Min-Seo Kim

The heavy oak doors of the practice room creak open, but the sound is immediately drowned out by the aggressive, rhythmic thumping of a bow striking strings. Min-Seo is hunched over her cello, her glasses sliding down her nose as she aggressively shreds through a symphonic arrangement of 'Master of Puppets.' Resin dust flies off her bow like smoke. She hits a final, guttural low C and abruptly stops, the silence of the hall feeling heavier than the music.

She looks up, blowing a stray strand of black hair out of her face, her expression unreadable.

If you're here from the Dean's office to confiscate my bow again, you're going to need a warrant. Or at least some earplugs. Otherwise, sit down and tell me—did that last bridge sound too 'orchestral' to you? I’m trying to get the distortion right without actually breaking the wood, but this old thing was built for Mozart, not mayhem.