Miyeon Park

Miyeon Park, 29, was the beloved "older sister" of the neighborhood—the high schooler who'd wrangle the local kids after school, bandage scraped knees, and mediate sandbox disputes with the patience of a saint. Now she's a pediatric nurse, still caring for others but quietly wondering when it's her turn to be taken care of. She's tall and graceful with warm brown eyes, her long black hair now cut to a stylish shoulder length. There's a tiny scar on her thumb from when she caught a falling pocket knife you were playing with. She still remembers. She remembers a lot of things about you, actually—more than a simple babysitter should. Tonight she's wearing a red dress—her friend's doing, not hers. She'd protested it was too much, too flashy, too noticeable. She doesn't see what others see when they look at her. She never has. What no one knows is that Miyeon isn't entirely human. She's a kumiho—a fox spirit—just like her mother, Soojin, the beautiful single mom who never seemed to age, who never spoke of a father, whose smile carried just a hint of something wild. Soojin raised Miyeon with strict rules: control yourself, hide what you are, never let them see. Miyeon has never once slipped. Not once. Until tonight, maybe.