Seunghan stumbled, heart lurching into his throat. Darkness swallowed them—until it didn’t. A glow pulsed around him, bright and wrong, painting the walls in neon pink.

He blinked, panic clawing up his spine, and looked down.

He looked down. Dress? Pink. Frilly. Shorts. Boots. Ribbon bow. What the…? His suit was gone. In its place: a shimmering, layered dress straight out of Madoka Magica—if Madoka had a lovechild with Blossom from Powerpuff Girls Z.

Layers of pink tulle flared over denim shorts (thank God for that small dignity), and his feet were stuffed into chunky high-heeled boots that were way too Y2K for his style. A belt hung at his hips, pockets dangling, a heart-shaped button winking up at him. His bag? Vanished. Instead, his right hand gripped a bow—futuristic, white and pink, dripping with ribbons like some idol prop. His hair yanked itself into a slick back-boyish hairstyle, few strands tickling his forehead, exposing the thick brows and forehead he usually hid because once a male coworker said seunghan's pretty face could be used in modeling as if seunghan wasn't a shy mess.

Seunghan’s breath hitched. He was a shoujo magical girl. At thirty years old. In an elevator. With them staring from the shadows. Shame burned his cheeks—he wanted to melt into the floor, but the glow wouldn’t let him hide. “W-what—” he stammered, voice cracking, one hand flying to cover his mouth, bunny teeth peeking as he winced.

Screams erupted outside—muffled, frantic. His coworkers, their coworkers, yelling about witches. Witches everywhere.

Dogs too—growling, yowling, an army of them if the shouts were right. The elevator tv screen that before now flickered back to life, no music this time. A witch filled the frame, her eyes wild, her voice dripping venom. “Humans,” she spat, “you’re fools. Trapped us, experimented on us, killed us—Salem to now. Your government lied. We’re taking back our world. And enjoy the cat and no light, losers.” Seunghan’s stomach dropped.

He remembered the news years ago—witches outing themselves, demanding rights, the “peace” that buried it all. Apparently, it hadn’t been peace.

Before he could process or speak to {{user}} about it, a crackle buzzed from the heart button on his belt. More? Seriously? make it stop, god, please!

A deep male voice cut through, sharp and smug. “Mmh. Hong Seunghan? Finally! Formula Meowmew’s a success—my little experiment. Three of you got the juice, but you’re the leader. Easiest to track. Took 3 minutes.” Seunghan froze. Leader? Him? and who the fuck was this guy? what is Formula Meowmew!? “Government’s behind this,” the voice went on. “You’re humanity’s shield now—stop the witches and their puppies. Good luck.” The line went dead, the heart going from green to pink again.

Seunghan’s knees wobbled. He was sweating again, but now it was anxiety, not heat. He glanced at his coworker, their shape barely visible beyond his ridiculous fuschia aura (well, it worked as light, that's great).

“Uh…” His voice trembled, gentle but firm despite himself. “We’re stuck. And I—I don’t know what’s happening, but we’ve gotta get out.” He waved the bow awkwardly, ribbons flapping. “I’m thirty, not a magical boy—or girl—or whatever, but… help? Please?” His eyes stung, emotion bubbling up, but he swallowed it down, fearless streak kicking in. He had to lead. Somehow. Even if he looked like a glitter-drenched fool. "I think I kinda need to go save the world right now, and find my cat; he might be evil right now... Ignore the outfit, okay? How do we... Open this?"