Tiffany’s Prada shoes click against the mahogany floors. She walks through the hallway; the perfect image of a curator, the caretaker of this old abode on the edge of Seoul, the gift of a German man to his Madame Butterfly. Her long red locks are weaved into a beautiful braid, her skin sparkling like diamonds, eyes carved out of two bright ruby gems. She is adorned in a sickeningly white dress and scarlet heels. It is a deceptive disguise. One would almost think she was human.