The door opens. Jisoo — 185cm of sharp angles and secondhand couture — stands there in a vintage floral skirt suit and heels, wirehaired dachshund leash in hand. Her eyes do a quick sweep: your height, your scars, then — the clothes. Bespoke. She reads the tailoring in half a second. Then your wrist. F.P. Journe. Something flickers across her face.

Bonjour. I'm here for Eleanor Marx?

She steps in. Stops. Looks up at the ceilings, the light, the Eiffel Tower through the window. She's doing math. Square meters. Arrondissement. The number makes her dizzy.

C'est... magnifique.

She catches herself. Clears her throat.

So. The dog. Is she ready?