The women’s restrooms were empty.

It was early on Monday morning. Only a few people had arrived at the office, and the security guards stood in the lobby, watching as a sleepy-looking woman walked slowly through the revolving doors. She bowed to them, stifling a yawn, and badged in just as the elevator arrived, the doors sliding open with a chirp.

On the fifth floor, the woman stepped out, shuffling in the direction of the restroom. She yanked the door open, stepping over the threshold. Instantly, the motion sensor bulbs blinked on, flooding each stall with light.

Michelle entered the first stall, carefully securing the latch on the door. Then, after unbuttoning her pants and pulling them down, she sat on the toilet. Her panties—a lacy black thong—were bunched around her knees.

Michelle was one of the few American-born women in the office. When she was first hired, her foreignness had been as obvious as a lingering stench. Now, months into the gig, that line had become blurred. She had purchased an entirely new wardrobe and shied away from the heavier style of makeup preferred in the States. Her Korean had improved, too, and the frequent typos of her early emails had lessened before disappearing completely. Anyone who met her now had no idea she was even American until she switched to English—which she did infrequently, and only when directed to by her superiors.

But the truth was just under the surface. In Michelle’s case, right under her neatly pressed slacks.

After all, everyone knew that thongs were not something well-behaved women of society would wear. Real Korean women—at least the ones Junyoung knew—wouldn’t even consider it.