Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The late afternoon sun stretched long shadows across the fields of Cheongha-ri, painting the rice paddies in liquid gold. The breeze carried the earthy smell of wet soil mixed with the faint sweetness of blooming wildflowers. A lone bicycle cut through the narrow dirt road, its wheels crunching softly against the gravel. 

On the bike was Yujin, tall for her age. The wind cooled her flushed face as she pedaled hard, lungs filling with the crisp, clean air of the countryside. Out here, life wasn’t loud or rushed like in the city — it moved with the rhythm of the seasons: planting, harvesting, feeding animals, collecting milk. 

The small wooden gate of her home came into view — a weathered but sturdy fence enclosing a yard where laundry danced on a line and chickens clucked lazily around a coop. Yujin slowed down, her sneakers scuffing the ground as she hopped off her bike. 

“Yujin! Yujin!” 

A voice called from the gate. Hanni, was standing there, her dark eyes wide with excitement. Her hair was messy, cheeks flushed, as if she had sprinted out the moment she heard the sound of Yujin’s bike. In her hand, she waved a long white envelope like a victory flag. 

“It came!” Hanni’s voice cracked with a mix of nerves and joy. “The exam results — Janghwa Girls’ High sent it!” 

Yujin froze for a moment, the handlebars still gripped tightly in her hands. The memory of a few weeks ago returned sharply: two sharply dressed officials arriving at their humble public school, introducing themselves from Janghwa Girls’ High, the most prestigious all-girls’ academy in the country. They had come after hearing about Yujin’s surprising performance at a regional basketball match and found out how smart she was, as part of their experimental program to have more scholars from humble background — though Yujin had only joined the sport for extracurricular points, her natural talent had turned heads. The school had offered them both a chance to sit for the very hard entrance exam. 

She remembered sitting beside Hanni in the exam hall, the two of them scribbling answers with quiet determination. It hadn’t been about escaping Cheongha-ri — their school here wasn’t terrible, their home wasn’t terrible. But both of them knew what graduating from Janghwa Girls’ High could mean. It was a door to a future they couldn’t get otherwise, a chance to lift their foster family, to prove themselves in a world that rarely noticed kids like them. 

Yujin exhaled slowly, unclenching her hands from the handlebars. She nodded at Hanni, a small smile breaking through her calm face. 

“Let’s go show them,” she said quietly. 

They pushed the gate open, stepping into the familiar yard. Inside, the house was buzzing with warmth and chatter. The wooden floors creaked as they entered, and the scent of soybean stew simmering on the stove drifted through the air. A few of the other foster kids were sprawled across the low table doing homework, while their foster mother, Eun-soo, moved around the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, humming softly as she cooked. 

Eun-soo turned when she heard the door slide open. Her face, lined from years of work and hardship, softened immediately. She wasn’t Yujin’s real mother, but she had been there since the accident — when Yujin’s parents, had been taken from her in a sudden car crash, leaving her as the only survivor. Eun-soo had been their neighbor back then, and without hesitation, she had opened her home, her table, and her heart. 

“Back already? Did you—” Eun-soo started, but Hanni cut her off, bounding forward, waving the envelope with both hands. 

“It came! The results came, eomma!” 

The room stilled. The girls at the table set down their pencils, eyes lighting up. Eun-soo’s hands froze over the pot. Slowly, carefully, Yujin stepped closer, standing beside Hanni as if to anchor her restless energy. 

Haerin was the first — her catlike eyes watching curiously from the doorway. At fourteen, she carried herself with a quiet, thoughtful air, the kind of girl who only spoke after weighing her words carefully. She hugged her arms around herself, dark hair tucked neatly behind her ears, but her gaze lingered on the envelope with unspoken anticipation. 

Behind her bounded Hyein. At just twelve, she was already growing tall, her long limbs awkward but full of restless energy. She burst forward with a grin that could light up their small yard, clapping her hands as if she already knew the answer inside the letters. 

“Unnie, unnie, open it! Hurry!” she chirped, bouncing beside Yujin and Hanni. 

Yujin chuckled, exchanging a look with Hanni. The two fifteen-year-olds stood side by side, shoulder to shoulder as they had all their lives. 

They had been together for so long — not just as foster sisters, but as children who had shared scraped knees, bedtime stories, and whispered secrets in the dark. And now, they stood on the brink of something bigger than any of them had imagined. 

“Alright,” Yujin said, her voice steady, though her fingers trembled just a little against the paper. “On three.”

Hanni nodded, her lips curving nervously. “One… two… three!”

The sound of ripping envelopes filled the yard. For a heartbeat, silence fell, broken only by the rustling of papers. Then Yujin’s eyes widened. Across from her, Hanni gasped. 

They looked up at the same time. 

“Accepted,” Yujin whispered. 

“As full scholars!” Hanni added, her voice breaking with joy. 

The yard erupted. Hyein squealed, jumping in place and flinging her arms around them both. Even quiet Haerin cracked the smallest of smiles, her eyes glimmering with pride. From the doorway, their foster mother, Eun-soo, clapped her hands together, laughter spilling out as she pulled the girls into her embrace. 

“You did it,” Eun-soo said warmly, tears shining in her eyes. “I knew you both could do it. Janghwa Girls’ High… you’re going to soar higher than ever.” 

The family gathered close, congratulating, hugging, the air filled with laughter and shouts. Hanni turned to Haerin, her grin wide. “Next year, it’ll be your turn. You’ll take the exam too.” 

Haerin lowered her gaze, shy. “I’ll need better grades first.” 

Yujin ruffled her hair gently, her hand warm and steady. “You can do it. I believe in you.” 

Hyein, ever the cheerleader, raised both arms like a referee calling victory. “Our Yujin unnie and Hanni unnie are going to Janghwa High! The most elite girls’ school in all of Korea!” 

Her voice rang through the yard, and everyone laughed — because in that moment, it felt true. Their little house in Cheongha-ri, filled with patched clothes and secondhand furniture, had never known such big dreams. But tonight, it brimmed with hope. 

***

The morning was filled with the smell of earth and food. The front yard of Eun-soo’s house had turned into a small gathering, baskets and jars stacked neatly by the gate. Their foster mother had already prepared bags of kimchi, jars of jangajji, and crates of fresh fruits. Neighbors from Cheongha-ri came and went, each with something in hand — a box of dried persimmons, bundles of homemade tteok, even a few bottles of makgeolli for Eun-soo to drink when she missed the girls too much. 

“Yujin-ah, take this,” one elderly farmer said, pressing a bundle of sweet potatoes into her arms. “You’ll miss the taste of real earth once you’re in Seoul.” 

“You better write to us,” another added, ruffling Hanni’s hair as if she were his own. 

Everyone knew the foster kids. Yujin and Hanni weren’t just children from Eun-soo’s home — they were all had been part of the community, helping during harvests, running errands, tutoring the younger kids after school. Now that they were leaving for the city, the village sent them off with everything they could give. 

While the adults busied themselves chatting, Haerin tugged on Hanni’s sleeve, pulling her and Hyein away from the crowd. They slipped toward the shade of the persimmon tree, away from their foster mother’s watchful eye. 

Haerin leaned against the trunk, arms folded. Her expression, as always, was calm — but her sharp catlike eyes flickered with something almost mischievous. “So,” she began, her voice flat and cutting, “when are you going to tell Yujin unnie?” 

Hanni blinked, startled. “Tell her… what?” 

Haerin raised a brow. “Don’t act dumb. That you like her. You’ve liked her since we were little.” 

Hanni’s cheeks heated instantly, color rising to her ears. “W-what? No, I— it’s not like that.” 

Hyein, bouncing on her toes, gasped dramatically. “It is like that! Haerin unnie’s right!” Her grin stretched wide, eyes sparkling. “I’ve seen the way you look at her! You should tell her before you leave, Hanni unnie. It’s like… the perfect timing. You two are going to live together in Seoul! Just the two of you! That’s so romantic!” 

Hanni covered her face with both hands, groaning. “Oh my god, you guys— stop…” 

Haerin tilted her head, unbothered. “I’m serious. Opportunities don’t wait forever. If you keep quiet, someone else might take her first.” 

Hanni peeked between her fingers, frowning at her younger sister’s bluntness. “Why are you even saying this now?” 

“Because it’s true, and it’s the perfect timing,” Haerin replied simply, her tone steady as always. 

Beside her, Hyein clasped her hands together, already lost in daydreams. “Imagine Yujin unnie carrying your bag for you, or walking you to class, or defending you if someone’s mean! You two will look so good together at Janghwa High. Like… the perfect couple!” 

Hanni groaned again, this time louder. “Hyein, you watch too many dramas.” 

“But it’s true!” Hyein insisted, hopping in place with a huge smile. “Good luck, Hanni unnie! You have to tell her! At least before winter break, okay?” 

Hanni didn’t answer. Instead, she turned her gaze across the yard, where Yujin was crouched beside her duffel bag, organizing the gifts and food into neat stacks. Her short hair stuck slightly to her forehead, sweat glistening as she heaved another basket into place. There was something about the way Yujin moved — so reliable, so steady — that made Hanni’s heart thrum painfully in her chest. 

She swallowed hard. Maybe Haerin was right. Maybe Hyein’s childish fantasies weren’t that far off. Living in Seoul together would be different, strange, exciting — a new chapter. 

But as she watched Yujin laugh with one of the neighbors, her deep dimples lighting up her whole face, Hanni’s courage faltered. Could she really say it out loud? That she didn’t see Yujin as just a foster sister… but something more? 

***

The bus groaned as it pulled away from Cheongha-ri, its windows rattling slightly with every bump in the road. Yujin and Hanni pressed their foreheads to the glass, watching as the fields slipped away — endless stretches of green, dotted with cows and small farmhouses, slowly giving way to highways and overpasses. Eun-soo and the others stood by the bus stop until they disappeared from sight. 

They promised to call, they promised to come back for winter break. But for now, the familiar was behind them. Ahead was Seoul. 

The ride was long, but the further they went, the more the scenery transformed. Mountains gave way to wider roads, then to clusters of buildings, then to sprawling cityscapes. Neon signs flickered even in the late afternoon, and billboards stretched high above the streets. Glass and steel towers climbed into the sky, glittering in the sunlight. 

Hanni’s eyes widened. “There are so many people,” she whispered, her breath fogging the window. 

Yujin leaned back in her seat, arms crossed, but her gaze was fixed on the skyline. She had seen Seoul on TV before, in pictures, in textbooks. But being here — watching cars flood intersections, people dart across crosswalks, streets lined with shops and cafés — it was overwhelming. The city looked alive, restless, like it never slept. Compared to Cheongha-ri’s slow, steady rhythm, this world felt enormous, intimidating, and brimming with mystery. 

By the time the bus reached their stop, night had already begun to fall, and the city was alight. They hefted their bags, stepping onto the busy sidewalk, their heads swiveling as horns blared and strangers brushed past them without a second glance. 

The address they’d been given led them to a modest condo building, five stories tall with pale concrete walls and a row of mailboxes by the entrance. It wasn’t fancy — not like the high-rises they had passed earlier — but it was clean, functional. For two girls who had never lived anywhere but a small town, it felt impossibly new. 

As they lingered outside, Yujin tilted her head. “Do you think this place is just for students?” 

Hanni shrugged, tugging her bag higher on her shoulder. But the question answered itself when they saw a middle-aged couple walk out holding hands, and a young mother enter with her toddler tugging at her sleeve. This wasn’t a student dormitory — it was an ordinary apartment building, a place where families, couples, and single workers all lived side by side. Somehow, that made it feel both comforting and intimidating. 

Inside, they approached the receptionist’s desk. The woman behind the counter barely looked up as Yujin and Hanni slid their IDs across the polished surface. After checking a list, she handed them a single silver key attached to a tag stamped with 407. 

“Fourth floor. Keep noise down after ten,” the woman said flatly. 

They rode the elevator until they reached their floor. Room 407 was at the end of the hall. Yujin slipped the key into the lock, turned it, and pushed the door open. 

The apartment was small — just like the rooms they shared back in Cheongha-ri. Two single beds pressed against opposite walls, each with a plain desk on the footboard. A wardrobe stood between the beds, its doors slightly squeaky when Hanni pulled one open. A kitchenette hugged one corner, just big enough for a single burner, a sink, and a small fridge. The bathroom door was tucked to the side, leading into a space no bigger than a closet. 

For a moment. They just stood there, taking it in. It was new. And this is the place they are gonna live in until graduation.

“First things first,” Yujin said, rolling up her sleeves. “We clean.” 

Together, they opened the windows, letting in the cool city air. Dust clung to the corners, and the furniture smelled faintly of disuse, so they wiped every surface until it gleamed. Hanni hummed as she shook out the bedsheets, while Yujin scrubbed the tiny kitchenette. The sound of water running, cloths wringing and slowly, the room began to feel less like a box and more like a home. 

When everything was fresh and clean, they unpacked their clothes. One by one, shirts and skirts were folded into the shared cabinet. Their few belongings — books, notebooks, and a couple of framed photos Eun-soo had given them — found places on the desks. 

Hanni smoothed out the sheets on her bed, stepping back to admire the simple order of it. Across from her, Yujin dropped onto her mattress with a sigh, arms spread wide. 

“It feels full already,” Yujin admitted, staring up at the ceiling. Then she smiled. “Our little home.” 

Hanni sat down on her own bed, glancing around the room. The two beds. The two desks. The tiny kitchen that would force them to cook side by side. 

A whole new life was beginning. 

***

The next morning, a knock on the apartment door startled both girls awake. Yujin shuffled over, rubbing her eyes, and opened it to see a delivery man standing stiffly with two garment bags draped neatly over his arm. 

“Delivery from Janghwa Girls’ High,” he said briskly, checking their names before handing them over. 

The moment Yujin and Hanni unzipped the bags, their breath caught in unison. 

Inside gleamed the kind of uniforms they had only ever seen in magazines or on television dramas about the rich. The deep navy blazers were heavy and crisp, the golden buttons gleaming under the apartment’s yellow light. Burgundy ties folded neatly in their plastic wrapping. Pleated gray skirts hung with perfect symmetry, like the fabric itself refused to wrinkle. The set came complete with a sweater, a trench coat for winter, and a lighter short-sleeved blouse for summer — luxury for every season, all in one. 

“They… gave us all this?” Hanni whispered, almost afraid to touch the blazer. 

Yujin frowned, picking up a slip of paper that had fallen from the bag. It was a statement of value, a kind of receipt. She skimmed it once, and then her eyes widened so much that Hanni thought she had misread. 

“One set…” Yujin’s voice dropped, almost a whisper. “One million won.” 

Hanni nearly choked. “What? For one uniform?” She snatched the paper and stared at the numbers printed in neat black ink. She leaned over her shoulder. The number glared back at them, printed in neat, black ink: ₩1,000,000. One uniform. One set. Worth more than everything they had packed into this little room. The seasonal uniforms weren’t even part of that exaggerated one million set. 

Yujin placed the receipt down carefully, like even touching it too hard would cause debt to appear. “No wonder they only gave us one set for free.” She let out a long breath, glancing at the pristine blazer again. “If this gets stained, we’re doomed. This is more than what we saved up all summer.” 

Hanni’s stomach tightened. Back home, all their clothes were secondhand, sometimes patched or frayed. Now, the idea of washing this delicate, million-won fabric by hand every night felt like walking on a tightrope. 

The apartment was quiet for a moment, the weight of reality pressing down. Then Hanni broke the silence with a small, nervous laugh. “We’ll just… take turns with the washing machine downstairs. And pray no one spills kimchi on us.” 

Yujin smiled faintly, though her eyes were still troubled. “Yeah. Pray really hard.” 

But the truth was unavoidable — they were stepping into a world where their classmates could afford five or ten of these uniforms without blinking, while Yujin and Hanni would cling to their single set like lifelines. 

Hanni forced a smile, though her chest was tight. “We can do it. We’ve done harder things.” 

At least, thanks to one of their neighbors from Cheongha-ri who had called ahead to a relative in Seoul, both girls had part-time jobs lined up. Yujin would work evenings at a fried chicken shop two streets away, and Hanni had been set up with a café just around the corner. They would spend the week working full-time until classes began, saving whatever they could to keep themselves afloat. 

***

The first day of school at Janghwa Girls’ High was always an event, more spectacle than routine. The wrought-iron gates gleamed under the early September sun, and the line of sleek black sedans and foreign cars stretched down the drive like a runway show. 

Inside a long, polished limousine, Jang Wonyoung sat with her back straight and her legs crossed neatly at the ankles, gazing at her reflection in a small hand mirror. She had only landed from Paris that morning, still faintly carrying the scent of designer perfume from the airport duty-free, but her appearance was flawless. Her glossy hair fell in soft waves, held back by an expensive jeweled hairband imported from Milan. A delicate brooch sparkled against the burgundy tie of her Janghwa uniform, and a limited-edition leather handbag rested on her lap — a fall collection piece that no one else at school owned yet. 

Her watch ticked softly, platinum and understated, the kind of accessory that whispered wealth without needing to scream it. On her feet, her shoes shone like glass, polished to perfection by staff the night before. 

The limousine rolled to a smooth stop before the school’s grand facade, and the driver hurried out to open the door for her. As Wonyoung stepped onto the paved lot, the world seemed to slow for a moment. Heads turned — students arriving with their families or chauffeurs paused to watch the school’s crown jewel return. Wonyoung lifted her chin slightly, her expression practiced: cool, composed, untouchable. 

From across the parking lot, a familiar voice called out. 

“Good morning, sis.” 

It was Kim Minji. Her step-sister. 

The sight of her brought an odd mix of comfort and complexity. Minji stood beside her own luxury sedan. She was buttoned up neatly in her uniform, her long straight hair down. Wonyoung’s father married Minji’s mother after her parents divorced. He lived with Minji and her mother in the old mansion where Wonyoung herself had grown up. Meanwhile, Wonyoung lived apart, in the penthouse high above the city with her own mother, a former beauty queen whose perfectionist shadow was never far away. 

It was strange, yet despite the tangled web of their parents’ choices, Wonyoung and Minji had carved something like a real bond. Not rivals, not estranged. A tentative friendship, even a kind of sisterhood, had grown between them. 

A bright voice rang out before Wonyoung could say anything else. “Wonyoung!” 

Danielle Marsh appeared from the crowd, practically bouncing her way over. Dani’s presence was like a burst of sunshine in the marble-white campus, her warm smile instantly softening the cold elegance of Minji beside her. She slid her hand through Minji’s arm with the ease of habit, her cheerfulness balancing Minji’s steady composure. 

“Good morning!” Dani chirped, looking at Wonyoung with wide, friendly eyes. “You’re finally back! How was Europe?” 

Wonyoung adjusted her expensive bag on her shoulder, posture poised as though she were posing for a magazine photo. “Busy. Paris, Rome, Milan — my mother insisted on introducing me to a few designers. Exhausting, but worthwhile.” Her voice was casual, as if dropping names of fashion capitals was no more unusual than mentioning the local market. She tilted her head slightly. “And you? Australia again?” 

“Yes!” Dani nodded eagerly, her accent softening the Korean words. “I went home to see my parents. It’s been a while.” Her tone warmed, glancing at Minji with a quiet fondness. “And Minji came with me.” 

Wonyoung’s brows lifted just a fraction. “Of course. How lovely.”

 Together, the three girls walked into the grand hall. The polished floors reflected the morning light streaming from the tall windows. As they entered, a hush seemed to ripple through the students scattered inside. Heads turned; whispers fluttered like invisible threads. Everywhere they went, people watched. Some with admiration, others with envy, a few with longing — Jang Wonyoung and her circle were untouchable, a constellation of names that carried weight both inside and outside the academy’s walls. 

Near the entryway, another figure stood, posture precise and gaze sharp enough to cut glass. Kim Winter. Petite but radiating an intensity that silenced even the boldest onlookers. Her uniform was flawless, every fold pressed, her blazer buttoned to perfection. When her dark eyes landed on Wonyoung and the others, it felt like the room itself steadied. 

“Winter,” Wonyoung greeted smoothly, lips curling into the faintest of smiles. 

“Wonyoung,” Winter returned. 

“Where’s Ningning?” Wonyoung asked, noticing the absence. 

“Still in China,” Winter replied, her voice as even as a soldier’s march. “Her family wanted her home longer this time.” 

Before Wonyoung could nod, a tall figure slipped into their circle with all the confidence. Shin Yuna. The way she carried herself — the tilt of her chin, the natural swing of her hair, the casual luxury in her fashion choices was enough to draw eyes instantly. Her beauty was bold, eye-catching, the kind that turned hallways into runways. But it wasn’t just her looks; Yuna’s athletic energy, the kind that came from being involved in sports, made her magnetic. 

“Good morning,” Yuna greeted with a bright grin. 

They exchanged small talk, the easy rhythm of girls who had grown up in the same gilded world. Then Yuna leaned in slightly, lowering her voice just enough to spark curiosity. “I heard from one of the teachers — there’ll be two new transfers today.” 

That got Wonyoung’s attention. Her perfectly glossed lips parted in mild surprise. “Transfers? Here? That’s… rare.” 

“Mm,” Yuna hummed, her eyes glinting with mischief. “I don’t know who they are though. Could be daughters of a politician, or someone from overseas. Maybe even a celebrity.” 

For a moment, Wonyoung felt her curiosity sharpen. Who would be bold or worthy—enough to enter Janghwa Girls’ High halfway through? She tilted her head thoughtfully. “Do you know their family names?” 

Yuna shook her head. “Nope. Just that they’ll be introduced at the assembly.” 

The moment lingered, heavy with intrigue. But then Wonyoung gave a little shrug, the kind that dismissed entire possibilities. “Probably not anyone important then. If they were, we’d have heard about it weeks ago.” 

Her words hung in the air as the group walked deeper into the school, their presence commanding every glance that followed. 

***

The grand auditorium of Janghwa Girls’ High gleamed as sunlight filtered through tall glass windows. Velvet curtains framed the wide stage where the school crest — embroidered magnolia blossoms and gilded Hangul spelling out JANGHWA hung proudly. Rows upon rows of students sat in perfect order, the sea of navy blazers and gray pleated skirts giving the illusion of uniformity. Yet, anyone with eyes could tell where the lines of status ran — designer brooches, custom-fitted uniforms, limited-edition handbags perched daintily on laps. 

On the front row, Wonyoung sat with her usual circle — Minji with Dani close at her side, Winter who is bored and using her phone, Yuna adjusting the cuff of her blazer as though she were posing for a photoshoot. They whispered among themselves, passing idle comments as the principal launched into the usual opening speech. 

“Welcome back, young ladies of Janghwa…” 

The words were polished, practiced, but dull. Wonyoung leaned her chin on her hand, her expression unreadable, though inside she was counting the minutes. These speeches always sounded the same — tradition, excellence, the future leaders of the nation. She shifted her gaze to the student body, catching the way dozens of eyes kept flicking toward her group. Awe, envy, reverence. It was nothing new. 

Then the principal’s voice shifted, drawing sudden attention. 

“This year, we are pleased to welcome not one, but two new students from the province of Cheongha-ri — exceptional young women who have earned their place here through scholarship.” 

The word seemed to ripple through the room like a stone cast into a still pond. 

“Scholars?” someone whispered.

“From where?” another muttered.

“Cheongha-ri…? Isn’t that some farming town?” 

A low murmur swept across the auditorium. Girls exchanged confused glances, some smothering giggles behind their hands. Scholars at Janghwa were rarities — oddities, really. The school prided itself on pedigree, on status. For someone without a name or fortune to sit among them was almost unthinkable. 

Wonyoung’s lips curved into a faint, dismissive smile. She hated this. Scholarships. As if intelligence alone could make someone fit for Janghwa. No class, no elegance, no understanding of how their world moved. They didn’t belong here. 

“And yet,” the principal continued, “one of these scholars has achieved something remarkable. In fact, unprecedented.” 

The murmurs sharpened into silence. 

“An Yujin,” the principal announced, “has scored a perfect 100 on her entrance examination.” 

The silence broke into stunned gasps. Heads turned, voices overlapped. 

“Perfect?!”

“No one’s ever—”

“She was tied with Jang Wonyoung?”

“Is that even possible?” 

Wonyoung’s spine went rigid. Her eyes narrowed as the words sank in. She had been the only one, the sole student in Janghwa history to achieve that score. It was a badge of superiority, proof that she was untouchable. And now — a poor, nameless scholar from some countryside school had matched her? 

Heat rose in her chest, not quite anger yet, but insult. To be placed on the same level as her, as if they were equals. She clenched her fingers around the edge of her skirt, jaw tightening. Whoever this An Yujin was, she had already crossed a line without even stepping foot onto campus. 

“An Yujin. Please come up to the stage.” 

The name rang clear through the auditorium. A hush fell across the sea of students, every head turning as if on cue. Whispers darted between rows like sparks — who is she? where is she? 

From the far side of the hall, a figure rose. At first, some students craned their necks, expecting another girl with glossy curls and a ribboned headband, polished in the way Janghwa students always were. But what they saw instead drew a collective intake of breath. 

She was tall — unusually tall for a girl their age, her head nearly level with the tallest of second-years seated nearby. Her blazer fit her shoulders in a way that made her silhouette sharper, cleaner, and her short hair, trimmed neatly above her collar with soft bangs brushing her forehead, gave her an androgynous air. For a moment, it was almost jarring — if not for the pleated skirt, one might have mistaken her for a boy in uniform. 

And she walked… differently. Not with the delicate, practiced steps the wealthy daughters of Seoul carried themselves with, but with a straightforward stride, like someone used to moving quickly, practically, with no thought of elegance or display. 

The murmur of voices grew louder.

“Is that her?”

“She’s so tall…”

“She doesn’t even look like us.” 

From the front row, Wonyoung’s lips curled slightly. Of course. This was their perfect scorer? This provincial girl with blunt bangs and no polish, who wore the expensive navy blazer like it was any other uniform, not a badge of prestige? Already she could feel irritation prickling down her spine. No poise, no grace, no refinement. 

Yujin climbed the steps of the stage with ease, gave a simple, curt bow, and accepted the certificate from the principal. Her expression was calm, almost unreadable, her dark eyes flicking briefly over the crowd before lowering again. And just like that — she turned and walked back down the stage, her stride as plain and unbothered as before. 

No speech. No thanks. Not even an introduction. 

The room buzzed with confused reactions. Some students scoffed, others whispered excitedly about her height, her face, her boldness. 

Beside her friends, Wonyoung scoffed audibly. Unbelievable. First, this girl dares to claim the same perfect mark she had achieved, and now she couldn’t even show the slightest sense of dignity in front of the entire school? 

Her nails pressed lightly into the fabric of her skirt as she leaned back, expression cold.

Already, she hated her. 

***

By the time the morning assembly ended, Yujin and Hanni had already discovered that they weren’t in the same class. That small blow settled like a stone in Yujin’s stomach, though she didn’t show it. They had grown up side by side, through Cheongha-ri’s dirt roads and rice paddies, and now, in this enormous glittering fortress of wealth, they were being pulled apart for the first time. 

Still, lunch gave them the chance to regroup. They followed the stream of students down long corridors that gleamed like glass palaces until they reached the cafeteria. Except, calling it a “cafeteria” felt laughable. 

There wasn’t just one hall. Instead, they found a sprawling food court — mini cafés with gleaming counters, bakeries where croissants cooled on racks, a noodle shop steaming with rich broth, even a sushi counter with a glass case full of glistening cuts of fish. Signs hung proudly above each corner like boutique storefronts. 

Yujin blinked, stunned. In their old high school, “cafeteria” meant one metal counter, stainless steel trays, and the same two ahjummas serving kimchi stew and fried mackerel for everyone. Here, the students queued like they were at a luxury mall. 

When they checked the menu boards, the prices made Hanni choke on her breath.

“W–what the heck? One-hundred thousand won for noodles? This is robbery!” 

Even a sandwich cost more than what their foster mother spent on groceries for a whole day back home. The two stood frozen, until they remembered the meal vouchers tucked safely in their blazers. Scholars received daily credits, enough for one proper meal. Hanni had been worried the “scholar food” would be plain or humiliating, but when they swiped their vouchers, the cashier handed them lacquered trays with steaming rice, braised short ribs, a golden fried egg, and fresh strawberries for dessert. 

They sat in a far corner, almost hidden behind one of the tall pillars, careful not to intrude on the clusters of girls who gathered in loud, glittering circles with their matching handbags and manicured nails. Every so often, Yujin caught the weight of eyes on them — curious, disdainful, or just amused. They were whispering as they looked at them.

“Don’t mind them,” Yujin muttered as she slid into her seat. “We’re here to study, not to impress anyone.” 

Hanni poked nervously at her rice. “I know. It’s just… it really does feel like we don’t belong here. Maybe K-dramas weren’t lying about rich kids.” Her laugh was small, nervous, not quite a joke. 

Yujin leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms with deliberate ease. “Let them stare. They can keep their designer bags. As long as we keep our grades up, that’s all that matters.” Then, to soften the edge, she added with a grin, “Besides, this food—” she took another bite of the braised beef and practically groaned— “this is insane. Like actual restaurant quality. Are we sure this isn’t cooked by real chefs?” 

Hanni giggled, shoulders relaxing, her eyes curving into crescents. “Right? Even the rice tastes different. I don’t even want to know how much it would cost without the vouchers.” 

***

The rest of the school day blurred into a rhythm of introductions and exploration. Yujin and Hanni, though separated into different classes, regrouped whenever they could — two familiar faces clinging to each other in an ocean of strangers. After lunch, the school held an orientation for the extracurricular clubs, the gymnasium and nearby halls buzzing with activity. 

Hanni’s eyes lit up when they passed the music wing. The soft hum of a piano drifted from one of the open rooms, voices mingling in harmony, and she immediately tugged Yujin’s sleeve. 

“Let’s go there,” she whispered. 

Inside, the music club welcomed them warmly. Yunjin, a charismatic second year with a confident presence, introduced herself first. She had an easy smile, the kind that instantly put people at ease. Beside her was Liz, a fellow first-year, soft-spoken but bright-eyed, who perked up when Hanni mentioned she liked singing. Rei, a cheerful Japanese student, chimed in with her accented Korean, already practicing beats. Hanni’s shoulders loosened as she chatted with them. 

Yujin, meanwhile, lingered by the door, her gaze wandering. Music wasn’t her thing. Later, she drifted toward the sports booths lined across the gym. She skimmed over archery, fencing, even equestrian but when she saw the basketball club flyer pinned against the bulletin board, her lips tugged upward. Winter season tryouts. It was perfect, since soccer would only begin in the spring. She stuffed the flyer into her bag. 

By the time schedule officially ended for the day, Yujin was buzzing with quiet excitement. But the first thing she thought of wasn’t basketball or clubs. It was finding Hanni. They had work waiting for them — her at the fried chicken shop, Hanni at the café and if they didn’t hurry, they’d be late. 

She pulled out her phone and dialed. One ring. Two. Three. No answer. 

Yujin frowned, glancing at the dwindling crowd of students leaving classrooms. Hanni wasn’t the type to ignore her calls. 

Just as she started toward the stairwell, voices drifted past her — two girls chatting animatedly as they walked by. 

“Did you hear? The transfer girl messed up big time.”

“Yeah. She’s dead now. You don’t upset the Queen and live to tell about it. I bet she’s gonna drop out soon.” 

Yujin’s steps faltered. Transfer girl? As far as she knew, there were only two new transfers this year. Her and Hanni. 

Her pulse quickened. 

Another pair of students passed by, whispering louder than they probably intended.

“She spilled something on Wonyoung-ssi’s uniform, can you believe it? Those shoes alone cost more than her life.”

“No way. She’s screwed.” 

Yujin’s brows knitted together, a muscle ticking in her jaw. Her stomach dropped at the mention of “Wonyoung” Whoever that was, Hanni was in trouble and that was all that mattered. 

And if Hanni had crossed her, even by accident… 

Yujin turned sharply and strode toward a group the gossiping girls loitering by the lockers. They froze when she approached, eyes widening at the intensity in her gaze. 

“You,” she said, pointing to the one in the middle. “Where are they? The transfer girl and the ‘queen’?” 

The girls exchanged nervous looks, shuffling under her stare. One of them whispered, “Courtyard. Near the east wing. But… don’t get involved. It’s none of your business.” 

Yujin didn’t wait for the rest. Her hands curled into fists as she pushed past them, her long strides echoing down the hall. Her chest tightened with every step, the thought looping in her head like a drumbeat. 

Hanni’s in trouble. Hanni needs me. 

***

Yujin’s heart hammered against her ribs as she sprinted into the courtyard, eyes scanning desperately. Her voice cracked the still air, sharp and frantic. 

“Hanni! Hanni!” 

Heads turned toward the commotion, but Yujin didn’t care — she only cared about finding her friend.

Hanni was kneeling on the stone pavement, shoulders trembling, her long hair falling forward to shield her flushed face. Standing over her, tall and immaculate in her deep navy blazer, was another girl Yujin had never seen before. The girl tilted her head slightly at the sound of Yujin’s voice, a slow, amused arch curling across her brow. 

Honey? Wonyoung’s eyes narrowed. Did she just hear that right? This transfer had called the other one “Honey”? Her lips twitched, almost smiling as the thought sank in. So not only are they poor scholars who don’t belong here, they’re also… a couple? Lesbians? Her chest buzzed with indignation. The audacity. The absolute lack of shame. 

The courtyard filled quickly with murmurs, students flocking closer like moths to flame. All around them the hum of gossip grew louder. Wonyoung’s friends lounged a few steps away, arms crossed, watching with a mix of curiosity and expectation. Minji leaned toward Dani with a spark of interest in her eyes, even she seemed entertained. Something about this felt different. 

Hanni, kneeling low with her head down, and the tall girl’s glossy black shoes planted directly on top of her bowed head. Shoes so polished they gleamed, except for the shocking splash of pale white liquid staining the leather. 

For a split second Yujin’s brain short-circuited. The shoes… the drink… the humiliation. 

And then the rage hit. 

Her vision blurred with heat as she stormed forward, voice cutting sharp and loud.

“Get away from her!” 

Wonyoung didn’t move. She didn’t even flinch. She just looked at Yujin, cool and unreadable, like a queen amused by a peasant’s defiance. 

Something in Yujin snapped. Without hesitation she stepped right into Wonyoung’s space, grabbed her arm, and shoved her back. Not a hard shove — but enough. Enough to break the pose, enough to make the taller girl stumble a single step and lift her foot off Hanni’s head. 

The courtyard erupted. 

Gasps tore through the crowd like a wave. Eyes widened, hands flew to mouths, whispers sharpened into stunned, scandalized hisses. 

“She shoved her—”

“She touched Jang Wonyoung—”

“Oh my god—” 

Wonyoung’s clique froze where they stood. Winter’s sharp eyes narrowed; Yuna’s lips parted in disbelief. Even Dani clutched Minji’s sleeve with both hands. And Minji herself, rather than angry, looked faintly entertained — her gaze gleaming with the thrill of seeing someone do what no one else ever dared. 

No one touched Wonyoung.

No one even thought of it.

And the new girl just had. 

“What the fuck are you doing!?” Wonyoung screamed.

“What’s wrong with you?” Yujin’s voice rang sharp, slicing through the whispers. Her eyes burned into the tall girl who had just stepped back, her whole body vibrating with barely checked anger. 

Wonyoung blinked slowly, almost lazily, before lifting a perfectly manicured hand to point at Hanni. Her tone was smooth, but sharp enough to cut glass. “She ruined my shoes.” 

Yujin’s gaze flicked down, and for the first time she took a proper look. The pristine, glossy black leather was marred by nothing more than a pale splash of Yakult, already drying at the edges. She blinked once, then twice, unable to believe this was what all the fuss was about. 

“Ruined?” she echoed flatly. “Are you serious? It’s Yakult. Wash it and it’s gone. Drop it off at a cleaner. You’re bullying someone over this?” Her eyes narrowed, her tone dripping with disbelief. “How old are you?” 

A ripple of gasps and murmurs burst from the crowd. No one talked to Jang Wonyoung like that. 

Wonyoung’s lips parted, her composure cracking for half a second before she snapped back, voice rising. “Accident?? Do you even know how much these cost?” 

“How much?” 

“Five million won.” 

The words dropped heavy in the air, silencing even the whispers for a moment. Yujin’s jaw went slack. Five million? For shoes? 

Of course, this was a school for the rich. Of course. 

But she didn’t let her surprise show for long. Setting her jaw, she said firmly, “Fine. I’ll pay for it.” 

The students around them erupted into muffled laughter, some failing to hide their smirks. This scholar girl thinks she can pay Jang Wonyoung back? Even some of Wonyoung’s clique looked amused — Winter’s lips twitched, Yuna bit back a grin, and Minji was openly entertained now. 

Wonyoung, however, didn’t smile. Her gaze hardened, cold as marble. She tilted her head just slightly, her long hair slipping over her shoulder, and sneered.

“I don’t want your money. I have plenty. What I want—” she lifted her foot, elegant and deliberate, arching her glossy shoe forward until it hovered right in front of Yujin’s face—“ is for you to kiss them. Do that, and I’ll forget what your friend did.” Yeah, that’s right, An Yujin, I will show you your place in my school.

Gasps tore through the courtyard like fireworks. 

On the ground, Hanni’s eyes went wide, her head snapping up. She shook it violently, her long hair swishing. “No, Yujin, don’t—! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she babbled, bowing her head again. Her hands trembled as she clutched her skirt, silently begging Yujin not to lower herself like this. 

Yujin froze, staring at the polished shoe now practically touching her. For a heartbeat, she actually thought about it — for Hanni’s sake. To end this humiliation. To shield her. 

But then her gaze lifted. Past the shoe, past Wonyoung’s perfect blazer and expensive brooch, up into those proud, mocking eyes. Eyes that looked down at them as if they were less than human. As if one accident, one splash of Yakult, defined their worth. 

And Yujin hated it. 

Her fingers curled tightly around something by her side. The Yakult bottle, half-full, still cold in her grip. She didn’t think. She just acted. 

With one swift motion, she snapped the cap off and splashed the drink upward, straight onto Wonyoung. 

The sweet, sticky liquid burst against her immaculate blouse, soaking into the fabric in pale stains, dripping down the edge of her collar. Droplets speckled across her perfect face, catching in the strands of her hair. 

The courtyard erupted. 

A collective scream of gasps and shrieks filled the air. Hands clapped over mouths. Eyes bulged in disbelief. Some students even laughed in shock, unable to believe what they had just seen. 

Wonyoung herself froze, blinking as the cold Yakult slid down her cheek. Her hand twitched at her side, fingers trembling. For the first time in anyone’s memory — Jang Wonyoung looked truly, utterly stunned. 

Her face twisted, her porcelain mask cracking under the sticky sheen of Yakult running down her cheek. Her jaw clenched, lips trembling with rage before parting into a scream that echoed across the courtyard. 

“WHAT THE FUCK—” she spat, her voice sharp enough to pierce glass. “Who the fuck do you think you are?!” 

Her words cracked like a whip, and the crowd recoiled, some students stumbling back, others continue filming with their phones. A dozen cameras lit up in the sunlight, recording. This wasn’t just a fight anymore — this was history in the making. Someone was standing up to Jang Wonyoung. 

Yujin stood firm, shoulders squared, chest heaving, the empty Yakult bottle still hanging loose at her side. She didn’t flinch. 

“You’re the one stepping on someone’s head,” Yujin shot back, voice low and steady, laced with disbelief. “And over what? Spilled milk? You think that makes you better than anyone?” 

Wonyoung’s laugh rang hollow, bitter, like broken glass. Yuna gave her a handkerchief then she stepped forward, liquid still dripping from her ruined blouse, her towering frame casting a long shadow over Yujin. “Better than anyone?” Her tone dripped venom. “I am better than you. Look at you—” she gestured at Yujin’s plain uniform, her scuffed shoes, her simple hair. “You’re nothing. A poor little nobody who got lucky on one stupid test.” 

The words landed like daggers, but Yujin didn’t break eye contact. Her jaw clenched, fists curling at her sides. 

“You don’t scare me,” she said firmly. 

The courtyard gasped again, louder this time. Students leaned in closer, holding their breath, unable to look away. 

Wonyoung’s eyes narrowed. She leaned down ever so slightly, close enough that Yujin could see her flawless skin beneath the sticky mess. Her voice dropped, venomous and low. 

“You just made the biggest mistake of your life.” 

The words slithered like poison, curling around the crowd’s spine. 

“You don’t belong here,” she continued, her words measured now. “This is my school. Every hallway, every classroom, every corner — you walk in them because I allow it. You breathe in this place because I don’t stop you.” 

Wonyoung straightened to her full height again, eyes blazing, the stain on her blouse spreading like a badge of war. Her voice rang loud and merciless, enough for everyone gathered to hear.

“Welcome to Janghwa Girls’, An Yujin.” She let the name curl on her tongue, sharp and mocking. “From now on, I’ll make sure your life here—” she flicked her gaze toward Hanni, who was still trembling on the ground— “and your friend’s — will be a living hell.” 

The courtyard erupted again — shouts, gasps, a rising tide of chaos. Some students laughed nervously, others whispered in horror, phones still recording, the glow of screens catching Wonyoung’s dripping figure like a portrait of wrath. 

And in the middle of it all, Yujin stood motionless, her chest tight, her blood roaring in her ears. She didn’t know it yet, but the war had just begun. 

Chapter Text

The wheels of Yujin’s bicycle hummed against the cracked pavement, the evening air brushing cool against her skin as she pedaled through the narrow side streets. The weight of the insulated delivery bag strapped to the back made the ride heavier, but her legs kept a steady rhythm, used to this routine despite her age. At fifteen, she already carried herself like someone older — the kind of maturity that came not from choice, but necessity. 

It had only been her first day in school, and yet the memory clung to her more stubbornly than sweat on her brow. The courtyard scene replayed itself in merciless detail: Jang Wonyoung standing tall, her expensive shoes stained, her glare sharp enough to cut glass. The chorus of gasps, the laughter tucked behind hands, and the dozens of phone cameras aimed like spotlights. Worst of all was the silence that followed — that heavy pause before the whispers began, each look cast in Yujin’s direction filled with disdain, pity, or morbid curiosity. 

She bit her lip as she turned into a side street, the faint smell of frying garlic and oil drifting from her workplace. “First day of school and I already signed my death warrant,” she muttered, gripping the handlebars tighter. She could still hear the whispers, still feel the weight of their eyes on her back as if everyone had silently agreed: no one stood against Jang Wonyoung and lived to tell the tale. 

“Declared war,” Yujin muttered under her breath, the words bitter on her tongue. Wonyoung had spat them like a curse, and Yujin felt the weight of it now more than ever. It was the first day, and already, she had managed to pick a fight with the most untouchable girl in school. No one dared to oppose Wonyoung — not the rich kids in her circle, not the teachers who turned a blind eye to her temper because her family owns the school. Yet here was Yujin, branded an enemy before she’d even found her footing. 

Her chest tightened as she thought of how the crowd had looked at her — as though she had overstepped, as though she had broken some unspoken law. She could almost hear their whispers following her now, louder than the sound of her chain rattling over the uneven road. 

And then there was Hanni’s explanation, delivered later when they were back in their cramped apartment, the air heavy with the smell of reheated noodles. Yujin had only arrived to help. It had been Hanni. Clumsy, wide-eyed Hanni, walking through the courtyard with her usual absent-mindedness, sipping from the bottle when her foot caught a loose rock. One stumble, one sharp gasp, and the sweet, sticky drink had splattered onto Wonyoung’s pristine, imported shoes. 

Yujin could picture it clearly now: Hanni on her knees, scrambling to wipe the mess, stammering apologies with trembling hands. Wonyoung’s disgust had been instantaneous, her voice slicing through the courtyard, her words cruel and merciless. Yujin had stepped forward without thinking, her body moving before her brain, shielding Hanni and snapping back. That was all it took — one defiance, one spark. Enough to turn Wonyoung’s fury toward her. Enough to make her the target. 

She gripped the handlebars tighter, her knuckles pale. To everyone else, she was the one who had stood against the queen, and that alone was enough to seal her fate. 

***

The next morning came heavy — gray skies draped over Seoul, and the streets buzzed faintly with early traffic. Yujin and Hanni stood at the bus stop in silence, their uniforms crisp. The cold air bit at their hands, and though they were quiet, the tension between them was unmistakable. 

Hanni clutched the strap of her bag tightly. “Yujin… maybe we should skip today. Just today,” she said, her tone trembling. “I mean… everyone saw what happened yesterday. What if—” 

Yujin sighed, running a hand through her short hair. “Hanni, we can’t. You know we can’t.” Her voice was calm, but there was a firmness beneath it, the kind that left no room for argument. “We’re scholars. We can’t afford to skip. One absence could already look bad, and if we start hiding now, it’ll never end.” 

“But they’re gonna talk,” Hanni said weakly. “They’re already talking.” 

“Then let them.” Yujin tried to smile, but it came out tired. “We didn’t do anything wrong. We’re not the ones who should be scared.” 

By the time they reached the school gates, Yujin could already feel it. The shift. The atmosphere was different. The courtyard, felt like walking through a silent ocean of stares. Students turned their heads as the two walked by — whispering, nudging their friends, their gazes lingering just long enough to make Hanni flinch. 

And yet, when Yujin looked directly at anyone, they’d quickly avert their eyes, suddenly fascinated by their phones or pretending to fix their blazers. 

It was like the air itself had turned against them. Every step echoed too loud. Every whisper felt directed at them. 

“Yujin…” Hanni mumbled, voice cracking. “They’re all looking at us.” 

“I know,” Yujin said shortly. Her hand brushed Hanni’s arm, a brief, reassuring touch. “Keep walking.” 

They passed by the main hallway where the elite students usually gathered. Wonyoung’s clique — Minji, Dani, Winter, and Yuna — stood there, perfectly composed like they owned the corridor. 

Minji was leaning casually against the marble pillar, Dani’s arm hooked around hers. Winter’s eyes followed Yujin and Hanni with an expression that gave nothing away — cold, assessing. Yuna crossed her arms, lips curling slightly, not quite a smirk, not quite a frown. 

The group didn’t speak as Yujin and Hanni walked past, but their silence was louder than any insult could’ve been. It was the kind of silence that said: we’re watching you. 

Hanni’s shoulders hunched smaller. “Maybe we should just… apologize.” 

Yujin stopped walking for a second, turned her head to Hanni, and said, quiet but firm, “No.” She looked ahead again. “We didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m not letting you bow to someone who thinks stepping on people makes her way taller.” 

Hanni lowered her gaze, guilt clouding her face. 

As they reached the stairwell to their respective classrooms, Yujin exhaled, glancing up the corridor again and caught Minji’s eyes, still watching her. Minji tilted her head slightly, expression unreadable. Dani murmured something beside her that made her grin faintly. 

Yujin didn’t know what they were planning — but she could feel it in her gut. Whatever peace there was in this school was about to end. 

***

Yujin’s first morning as an official Janghwa student started with a gut-deep unease she couldn’t quite shake.

The moment she stepped into Class 1-A, the low hum of conversation dipped, eyes subtly lifting from their phones and notebooks to look at her — the transfer student, the scholar, the girl who shoved Jang Wonyoung. 

Her hand tightened on the strap of her bag. The air inside the room was polished and perfumed, everything in neat rows and expensive stationery scattered across spotless desks. There was an unspoken hierarchy here — and Yujin could feel herself standing outside of it. 

Then her gaze landed on a familiar group near the middle row — That girl who look effortlessly cool and unreadable, the clingy girl beside her, hair tucked neatly behind her ear, a bright, fake-sweet smile on her lips. The small girl, sitting like a doll carved out of porcelain, chin propped on her hand, her cold eyes tracking Yujin silently. And the other tall girl, long legs crossed, busy painting her nails even during homeroom. 

Wonyoung wasn’t there.

But her presence might as well have been. 

The teacher glanced up from the attendance sheet. “An Yujin, correct? You may sit anywhere available.” 

“Ne,” Yujin murmured, bowing slightly before scanning the room. 

Every table seemed… occupied. Not in the literal sense — but in the way the students’ bags or water bottles conveniently claimed the empty seats. The only space open was at the very back of the room, next to the window.

An isolated desk and chair — set apart from everyone else, half-hidden in the shadow of the curtain. 

Yujin started walking toward it, ignoring the hushed laughter that followed her footsteps. 

When she reached it, she realized something was off. The desk and chair looked slightly off balance, scuffed along the legs. She gripped the chair to pull it closer — and it didn’t move. 

She frowned, tugged again. Still nothing.

A few giggles rippled through the classroom. 

“Uh…” she muttered under her breath, setting her bag down, trying again. She pushed her weight into it, yanking harder this time — and the sound of metal scraping against the tiled floor shrieked through the classroom like nails on glass. 

A chorus of laughter broke out immediately. 

“Miss An,” the teacher said sharply without even looking up from her papers, “please settle down. You’re disturbing the class.” 

Yujin blinked, jaw tightening. “Sorry, ma’am, it’s just—” 

“I said quiet.” 

The laughter grew louder. Someone clapped mockingly. Another whispered, “Guess she’s strong enough to break cheaply made chairs in the province.” 

Yujin’s patience snapped. She crouched slightly, bracing her legs, and with one firm pull, the entire table and chair wrenched free from the floor with a loud metallic pop. The scraping echoed across the room, and the laughter died instantly. 

Her classmates stared — a mix of surprise and disbelief. The once-stuck desk now sat perfectly free, one of its legs bent from the force. 

Yujin exhaled, brushing dust from her palms, and quietly dragged it to the last row by the window, where no one sat. Her movements were calm, measured — but her eyes burned faintly with restrained anger. 

A low whistle came from the middle of the room. Yuna muttered something under her breath that made Dani snicker behind her hand. 

Winter leaned slightly toward Minji and whispered, “Did she just pull it off the floor?” 

Minji didn’t even look up from her notes, a ghost of a grin playing on her lips. “Told you,” she murmured. “She’s an athlete.” 

Yujin ignored the whispers, the stares, the faint amusement dancing in Minji’s eyes. She sat down, back straight, gaze out the window — the sunlight faintly hitting her cheek, reflecting in her calm but hard-set eyes. 

It wasn’t the worst start to the day.

But it was the beginning of something she could already tell wasn’t going to end easily. 

***

The bell rang through the halls, echoing across the pristine corridors of Janghwa Girls’ High. But to Yujin, it just meant she could finally breathe for a few seconds. 

The first round of classes was over, and still — no sign of Jang Wonyoung. Not in the classroom, not in the hallways, not even passing by the windows. 

Yujin didn’t know if that was a blessing or the calm before another storm. 

She shoved her notebooks into her bag, eager to check on Hanni. Her gut twisted with worry. She didn’t trust this place, not after the courtyard incident. 

The hallways were polished to perfection, lockers gleaming under the soft afternoon light, but behind every shiny surface, Yujin could feel eyes following her. Whispering. Laughing. She ignored them and turned the corner toward 1-B. 

Through the doorway, she saw Hanni hastily gathering her books, her shoulders drawn tight, her eyes darting toward the floor.
“Hanni,” Yujin called softly. 

Hanni turned, relief washing over her face — then quickly fading into something smaller. “Yujin.” 

Yujin’s frown deepened. “What happened?” 

Hanni hesitated, clutching her notebook to her chest. “Nothing, it’s just…” Her voice cracked slightly. “Every time I walked past someone in class, they — they tripped me. Pretended it was an accident, but I know it wasn’t. Everyone laughs. Even the teacher didn’t say anything.” 

Yujin’s jaw tightened. “Did you get hurt?” 

Hanni shook her head quickly, her long hair brushing her cheeks. “No. Just… embarrassed.” 

Yujin exhaled through her nose, the sound more like a growl. “We have targets on our backs now,” she muttered. “We just have to be careful, that’s all.” 

Hanni nodded weakly. “Yeah.” 

“Let’s go eat,” Yujin said, her tone softening a little. “Maybe it’ll be better there.” 

They walked side by side through the corridor. The chatter seemed to follow them like static — a low hum of gossip just out of earshot. By the time they reached the cafeteria, Yujin could already feel the weight of stares pressing down on them again. 

It was worse than this morning. 

As soon as they stepped in, heads turned. The sound of whispered voices rippled across the room like wind stirring dry leaves. Yujin ignored them — chin up, expression flat — but Hanni couldn’t hide the way her shoulders shrank, her fingers gripping the hem of her sleeve tightly. 

They lined up at the counter, the same as before. The food smelled incredible — steaming bowls of jjigae, glossy plates of japchae, and neatly wrapped kimbap lined the trays — but neither of them had much appetite left.

When they finally got their meals, Yujin scanned the room, searching for a place to sit. 

And that’s when she noticed it. 

Every table — every single one — had bags, trays, notebooks, or people conveniently spread out over them. Some were clearly half-empty, but the students sitting there averted their gazes, pretending to be full or busy. It was deliberate, and cruelly obvious. 

The only open table left was in the far corner of the cafeteria — right beside a large trash bin. 

Hanni followed Yujin’s gaze, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Let’s just eat quickly,” she murmured. 

Yujin sighed through her nose. “Yeah. Whatever.” 

They walked toward the corner, setting their trays down. The air there was heavier — a faint, sour smell rising from the trash bin beside them. It was unbearable, enough to make Hanni wrinkle her nose. 

“Unbelievable,” Yujin muttered under her breath. She stood up, grabbed the trash bin by its edge, and dragged it a few feet away — closer to the vending machine on the opposite wall. It screeched against the floor as she moved it, earning a few stares from nearby tables. 

Someone snickered loudly. 

Yujin ignored them and sat back down, unbothered. She picked up her chopsticks, acting as if nothing had happened. Hanni tried to eat quietly, her eyes darting across the cafeteria nervously. 

And as Yujin took a bite, her gaze flicked around the room. No Wonyoung or her group.

Come to think of it, she hadn’t seen any of them in the cafeteria yesterday, either. 

“Do you think…” she murmured, half to herself. “They have their own dining area or something?” 

Hanni blinked. “You mean, like… a private restaurant?” 

Yujin gave a dry laugh, low and humorless. “Wouldn’t surprise me.” 

As they ate in silence, Yujin could feel the tension in her shoulders settling in — not easing, not leaving — just staying. Every laugh in the cafeteria felt like it was aimed at them. Every glance lingered too long. 

And yet, when she caught Hanni’s trembling hands trying to eat, Yujin forced herself to smile faintly. 

“Don’t mind them,” she said, softly. “We’ll survive this. They’ll get tired, eventually.”

Hanni didn’t answer. But she nodded. 

And in that tiny, smelly corner of the cafeteria — beside a trash bin and the stares of a hundred students — the two of them quietly tried to hold onto what little dignity they had left. 

***

The bell rang again — a shrill, almost mocking sound that cut through the post-lunch chatter. 

Yujin and Hanni stood from their table, trays in hand, still under the weight of invisible stares. The two of them barely spoke as they returned their trays and stepped out of the cafeteria. Hanni gave her a small wave before hurrying down the opposite hallway toward her classroom. 

“See you after class,” Yujin said, forcing a reassuring smile. 

“Yeah…” Hanni’s voice was small. “Be careful, okay?” 

Yujin nodded. 

The hallway felt colder after lunch — emptier, too. The noise of laughter from open classroom doors echoed down the marble hallways, but every time she walked past, conversations seemed to hush for a second. Then came the soft giggles. The whispers. 

She tried to ignore them, like always. 

When she entered her classroom, though, Yujin froze. 

The air in 1-A was different — lighter somehow, as if the students were waiting for something. The chatter dulled as soon as she stepped inside. 

Her desk was at the back, by the window — but now it stood out for a completely different reason. 

The once-clean surface was now covered in marker scribbles. 

“Scholar trash.”
“Cheongha-ri pig.”
“Go back to the province.”
“Wonyoung’s dog.” 

Yujin’s throat tightened. The black and red ink overlapped each other like layers of hate, the sharp smell of permanent marker still fresh. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. 

Her eyes darted toward her chair — her bag wasn’t there. 

Her stomach dropped. 

She scanned the room. “Where’s my bag?” 

No one answered. 

Instead, a few girls in the front exchanged knowing glances, smirking. One of them covered her mouth as she giggled. Another whispered something, earning more laughter. 

Yujin’s jaw clenched. “I said,” she repeated, voice firmer, “where’s my bag?” 

Still nothing. Only a faint, cruel snicker. 

Yujin moved through the room, checking under desks, behind chairs. Nothing. Her pulse was pounding in her ears now. She crouched down, peered under her vandalized desk again — still nothing. 

She walked toward the front of the room, then the trash bin in the corner. Empty. 

“Looking for something?” a girl called out from the middle row. Her tone was sweet — too sweet. 

Yujin ignored her. She pushed past a few desks, scanning every corner. The teacher hadn’t come back yet, and the entire class was quietly watching her like it was a show. 

When she didn’t find it, she left the room, her steps quick and sharp. Her shoes clicked against the marble floor as she checked each nearby trash bin in the hallway. Still nothing. 

Her heartbeat drummed in her chest — part anger, part humiliation. 

And then, as she turned the corner, she saw that group.

 Walking down the hallway like they owned it. 

Jang Wonyoung was finally here — tall, polished, the picture of effortless grace, flanked by her minions.

When Wonyoung’s gaze briefly met Yujin’s, her lips curved into the faintest smirk — subtle, practiced, lethal. 

“Move,” the small pale girl murmured, brushing past Yujin’s shoulder without even glancing. 

Wonyoung didn’t say a word. But as she passed, she gave a soft scoff, the sound low but sharp enough to sting. 

Yujin stood there, frozen, watching them enter the classroom. She couldn’t prove anything — but every cell in her body knew they were behind this. 

Her fists trembled at her sides. 

She turned and kept walking, checking more trash bins along the corridor — anything, any sign of her bag. Her chest felt tight. 

When she reached the corner near the stairwell, a familiar voice stopped her. 

“Hey,” that girl with a long straight hair voice called out. 

Yujin turned, scowling slightly. Minji was standing at the doorway of their classroom now, arms folded, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. 

“Still looking for your bag?”

Yujin didn’t answer. 

Minji tilted her head, the corner of her lip quirking higher. “Try the toilet room,” she said casually, as if giving advice to a lost child. “Maybe it’s… floating there.” 

Yujin stared at her for a beat, eyes narrowing. She didn’t reply — just turned away. Minji’s soft laughter followed her down the hall. 

When Yujin reached the restroom, the first thing that hit her was the smell — sharp, chemical, and wet. The sound of dripping water echoed faintly. 

She pushed the door open slowly. The tiled room was empty. 

Then she saw her backpack, half-submerged in the toilet bowl of the farthest stall. 

The straps hung limp and soaked, the cheap fabric dark with water. A few of her notebooks soaked as well.

For a moment, Yujin just stared. 

Then her jaw clenched so hard it hurt. 

Her grip on the doorframe tightened until her knuckles turned white. A tremor ran through her arms — from rage, humiliation, and something darker that she refused to let show on her face. 

She wanted to scream.

To throw something.

To march back into that classroom and demand to know who did it. 

But she knew how that would look. 

A “scholar trash” making a scene. 

Instead, she took a deep breath through her nose — sharp, trembling — and reached for the bag. Water dripped down her fingers as she pulled it out. 

Lesson learned. 

Never leave her things unattended again. 

She turned off the tap after rinsing her hands and left the restroom, her soaked bag dripping faintly onto the polished floor as she walked back to class — the quiet squeak of her shoes echoing through the long, empty hallway. 

***

The rest of the afternoon dragged like wet cement. 

Yujin sat stiffly at the back of the classroom, chin resting on her palm as she stared blankly at the board. The teacher droned on about something — formulas, notes, diagrams — but her words melted into meaningless noise. 

Every so often, Yujin caught the faint sound of muffled giggles from the rows ahead. Someone would whisper, someone else would cover their mouth, pretending not to look her way. 

The teacher,  paused once or twice, glancing toward the back of the room as if she noticed. But she didn’t say anything. None of them ever did. 

Yujin exhaled slowly. 

She’d already realized how things worked here. The teachers at Janghwa Girls’ weren’t really teachers — not in the way she was used to. They were caretakers of the elite. Paid not just to educate, but to appease. 

They stood straighter around the rich kids. Spoke to them softly. Laughed too hard at their jokes. And when someone like Yujin walked by, their smiles dimmed like she was a complication they didn’t want to deal with. 

Even now, the teacher’s eyes flickered toward her desk, then away. As if the vandalized table didn’t exist. 

Cowards, Yujin thought bitterly. Useless. 

Her pen tapped the edge of her notebook as she stared at the back of the one girl who made her blood boil. 

Jang Wonyoung. 

She was seated three rows ahead, near the center window. Her posture perfect, her hair gleaming in the sunlight. She looked picture perfect — every strand in place, every motion refined. The model student, the daughter of wealth. 

But Yujin’s gaze lingered on those pristine shoes — new, polished, different from that had pressed down on Hanni’s head yesterday. 

“Pretty outside,” she muttered under her breath, her jaw tight. “Rotten inside.” 

She leaned back on her chair, crossing her arms, trying to ignore the faint laughter from the girls two rows up. Let them stare. Let them whisper. She didn’t care. 

If anything, sitting at the far back gave her an advantage. From here, she could see everything — every smug grin, every whispered glance, every move these pampered brats made. If anyone tried to pull something again, she’d know. 

The bell rang at last. 

The sound was a relief. 

Yujin was the first to stand, slinging her still-damp bag over her shoulder. The faint smell of disinfectant and toilet water still clung to it, and she winced slightly. She’d have to scrub it tonight. 

She left the classroom without looking back. 

The hallway buzzed with students packing up, chatting, and laughing — but when Yujin passed, conversations softened, and eyes followed her. The air shifted again, that familiar tension crawling up her spine. 

As she walked toward her locker, she caught snippets of hushed conversation nearby — two girls standing by the water fountain.

“I heard Wonyoung’s planning something after school.”

“For who?”

“That scholar girl. You know, the one who threw Yakult on her.”

“Oh my god. Seriously? She’s dead.”  

Yujin’s grip on her bag tightened. She slowed for a moment, listening. The girls noticed her presence and instantly straightened up, pretending to talk about something else. 

She rolled her eyes and kept walking. 

If Wonyoung wanted to “plan something,” then fine. Let her. Yujin had already expected this. 

Go bring it, she thought, smirking faintly. I’ll even be surprised if you stop at a wet backpack. 

When she reached the locker hall, the corridors were quieter now — the crowd thinning out as students left in their sleek black cars. 

Yujin was unlocking her locker when her phone buzzed. 

Yujin!! Are you still at school?? 

Yujin frowned, typing back quickly. 

Yeah. Why? 

The reply came almost instantly. 

A mob of girls chased me earlier. I ran outside and got away but  Yujin you need to leave. They’re looking for you. 

Her heartbeat quickened. She straightened up, scanning the hall around her. 

A mob? 

Her phone buzzed again. 

Please just go straight home. Hurry! 

Yujin hesitated for a moment — then exhaled through her nose.

I will. Just need to grab some books. 

She looked back at her locker, expression hardening. 

If this was going to continue, she couldn’t leave anything behind anymore. Not her notes, not her things — nothing that they could touch. 

She shoved her ruined bag aside, grabbed every book she needed, and stuffed them in another tote she carried. The bag felt heavier than usual, but she didn’t care. 

When she closed the locker, the metallic clang echoed sharply in the empty corridor. 

And as she turned to leave, Yujin couldn’t shake the feeling that someone, somewhere, was watching her. 

Maybe from one of the upper windows.

Maybe from behind one of those polished classroom doors. 

A quiet, invisible presence. 

Waiting. 

Plotting. 

And Yujin thought — fine. 

If they wanted to start a war, then she’d be ready. 

Jang Wonyoung stood by the main doors. Her tall frame, pristine uniform, and the calm way she leaned on the railing made it look almost like she was waiting for someone. Her friends were around her — all chatting, but their eyes were on Yujin. 

Yujin’s stomach tightened. The air felt different — heavier, too quiet for the number of people in the hall. She adjusted her grip on her bag, gaze forward, trying not to show that she’d noticed. 

The hallway felt too long. Too quiet. Yujin’s pulse quickened. She adjusted her bag strap, trying to act unfazed. The air itself seemed to hold its breath. A few students loitered nearby, whispering, phones in hand, eyes darting between her and the girls at the door. 

Then — a sudden rustle above.

Splash!

A thick, cold wave of milk crashed down on her from the stairwell landing. The shock hit first — the sticky chill against her hair, soaking through her blazer, dripping down her neck — then came the laughter. Dozens of them, from every corner of the hallway, laughing until it echoed off the walls. Someone whistled. Someone else shouted, “Fresh milk from Cheongha-ri!” 

Yujin froze for a second, milk running down her face. Her fists clenched, knuckles pale. She looked up, glimpsing the culprits — a few students ducking behind the railing, empty jugs in their hands. 

Before she could react, something hit her side. A shove. Then another. A bag swung at her shoulder, a shoe scuffed the back of her leg. She staggered, nearly slipped on the spilled milk. The laughter grew crueler, louder, until it blurred into a single, ugly sound. 

“Scholar trash!” someone jeered.

“Go back to your farm!” another chimed in. 

Yujin tried to push through them, but the crowd closed in — bodies pressing, elbows jabbing. She shoved back once, twice, landing a hit that made one girl yelp. But there were too many. Someone kicked her shin. Another yanked at her bag strap until it snapped. 

Through the blur of movement and sound, she caught sight of Wonyoung. 

Standing by the main doors like she was watching a stage performance — her lips curved into a faint, disbelieving smile. When their eyes met, Wonyoung’s laughter rang out, clear and elegant, like a cruel bell. 

Something inside Yujin burned. Her jaw tightened; her breath trembled. She wanted to lunge forward, to grab that laugh and crush it in her hands. But the mob was already pulling back, dispersing, satisfied. The milk pooled around her shoes. The hallway reeked of dairy and humiliation. 

By the time the teachers arrived, Wonyoung and her friends were gone — not a drop of milk on their uniforms. 

Yujin wiped her face with the back of her hand, milk and tears mixing together. The corridor was still full of eyes, still full of laughter. But her own eyes were steady now, burning. 

If they wanted war, they just got it. 

***

By the time Yujin stepped outside the school gates, the late afternoon sun had already dipped low, staining the courtyard in a dull orange glow. Her clothes clung to her skin, reeking faintly of sour milk. Her hair stuck to her face in heavy, cold strands. Every step squelched, leaving pale footprints behind her on the concrete. 

She walked fast, head down. Every passing car, every cluster of students laughing in the distance made her shoulders tense. The laughter in her head hadn’t stopped — it just kept looping, replaying that chorus of cruel voices over and over until it started to sound like a song she couldn’t escape. 

Scholar trash.
Go back to your farm.
Cheongha-ri pig. 

She gritted her teeth, jaw tight. Her hands trembled as she clutched what was left of her bag — its strap torn, zipper broken, notebooks soaked and warped from the milk. Every time she blinked, she saw Wonyoung’s face again — that amused little smirk, that effortless detachment, like she wasn’t watching someone being humiliated but a scene from a comedy she’d seen a hundred times before. 

The walk back to the dorm was the longest of Yujin’s life. She could still feel the sting on her back and shoulders where the kicks landed — dull now, but steady, like bruises waiting to bloom. 

By the time she reached the small dorm apartment she shared with Hanni, her hands were shaking from a mix of exhaustion and fury. She pushed the door open, and Hanni jumped from the couch. 

“Yujin!” Hanni gasped, running up to her. “Oh my god— what happened? You’re soaked—” 

“It’s fine,” Yujin muttered, brushing past her. The word came out flat, automatic. She didn’t want to explain. Didn’t want to see the pity in Hanni’s eyes. 

But Hanni followed her anyway, hovering near the bathroom door as Yujin turned on the faucet and crouched by the tub, scrubbing at her uniform with shaking hands. The milk turned the water cloudy, the faint smell making her stomach twist. 

“Who did this?” Hanni asked quietly. “Was it—” 

Yujin didn’t answer. She wrung the uniform hard, as if she could strangle the memory out of the fabric. Her jaw locked, her throat tight. 

***

The next morning, the golden hallways of Janghwa Girls’ High buzzed softly with gossip. 

Jang Wonyoung didn’t expect An Yujin to show up. Not after what happened yesterday. Yet, when the tall, short-haired girl walked into the corridor, her posture straight and expression unreadable, it made Wonyoung pause mid-sentence. The faint bandaid on Yujin’s cheek and the bruise on her corner lip was the only visible mark from yesterday’s chaos, but the way she carried herself — calm, detached, almost defiant — made it seem like she hadn’t been cornered and beaten by half the student body less than 24 hours ago. 

At her table, Winter nudged Minji, whispering something under her breath. Minji only smirked and stretched out her hand expectantly. With an exaggerated sigh, Winter fished out a crisp bill and slapped it on Minji’s palm.

“Fine. You win. I thought she’d quit for sure.”

Minji twirled the bill between her fingers and said, “I told you. She’s not the type to run.” 

Wonyoung rolled her eyes, stirring her strawberry milk lazily with the straw. “It doesn’t matter,” she said coolly. “Sooner or later, she’ll quit. One way or another.”

Her tone wasn’t loud, but the conviction in her voice was sharp enough to cut through the air — a queen’s decree that needed no repetition. 

When Yujin entered the classroom, the room quieted almost instantly. Eyes followed her — some curious, some mocking, most waiting for her to break again. She ignored all of them. Her bag, still slightly warped and discolored from being dunked in the toilet, was patched neatly at the seams — Hanni’s careful handiwork from last night. 

Yujin reached her seat at the far back, the same one glued to the floor yesterday — only this time, the “good morning” greeting waiting for her was worse.

Her desk was crawling with worms. 

Fat, wriggling things twisting on the wood, leaving thin streaks of dirt behind. Someone snickered from the front. Another student covered her mouth, suppressing a laugh. 

Yujin stared at it for a few seconds, the corner of her mouth twitching — not in disgust, but amusement.

“So this is how they say hello here,” she muttered under her breath. Seriously? Worms?

They think this would scare me?  Please. I grew up surrounded by these things. Back in Cheongha-ri, I saw worse crawling out of the rice fields every morning. This is nothing. 

Students were whispering louder now, waiting for her to scream or cry or run out like some drama heroine. Instead, Yujin took a paper and folded it neatly, holding the wriggling bundle as if it were a tray of cookies. 

And she walked forward. 

At the front of the room, Wonyoung sat with her friends, chatting idly, her perfect hair gleaming under the morning sun. Her blazer was pressed, her posture impeccable. 

“Excuse me,” Yujin’s voice broke through the chatter. 

Wonyoung turned her head lazily, her eyes landing on the paper in Yujin’s hands. “What—” 

“This is yours, right?” Yujin said flatly. 

And before Wonyoung could even blink, Yujin flipped the paper, scattering worms all over Wonyoung’s pristine white desk. 

The scream that followed could have shattered glass. “AAAHHHHHHHHH!!!” 

Wonyoung shot up from her chair like it was on fire. Her friends shrieked too — Dani stumbled backward into Minji, who doubled over laughing. Winter covered her mouth, eyes wide. Worms slid across the desk, one landing on Wonyoung’s designer handbag, another squirming dangerously close to her arm. 

“OH MY GOD — GET THEM OFF! GET THEM OFF!” Wonyoung’s voice cracked, half disgust, half fury. 

The room exploded.

Yujin just stood there, blank-faced, almost bored. She tilted her head slightly and murmured just loud enough for Wonyoung to hear.  

“You really think you can scare me?”

The class fell silent for half a heartbeat — a stunned, electric silence before they resume screaming again.

Just then, the teacher walked in, freezing at the sight of the chaos. “Ms. Jang, what on earth—?” 

“Get. Rid. Of. This. Table,” Wonyoung snapped, her voice trembling with outrage. She didn’t even look at the teacher, pointing instead at one of her followers. “And clean it properly. I’m not touching that again. GET ME A NEW ONE!” 

The teacher stammered something about order and composure, but Wonyoung ignored her. Her eyes — sharp and gleaming — lifted toward the back of the room, where Yujin had already returned to her seat. 

Yujin was sitting with her chin propped on one hand, a faint smirk playing on her lips as she met Wonyoung’s glare. 

Their eyes locked — predator and prey — though neither could tell which was which anymore. 

And for the first time, Jang Wonyoung felt something she hadn’t felt in years. 

Embarrassment. 

***

During lunch break, the elite’s private lounge gleamed with soft white marble and glass walls overlooking the manicured courtyard. The faint hum of classical music played from hidden speakers while a chef in crisp whites plated their meals on fine porcelain. This room was off-limits to ordinary students — everyone knew that. 

Wonyoung sat at the head of the table, back straight, expression sharp enough to cut through the air. Her fork clinked lightly against the plate, but her appetite was gone. No matter how many times she wiped her arm, she swore she could still feel those worms crawling across her skin. 

Her handbag — the one her father had bought her in Milan last month — lay on the floor beside her chair, tainted, ruined. She couldn’t even look at it.

“Driver,” she said coldly into her phone. “Bring me my black Dior from the closet. And get rid of this one. Burn it if you have to. I never want to see it again.” 

The girls around her exchanged glances. Winter stifled a laugh. Dani bit into a strawberry, trying to hide her amusement, while Minji poured herself tea with that ever-calm grace of hers. 

“Still thinking about the worms?” Yuna asked, lounging lazily against the couch, her long legs crossed. 

Wonyoung’s eyes flicked toward her — a glare so sharp it could slice glass. “You’d be screaming too if they were crawling on your bag.” 

“True,” Yuna said with a smirk, twirling a strand of her hair. “Anyway, speaking of that—” she paused dramatically, “—did you know An Yujin signed up for the winter basketball tryouts?” 

The sound of silverware paused midair. 

“She what?” Wonyoung asked flatly. 

Yuna grinned, resting her chin on her hand. “Guess the scholar’s feeling brave. Maybe she thinks she can actually belong here.” 

Wonyoung leaned back in her chair, tapping her manicured nail on the table, thinking. “Yuna,” she said finally, her tone slow, deliberate, dangerous, “you know what to do.” 

Yuna’s grin widened. “Already ahead of you.” 

Across the table, Winter sighed, setting down her drink. “How long are we keeping her around?” 

“Not long,” Wonyoung muttered, eyes dark. “By the end of this week, she’s gone. I don’t care how. I just want her out of my school.” 

There was a brief silence — the kind that always followed when Wonyoung decided someone’s fate. Then, she scowled suddenly, her tone turning sharp.

“Also, where the hell is Ningning? She’s the only one who knows how to make things creative.” 

Winter chuckled and reached for her phone. “Let’s call her.” 

The speakerphone crackled, and then came Ningning’s voice, warm and lazy over the hum of splashing water. “What? You girls miss me already?” 

From the background, it was obvious — she was at some resort, lounging by the pool. 

“You still in China?” Dani asked. 

“Mm-hmm,” Ningning replied, her tone dripping with leisure. “It’s sunny, the food’s great, and school sounds boring. Why rush?” 

“Because,” Wonyoung said sharply, cutting in, “there’s a new girl who’s testing my patience.” 

There was a beat of silence, then Ningning laughed, the sound light and teasing. “An Yujin, right? Winter texted me. The girl who shoved you.” 

Wonyoung’s jaw tightened. “She’s disrespectful. Arrogant.” 

“Then don’t have all the fun without me,” Ningning purred. “Keep her alive till next week. I want to see her myself. I want to play with her too.” 

They fell into a hush after Ningning hung up, the soft clink of cutlery sounding louder than before in the private lounge. The girls exchanged looks — half amusement, half calculation — while the chef discreetly cleared plates, as if the air itself were waiting for the next command. 

Wonyoung toyed with the rim of her glass, eyes dark and deliberate. “I want to do more,” she said quietly, the words carrying the weight of a decision. It wasn’t a suggestion; it was an order dressed in velvet. 

Yuna leaned forward, flippant, dangerous in the way boredom makes people cruel. “We could have them corner her again,” she offered, swinging a manicured ankle. “Just like yesterday — only this time, make sure there’s nowhere for her to run.” Her smile was easy; the idea was a flick of theater to her. 

Minji watched them with that cool, unreadable expression, fingers tapping the table. “She didn’t break,” Minji said, more statement than advice. “The beating didn’t work. She lasted.” She flicked a bill out from her wallet — an idle gesture and let it fall back into the table’s sheen. “Some girls fold. Some don’t.” 

Winter’s voice slid in, clipped and precise. “The disgusting stuff doesn’t seem to have an effect either.” She folded her hands as if folding a report. “Toilet bag, worms — those were childish theatrics. They humiliated her, yes, but humiliation doesn’t always equal surrender.” Her eyes tracked across the room, calculating. 

Dani, still trying to contain the thrill in her tone, tried another avenue. “What about using the friend? Make Hanni the center. Push her more until she snaps, and An Yujin crumbles from there.” Her face was almost eager at the thought — drama used as a scalpel. 

A brief silence followed, the others listening for the slightest hitch in Hanni’s imagined collapse. 

“No.” Wonyoung’s voice cut through it like ice. She set down her fork, eyes pinning the others with that cold, practiced authority. “I don’t want her friends to pay the price. I want her to feel it. I want An Yujin to know, every single day, that she is nothing here unless I say she may exist. I want her to regret coming here.” 

Her words fell into the room and left a hard, metallic tang. It was a different calculus — less spectacle, more surgical. This was revenge reframed as dominion: not simply to frighten, not merely to embarrass, but to inflict a slow, personal cost that undermined the person rather than the support around her. 

Yuna’s grin tightened, appreciation flickering across her face at the challenge. “Direct,” she said softly. “Personal. We’ll make it… worse.” 

Winter considered the logistics, already abstracting actions into outcomes. “We don’t have to be brutish. Make it social. Make it logistical. Make her life inconvenient — every day. Missed schedules, sabotaged tryouts, false rumors that cost her a coach’s trust. Small cuts, repeated.” Her tone was clinical; the cruelty was a problem to optimize. 

Minji, who had bet on Yujin lasting, shrugged as if weighing an experiment’s variables. “If she survives this too, that’s interesting. But if she collapses…” She shrugged again, expression unreadable. “Then the game ends.” 

Dani’s eyes sparkled. “One more thing,” she said. “Make it public. If she’s forced to pay or explain or be watched — every small humiliation becomes a narrative. People will watch. People will pick sides. She’ll get tired.”

Wonyoung smiled then, slow and sure, the kind of smile that closed doors. “Good. Let it be public. Let it hurt in places she thinks are private.” She folded her napkin with a measured hand. “And make it quick enough that we enjoy the show, but slow enough to leave scars.”  

Around the table they moved from plan to detail with the casual cruelty of girls who’d never had to justify their appetites for control. The private chef refilled their tea, oblivious to the scheming beneath the polished surface. Outside the tinted glass the school’s courtyard shimmered in the heat — an immaculate stage for the precise, patient undermining Wonyoung had in mind. 

No one in that room imagined the consequences beyond their satisfaction. They only practiced the next move, like musicians rehearsing the exact note that would break a chord. 

***

After the bell rang, the halls of Janghwa Girls’ High erupted into the usual clamor of chattering voices and footsteps. But for An Yujin, it was a signal for survival. 

She slung her patched-up bag over her shoulder, glancing around with sharp, wary eyes before darting out of the classroom. Her first instinct — find Hanni. Always. 

“Yujin!” Hanni’s voice echoed from the end of the hallway. The smaller girl looked panicked, clutching her notebooks tightly to her chest. The moment their eyes met, Yujin grabbed her hand, and the two sprinted toward the side stairwell. 

Behind them, laughter broke out — cruel, excited, predatory. The sound of pounding shoes followed. 

“Run!” Yujin hissed, pulling Hanni along. 

They tore down the stairs, breathless and stumbling. A milk carton narrowly missed Yujin’s shoulder, splattering against the wall. Someone shouted, “Catch the Cheongha-ri pigs!” 

Another day. Another chase. Another humiliation. 

Yujin’s lungs burned, her legs screaming from the bruises left yesterday. But she couldn’t stop. She couldn’t afford to. Her uniform was already worn thin from washing, her bag still smelled faintly of toilet water no matter how many times she scrubbed it. She wasn’t about to let them ruin it again. 

So she ran harder. 

They burst out the side gate, panting and laughing—laughing because sometimes, when you’re too exhausted to cry, laughter is the only thing that keeps you sane. 

Hanni bent over, clutching her knees, gasping for air. “I can’t—keep doing this, Yujin.” 

Yujin forced a smile. “You can. We have to.” She looked up at the looming campus building behind them. “We don’t give them the satisfaction of seeing us quit.” 

***

That evening, at one of Seoul’s most exclusive salons, the air smelled of rosewater and wealth. 

Jang Wonyoung sat reclined on a white leather chair, one leg crossed elegantly over the other, her hands soaking in a crystal bowl of warm water. Around her, her friends lounged like royalty — Winter scrolling through her phone, Dani sipping iced coffee, Yuna chatting idly with the staff. 

The soft hum of pop music played in the background as manicurists painted perfect shades of blush and nude on polished nails. 

Minji approached, phone in hand, grinning. “Wonyoung-ah,” she said, lowering her voice just enough for the others to hear. “You’ll love this.” 

She handed the phone over. 

On the screen: a slightly grainy photo of An Yujin in an apron, hair tied back, standing behind the counter of a small fried chicken restaurant. Her hands were busy with takeout boxes. 

For a moment, silence. 

Then Wonyoung’s lips curved slowly into a delighted, venomous smile. 

“Well, well,” she murmured, studying the photo. “The scholar has a part-time job.” 

Winter tilted her head. “That’s… cute, actually.” 

Dani laughed softly. “So that’s where she scurries off to after school.” 

Minji’s grin widened. “Now we know where to order dinner.” 

Wonyoung’s eyes glinted with amusement. She leaned back against the chair, her perfectly manicured fingers tapping her phone screen thoughtfully. “A chicken shop, huh?” 

“Classic,” Yuna said, smirking. “Grease, sweat, and poverty.” 

Wonyoung ignored the comment, still smiling. “Let’s see how much the little scholar can handle… when she’s serving me.” 

Her reflection in the salon mirror looked serene — beautiful, composed but her eyes shimmered with a quiet, cold cruelty. 

“Call the restaurant,” she said softly. “Let’s give her a dinner rush she’ll never forget.” 

Chapter Text

Later that evening, Yujin was back in her uniform — the red, oil-scented apron of “Golden Fry Chicken.” Her bruises were now in full bloom, faint purple and black stains marking her arms and neck. Every movement reminded her of yesterday’s beating: a sting in her ribs when she bent down, a dull ache in her shoulders each time she lifted a box. But quitting wasn’t an option. She needed to save up, maybe buy another school uniform so she wouldn’t have to keep washing the same one every night in cold water. 

The sizzling of the fryer filled the cramped kitchen, the air heavy with oil and pepper. Ahjumma Kim, the cook who ran the place, wiped her hands on her apron and said, “Yujin-ah, big order came in. Fifty whole chickens.” 

Yujin’s eyes widened. Fifty? That was the biggest order she’d ever heard of. “Fifty sets of whole chickens?” she repeated, almost grinning. “Maybe it’s a birthday party?” 

“Probably,” the older woman said. “Anyway, hurry. They asked for delivery right away. Address is fancy too — over in Hannam-dong. You’ll have to take the big insulated carrier.” 

That little flicker of joy sparked in Yujin’s chest. Finally, some good luck. If they really sold that many chickens, the shop would earn well tonight, and maybe she’d get a small bonus or at least a warmer smile from Ahjumma Kim. 

She helped wrap and box each order — crisp, golden-brown chickens fresh from the fryer, steam fogging up the plastic containers. She stacked them carefully into the thermal crate strapped to her delivery bike. The heat radiated against her side as she wheeled the bike out to the street. The air outside was cool and damp, a bit of drizzle misting her face, but Yujin didn’t mind. She kicked the pedal and started down the hill, weaving through the glowing city streets. 

Later, after a mix of quiet backroads and main avenues lined with cafés, she arrived at the address: a grand white house sitting behind tall iron gates, the kind with motion lights that flicked on automatically. The house was almost intimidating — modern, spotless, and far too big for any one family. 

Yujin parked her bike, tugged her apron straight, and approached the gate intercom. She pressed the doorbell. Once. Twice. No answer. She bit her lip, glanced at the towering windows glowing faintly from inside, and tried again. 

Finally, the gate buzzed open slightly, and a woman in a maid uniform stepped out. She was in her late thirties, looking at her that as if sizing her up.

“Yes?” the maid asked.

Yujin bowed quickly, smiling. “Ah, hello! Chicken delivery from Golden Fry Chicken. For… Gong Gyu-ri?” She double-checked the order slip in her hand, holding it out for the woman to see. “Fifty whole chickens, cash on delivery.” 

The maid frowned immediately. “Gong Gyu-ri?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“There’s no Gyu-ri living here.” 

Yujin blinked, confused. “Ah… maybe the order was placed under another name? This address is listed right here.” She showed the paper again, her voice still light, uncertain. “Hannam-dong 47-1, right?” 

The maid glanced over the slip, then shook her head. “That’s this house. But no one by that name lives here. You must have the wrong address.” 

A hollow thud formed in Yujin’s chest. She stared at the boxes stacked neatly in her carrier, fifty whole chickens cooling under the thin night air. “Are you sure?” 

The maid crossed her arms. “Completely. You should check with your shop. We don’t take deliveries we didn’t order.” 

“But this is the right address,” Yujin said, holding up the crumpled slip again. “It says Hannam-dong 47-1. Maybe the order was under someone else’s name, please check it.” 

The woman sighed, clearly annoyed. “No, young lady. This is the Marsh residence — please leave before I have to call security.” 

“I can’t,” Yujin said quickly, desperation rising in her throat. “Please, just ask around. Someone must’ve placed this order. I can’t—”

She bit her tongue before the words I can’t pay for this escaped. Her mind was spinning. A hundred thousand won per set, multiplied by fifty… one million won. Her month’s pay wouldn’t even cover half of it. 

Ahjumma Kim is going to die if these go to waste, Yujin thought bitterly, remembering the old woman’s swollen hands flipping chicken pieces in the fryer. She trusted me with this. I can’t just go back with everything unpaid. 

The maid exhaled sharply and started closing the iron gate. “Enough of this, miss.” 

Yujin panicked. “Wait, please!” She wedged her hand between the bars, holding it open. “Just one minute, please — can you at least ask—” 

And that’s when a voice drifted from the garden behind the iron fence.

Soft. Mocking. Familiar. 

“Ah, maybe I’m Gyu-ri.” 

The maid stepped aside at once, bowing slightly. “Miss Jang, my apologies. This girl insists there’s a delivery for someone named Gong Gyu-ri.” 

Dani walked a few steps behind Wonyoung, scrolling on her phone until Minji nudged her with an elbow. “Oh?” Dani said, her eyes lifting lazily. “For me? I’m Gyu-ri?” 

The maid blinked. “Miss, I wasn’t aware—” 

Dani shrugged, her lips twitching. “Nope. Not me.” 

Yujin froze. Her head turned slowly toward the source. There, through the open gate leading to the side garden, stood Jang Wonyoung — perfectly put together even after a long day of school, her hair loose, her blazer replaced with a cropped designer cardigan. Her friends lounged around her on patio chairs, sipping sparkling water, laughing quietly as if this were a stage play written just for their amusement. 

“Well, if it isn’t the school’s newest scholar,” Wonyoung said, a mock-bright smile stretching across her face. “What are you doing here, delivery girl? Lost your way home?” 

The maid looked back at them, confused. “Young miss, you know this girl?” 

Wonyoung tilted her head, pretending to think.

“Not really,” she said, her voice calm and honey-sweet. “She’s just… one of those delivery girls who doesn’t know when she’s been scammed, I guess.” 

Her friends snickered. Winter leaned forward, whispering something to Yuna, who covered her mouth to hide a laugh. 

Yuna snorted softly. “Maybe she got scammed.” 

“That’s right,” Winter chimed in, lounging against the fence. “You really should be careful, you know. There are a lot of fake orders these days.” 

Minji gave a low chuckle, watching Yujin’s face darken. 

Yujin’s grip on the order slip tightened.

Her voice wavered between confusion and dawning anger. “You ordered this, didn’t you?” 

Wonyoung raised her brows, feigning innocence. “Why would I? We have a chef.” She gestured lazily toward the mansion behind them, where warm light spilled through the glass doors. “Do you really think I’d eat that?” 

The word “that” hit Yujin like a slap. 

The maid cleared her throat, clearly uncomfortable now. “If they didn’t order it, you should take it back, miss.” 

Yujin stayed frozen in place. She wanted to argue, to scream, but the laughter behind the gate told her everything she needed to know. This was no mistake. It was them. 

“Looks like you’ve been duped, delivery girl,” Wonyoung said softly, her lips curling. “Maybe next time, try not to believe everything people tell you over the phone.” 

The group laughed — a light, silvery sound that didn’t match the cruelty behind it. 

Yujin’s chest tightened, her fingers gripping the handle of the insulated bag until her knuckles turned white. She could feel the heat behind her eyes, the humiliation burning through her veins. 

She managed to choke out, “You’re cruel.” Yujin’s voice cracked the laughter that hung in the air. “You’re cruel,” she said again — louder this time, the words trembling.

The laughter faded slightly, and Wonyoung tilted her head, her expression almost amused, like she was watching a child throw a tantrum. 

“Cruel?” Wonyoung repeated, softly, mockingly. “You think so?” 

Yujin clenched her fists, the paper receipt crumpling in her hand. “Is this what rich people do? Order things just to waste them? Just because you can?” 

Wonyoung blinked — just once — before a smile curved her lips again, serene and cold. 

Yujin took a small step forward, her voice rising. “You have so much money, but you still want to take from people who have nothing. You think this is funny? For you, maybe a million won is pocket change. But for us—” her throat tightened, and she jabbed a thumb at her own chest— “it’s rent. It’s food. It’s life.” 

Behind Wonyoung, the rest of her clique exchanged glances, their amusement flickering uncertainly. Even Minji’s smirk faltered for half a second. 

“You don’t even understand what a million won means,” Yujin went on, her tone trembling with fury now. “You’ve never had to choose between eating dinner and paying for electricity. You’ve never had to scrub your hands raw for money that still isn’t enough.” 

Her words rang out into the quiet courtyard. The maid looked uneasy, glancing between them. 

Wonyoung’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “So what are you trying to say?” 

“That people like you,” Yujin said, voice dropping low, “think it’s okay to play with other people’s lives. You think it’s funny. Because you’ve never had to fight for anything than your boredom in life.” 

For a moment — just one — the atmosphere changed. The laughter was gone. Wonyoung’s eyes, that cold shade of polished brown, held Yujin’s in silence. There was something unreadable there — a flicker, a bruise to her pride, maybe even guilt. But it vanished as quickly as it came. 

Wonyoung can’t let that feeling stay. 

Her pride immediately rejects it. 

She stepped closer to the gate, her perfume sweet and nauseatingly expensive. “Are you done crying?” she asked, her tone silk wrapped over steel. 

“Yeah, I’m done.”

Wonyoung turned away smoothly, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “Then take your pity party somewhere else. I’m not interested in your sob story.” 

The words cut clean, leaving behind only silence and the faint sound of laughter as she and her friends disappeared back into the garden. 

Yujin stood still, her hands trembling. The metal of the gate was cold under her fingers. Her pulse thundered in her ears. 

She knew, Yujin thought bitterly. She knew exactly what she was doing. She wanted to watch me break. 

Her gaze drifted to the stacked chicken boxes by her feet. Fifty whole chickens. Her entire night’s worth of labor. One million won that she didn’t have. 

Her throat burned as she swallowed hard, forcing herself to put back the insulated bag onto her bike. Her fingers hurt from gripping the edges too tightly, but she didn’t loosen them. 

She climbed onto her bicycle. Her reflection caught faintly in the car windows lining the road — a girl in a grease-stained uniform, eyes red from frustration, biking away from a mansion that had no idea what it meant to starve. 

She wanted to scream, to cry, to throw the boxes away. But she couldn’t. 

And as she pedaled away, one bitter thought looped in her mind — Every single one of them will pay for this someday. 

When Yujin leaves, everyone else looks quiet — no one’s laughing anymore. Wonyoung notices it. She hates it. She feels cornered by silence, by the faint shame reflected in her friends’ faces.
So she doubles down. 

“Relax. She’ll live. It’s just chicken.” 

***

The Marsh residence was a quiet expanse of glass and marble tucked in one of Seoul’s high-end neighborhoods. The lights from the garden glowed softly through the window curtains of Dani’s bedroom. 

Dani sat cross-legged on her pristine white bed, her cardigan discarded on the nightstand. Her long hair was tied up messily, her usually bright face pulled into a small frown as she kept fiddling with the hem of her sleeve. 

“I still can’t believe that girl,” Dani murmured, almost to herself. “She really works part-time after school, doesn’t she? She said something like she doesn’t even eat properly so she can save money. Like… how is that even possible?” 

Minji, lounging on the sofa by the window with a tablet in her hands, glanced up at her girlfriend’s voice. “It’s possible,” she said calmly. “You’ve just never had met anyone like it until now.”

Dani pouted, crossing her arms. “That’s not what I mean! I just—” she sighed, slumping forward, “—I didn’t think people like that actually existed in Seoul. Not in our school. She’s just a kid like us, right? How can she live like that?” 

Minji smiled faintly, amused by Dani’s sheltered confusion. “You’re too innocent for this world, Dani.” 

Dani threw her a small glare. “Don’t tease me! It’s just — I keep thinking, maybe the prank went too far. That look on her face earlier, when she realized it was all fake…” she rubbed her temples, groaning softly. “It’s stuck in my head. I swear I can still hear her voice. She looked… like she was about to cry.”

“It was humiliating,” Minji said evenly, setting her tablet aside. “But that’s the point. That’s how Wonyoung works — she crushes people until they know their place.” 

Dani frowned even deeper. “It’s becoming normal for her.”

Minji tilted her head, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then she gave a small shrug. “Maybe it is. But I already did something about it, if that helps your conscience.” 

Dani blinked. “What do you mean?” 

“I called the restaurant,” Minji said simply. “Paid for the order. One million won, right? I transferred it anonymously. So you can stop worrying your pretty little head about it.” 

Dani’s eyes widened in surprise. “Wait — you did??” 

Minji nodded, a small, knowing smile curving her lips. “Someone had to. You were over here pouting instead of doing anything.” 

Dani’s mouth fell open in disbelief, then softened into a relieved smile. “I wasn’t pouting! I was — okay, maybe I was. But still, thank you. Seriously.” She crawled closer, resting her chin on Minji’s lap. “You didn’t have to. I would’ve sent the driver there and pay for it.”

Minji brushed a strand of Dani’s hair behind her ear. “Don’t tell anyone. Especially not Wonyoung.” 

Dani nodded quickly. “Of course I won’t.” Then, quieter, she added, “...But Minji, don’t you think this has gone far enough? The way Wonyoung’s been acting — it’s like she’s obsessed. Yujin hasn’t quit. What if she pushes her too far next time?” 

For a moment, Minji didn’t answer. She leaned back, staring out the window where the city lights glimmered faintly in the distance. “If she does,” Minji said at last, “I’ll stop her.” 

Dani looked up at her, eyes searching. “You promise?” 

Minji smiled. It was thoughtful, maybe even curious. “I promise. Honestly…” she paused, her eyes narrowing slightly as if in realization, “…I think that scholar girl might be the best thing to ever happen to my sister.” 

Dani frowned. “What do you mean?” 

Minji’s voice lowered, almost conspiratorial. “You saw how Wonyoung looked at her, right? She was furious — but also rattled. Someone finally stood up to her. No one’s ever done that before.” 

Dani blinked, still unsure. “So… you’re saying Yujin might actually change Wonyoung?” 

Minji’s lips curved into a small, almost wicked smile. “If anyone can break that ice princess shell she built, it’s someone who doesn’t fear her. And Yujin?” She gave a quiet chuckle. “That girl doesn’t know how to be afraid, hopefully she won’t be. I was scared for a second that she will break earlier. It’s too early for her to leave.” 

Dani looked away, biting her lip. “I just hope this doesn’t end badly.” 

Minji’s gaze softened for a fleeting second as she whispered, “So do I.” 

***

The apartment smelled faintly of detergent and dust, a small one-room space shared by two scholarship students who could barely afford to keep the lights on. When Yujin arrived, she had both arms burdened with plastic bags — the faint, greasy scent of freshly fried chicken trailing behind her like a stormcloud. 

“Whoa — what is that?” Hanni blinked from the chair, eyes widening as the counter filled up with golden boxes. “Did the shop give you a bonus or something? That’s like… a mountain of chicken, Yujin.” 

Yujin didn’t answer. Her motions were clipped and quiet — one box down, another stacked neatly beside it. The sound of cardboard brushing against the table filled the silence. Then, without warning, she turned toward the narrow closet, dropped to her knees, and started digging through old shoe boxes and folded clothes. 

“Yujin?” Hanni frowned. 

The next sound made her flinch — a sharp crack! — as Yujin slammed a small ceramic piggy bank against the floor. Coins and paper bills scattered like tiny raindrops across the linoleum. 

“Yah!” Hanni gasped. “What are you doing—” 

Yujin crouched low, fingers trembling as she gathered the coins, sorting through them in rough stacks. “One hundred thousand,” she muttered under her breath, counting twice just to be sure. “It’s not enough…” 

She stood, reached for the top shelf, and pulled down a battered white envelope — the one she always said was for emergencies only. Inside, neatly folded bills. Four hundred thousand won. Hanni watched her peel them out one by one, her chest tightening. 

Then Yujin reached for her phone. The blue glow of the screen lit her face as she opened her banking app. Her balance blinked back at her: ₩700,000. 

Hanni felt the air drain from the room. “Yujin… what’s going on?” 

Yujin didn’t look up. “Wonyoung’s friends,” she said quietly, her voice hollow. “They ordered fifty chickens under a fake name. And when I got there, they denied it. Said they didn’t order anything.” 

Hanni’s eyes widened, disbelief sharpening into fear. “You mean — they scammed you? Oh my god… Yujin, that’s… that’s too much. What if they do it to me next? What if they show up at the café—” 

“Hanni.” Yujin’s tone was calm. “It’s fine.” 

“It’s not fine!” Hanni shot back, standing. “You should report it to the police! That’s fraud — you got scammed! There’s CCTV, a phone call record—” 

Yujin shook her head. “Ahjumma Kim will be crushed. She already works sixteen hours a day. If this becomes a police case, she’ll have to deal with inspectors, questions, the press maybe since it involves students from rich families… I can’t do that to her. It’s better if I handle it.” 

Hanni looked at her, searching for some sign that she was joking. “You’re… you’re going to cover it? One million won?” 

Yujin nodded, gathering the bills she’d stacked neatly on the floor. “Yes.” 

“That’s — that’s everything you’ve saved! You’ve been working since you were a kid, Yujin. You said this was your safety fund, that you will save more for college—”

“I’ll earn it back.” Yujin tried to smile, the corners of her lips trembling. “It’s not the end of the world.” 

She forced a small laugh and gestured toward the table, where dozens of boxes of chicken still steamed faintly through their vents. “At least we’ll eat well tonight, right? We’ve got enough fried chicken to last a week.” 

Hanni’s throat tightened as Yujin began counting out the money again, flattening the wrinkled bills with her palm before tucking them into a small pouch. 

When she finally straightened, pouch in hand, she glanced once at Hanni and said softly, “I’ll take this to Ahjumma Kim and withdraw some money. Before she finds out the hard way.” 

***
 

The streetlights had already begun to flicker to life by the time Yujin reached the familiar corner of the fried chicken diner. Her legs burned from pedaling uphill, her palms sore from gripping the handlebars. The small restaurant glowed with its usual yellow light, the smell of oil and garlic wafting from the vent. Through the glass door, she could see Ahjumma Kim hunched over the counter, phone in hand, worry creasing her forehead. 

The bell above the door jingled as Yujin stepped inside. 

“Yujin-ah!” Ahjumma Kim straightened immediately, relief washing over her face. “Aigo, where have you been? I was starting to think something happened! I texted you three times!” 

Yujin blinked, catching her breath. “S-sorry, ahjumma. The… delivery took longer than I thought.” 

“Well, hurry and drink some water first.” Ahjumma Kim pushed a paper cup toward her. “We’ve got another set of orders coming in soon, and it’s already getting late.” 

Yujin nodded, gulping down the lukewarm water. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached into her tote bag — she could feel the envelope of bills pressing against her fingers. The money felt heavy, not in weight but in meaning. Her heart thudded against her ribs as she pulled it halfway out, lips parting to speak. 

“Ahjumma, about the payment—” 

“Ah! Right!” Ahjumma Kim interrupted suddenly, snapping her fingers. “About the payment!” 

Yujin froze. 

“The person who ordered those fifty chickens called a few minutes before you arrived,” Ahjumma Kim continued, wiping her hands on her apron. “They said they accidentally said cash on delivery instead of card. They already transferred the full amount to our account!” 

Yujin blinked. “…What?” 

Ahjumma Kim tilted her head. “Didn’t you know? Why didn’t you call me right away about the payment issue? Didn’t you talk to the customer?” 

For a heartbeat, Yujin could only stare at her — mind blank, ears ringing.

Someone paid? 

Who? 

It couldn’t be Wonyoung. Impossible. The girl who looked down on her wouldn’t do something like that. Then who? One of her friends? The maid? 

Her fingers tightened on the envelope before she quickly shoved it back into her bag. She coughed lightly, rubbing the back of her neck with an awkward laugh. “Ah — right, sorry, ahjumma. I… forgot to call. My bad.” 

Ahjumma Kim sighed, shaking her head but smiling anyway. “You really need to be more careful next time, Yujin-ah. But I’m glad everything’s settled. See? There are still honest people in the world.” 

Yujin managed a small smile. “Yeah… guess so.” 

The older woman waved her hand toward the fryer. “Now, stop standing there and take the next batch. Two deliveries in Yeoksam — the address is on the counter. Eat something later before you faint on that bike, got it?” 

“Yes, ahjumma.” 

Yujin bowed slightly before taking the paper bags of freshly fried chicken. The aroma of soy and honey butter wrapped around her. As she stepped outside, the air bit at her cheeks, the city buzzing quietly under streetlights. 

She straddled her bicycle, the pedals squeaking as she pushed off the curb. Her chest loosened just a little. 

She had been seconds away from losing everything she’d saved. But someone — she didn’t know who — had stopped it from happening. 

Her savings, her hard work, all safe — at least for now. 

Still, as she pedaled into the night, one question refused to leave her mind. 

Who paid for it? 

***

The next morning, the atmosphere in Class 1-A was unusually quiet. Ms. Baek, announced a surprise quiz the moment she entered the room, her heels clicking sharply across the floor. 

Groans rose around the classroom, except from Wonyoung, who merely crossed her legs and smirked. Quizzes never bothered her; she was always the top. Always. She neatly arranged her pens, her expensive fountain pen glinting under the fluorescent light. To her, this was just another morning where she’d prove again — why the “elite” existed and the “scholars” didn’t belong. 

At the far back, Yujin stretched her arms, still sore from her part-time shift the night before. Her fingers ached from gripping delivery boxes, but her eyes were sharp, scanning each question as if she’d seen them all before. 

When the quiz ended, Ms. Baek began checking the papers at her desk. The rhythmic flipping of sheets and the soft scratching of her red pen filled the room. Wonyoung leaned back in her chair, twirling her pen, confident. Her friends whispered about their weekend plans, Dani humming softly, Minji scrolling through her phone until the teacher cleared her throat. 

“All right, class,” Ms. Baek began, standing. “As always, high score. 49 out of 50 goes to Jang Wonyoung.” 

A polite wave of applause filled the room. Wonyoung’s lips curved in satisfaction, a familiar warmth blooming in her chest. Of course. She brushed her hair behind her ear with casual grace, already anticipating her teacher’s next words of praise. 

But then Ms. Baek continued, flipping one more paper. 

“And surprisingly, the top score this time, a perfect 50 out of 50… An Yujin.” 

The words seemed to echo. 

For a second, Wonyoung didn’t move. Her smile froze, still half-formed, as her head turned sharply toward the back row. Yujin blinked in surprise at her name being called, then rose from her seat. She walked down the aisle calmly, as if this was something that happened every day. 

The class murmured. Someone whispered, “Did she just say perfect?” Another snickered, “Wait, she beat Wonyoung?” 

Wonyoung’s grip tightened on her pen. Her chest prickled — something hot and sharp rising in her throat. Her eyes followed Yujin as the girl accepted her paper, bowed politely, and returned to her seat without even glancing her way. No smug smile. No reaction. Just… indifference. 

That stung more than arrogance would have. 

Wonyoung tapped her pen on the desk, her thoughts racing.

What the hell?

No one beats me. No one. 

Her friends exchanged looks — Winter raised an eyebrow, Yuna whispered something, and Dani tried to smile awkwardly. Even Minji’s lips twitched, hiding a small, knowing smirk. 

As Yujin sat back down, she skimmed her quiz paper once, expression neutral. For her, this wasn’t a surprise; studying had always been her safe place. She’d grown used to perfect marks — it was the one thing she could control in a life constantly tilted against her. 

But for Wonyoung, that single missing point felt heavier. 

***

The private lounge was hidden on the top floor of the east building — a place that is not accessible to students. It was a sanctuary built for privilege: plush velvet couches imported from Italy, a chandelier that glittered even in daylight, and the faint aroma of jasmine tea lingering in the air. A large bay window overlooked the school’s courtyard, where the less important students scurried below like ants. 

Wonyoung sat in the center of the couch, her legs elegantly crossed, her manicured nails tapping rhythmically against a porcelain teacup. Her reflection glimmered faintly in the glass — perfect hair, perfect posture, perfect everything. One point, she thought. Just one. 

She told herself it didn’t matter.

An Yujin was just lucky. Maybe she guessed right on one question. Maybe the teacher made a mistake. There was no way that girl that scholar was smarter than her. 

“See you later,” Yuna’s voice broke through her thoughts. She was standing by the door, spinning her basketball on one finger, her gym bag slung over her shoulder. “We’re heading to the winter tryouts. Coach wants us early.” 

“Same here,” Minji added, slipping her arm through Dani’s. “We’ll probably be late for dinner, so don’t wait for us.” 

Dani smiled brightly, brushing Minji’s sleeve. “I’ll be on the sidelines. You’ll do great, babe.” 

Wonyoung looked up from her tea with a faint smile, the perfect hostess mask slipping back on. “Okay, go show those newbies.” 

As the three of them left, their laughter echoing faintly down the hallway, silence fell again in the lounge. Only Winter remained, lounging lazily across the opposite sofa, scrolling through her phone. The sound of nail tips tapping glass filled the air for a moment before she spoke. 

“So…” Winter said, setting her phone down and giving Wonyoung a sidelong glance. “You’ve been quiet. Still thinking about the quiz?” 

Wonyoung scoffed softly, swirling her tea. “Don’t be ridiculous. It was one point. She got lucky.” 

Winter hummed, smirking. “Right. Luck. But still… it must sting a little, huh? The almighty Jang Wonyoung, beaten by the scholarship girl.” 

Wonyoung’s eyes flickered up — sharp, glacial. Winter just grinned wider, knowing she’d hit a nerve. 

“Anyway,” Winter continued, stretching, “are you just going to let her have that moment? No payback? I figured you’d have something planned for her basketball tryouts. You do know she signed up, right?” 

That made Wonyoung’s lips curl into a slow, elegant smile. She set down her teacup and leaned back against the couch, resting her chin on her hand. 

“Of course I know,” she said softly, almost purring. “And of course I have something planned.” 

Winter’s brow lifted, curiosity flickering in her eyes. “Something bad?” 

Wonyoung smirked, her voice low and dangerous. “Let’s just say… An Yujin might not complete the tryouts after all.”

*** 

Yujin’s footsteps echoed faintly through the long marble hallway as she squinted at the crumpled school map in her hands. She muttered under her breath, turning it sideways as if that would somehow make it easier to read. 

“Why is this school so big?” she grumbled, dragging her sneakers against the polished floor. “A gym this far from the main building — are they training for the Olympics or something?” 

The hallways of Janghwa Girls’ were still foreign to her: white walls, spotless, lined with expensive artwork and some trophy cases that gleamed under the fluorescent lights. Every corridor looked the same. By the time she finally found the sign that said Indoor Sports Complex, she was breathing a little harder than she wanted to admit. 

“Guess that’s my warm-up,” she muttered, tucking the folded map into her pocket before stepping inside. 

The girls’ locker room smelled faintly of fancy detergent, the sharp echo of voices bouncing off the tiled walls. Yujin changed quickly into the school’s PE uniform — white shirt, blue jogging pants, and a number tag pinned to her chest. The cotton stretched slightly across her shoulders, her toned arms standing out against the bright light. 

She paused in front of the mirror for a moment, staring at her reflection. The bruise on her cheek had faded into a pale yellow, but it was still there — an echo of everything she’d been through this week. 

Her scholarship depended on this. Grades, behavior, extracurricular activities — every detail mattered. She wasn’t just doing this because she wanted to play. She needed to graduate here. 

She took a deep breath and whispered to herself, “Let’s do this, An Yujin. Don’t let them see you flinch.” 

***

The basketball gym was massive — high ceilings with steel rafters, polished floors gleaming under rows of lights. The court lines looked freshly painted, the hoops glinting under the spotlights. 

As Yujin stepped inside, her eyes caught movement near the center of the court. Two figures in matching jerseys were already practicing — sharp passes, clean footwork, easy chemistry. 

It only took her a second to recognize them. 

Minji and Yuna. 

Her shoulders stiffened. 

Both members of the school’s official basketball team. Both Wonyoung’s friends. 

Yujin swallowed, forcing herself to look composed. Of course they were here. This was their home turf. 

She moved to the benches, tying her shoes tightly, eyes flicking toward the court where Minji and Yuna were warming up. They didn’t seem to notice her or maybe they were pretending not to. Either way, Yujin could feel their awareness like a weight in the room. 

Careful, Yujin. Whatever happens here, play smart. This isn’t just a game to them. 

***

The sound of bouncing basketballs and squeaking sneakers filled the gym. A group of girls — some in uniform, others in PE clothes — were stretching, chatting, or dribbling idly. Yujin stood a little off to the side, scanning the group, trying to get a feel of the atmosphere. 

Then a whistle cut through the air. 

“All right, everyone, gather up!” 

The voice came from a woman who didn’t look particularly tall, but somehow carried the presence of someone who didn’t need to be. She stood with her hands on her hips, clipboard under one arm, a confident grin tugging at her lips. Her dark hair was tucked behind one ear, her posture straight and easy like she owns this court.

“I’m Shin Ryujin,” she said, her tone brisk. “Captain of the basketball team, third year. I’ll be leading the tryouts today since Coach Jang is busy coordinating with the athletic committee.” 

Yujin straightened her back automatically. Ryujin had that aura — tough, no-nonsense, the kind of leader people followed without question. Her sleeveless team jersey revealed toned arms, and her sharp eyes swept over the line of girls standing before her. 

“You’re here because you want to play,” Ryujin continued. “Not because you think it looks good on your college file, not because your friends dragged you here. Basketball is physical. It’s loud, fast, messy and if you’re afraid to get a little dirt on your knees, there’s the exit.” 

A few girls exchanged nervous glances, but no one moved. 

Ryujin smirked. “Good.” 

Her gaze paused midway through the line, settling directly on Yujin. 

“You,” she said, nodding at her. “You’re tall.” 

Yujin blinked, caught off guard by the sudden attention. “Uh — yes, ma’am.” 

Ryujin tilted her head, eyeing her from head to toe. “What’s your name?” 

“An Yujin,” she said, standing straighter. 

Ryujin’s brows lifted slightly, impressed despite herself. “An Yujin. You ever played before?” 

“Yes, in school and…” Yujin replied carefully. “Mostly street games back in the province.” 

That earned her a few side glances from the others, including Yuna and Minji, who were standing near the back of the formation. 

Ryujin hummed. “We’ll see what you’ve got then. You’ve got the height, at least. That’s already an advantage.” 

It was only then that Yujin noticed — she really was taller than most of the girls there. Taller than Yuna, even. And when she looked over the rest of the team, half of them were petite, lean girls who clearly came from a school where ballet or tennis were the preferred options. 

Yujin’s mind flickered back to the late-night searches she and Hanni did. Janghwa Girls’ High School Basketball Team. Zero championship wins. Barely even made it past district qualifiers. The comments online had been brutal:

“Rich kids pretending to play sports.”

“All glam, no grit.” 

Looking around now, Yujin could see why. 

The uniforms were clean, their shoes spotless, their nails polished. The girls stretched with an elegance that looked rehearsed, not trained. This was a team that looked good playing basketball but didn’t really play it. 

And yet — there was Minji, steady and serious, bouncing the ball with smooth control. And Yuna, already grinning. 

So maybe not all of them were all show. 

***

The squeak of sneakers and the echo of bouncing balls filled Janghwa’s basketball gym — a place that, unlike the rest of the pristine school, carried a faint smell of varnish, rubber, and sweat. A place that didn’t care for elegance. 

Ryujin stood at the center, whistle hanging from her neck, expression sharp and focused. “Drills first!” she barked, tossing a ball toward Yujin. “Show me what you’ve got, rookie.” 

Yujin caught it with both hands, palms already damp. Her chest tightened — she wasn’t nervous exactly, but she could feel the eyes on her. Rows of girls lined the court edges, whispering, snickering, waiting to see how the scholar girl would embarrass herself. 

But the moment she moved, everything else fell away. Her sneakers struck the polished floor in rhythm. Dribble — pivot — fake left — rise.

The ball swished clean through the net. 

The gym fell silent for half a beat before Ryujin’s whistle blew again. “Next drill!” 

They ran sprints, shooting lines, defensive slides. Sweat drenched through shirts, ponytails swished, and sneakers burned tracks into the floor. But Yujin didn’t slow down once. Her vertical was explosive — higher than anyone expected from a girl who barely ate enough to get by. Even the varsity players paused when she jumped to block a shot, her shadow cutting across the light as she landed hard and steady. 

By the third round of drills, whispers had started spreading through the bleachers. 

“She’s… actually good.”

“That’s the scholarship kid, right?”

“I heard she got a perfect score this morning — even higher than Jang Wonyoung.”

“Seriously? No one’s ever beaten Wonyoung.” 

Ryujin hid her amusement behind her whistle. The girl was raw but fast, with instincts sharper than some second-year students she’d trained. Every move Yujin made was crisp — no hesitation, no showboating, just pure drive. 

Minji and Yuna exchanged looks as they jogged past each other. They both saw it — Yujin was talented, jumps high and runs fast.

By the end of scrimmage, Yujin’s shirt was drenched, her breaths short but steady. She’d scored three straight shots, blocked two, and assisted another like she’d been on the team for months. 

When Ryujin blew the final whistle, she let the sound linger before calling out, “Not bad, freshman.” Her gaze locked onto Yujin. “You move like you’ve been playing with them for years. Keep that up — you might make some of these girls nervous.” 

A ripple of laughter went around — part impressed, part uneasy. Because everyone knew exactly who Ryujin was hinting at. 

Yujin only nodded, brushing her damp bangs off her forehead, her pulse still racing. She wasn’t just keeping up. She was standing out — and every eye that had looked down on her this morning was now watching her for a completely different reason. 

***

After the tryouts ended, the sound of sneakers scraping against the polished court faded as everyone gathered in front of Captain Shin Ryujin. Her clipboard was tucked under her arm.

“Alright,” Ryujin began, scanning the list. “First of all — good work, everyone. I’m impressed by the turnout this year. We actually have talent for once.” A faint smirk tugged at her lips, and a few chuckles echoed across the gym. 

She started reading the names. “Bae Jin-Sol. Park Chaehyun. Yoo Rina…” 

A pause. Then her voice lifted slightly, “And An Yujin.” 

Yujin’s head jerked up. For a heartbeat, she thought she misheard but Ryujin’s grin said otherwise. 

“Welcome to the team,” Ryujin said, giving her a curt nod. “Your vertical jump’s insane, your defense is tight, you run insanely fast and that outside shot? Clean. You’ve got raw athleticism, Yujin. You’ll fit right in.” 

Yujin blinked, the exhaustion on her body replaced by a warm pulse of pride. The team clapped, some half-heartedly, others genuinely impressed. Her lips quirked into a small smile; this was something she could hold onto. Something that couldn’t be taken by the rich brats who ruled this school. 

But on the corner of the court, two familiar figures stood by the bleachers. Minji leaned lazily against the wall, twirling her water bottle, while Yuna tied her hair into a ponytail, both watching the scene unfold. 

Minji let out a small laugh under her breath. “She’s… actually really good,” she said, a tinge of reluctant admiration in her tone. 

Yuna gave a low whistle. “No kidding. Did you see that jump? Girl’s got springs for legs. Ryujin couldn’t take her eyes off her.” 

Minji hummed, glancing sideways at Yuna. “Wonyoung won’t like this.” 

That earned a smirk from Yuna. “Oh, she’s already fuming. You should’ve seen her face when I texted her Yujin might make the team.” 

Minji tilted her head. “So what’s she planning now? You know her — she never lets a grudge sit for long.” 

Yuna’s smirk turned secretive. “She wanted me to do something today. Said to make it ‘memorable.’” 

Minji’s brows lifted. “You?” 

Yuna nodded, lowering her voice. “Yeah. But I said no way. Ryujin’s my cousin, remember? If she finds out I messed with someone in her gym, I’m dead. She’ll actually kill me. And if my parents hear — goodbye basketball, goodbye allowance, goodbye everything.” 

Minji chuckled softly. “Smart girl. So what’s happening then?” 

Yuna leaned closer, her tone almost conspiratorial. “Yujin’s clothes. Gone. By the time she’s out of the shower, her uniform will just… disappear.” 

Minji let out a small, disbelieving laugh. “Poor thing barely has clothes as it is. You’d think Wonyoung would get bored of bullying someone with nothing left to take.” 

Yuna’s smirk faltered, just for a moment. She sighed, crossing her arms. “Yeah… I don’t get it either. It’s like the more Yujin stands her ground, the more it pisses Wonyoung off.” 

Minji’s gaze softened slightly, eyes following Yujin on the court — still smiling faintly as she thanked Ryujin. “She’s shaken,” Minji murmured. “My sister. She doesn’t know how to deal with someone who doesn’t bow to her.” 

Yuna looked at her, a brow raised. “You sound like you almost respect the scholar girl.” 

Minji smirked faintly. “Maybe I do.” 

***

The locker room was quieter than Yujin expected — too quiet, almost. The sound of water running from a few shower stalls echoed against the tiled walls, mixed with faint laughter from the girls still talking about the tryouts. The air was thick with steam and the clean, artificial scent of floral soap. 

Janghwa’s facilities were leagues above anything she’d ever known. Each shower stall had its own frosted-glass door, proper locks, and even a small bench inside to set your things. Yujin almost sighed in relief when she realized it wasn’t one of those communal showers. At least she didn’t have to worry about someone “accidentally” snapping a picture or pulling a prank while she was vulnerable. 

She hung her towel neatly on the hook, set her things down, and stepped under the warm stream. The heat hit her muscles instantly, melting the exhaustion that had built up from hours of drills. Her hair — short, damp, clinging to her jaw — dripped water down her neck as she leaned into the wall, eyes closing. 

For the first time that day, she allowed herself to breathe. She’d made the team. She actually made it. 

Her lips curved slightly. All those early morning jogs to keep in shape, the street basketball games back in her province, the endless hours balancing study and work — it had all led to this small victory. 

But then she caught herself. Don’t get too comfortable, An Yujin. This was still Janghwa Academy. 

She finished quickly, turning off the faucet, and wrapped her towel tightly around her torso. Her undergarments stuck slightly to her skin, still damp, but she didn’t care. She just wanted to get dressed and go home. 

When she reached her locker, though — her heart stopped. 

Her uniform was gone. 

She blinked, frowning, checking the locker again. The spot where she had folded it earlier — her crisp white shirt, the pleated , her blazer — all missing. The only thing left was the small towel and her sneakers. 

“What the—” she muttered under her breath, yanking open the neighboring lockers. Empty. 

A chill crawled up her spine as realization set in. Everyone else had already left. The laughter and footsteps she’d heard earlier were gone.

“Unbelievable…” she hissed, raking a hand through her damp hair. “Who the hell—” 

It wasn’t hard to guess. She didn’t even need to think. The image of a certain perfectly brushed brown haired girl popped instantly into her mind. 

“Jang Wonyoung,” she whispered, jaw tightening. 

Her uniform was expensive, more than a month’s worth of part-time pay. She couldn’t afford to lose it. And she definitely couldn’t walk around campus in just her underwear and a towel — not when the school’s security cameras watched every hallway. 

Grinding her teeth, she scanned the locker room again. Nothing. Not even a spare PE set. 

In the end, she groaned under her breath and picked up her PE tryout clothes from the bench — the sweaty, crumpled shirt and jogging pants. The fabric was cold and damp against her skin, smelling faintly of rubber and sweat, but it was better than walking naked through school. 

“Gross,” she muttered, pulling the shirt over her head. “I’ll just shower again when I get back.” 

She tied the drawstring of her shorts, slung her bag over her shoulder, and took one last frustrated look around the locker room before stepping out. 

Outside, the court was empty now, the echoes of bouncing balls long gone. Her sneakers squeaked faintly against the polished floor as she walked toward the exit — head down, fists clenched, mind simmering. 

They thought this was funny. They thought she’d just take it. 

***

The gym was half-empty by the time Yujin stormed back inside, the echo of her sneakers slapping against the polished wood snapping the attention of everyone still there. Some of the junior players were packing up basketballs, chatting quietly, while others sat along the bleachers scrolling through their phones. The faint squeak of her wet shoes and the tension in her steps made a few of them turn, brows knitting in confusion. 

Yujin’s face was set — jaw locked, eyes sharp, her short hair still damp and clinging to her cheeks. The tryout shirt stuck to her skin. She wasn’t here to be polite anymore. 

“Who took my uniform?” she demanded, her voice loud enough to carry across the gym. 

The chatter died instantly. 

Several girls blinked, exchanging confused glances. A few whispered to each other, others just stared. Yujin’s tone wasn’t pleading — it was edged with frustration, almost anger. She stepped forward, eyes darting from face to face. 

“Don’t play dumb,” she said. “It was in the locker. Someone took it.” 

She moved closer to a cluster of players standing near the bench, their eyes widening as Yujin stopped in front of them. She wasn’t being threatening exactly, but the tension rolling off her was palpable. When one girl looked away, Yujin narrowed her eyes and stepped forward, her hand catching the lapel of the girl’s blazer — not hard, but enough to make her flinch. 

“You,” Yujin said sharply, her voice tightening. “Did you see anyone near my locker?” 

“N-No!” the girl stammered, shaking her head. “I didn’t—” 

Yujin let go, exhaling sharply through her nose. “Then who did?” 

She turned to the others, scanning their faces. Some of the players looked genuinely confused; others tried to avoid eye contact. Whispers began again, low and uneasy. 

From the far side of the court, a loud voice cut through the murmurs. 

“Hey! Newbie!” 

The sound bounced off the walls. 

Yujin turned. 

Shin Ryujin stood by the free throw line, arms crossed, a towel slung over her shoulder, and a deep frown on her face. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, locked on Yujin. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Ryujin asked, her tone laced with irritation. “You trying to start trouble already?” 

Everyone went silent again. The authority in Ryujin’s voice carried weight — she wasn’t just another player. She was the captain. 

Yujin straightened, still tense but holding her ground. “Someone took my uniform,” she said. “From the locker room. It’s gone.” 

Ryujin’s gaze flicked over her, taking in the tryout clothes — the sweat wrinkled shirt the damp hair. She didn’t miss the way Yujin’s knuckles were still tight from earlier. 

Then a murmur reached her ear. One of the second-years, leaning slightly toward her, whispered, “Captain… Jang Wonyoung’s group. They’ve been picking on her since she transferred.”

Ryujin’s jaw ticked. Her eyes flicked toward the bleachers, then back to Yujin. She didn’t need to hear more. She recognizes Wonyoung’s handiwork when she saw it. 

And she’d be damned if that kind of crap happened here. 

Ryujin blew out a sharp breath, then barked—loud enough for her voice to crack across the gym.

“Ssibal, seriously? Who took the newbie’s uniform!?” 

The word ssibal echoed like a gunshot. Heads snapped up; the younger players froze. Even the sound of bouncing basketballs from the far side of the gym came to an abrupt stop. 

Ryujin’s voice boomed again. “You think this is funny? This is my court! You pull that kind of childish crap here, and I’ll personally kick your ass!”

No one spoke. The silence stretched.

Ryujin turned to Yujin, her tone softening just slightly. “You checked the lockers? All of them?” 

Yujin nodded stiffly. “Every single one.” 

Ryujin exhaled through her nose, scanning the room. Her glare landed briefly on Yuna — who instantly avoided her cousin’s eyes and then on Minji, who looked suspiciously neutral. Ryujin’s expression darkened. 

“Unbelievable,” she muttered under her breath. Then, louder. “Alright, listen up. No one leaves this gym until the uniform shows up. I don’t care who did it — if I find out you’re lying, you’re off the team.” 

Her voice was cold steel now, commanding and final. 

Yujin stood there, chest rising and falling, still simmering with anger but oddly grateful that someone was finally taking her side. For the first time since entering Janghwa, she didn’t feel like she was standing alone against the world. 

Ryujin turned back to her, eyes meeting Yujin’s directly. “You,” she said, nodding slightly. “Sit tight. I’ll handle this.” 

Yujin blinked, caught off guard by the authority in her tone and the faint edge of protectiveness behind it. 

***

The tension inside the gym had turned thick — so heavy it felt like no one dared to breathe. The bright fluorescent lights hummed faintly above, reflecting off the polished floor where the players now stood in a loose, uneasy formation. Their captain’s command still hung in the air like thunder that refused to fade. 

Ryujin stood at the center of it all, towel slung around her shoulders, arms crossed, her sharp eyes scanning every corner of the gym. “I said no one leaves until we find that uniform,” she repeated, voice calm but cutting through the silence. “If we have to sleep here, then fine — we’re sleeping here. I don’t care.” 

A few of the younger girls shifted nervously. One tried to whisper something to her friend, but Ryujin’s gaze snapped toward her and she immediately went quiet again. 

No one dared test her patience. 

Yujin stood near the benches, still in her damp tryout shirt, hair clinging to the side of her face, her expression a mix of disbelief and reluctant awe. Her heart was still beating fast from the confrontation earlier but now, it beat for a different reason. 

No one had ever stood up for her like this. Not since she got here. 

She wasn’t used to someone taking her side — especially someone like Ryujin, the captain, the upperclassman everyone respected, whose voice alone could silence a gym full of elite students. 

Yujin looked down at her sneakers, then back up at Ryujin. The older girl’s posture was confident, defiant — unmoved even as the minutes ticked by. She wasn’t bluffing. Ryujin meant it when she said no one would leave. 

The murmur of shuffling feet filled the air as a few players started checking under benches, behind gym bags, inside lockers again — even the mop closet in the corner. The squeak of rubber soles echoed faintly, but no one dared to complain. 

Near the back, Minji and Yuna stood side by side, quiet and unusually subdued. Yuna’s jaw was tight, her hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket. She could feel her cousin’s gaze on her from across the court, like a storm cloud waiting to break. 

Yujin noticed. 

Her eyes flicked toward the two of them, and for a moment her anger flared again. She was sure they knew where her uniform was. Their body language gave it away. But now, under Ryujin’s command, both girls looked… human. Humbled, even. 

Still, there was no satisfaction in it for Yujin - only growing impatience.

She rubbed her temples, trying to calm herself. 

Ryujin eventually turned to her, breaking the silence. “Hey, An,” she called out, her tone lower now, more conversational.

Yujin looked up. “Yes, captain?” 

Ryujin’s eyes softened just slightly. “You got any idea who did it?” 

The question hung heavy in the air. Everyone’s ears seemed to sharpen at once. Even the sound of the air conditioner felt loud against the quiet. 

Yujin hesitated, her lips parting but no words coming out immediately. Her gaze flicked again — first toward Minji, then Yuna. For a split second, Ryujin caught it. The direction of Yujin’s eyes told her everything she needed to know. 

But Yujin’s expression shifted, her resolve hardening. She shook her head slowly. “I… I do,” she said carefully. “But I don’t have proof. So I’d rather not name them.” 

Ryujin watched her closely, a slow smirk tugging at one corner of her mouth. 

“Smart,” Ryujin said finally, voice dropping to something almost approving. “You know how to pick your battles.” 

Then, just as quickly, her expression hardened again. 

But inside, deep down — Ryujin knew exactly who it was. She didn’t need Yujin to say the name. There were few people in this school brazen enough to pull a stunt like this, and only one who has history of getting away with it. 

Jang Wonyoung. 

That spoiled brat. 

Ryujin’s fingers drummed against her arm, her smirk fading into a faint scowl. Not in my court, she thought. Never again. 

The seconds stretched into minutes, and still, no one moved to leave. Ryujin stood like a statue, watching everyone with the same sharp focus she had during drills, every muscle in her posture screaming authority. 

Yujin, meanwhile, couldn’t help but steal glances at her — stunned. Ryujin didn’t even know her, yet she was the first person at Janghwa to take her side without hesitation. Maybe not for her exactly, but it didn’t matter. For Yujin, who’d grown used to swallowing every insult and fighting every quiet battle alone, this meant more than she could admit. 

***

The gym felt like it had been frozen in detention. Sighs echoed, and one of the first-year girls groaned dramatically that her mother was going to “kill her if she’s not home by dinner.” No one dared move though — Ryujin’s glare was enough to keep an entire team hostage. 

The once-lively tryout court now looked like a lineup of guilty suspects. Girls slouched on benches, sitting cross-legged on the floor, whispering to each other in frustration. 

“This is ridiculous,” one muttered.

“Whose idea even was this? So annoying,” another hissed back. 

Ryujin stood in the middle of the gym with her arms crossed, completely unfazed. She looked like a general inspecting troops after a mutiny. “No one’s leaving,” she reminded them, voice echoing across the walls. “Someone here thinks this is a comedy show. Guess what — it’s not.” 

After almost half an hour, the tension cracked when Yuna finally groaned, dragging herself toward her cousin. “Unnie,” she muttered lowly, “can we just — let me help check again.” Ryujin raised an eyebrow but didn’t stop her. Minji followed quietly as the three disappeared into the locker room. 

The gym filled with whispers again. 

“Are they in trouble?”

“I think Ryujin’s gonna suspend the whole team.”

“Maybe she’ll make us run laps till morning.” 

“It’s their group again.”

Then the sound of footsteps — Yuna, Minji, and Ryujin returned. Ryujin’s expression was sharp, and her eyes went straight toward the bleachers where two students sat — the same two who’d been hanging around earlier during tryouts, giggling behind their phones. 

Ryujin barked, “Hey! You two — yeah, you! Come here. The rest can leave.” 

The girls froze. One of them stuttered, “U-Us?”

“Do I look like I’m talking to the wall?” Ryujin snapped, pointing at the floor in front of her. “Here. Now.” 

The rest of the gym suddenly went silent. Even Yujin blinked, impressed. The two girls shuffled forward like toddlers caught stealing cookies. 

Ryujin leaned in just enough for her voice to drop lower— “You think hiding a newbie’s uniform is funny? In my court?” Then, with a sharp smack! — she flicked both of them on the back of the head. 

“Don’t ever pull this kind of cheap, middle-school crap here again. You wanna bully someone, go do it where I don’t have to look at your faces.” 

The two girls bowed frantically, mumbling apologies, almost tripping over each other as they ran off. 

Yujin, standing near the wall, blinked. Damn, she thought. Captain Ryujin doesn’t play. She had actually stood up against Wonyoung’s circle — well, by proxy anyway. 

Ryujin straightened, rubbed the back of her neck, and looked around again — only to see about a dozen heads still peeking from the door.

“WHAT are you all doing here?” she bellowed. “Did I say you could stay for the encore!?” 

A collective “No, captain!” echoed through the gym as sneakers scurried against the floor, a chaotic stampede out the door. One girl even dropped her water bottle and just kept running. 

Only four of them remained in the gym once the shouting and commotion had finally died down — Ryujin, Yujin, Yuna, Minji. The others had scattered off, murmuring gossip and theories, glancing back every few steps before finally vanishing into the hallways. 

Ryujin stood still for a while, her hands on her hips, watching the last few students disappear through the doors. Then, without turning her head, she said in a low voice that carried more weight than a yell ever could— 

“Cousin.” 

Yuna stiffened immediately. 

Ryujin walked over slowly, her sneakers echoing across the wooden floor. She leaned closer to Yuna. “Tell Wonyoung this — her nonsense doesn’t belong in my court. If she ever pulls something like this again, you’ll be the one running suicides until your legs give out. I don’t care if we’re family. Understood?” 

Yuna pouted, clearly uncomfortable under Ryujin’s glare. She tried to meet her cousin’s eyes but failed halfway, lowering her head instead. 

“Yeah, okay. I get it,” she muttered.

“Good.” Ryujin’s voice softened slightly, though the edge never left her expression. “Yuna. Don’t waste your time trying to impress your friend.” 

Yuna just nodded, tugged at the strap of her gym bag, and turned to Minji. Minji, who had been quietly observing from the sidelines, gave Yuna a look. She then waved at Ryujin and Yujin politely, saying, “We’ll get going first, Captain.” 

Ryujin just gave a curt nod. “Go.” 

Now it was just Ryujin and Yujin standing in the empty court.

Ryujin finally turned to Yujin. “Your uniform,” she said, her voice softer now, “it’s in the coach’s room. Under the table. I found it when I checked earlier.” 

Yujin blinked in surprise. “You found it?” for some reason, Yujin didn’t believe her, maybe it was just Ryujin was still covering for her cousin.

Ryujin simply nodded toward the hallway, wordlessly telling her to follow. 

When they reached the coach’s office, Ryujin unlocked the door with a key she kept on a simple lanyard. True enough, under the wooden desk sat a neatly folded uniform. 

Yujin crouched to pick it up carefully, holding it close as if afraid it might disappear again. “Thank you,” she said quietly, glancing at Ryujin. 

Ryujin crossed her arms and tilted her head slightly. “You’re not gonna change back?” 

Yujin shook her head, a tired sigh leaving her lips. “I’ll just shower again when I get home. I need to wash this tonight anyway, or I’ll have nothing to wear tomorrow.” 

Ryujin raised a brow. “You don’t have a spare?” 

Yujin gave a small, sheepish laugh and shook her head again. “Not yet. I’m saving up for it, but… it’s not exactly top priority.” 

Ryujin studied her quietly, eyes softening just a bit. There was something about the way Yujin spoke — practical, grounded, like she’d long accepted things most students here never had to think about. 

After a beat, Ryujin said, “You live far?” 

“Not really. I live in the apartment down the street,” Yujin answered. 

Ryujin clicked her tongue. “My driver’s still outside. Come on. I’ll drop you off so you can wash that thing before midnight.” 

Yujin’s eyes widened slightly. “Oh, no, it’s fine—” 

But Ryujin was already heading toward the exit, waving her off. “Don’t argue, rookie. Just get in.” 

Yujin, still clutching her folded uniform, finally nodded and gave a polite bow. “Thank you, Captain.” 

Ryujin smirked faintly. “You can call me Ryujin outside the court.” 

Yujin blinked, a little thrown off, but followed her out anyway. 

Outside, the evening had settled. Parked just outside the gym was a black car, Ryujin’s family driver waiting patiently beside it. The contrast was striking: Ryujin, the composed and confident upperclassman from money, and Yujin, the scrappy new scholar clutching her single uniform. 

The driver opened the door, and Ryujin gestured for Yujin to get in first. Yujin hesitated just a moment, murmuring another quiet thank you before slipping inside. 

Ryujin got in after her, giving the driver the address Yujin stammered out. 

The car rolled smoothly out of the Janghwa campus gates. The silence inside wasn’t uncomfortable — just quiet enough for both girls to settle after the chaos in the gym. Yujin sat properly, her uniform folded neatly on her lap.

Ryujin leaned back in her seat, watching the city glide by for a moment before turning her head slightly toward Yujin. 

“So,” she began, voice steady but edged with curiosity, “where are you from, anyway? I didn’t see you during the first-day assembly.” 

Yujin blinked, caught off guard by the question. “I was there, actually,” she said with a small smile. “I even got called up for the scholarship award ceremony.” 

Ryujin snapped her fingers in realization, grinning. “Ah, right. I skipped that. First days are boring as hell. Too many speeches.” 

That made Yujin laugh a little. “Yeah, they were kind of long.” 

Ryujin tilted her head, studying the younger girl. “So you’re the scholarship student, huh? The one who got a perfect entrance exam score?” 

Yujin nodded, sheepishly. “Yeah. I guess that’s me.” 

“Perfect score,” Ryujin whistled low under her breath. “That’s impressive. And now you just casually nailed the top score in class and made varsity. You’re setting a record, rookie.” 

Yujin chuckled lightly, rubbing her hands together. “I didn’t mean to stand out. I just… need to keep my scholarship.” 

There was a flicker in Ryujin’s eyes — not pity, but understanding. “That’s fair. Still, standing out’s not a bad thing.” 

Yujin sighed softly. “It is when Wonyoung decides she doesn’t like it.” 

Ryujin’s brow furrowed. “What’s she been doing?” 

Yujin hesitated for a second, unsure if she should even say it aloud. But Ryujin’s tone — calm and firm made her feel like it was okay to be honest. 

“Just the usual rich girl stuff,” Yujin muttered. “Pranks. Gossip. Making me look stupid in front of people. I thought it’d stop after the first week, but it just keeps getting worse.” 

Ryujin clicked her tongue, muttering a sharp, “Tch.” Her gaze hardened, eyes back on the road. “That brat’s been a headache since day one. Just because her dad owns the school. She is so different from her dad.”

Yujin frowned. “You know about her?” 

“Unfortunately.” Ryujin’s lips curled in a smirk, humorless. “I’ve had to break up fights she started in the halls. She doesn’t like being told no.” 

Then, after a pause, Ryujin added dryly, “And she’s been dragging my cousin into her messes lately.” 

Yujin blinked. “Yuna?” 

“Yuna,” Ryujin said, sighing through her nose. “She’s a good kid. And still a baby, honestly. Gets pulled into Wonyoung’s orbit. I told her already — one more stupid prank in my court, and she’s running suicides until she pukes.” 

Yujin stared, then laughed under her breath. “You’re serious?” 

Ryujin side-eyed her with a crooked grin. “Dead serious. I don’t care whose money’s behind it — the gym isn’t a playground for spoiled kids.” 

Yujin’s laughter faded into a thoughtful silence. Then she asked quietly, “What about Wonyoung’s dad? You said they are different.” 

Ryujin actually laughed softly, shaking her head. “Nope. Mr. Jang? He’s the nicest man alive. Comes to school events all polite and smiling, always thanking the staff. You’d think he was a teacher. I don’t get how someone like him ended up raising Wonyoung.” 

Yujin smiled faintly. “Maybe money skips a generation.” 

That made Ryujin laugh outright this time, her voice warm. “You’re not wrong.” 

The car slowed as they entered a narrower street, apartment blocks coming into view. Yujin recognized the familiar corner store and sat up straighter. 

“This is me,” she said softly. 

Ryujin looked through the window, scanning the area. “You live alone here?” 

“Yeah. With a roommate, my friend — she’s a scholarship student too.” 

Ryujin nodded slowly, a glint of respect in her eyes. “That’s tough. You’re tougher than you look.” 

Yujin smiled a little. “I get that a lot.” 

As the car came to a stop, Yujin gathered her things, clutching her uniform to her chest. She turned to Ryujin and bowed slightly. “Thank you for the ride, Captain.” 

Ryujin waved a hand dismissively, lips quirking. “Sure, sure.” 

Yujin laughed softly, nodding. 

Then Ryujin’s expression turned serious again. “Listen, Yujin — when you’re in my gym, you’re safe. No one pulls crap like today again. I’ll make sure of that.” 

Yujin froze, startled by the sincerity behind her words. For a moment, she didn’t know what to say — only smiled, small but full of gratitude. “Thank you, Captain.” 

Ryujin smirked. “See you at practice, rookie. And wash that uniform — you’re wearing team colors now.” 

Yujin stepped out, bowed once more, and headed into the building. Ryujin waited until she saw the lights flicker on inside before the car rolled away, the night swallowing it whole. 

Chapter Text

The familiar group had already gathered near the center: Jang Wonyoung sitting by the window, effortlessly elegant even as she scrolled through her phone; Minji flipping through her notes with mechanical precision; Dani leaning back in her chair, legs crossed, snickering at some joke from Yuna; and Winter, lazily twirling her pen, head resting against her palm. 

Then the classroom door slid open — and in came Ningning. 

Her arrival alone shifted the atmosphere. Her hair shimmered under the light, her glossy bag swinging casually from her shoulder, and finally felt the need to attend school.

“Finally decided to show up?” Winter teased, voice lilting with amusement. 

Ningning stretched, yawning dramatically as she took her seat beside Winter. “Ugh. I got bored,” she muttered, sliding her sunglasses onto her desk. “And school seem interesting these days.”

Her eyes wandered lazily and then caught something near the back of the room. 

There, seated by the window, was Yujin. The scholarship girl. Her posture was straight, her expression focused, quietly reading through her notes as if the whispers around her didn’t exist. Her uniform was perfectly clean but clearly rewashed too many times; her bag, though neatly patched, stood out in this sea of luxury brands. 

Ningning tilted her head, a glint of curiosity or perhaps amusement flickering in her eyes. 

She leaned closer to Wonyoung, lowering her voice just enough to make the others lean in. “So this is the girl?” she asked, lips curving in a playful smirk. “The one that’s been stressing you out?” 

Wonyoung didn’t even look up from her phone. She rolled her eyes and exhaled through her nose, feigning indifference. “I’m not stressed, Ning. Don’t be ridiculous.” 

Ningning chuckled softly, tapping her nails on the desk. “Mm, sure,” she hummed. “You just talk about her a lot for someone who’s not stressed.” 

That earned her a sharp glance from Wonyoung, but Ningning only smirked wider, turning her gaze back to Yujin. “She has an aura,” Ningning said suddenly, tilting her head as if she was studying art. 

The group exchanged looks. 

“Aura?” Dani echoed, eyebrows raised. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“I’m not sure yet,” Ningning said, lips curling into a mischievous smile. “But it’s… familiar. Can’t quite place it.” 

Wonyoung finally looked up, crossing one leg over the other, her tone dripping with mockery. “Please. That’s probably just your first time seeing someone from the countryside.” 

The others snickered. 

Wonyoung smirked faintly, eyes still on Yujin. “That aura you’re talking about,” she said dryly, “is called poor.” 

The group erupted in laughter and yet, Ningning didn’t laugh this time. She just kept staring at Yujin, that same playful but calculating look in her eyes, as if she was already thinking of something to do about this new, curious toy that had somehow wandered into their world. 

***

Days slipped by, and Janghwa Girls’ High settled into its glittering rhythm — silk ribbons, polished shoes, and gossips that never quite stopped.

For Yujin, though, every morning felt like stepping into a battlefield. 

The moment she entered the classroom, she could sense it — the eyes, the quiet signals passed between desks, the subtle shifting of chairs. They’d try to gang up on her at every chance: spilled juice, switched notebooks, stolen pens, fake “accidents” in the hallway. But Yujin wasn’t the type to crumble. She learned to move fast — to grab her bag before someone could toss it, to dodge “accidental” elbows, to slip away before the next trap could spring. After class, she’d sprint straight for the gate, heart pounding, just to stay one step ahead of the chaos. 

Yet even with all that, she didn’t falter where it mattered most.

Every quiz returned with perfect marks. Every group report they tried to sabotage, she rebuilt single-handedly. Slowly, the teachers began to notice. 

“Excellent work, An Yujin,” one of them said during Literature, holding her paper up in front of the class. “This is a standard example of thorough analysis. I expect everyone to read this.” 

The classroom murmured. Heads turned — not toward the usual row seat of Jang Wonyoung, but toward the back, where the scholarship girl sat quietly with her pencil poised. 

Wonyoung’s jaw clenched, her lips pressed into a perfect, frozen smile. She didn’t look, but everyone could feel the tension ripple through her.

And Ningning — lounging lazily beside Winter leaned her chin on her hand, watching Yujin for a few seconds too long. 

The more days passed, the more the pattern repeated. In every subject — Math, Science, even English — Yujin’s name was called first. She ranked higher, answered faster, stayed calmer. It didn’t matter how many whispers followed her down the hall; she kept walking, head high, uniform always clean no matter how many times it had been dirtied. 

It wasn’t long before the teachers stopped comparing the two top students — they just knew. And the students began to whisper too: 

“She’s the new number one.”

“Even beat Jang Wonyoung again?”

“She’s… actually kind of cool.” 

Each murmur cut a little deeper into Wonyoung’s pride. Ningning could feel it, watching from the sidelines with amused eyes. The irritation in her best friend was growing and so was her own fascination. 

Because for Ningning, it wasn’t just about scores.

There was something strange about this girl from the countryside — something stubborn, bright, untamed. And when Ningning was bored which she almost always was, something like that was far too tempting to ignore. 

***

One late afternoon, the corridors of Janghwa Girls’ High were nearly empty — most clubs had already started their activities.

Yujin stood just outside the door of the music club, her hands shoved deep in her pockets, eyes scanning the corridor like a watchful guard. Every few seconds, she glanced down the hallway, alert for any sign of Wonyoung’s followers — the ones who seemed to have nothing better to do than make her and Hanni’s lives miserable. 

Inside the clubroom, faint music drifted out — the soft hum of a guitar, a few notes on the piano, and Hanni’s familiar voice singing in warm, effortless tones. It made Yujin’s chest tighten, just a little. She didn’t want to ruin this for her, didn’t want the shadow of their troubles to spill into one of the few places Hanni actually smiled. 

She adjusted her blazer, pretending to scroll through her phone, but she wasn’t fooling anyone. 

The door creaked open. 

“Hey,” came a voice. It was Yunjin, one of the upperclassmen, a music sheet still in hand. “What are you doing out here? You look like a bodyguard.” 

Yujin blinked, startled. “Ah, sorry… I didn’t want to disturb anyone inside.” 

Yunjin raised an eyebrow. “You’re more likely to get in trouble out here than inside. Come in before someone decides finds you.”

Before Yujin could protest, Yunjin had already opened the door wider. Inside, the room was warm and cluttered in a comforting way — music stands stacked in a corner, a small keyboard against the wall, and posters of past school recitals tacked unevenly above the whiteboard. 

 Hanni looked up mid-song, her face brightening instantly when she saw Yujin. “Yujin! You came.” 

Yujin stepped in awkwardly, scratching her neck. “Yeah… just, uh, checking if your safe.” 

Liz glanced toward the window and nodded. “It’s safer with the door locked anyway.” She walked over, turned the latch, and gave a satisfied hum. 

The room went quiet for a beat. Rei, who was leaning on the piano, blinked and let out a tiny laugh. “Checking if she’s safe? That’s… kind of sweet.” 

Even Yunjin — who had been tidying up sheet music paused and raised a brow, a teasing grin tugging at her lips. “Wow, guarding the music club now? How romantic.”

Hanni’s cheeks flushed a soft pink. She ducked her head quickly, pretending to fix her mic stand, but her heart was pounding too fast. “I-I mean, she’s just… being careful,” she mumbled. 

 Yujin glanced away, embarrassed. “It’s nothing like that. I just… didn’t want anyone messing with the club. That’s all.” 

Rei smiled at Yujin with quiet approval. “Because you want Hanni to be safe.”

Yujin gave a sheepish laugh. “Can’t help it. I just don’t want to bring trouble here. People already talk enough because of me.” 

Rei shook her head gently. “You don’t have to apologize for existing, Yujin. You’re fine.” 

Yunjin leaned against a table, arms crossed. “How are you two holding up?” she asked. “I heard Wonyoung and her group have been… busy.” 

Yujin hesitated before answering. “We’re holding out,” she said simply. “It’s nothing new anymore.” 

Hanni looked down, fiddling with the edge of her skirt, while Liz’s brow furrowed slightly. “Still… it’s kind of amazing you can stand up to her like that,” Liz said. “Most students wouldn’t even dare talk back, let alone fight back.” 

Yujin shrugged. “I know we’re poor. It’s just… I don’t like being treated like I’m less than human.” 

For a moment, no one spoke. Then Rei smiled softly. “Of course. Your status in life doesn’t define who you are.”

Yunjin gave a small grin. “And you made it into basketball varsity too, right? That’s impressive.”  

 Yujin flushed slightly, rubbing the back of her neck. “Ah, yeah… I guess so.”

“Just ‘so’?!” Liz laughed. “You say that like it’s nothing. It’s a big deal, Yujin.”

Yujin ducked her head, a little embarrassed. Hanni nudged her shoulder proudly. 

Then, as the laughter faded, Hanni spoke — hesitant, curious. “Can I ask something?” 

Everyone turned to her. 

“If Wonyoung’s just a first year like us,” she said slowly, “why is everyone so afraid of her?” 

That question made the room fall silent. 

Yunjin exhaled through her nose, walked over to the center of the room, and gestured for them to sit down. “Alright,” she said finally. “You two should probably know about the group that’s been messing with you.”

Rei and Liz exchanged glances, then joined her. The four of them — Yujin, Hanni, Rei, and Liz sat in a small circle on the wooden floor, while Yunjin remained leaning against the table, arms crossed.

“Alright,” she began, tone laced with the dramatic flair of someone about to deliver gossip that everyone wanted to hear. “You two are new here, so I guess it’s time you get the unofficial orientation — the Janghwa royal court.” 

Rei chuckled. “Oh no, she’s doing the monologue again.” 

“Let her cook,” Liz murmured, smiling faintly. 

Yunjin pointed her finger in mock seriousness. “Let me cook indeed.” She looked between Yujin and Hanni, lowering her voice as though sharing state secrets. “First off, they’ve all been together since Janghwa Middle. That’s why it feels like they run the place. They grew up marinating in money and each other’s drama.” 

She raised a hand, counting off with her fingers. “Let’s start with Winter. Don’t let her name fool you — she’s literally ice-cold. Her family’s a military legacy, grandfather’s a general, dad’s a general, brother’s a soldier, mom probably folds laundry in formation. She looks tiny and adorable, right? Like she should be doing skincare ads or something. But one look from her and you’ll forget how to breathe.” 

Rei snorted. “She does have a nice voice, though.” 

Yunjin nodded, almost approving. “Yeah. Her voice? Angelic. Her glare? Demonic. Total duality.” 

Hanni giggled behind her hand. 

“Next up, Dani.” Yunjin’s tone softened. “Half Korean, half Australian, totally sunshine. Dani’s the type who laughs at her own jokes before she finishes them. Super girly, but in a clumsy way. She’s harmless — the group’s soft spot, I think. Her girlfriend, Minji — you’ve probably seen them holding hands and being sweet with each other?” 

Hanni perked up. “Oh! That explains it. I thought they were just… really close.” 

“Close is an understatement,” Liz murmured, smirking. 

Yunjin chuckled. “Minji’s one of the few who can keep Dani grounded. She’s actually… mature, I guess. Composed. But her loyalty?” She pressed a hand over her heart dramatically. “Always to the group — especially Wonyoung. They’re sisters, by the way.” 

Yujin blinked. “Wonyoung and Minji? They have different last name.”

“Step-sisters.” Yunjin exhaled sharply. “Wonyoung’s parents are divorced then married Minji’s mother. Complicated family tree, rich people edition.” 

She flipped her hair and continued. “Then there’s Yuna. Think of her as the ‘cool girl’ archetype — the sporty one who somehow still manages to look like she walked out of a beauty commercial after practice. Plays sports, paints, dabbles in everything. Honestly, she’s kinda okay when she’s alone, but the second she’s around Wonyoung or the others, she switches back into that high-and-mighty mode.” 

Liz nodded. “It’s like she has two versions of herself.” 

“Exactly!” Yunjin pointed. “She’s… nice enough, but survival instincts kick in when you’re part of that circle.” 

Then, Yunjin’s lips curved into a wry smile. “And then we have Ningning.” 

Even the way she said the name had weight, a caution.

“She hasn’t shown up yet, right? Typical. That girl treats school like a hobby. She’s Chinese, her mom used to be an idol in China back in the day. Has a good voice too. And she’s loaded. Like, private jet to Shanghai loaded.” 

Hanni’s eyes widened. “Wow.” 

Yunjin smirked. “Oh, it gets better. Ningning’s probably the most mischievous of them all. If there’s chaos, she’s involved. Wonyoung and Ningning together?” She whistled low. “That’s a nightmare combo. They don’t even need to speak to plan something, they just look at each other and someone’s already crying.” 

Rei sighed. “Remember last semester’s field trip? Ningning ‘accidentally’ dropped a teacher’s phone into the lake and blamed a seagull.” 

Liz chuckled. “And Wonyoung defended her like she was testifying in court.” 

Yunjin laughed softly but then exhaled, the humor fading. She leaned forward on her knees, her voice dropping. “They have money, looks, power and they know it. That’s the dangerous part.” 

Her gaze flicked toward Yujin. “Especially Wonyoung.” 

Yujin felt her pulse quicken. She didn’t even know why. Something in Yunjin’s tone — the way her eyes hardened, almost pitying made her uneasy. 

Yunjin took a deep breath, tucking her long hair behind her ear. “Wonyoung’s not just rich, Yujin. Her father owns this school. Literally. Every teacher here? They’d rather bite their tongue than cross her. You mess with Wonyoung, you’re messing with the system.” 

Hanni’s lips parted slightly. “So that’s why everyone’s scared of her…” 

“Yes.” Yunjin leaned back again, weary but calm. “She doesn’t need to shout to control people. Just one glare, one word and everyone falls in line. And she’s used to that. Always gets what she wants.” 

Yunjin studied her, then smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “If you plan to stay at Janghwa, Yujin… just be careful. Wonyoung doesn’t like competition.” 

The tension in the room lingered, heavy. Hanni reached out and gently brushed Yujin’s sleeve.

“Now this one’s my favorite part — the royal lineage of Miss Jang Wonyoung.” 

Yujin snorted. “Royal lineage?” 

“So,” Yunjin began, tapping her chin. “Wonyoung’s mom was a former Miss Korea. Ha Jae-kyung. Like, the Miss Korea. Late 90s — one of those glamorous, red-carpet, all-eyes-on-her types. I saw a picture once during a school exhibit thing. And in person during the parents meet. I swear to god, she was stunning. Wonyoung got all her genes fair and square.” 

"She gets a lot of modeling offers," Rei added.

“Right?” Yunjin continued, clearly enjoying her own storytelling. “Anyway, her dad — Jang Do-jun is old money. Well, technically new-old money. His father, Jang Ji-ho, was the one who built the Janghwa Group empire. Self-made, from the ground up. Rumor says he started as a rice merchant, then boom — factories, hotels, schools, everything. The whole shebang.” 

Hanni crossed her arms, intrigued. “That actually explains a lot.” 

Yunjin laughed. “Oh, it gets better. So Do-jun, the heir, meets Miss Korea, falls head over heels — love at first sight, the whole cliché. They get married, everyone calls it the ‘union of beauty and power.’ The media, magazine covers, all that glittery crap. Then, a few years later, ta-da — baby Wonyoung enters the world. The heiress baby of the perfect couple.” 

Rei grinned. “So far, not too crazy.” 

“Then came the rumors.” Yunjin said, leaning back dramatically. 

“Rumors?” Hanni echoed. 

Yunjin nodded solemnly, as if preparing to deliver the ultimate gossip. “They say Wonyoung’s mom went a little… off the rails after the marriage. Some say she became paranoid — thought everyone was jealous of her beauty and her husband. Others say she started screaming at maids, locking herself in her room, throwing vases at the press. There was even a story that she stormed into Do-jun’s company one day, accusing him of cheating in front of the board.” 

Liz blinked. “Whoa.” 

Yunjin shrugged with exaggerated flair. “Well, no one knows what’s true, right? It’s all whispers. But what is true is that the two divorced when Wonyoung was still a kid. Her mother disappeared from the public eye, and a few years later — boom — Do-jun marries again. This time to Minji’s mom.” 

“Minji’s mom was divorced too?” Hanni asked, brows raising. 

“Yup.” Yunjin made a heart shape with her fingers. “Two broken homes, one blended family. Very chaebol soap opera.” 

Hanni’s eyes were wide. “Wait, so when people said Wonyoung’s mom was crazy, did they mean, like… mental-hospital crazy?” 

Yunjin burst into laughter. “Who knows? Maybe crazy-crazy. Maybe just ‘Wonyoung’ crazy. Runs in the bloodline, maybe.” 

Rei and Liz both tried to suppress their giggles, while Hanni smacked Yunjin’s arm lightly. “Unnie!” 

Yunjin waved her hand dismissively, still grinning. “Hey, I’m just saying what everyone else says. But yeah, that’s the story of our school’s resident princess. Beauty, money, drama, and chaos. The full K-drama package.” 

Yujin sat quietly for a moment, her expression unreadable. It was hard to imagine Wonyoung as a child — to picture her as someone’s daughter and innocent, part of a family like that. It didn’t make her actions forgivable, but Yujin wondered what kind of home life could make a girl like that. 

And across the small music room, Hanni was just sitting there, thinking, So… crazy runs in the family, huh? and trying not to laugh. 

***

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime.

Wonyoung stepped out into the penthouse. Her heels clicked against the marble — sharp, even beats echoing through the quiet hallway.

“Welcome home, Miss,” said Yuri, appearing from the kitchen. Her voice carried warmth that no amount of luxury could replace. She’d been there since Wonyoung was a baby, she was more like family than staff. 

Wonyoung smiled, letting Yuri take her coat. “Thanks. You didn’t have to wait up.” 

“I will always wait up for you,” Yuri said softly, brushing invisible lint off the hem of the girl’s sleeve. “You must be tired. Did you have dinner already?” 

“Yeah.” Wonyoung’s tone turned quieter. “With Dad. And… them.” 

Yuri’s expression flickered — understanding that they should be careful about mentioning their names. “I see.” 

 Wonyoung nodded, setting her small purse on the console table by the mirror. “He asked again about school, about me coming over for the weekend, when I’m going to sleep there.” She smiled faintly, tiredly. “You know how he gets.” 

Yuri hummed. “Your father misses you.” 

“I know,” Wonyoung murmured. “I just… can’t always say yes.” 

She didn’t need to explain why. 

Wonyoung turned toward the living area, her reflection flashing briefly across the polished surfaces — the perfect daughter, neat uniform replaced by a designer coat, posture flawless, expression poised. But there was something fragile in her eyes. 

Then she saw her mother.

Jae-kyung sat on the couch, back perfectly straight, a half-empty glass of red wine balanced delicately between her fingers. 

Wonyoung froze mid-step. 

Her mother didn’t look up, but her voice, soft and dangerous, floated through the room. “Dinner outside again?” 

Wonyoung swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. “I was just—” 

Her eyes flicked to the wine bottle on the table. It was already half gone. 

Jae-kyung smiled without warmth. “Dinner with your father, I presume?” 

Wonyoung didn’t answer right away. She opened her mouth — then shut it again. The silence stretched thin between them, sharp as glass. 

“Mm,” Jae-kyung murmured, lifting her glass to her lips. “Of course.” 

Wonyoung froze, holding her breath. She’d learned this rhythm since childhood, the slow drawl before the storm. The kind of silence that could mean nothing, or everything. 

Yuri lingered behind her, hands folded in front of her apron, the faintest tension in her shoulders. She didn’t move, didn’t speak. She was waiting too — both of them were. Waiting to see which version of Miss Jae-kyung tonight would bring. 

For a second, Wonyoung thought it might be fine. Jae-kyung’s eyes stayed distant, her lips soft. The glass in her hand tilted slightly as she swirled what remained of the wine.

Then — 

Crash! 

The sound tore through the room. 

The glass hit the wall, shattering in an explosion of red and crystal. Wine splattered across the carpet like blood, streaking down the marble with slow, bleeding trails. 

“Mom—” Wonyoung gasped, flinching. Her shoulders jerked back, instinctively drawing away. 

Jae-kyung was already on her feet. Her perfect posture gone. Her breathing shallow, sharp. The glint in her eyes — that thin, trembling edge between heartbreak and hysteria began to show. 

“You had dinner with them again,” Jae-kyung’s voice rose, raw and uneven. “Don’t lie to me, Wonyoung. I can smell his cologne on you.” 

“Mom, please—” 

“Why?” Jae-kyung snapped, her words cutting through the quiet like glass splinters. “Why would you go to them? To her?” 

Wonyoung’s lips parted, but the words wouldn’t come. 

Jae-kyung staggered a step closer, heels scraping the floor, tears beginning to mix with her anger. “Is that what this is now? You think she’s your mother? Her?” 

“Mom, she’s not—” 

“She’s not?” Jae-kyung let out a bitter laugh, trembling as she reached for the vase on the console. “Then why do you go when she calls? Why do you need to go to them!?”

Before Yuri could stop her — 

Crash! 

The vase shattered against the floor. Porcelain shards scattered across the carpet. Wonyoung’s reflection in the glass window quivered with every trembling breath she took. 

“Mom, stop — please—”  

“Why, Wonyoung?!” Jae-kyung’s voice cracked open, desperate, wounded. “Why are you leaving me, too? Do you think they love you more? That she can love you like I do?!” 

Wonyoung stood frozen — not out of fear, but out of heartbreak. Watching her mother crumble again, watching the pieces fall apart again and again.

Yuri stepped forward finally, laying a steadying hand on Wonyoung’s shoulder. Her touch was firm, protective — the only warmth in a room gone cold. 

“Miss Jae-kyung,” Yuri whispered softly, though her voice carried the weight of long, weary experience. “Please… let’s sit down, okay?” 

Jae-kyung didn’t hear her. Or maybe she did but the words couldn’t reach through the noise in her head. She just stood there, trembling, staring at her daughter as if she were someone else. 

Wonyoung, motionless beneath the chandelier’s flickering light, could only whisper, “Mom… I didn’t choose them. I just had dinner.” 

But Jae-kyung’s tears were already falling — hot, confused, and endless. 

“Why?” Jae-kyung’s voice trembled, equal parts fury and heartbreak. 

Her tone rose and fell unevenly, wild and unrestrained — like a storm that couldn’t decide where to strike. Wonyoung froze near the edge of the living room, her breath caught in her throat. She’d learned long ago to read the signs — the trembling hands, the shallow breaths, the faint quiver in her mother’s smile right before everything snapped. 

“Mom… I—” Wonyoung began softly, but Jae-kyung’s next words cut through the air. 

“You think she’s your mother now?” she spat, eyes glistening red. “That woman? Kim Ga-hyun? You think you can just sit at their table and pretend I never existed?” 

She threw another glass — it hit the wall, shards sliding down like raindrops. Yuri, standing near the kitchen archway, flinched but didn’t move. She’d seen this before, too many times. 

“Mom, please…” Wonyoung tried again, stepping closer, her heels clicking cautiously across the marble. “It wasn’t like that. Dad just—” 

“Don’t call him that!” Jae-kyung’s scream tore through the silence, followed by another crash — a photo frame this time, splintering on the floor. “He took everything from me, from us! And you still choose him! You want to befriend his step-daughter! She’s gonna take everything from you!” 

Her voice broke. Wonyoung could see the veins standing out in her mother’s neck, the way her manicured hands shook as they reached for another object to throw. The room was chaos, glittering glass, spilled wine, broken perfection. 

Then a vase — large, heavy, white porcelain slipped from Jae-kyung’s hands and shattered near her feet. A sharp sting cut across Wonyoung’s forearm, a line of blood beaded at her pale skin. 

Still, she moved forward. 

“Mom, stop,” Wonyoung said, her voice small, shaking but steady enough to cross the space between them. She caught her mother’s wrist mid-swing, holding it gently, not to restrain but to stop her from hurting herself again. 

Jae-kyung froze. Her chest heaved. Her lip trembled. And then, suddenly, her entire frame sagged, her fury collapsing into sobs that came from somewhere deep, hollow, and ancient. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, words slurred with tears. “I didn’t mean to, I just… I don’t want to lose you, baby. You’re all I have. Your dad left me. Everyone always leaves me.” 

Wonyoung’s heart twisted. She gathered her mother in her arms, ignoring the sting on her arm as she held her tightly. 

“I’m here, Mom,” she whispered. “I’m not leaving.” 

Jae-kyung’s fingers dug into the fabric of her daughter’s blouse, clutching like a child afraid of the dark. “Promise me,” she said, voice cracking, desperate. “Promise you won’t leave me, Wonyoung.” 

“I promise,” Wonyoung murmured.

From the doorway, Yuri stood quietly, watching the two of them — the child she’d raised and the woman who’d never quite learned how to love properly before quietly stepping back, as if giving the house permission to break again in silence. She’d seen this scene replay too many times to count — the rage, the tears, the apologies that never healed anything. 

***

The penthouse had gone silent except for the soft scrape of a broom across marble. The chaos had burned itself out, leaving only the smell of wine, the shimmer of broken glass, and the ache that always followed nights like this. 

Yuri moved methodically, sweeping up the fragments of shattered vases and stemware. She’d done this too many times to count. Wonyoung reappeared from the hallway, her silk blouse wrinkled, the faintest line of red still visible on her forearm. 

“She’s asleep?” Yuri asked gently without looking up. 

Wonyoung nodded, setting her hair behind one ear. “Yeah. I tucked her in. She took her medicine.” 

Yuri exhaled a long breath of relief, muttering a quiet thank God. She reached down for another shard, but Wonyoung knelt beside her before she could. 

“I’ll help,” Wonyoung said. 

“Miss, no, you shouldn’t—” Yuri began, but Wonyoung ignored her, crouching low to pick up a white fragment of porcelain. It gleamed under the chandelier like a splinter of moonlight. 

Yuri paused, watching the girl’s careful hands. “You might cut yourself again.” 

“It’s fine,” Wonyoung murmured, setting the piece gently in the dustpan. “I’ve had worse.” 

For a moment, neither spoke. The living room was a battlefield made to look elegant again.

When the last bits of glass were gone, Yuri finally broke the quiet. “You’re just a child, Miss Wonyoung,” she said softly, her voice trembling with the weight of years. “It’s all right if you go to your father sometimes. You don’t have to feel guilty for it.” 

Wonyoung froze, eyes flicking toward her old nanny. “You know I can’t do that all the time,” she said. “It would just… make her worse.” 

Yuri pressed her lips together, nodding. “Maybe. But you deserve peace too.” 

Wonyoung didn’t respond right away. She sank onto the couch, resting her elbows on her knees, staring at the dark stain on the carpet where the wine had spilled. “It’s hard to please her,” she said finally. “No matter what I do, it’s never enough.” 

Yuri smiled faintly — a sad, maternal smile and brushed a stray lock of Wonyoung’s hair back behind her ear, the same way she had when Wonyoung was a child. 

“I’m just glad you’re here, Yuri,” Wonyoung added, her voice so soft it almost disappeared into the room. 

Yuri’s throat tightened. “Always, Miss Wonyoung. Always.” 

The city lights flickered across the glass walls, casting shadows over the two of them — the woman who kept the house from collapsing, and the girl who learned to look perfect in its ruins. 

Chapter Text

The late morning sun hung over the school field. The girls of Class 1-A ran laps around the track, hair tied back, sneakers thudding rhythmically against the dirt. Among them, Yujin stood out because she couldn’t help it. Her strides were longer, cleaner, more fluid. Her breathing stayed even as others began to slow. When she leapt for the rope during the relay or caught the ball during a scrimmage, it was as if her body knew exactly what to do before she even thought about it. 

Her classmates started whispering again — some impressed, some curious, some envious.

“Is she from the track club?”

“No, she’s that scholarship girl.”

“Still, look at her go…” 

Yujin didn’t notice. She was focused, a faint glimmer of joy breaking through the usual restraint she wore in class. It was one of the few moments she could breathe freely at Janghwa. Sweat clung to her temples, her uniform shirt sticking slightly to her back, but she didn’t seem to mind. 

From the bleachers. Ryujin, the senior known across the school — the golden jock, captain of the girls’ basketball team had been watching. She leaned lazily against the fence, her hair tied up in a messy ponytail. When Yujin crossed the finish line, Ryujin’s lips curved into a small, approving smile. Their eyes met for a second across the distance. 

Then Ryujin gave her a short nod. 

It was nothing more than that, but it rippled across the field. 

A chorus of gasps and giggles followed almost immediately.

“Did Ryujin just—?”

“Oh my god, she looked at Yujin!”

“Unbelievable, she never looks at anyone!” 

Yujin blinked, slightly puzzled, her chest still rising and falling from the run. She wasn’t sure what that meant, but she nodded back politely before turning to grab her water bottle. 

On the other side of the bleachers, Wonyoung sat cross-legged in her pristine PE uniform, a visor shading her face from the sun. She rolled her eyes at the commotion, tapping her perfectly manicured nails against her knee. “You’d think someone cured cancer,” she muttered under her breath. 

Beside her, Ningning leaned back on her elbows, a slow, amused smile curving her lips. “She’s pretty good, though,” she said casually, watching Yujin from afar. “Doesn’t even look tired.” 

Wonyoung didn’t answer, but her gaze flickered briefly toward the field again — just for a moment. Yujin was laughing softly with another girl, brushing her bangs aside, sunlight touching her cheekbones. 

She looked away first. 

Ningning noticed. And her grin only deepened. 

Beside Wonyoung, Winter twirled her ponytail lazily while Ningning leaned forward, chin on her hand, eyes tracking Yujin’s figure cutting across the court. 

Yujin was sprinting again. When the whistle blew, she stopped with a small hop, breathing steady. It was effortless, almost annoyingly so. 

Then, Ningning suddenly sat up straight, her lips parting like she’d just uncovered some universal truth. “Aha!” 

Winter turned her head lazily. “What?” 

“That’s it,” Ningning said, pointing a manicured finger toward the field. “I finally figured out who she reminds me of.” 

“Who?” Yuna asked, eyebrows lifting. 

“Ryujin,” Ningning said with a grin. 

That made Yuna blink. “Ryujin? Like… My cousin? Who literally has girls following her around the hallway?” 

“The one and only,” Ningning said smugly. “Tell me I’m wrong.” 

The others turned to look again. Yujin was walking off the field now, towel slung around her neck, sunlight catching the edge of her short hair.

Winter tilted her head, studying the scene. “Huh. I kinda see it.” 

Dani frowned, incredulous. “No way. Ryujin’s Ryujin. Nobody has that kind of aura.” 

“Oh please,” Ningning said, leaning back and popping a grape from her lunchbox into her mouth. “Look at Yujin. Taller than Ryujin, more athletic, that short haircut — she’s like Ryujin 2.0. And smarter, too. Ryujin’s never been known for, you know, grades.” 

Yuna laughed under her breath. “You’re seriously saying that poor scholar girl could be popular like Ryujin?” 

Ningning just smirked. “Give it a few months. Trust me, once people start noticing her, it’s over. Girls love that type —  quiet, mysterious, athletic, she doesn’t look bad. She’s a walking trope.” 

Wonyoung let out a sharp snicker, crossing her arms. “Please. Popular? With what, her worn-out uniform and discount sneakers?” 

Minji glanced at her but didn’t say anything — just smiled faintly, as always. Then she said, “Well, Ryujin’s graduating soon anyway. Maybe it’s time for a new favorite.” 

That earned her an amused side-eye from Ningning. “Oh, please. Like you don’t know girls already gush about you.” 

They burst into laughter. Even Dani, sitting beside Minji, couldn’t help but giggle. “They do, actually,” she said between laughs, earning a playful glare from Minji. 

Minji groaned, pretending to look disgusted. “You all need help,” she muttered, though the corner of her mouth twitched. 

Their laughter rippled through the bleachers, bright against the hum of the field below while Yujin, oblivious, tied her shoelace and stood again, ready for the next round. 

Even from a distance, Ningning’s eyes lingered, the ghost of a grin still on her lips. “Just wait,” she murmured. “You’ll all see.” 

***

The week drifted by, quiet in the upper lounge — too quiet for Ningning’s taste. She sprawled across one of the velvet couches, scrolling through her phone. Wonyoung was seated neatly by the window with a magazine, Yuna was painting her nails, Winter was lazily sipping a drink, and Minji and Dani were curled up together, whispering about something that made Dani giggle softly. 

It was a typical after-school lull but Ningning hated lulls. 

With a groan, she dropped her phone onto the coffee table and sat up straight. “Ugh, I’m bored. This lounge is getting depressing. We should do something.” 

Yuna looked up from her nails. “Like what?” 

“A party,” Ningning said, her eyes lighting up with that familiar spark of mischief. “This weekend.” 

Dani blinked. “A party? Like… here?”

“No, dummy,” Ningning laughed, leaning back dramatically. “There’s this new club downtown — really chic, soft opening last month. I’ll rent it out. We’ll have it to ourselves.” 

Winter raised a brow, skeptical. “Are we even allowed there? We’re literally minors.” 

Ningning waved a hand, dismissive. “Please. My dad’s business partner owns the place. It’ll be fine. No cameras, no posts, no proof — just music, lights, and people who actually know how to have fun.” 

That made Yuna grin. “You’re insane,” she said but there was excitement in her voice too. 

Minji asked, “So who are you inviting, exactly? Just us, or are you thinking… the whole school?” 

Ningning tapped her lip, pretending to think, then smirked. “The whole school.” 

That got everyone’s attention. 

Wonyoung’s magazine lowered slowly. “Everyone?” 

Ningning met her gaze, a knowing look flickering in her eyes. “Yes,” she said sweetly. “Everyone.” 

The room went still for a beat. They all knew what everyone meant. The two new scholarship girls. 

Wonyoung’s lips parted slightly — not in protest, not yet but the faint crease between her brows said everything. She was trying to decide if Ningning was serious, or just trying to get under her skin. 

Ningning tilted her head, smile never faltering. “Come on, Wonyoung. It’ll be fun to see what kind of chaos unfolds when the perfect little Janghwa hierarchy disappears for one night.” 

Winter gave a low whistle. “You’re dangerous when you’re bored.” 

“Dangerous?” Ningning beamed. “No. Just generous. The more the merrier, right?” 

Wonyoung stared at her for a moment longer, unreadable, before looking back down at her magazine though she hadn’t turned a page since the conversation began. 

Minji sighed quietly beside her, exchanging a look with Dani that said, here we go again. 

***

The bell had just rung for the end of lunch period, and the corridors were alive again. Yujin and Hanni walked side by side through the hallway, Hanni clutching her lunchbox and humming under her breath. 

“Text me when you get back to class,” Hanni said softly, stopping at the door to 1-B. “And don’t let them bother you again, okay?” 

Yujin smiled a little, forcing casualness into her tone. “I’ll be fine. Just focus on your music club later.” 

Hanni hesitated, clearly unconvinced, but nodded before stepping inside. Yujin turned and continued down the hall, back toward the long stretch of lockers near the courtyard windows. 

She twisted her locker key and opened the metal door. 

A wet, sour splash hit the floor. 

For a split second, she froze — then her face twisted in disgust. Inside, the smell hit her. Someone had dumped an entire container of kimchi into her locker. It was splattered across the inner wall, streaks of red brine dripping down the shelves, the crimson juice pooling on the floor. 

A few nearby girls covered their noses, whispering. Laughter broke out from down the hall — subtle at first, then a little louder, crueler. Yujin’s jaw clenched. 

She exhaled through her nose, slowly. Her locker, thankfully, was empty. She’d stopped leaving her things there after the last time her things went missing. Everything she owned — pens, books, even her water bottle was always with her, making her backpack heavy but safe. 

Still, she couldn’t help the flare of irritation that ran through her chest. 

“Unbelievable,” she muttered, rolling up her sleeves. “They really wasted kimchi for this?” 

The smell was thick and sour. She grabbed the mop from the cleaning room and started moping. 

It would’ve been easy to just walk away, pretend she didn’t see it, let the janitors deal with it. But she couldn’t. 

Those cleaners already worked hard enough — sweeping after spoiled girls who left half-finished lattes in the halls, tissues on the floor. They didn’t deserve to clean up a mess made just to humiliate her. 

So she mopped.

Because it was her locker.

Because it was her mess now.

And maybe — some small, guilty part of her whispered because it was her fault, too. 

If it weren’t for her being here, if it weren’t for the country girl who somehow tied Jang Wonyoung’s perfect score and ruined the school’s unspoken order, maybe there wouldn’t be kimchi dripping on this floor right now. 

Her thoughts flickered to the thought of whoever had planned this. Rich girls, probably laughing behind manicured hands, thinking this was funny. 

She carried the cleaning tools back into the janitor’s room at the end of the corridor, the faint smell of detergent still clinging to her sleeves. By the time she returned to her locker, the floor gleamed again, not a single red stain of kimchi left behind. 

Yujin sighed, brushing her hair back as she looked at the mess she’d just spent half an hour erasing. Her fingers still smelled faintly of vinegar and soap. 

Then—

Click. Click. Click. 

A distinct rhythm of heels echoed down the corridor, too slow and too unbothered to belong to a teacher. The sound carried easily through the stillness and confident. 

Yujin didn’t turn at first. She already knew that kind of walk — it wasn’t a sound you could mistake. 

“Wow.” 

The voice that followed was smooth as honey, stretching the word in lazy amusement. “You actually cleaned it yourself.” 

Yujin froze before glancing over her shoulder. 

There was Ningning. She leaned against the lockers as if the world belonged to her, a smirk ghosting on her lips. They had never spoken before, not directly but Yujin knew her enough. Everyone did. She was part of that circle: Wonyoung, Minji, Yuna, Dani, Winter. The ones who made her life miserable in quiet, calculated ways. 

So Yujin straightened, her tone flat and guarded. “What do you want?” 

Ningning tilted her head, feigning innocence. “Nothing. Just curious.” Her eyes swept over the spotless floor, then back to Yujin. “Didn’t really expect you to play the janitor role.” 

Yujin’s jaw tightened. “Someone had to,” she said sharply, “since you and your friends won’t leave me alone.” 

That earned a soft chuckle — light, teasing, not at all apologetic. “Oh, that wasn’t me,” Ningning said, smiling. “But you’re right. We can be a little… much.” Her lips curved into a slow smirk as she approached. “Relax. I didn’t come to bully you. If I wanted to, I’d bring confetti or something.” 

Yujin gave her a look that made it clear she wasn’t buying any of it. 

Ningning, unbothered, shifted the paper bag in her hand. “Anyway, that’s why I brought these.” 

Yujin frowned, wary. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Truce gift,” Ningning said smoothly, the corner of her mouth lifting. “Because I’m kind. And generous. And unbearably thoughtful.” 

Yujin deadpanned. “Is this from Wonyoung? Or is it another prank?” 

Ningning barked out a laugh. “Oh, god, no. Wonyoung would rather die than be generous.” 

Yujin crossed her arms. “What’s inside?” 

“Two uniforms.” Ningning held the bag up, the branded seal glinting under the light. “Tailored fit. One for you, one for your friend — that girl who sings. Whatever her name is… Hanni?” 

Yujin’s brows furrowed. “Why would you—” 

“Because I can,” Ningning interrupted lightly, stepping closer. The faint scent of her perfume — floral, expensive — cut through the sterile air. “And because I can tell.”

“Tell what?” 

She nodded toward Yujin’s crisp but slightly faded uniform.
“That you only have one. And your friend — the singer girl…? Right. Same situation. You wash them daily, it’s so obvious.”  

There was a flash of something sly in her eyes. Yujin couldn’t tell if it was mockery or interest — maybe both. 

The hallway hung in tense quiet. The smell of soap still lingered, sharp against Ningning’s perfume. Yujin could feel her heartbeat steady, her anger simmering under her skin but also her curiosity. 

Ningning seemed to notice. She smiled, eyes glinting. “Don’t look so suspicious. It’s just a gift. Call it… a peace treaty before the weekend.” 

“The weekend?” Yujin repeated. 

“Mhm.” Ningning’s grin widened. “I’m throwing a party. Everyone’s invited. You should come.” 

Yujin blinked. “…A party?” 

“New semester, new faces, new chaos. The whole school’s invited.” Ningning shrugged. “Well, the whole school except teachers. Obviously.” 

Yujin shook her head. “Thanks, but no. You don’t need to give us uniforms. We’re not going.” 

Ningning tilted her head, amused. “And why not?” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Yujin said dryly. “Maybe because your friends just dumped kimchi in my locker?” 

Ningning winced exaggeratedly. “Okay, yeah, that was rude. But still, keep the uniforms.” 

“No.” 

“Yes,” Ningning said, stepping forward, invading Yujin’s space with playful fearlessness. She nudged the bag against Yujin’s stomach, but Yujin still refused to take it. 

So Ningning simply sighed dramatically, walked past her, and dropped the paper bag neatly on the bench beside the lockers. 

Yujin glared. “I’m not taking it.” 

Ningning flashed a feline smile. “You don’t have to trust me. Just check the uniforms yourself. Rip the seams, sniff them, burn them for all I care.” 

She began to turn away, steps slow and echoing. 

“Oh, and Yujin?” 

Yujin didn’t respond, but Ningning smirked anyway. 

“Saturday night. 7 PM. You’ll come. I can tell.” 

Yujin scoffed. “I won’t.” 

“You will,” Ningning said without a doubt. “Even if it’s just for 30 minutes. Then I will give you and your friend two more sets.” 

She winked over her shoulder. 

“You’re already two sets richer, after all.” 

And with that, Ningning disappeared down the hall — skirt swaying, confidence radiating, leaving Yujin staring at the paper bag like it was a bomb. 

***

The apartment door clicked shut behind them. Their small room — two beds, two desks, a thin kitchen counter felt even smaller today, like the weight of the school clung to them and sank into the walls. 

Hanni dropped her bag with a soft thud. Yujin didn’t. She stayed by the door, gripping the paper bag in both hands like it might detonate. 

“Hanni,” she said quietly. 

Hanni turned, already suspicious because Yujin never used that tone unless something strange or worrying happened. 

Yujin exhaled, held out the bag. “Uh… here.” 

Hanni blinked at it, then took it carefully. She opened it slowly, peeling back the top. The rustle of sealed plastic filled the room. 

Inside: two pristine Janghwa Girls’ High uniforms. Pressed. Brand-new. Still folded perfectly. 

Hanni’s eyebrows shot together, her voice lowering to a whisper like it might change the contents of the bag. “…Yujin. What is this?” 

Yujin rubbed the back of her neck, looking everywhere except at her. “It’s… uniforms. One for you. One for me.” 

Hanni stared harder. “I can see that. I mean — did you buy these?”

 Yujin sighed, dropping her bag on her bed. “Ningning gave them.” 

Hanni’s entire body tensed. “Ningning? As in — Wonyoung’s clique Ningning? That Ningning?” 

“There’s only one,” Yujin muttered. 

Hanni set the uniforms on her bed but didn’t sit. “Why would she give us uniforms?” 

Yujin hesitated — the memory still felt surreal. “She… approached me. After classes. Said it was a ‘truce gift.’” She made air quotes, rolling her eyes. 

Hanni’s jaw dropped. “A truce? From them?” 

Yujin shook her head. “No. She said Wonyoung would rather die than be generous.” 

Hanni snorted in disbelief. “Okay, that one’s true. But then why—” 

“She wants us to go to her party this Saturday.” Yujin slumped onto her bed, exhausted. “She said she’ll give us two more uniforms if we stay for at least thirty minutes.” 

Hanni’s eyes widened, and for a moment, there was something almost hopeful flickering there. 

“Are we… being accepted?” she asked quietly. Like the possibility tasted dangerous. 

Yujin shrugged, weary. “I don’t think so.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because someone put kimchi in my locker today.” 

Hanni’s expression hardened instantly, sympathy turning to frustration. “Those rich brats…” she muttered. Then sighed. “My classmates in 1-B stole my homework. Good thing I rewrote it during break or Mrs. Kim would’ve killed me.” 

Yujin rubbed her temples. “They will never accept us. Ningning’s just… doing something. I don’t know what. It feels like a trap.” 

Hanni sat finally, picking up the uniform again, fingers brushing over the fresh fabric. “…But thirty minutes is fast,” she said gently. “And we really do need the uniforms. If we keep washing the ones we have every night, they’ll get ruined. My collar stitching’s already coming loose.” 

Yujin looked at her hands. Remembering the kimchi she mopped earlier. She thought about Ningning’s smirk, the unnerving confidence in her voice, the certainty in her tone when she said, You’ll come. I can tell. 

“It does feel like a trap,” Yujin murmured. 

Hanni nodded. “But… maybe it’s the kind of trap we can handle.” 

Yujin sighed, shoulders sinking. “Thirty minutes can be fast.” She paused. “Or the longest thirty minutes of our lives.” 

Hanni laughed bleakly. “Story of our time at Janghwa Girls’ High.” 

The room fell quiet, both girls staring at the folded uniforms — symbols of generosity, danger, survival, and humiliation all at once. 

“So,” Hanni whispered, “what do we do?” 

Yujin sighed.

***

By Thursday, Ningning’s upcoming party had become the loudest rumor on campus. Even the teachers were pretending not to hear the girls whispering about guest lists, outfits, and which club was bold enough to let a sixteen-year-old rent out an entire building. The air in Class 1-A practically hummed with it. 

Ningning lounged sideways in her chair, tapping her pen against her notebook with lazy satisfaction. 

“Of course I rented the whole place,” she was saying, legs crossed, hair shining under the classroom lights. “Do you think I’m sharing space with actual civilians?” 

Dani burst into a laugh.

Yuna grinned like she’d expected nothing less.

Winter shook her head, not surprised. 

Minji adjusted her glasses. “It’s going to be big, then. If you invite the whole school…” 

“That’s the point,” Ningning replied, flipping her hair back. “New semester. New chaos. Let everyone come.” 

Girls seated nearby were already whispering—

Is she serious? The whole school?

Do you think seniors will show up?

What are you wearing? 

Wonyoung sat elegantly, legs crossed, pretending disinterest, but her eyes slid toward Ningning. “You’re going to regret it. Too many people, too much noise.” 

Ningning smirked. “That’s exactly what makes it fun.” 

The bell rang. A signal for break. 

Chairs scraped back.

The room filled with chatter.

Wonyoung stood, smoothing her skirt. Winter rose beside her. Dani flashed a heart at Minji, who rolled her eyes with affection. 

That was when Ningning moved. 

She stood, brushed imaginary dust off her sleeves, and walked — not to the door, not to her friends but straight toward the back row. 

Toward Yujin. 

Class 1-A quieted without anyone meaning to.

Curiosity crackled like static. 

Yujin was just closing her notebook, ready to leave. She looked up at the sound of heels tapping toward her, confused and instantly tense. 

Ningning stopped right beside her desk, arms folded, hip tilted. 

“Wear something nice this Saturday,” she said in a voice everyone could hear. “If you and your friend need outfits, tell me. I’ll have something sent. And the uniform looks good on you by the way.”

The room froze. 

A girl near the windows gasped.

Someone else whispered, “Is this for real?”

Another muttered, “There’s no way — why would she invite them?”  

Wonyoung’s lips parted slightly, shock combined with disbelief. 

Minji’s head turned sharply.

Yuna blinked.

Dani’s jaw dropped. 

Winter mouthed silently, Ningning… what the hell. 

Yujin just stared up at her — wide-eyed, deeply cautious, the way a stray cat watches an outstretched hand that might also be a trap. 

“What?” Yujin breathed. 

Ningning smiled like she enjoyed the reaction. “All I said is, wear something nice.” 

A few girls giggled nervously, not sure whether to laugh or stay silent. 

Yujin felt every eye drilling into her. Heat crawled up her neck. 

Ningning turned, completely unfazed, swinging her hair as she headed toward the classroom door. 

She paused only once — looking back over her shoulder with a glint in her eye. 

“Saturday. Seven. Don’t be late.” 

Then she left. 

The moment the door clicked shut, the classroom ERUPTED. 

***

The door to the private lounge shut with a cushioned thud, and before Ningning could even take three steps toward the couch, Wonyoung grabbed her wrist and yanked her aside. 

“Ning Yizhuo,” Wonyoung hissed, the full name slicing out like a warning. “What the hell are you doing?” 

Ningning only blinked, lashes fluttering with exaggerated innocence. “What? Planning my party? Being fabulous? Breathing? You’ll have to be more specific.” 

“Don’t play stupid,” Wonyoung snapped. Her voice was low, controlled, but her eyes were burning. “Yujin? Seriously? After everything? You want that… that farmer to show up at your event?”

A few heads in the room turned, hearing her raised voice. Minji stared for a second, but Dani tugged her back down, urging her to ignore it. 

Ningning tilted her head, her black hair spilling over her shoulder like ink. 

“You’re so dramatic,” she murmured. “It’s not a big deal to let the farm girl come. The more, the merrier.” 

“Cut the shit,” Wonyoung bit out. “You don’t do anything without a reason.” 

A tiny smirk curled on Ningning’s lips. 

Then she reached out, lightly brushing her fingertips along Wonyoung’s cheekbone. A teasing gesture. A provocation. 

Wonyoung flinched — not away, but with surprise. 

“Oh, that.” She waved a hand breezily. “Relax, Wonyoung. It’s not a big deal to invite the farm girl and her little friend. The more the merrier, right?” 

Wonyoung’s breath hitched. Her eyes narrowed. 

“Wonyoungie,” she cooed, “you’re so dramatic. Nothing will happen to your precious rival. It’s just a party…” Her voice dropped, silk turning to something darker. “A club full of teenagers. Loud music. Zero adult supervision. Alcohol no one admits is alcohol. Substances no one will ever confess to bringing.” 

Wonyoung froze. 

“Are you sure little innocent An Yujin will have a good time?” she whispered. “With drunk teenagers around? With cameras? With rumors just waiting for a spark?” 

A flicker of something sharp lit behind Wonyoun’s eyes.

“Think about it,” Ningning murmured. “If something… compromising happens there? Something that certain people in the school administration would find unacceptable for a scholar?”  

Her voice dipped. 

“She’s gone. Just like that.” 

Wonyoung’s lips slowly curved upward. 

A cold, satisfied smile. 

“Ning Yizhuo,” she whispered, “you’re unbelievable.” 

Ningning winked. “You love me.” 

Wonyoung didn’t deny it but the glint in her eyes said she loved the idea even more. 

A plan. 

A doorway. 

A chance to destroy An Yujin once and for all. 

***

Ningning, Wonyoung, and Winter sat at the dining table, picking at an absurdly expensive dessert spread — imported vanilla mousse and strawberries. Every so often, one of them giggled, heads dipping close together.

On the couch nearby, Minji, Dani, and Yuna sat in a loose cluster. Minji’s arms were crossed, expression unreadable. Dani hugged a throw pillow to her chest. Yuna’s knee bounced restlessly. 

Dani finally broke the silence. 

“So…” she whispered, leaning forward. “About Ningning inviting Yujin. You guys think they’re—” She lowered her voice even more. “Planning something?” 

Yuna didn’t hesitate. “I heard,” she said quietly, eyes darting toward the dining table, “they’re planning to drug her. Or at least make her really drunk.” 

Dani’s jaw dropped. “What?!” 

Even Minji’s calm facade cracked, her brows pulling together in shock. She didn’t speak yet but the slight stiffening of her posture said enough. 

Yuna kept her voice low. “I overheard Winter talking to someone from Class 1-C earlier. She didn’t say it directly, but she hinted that something… ‘interesting’ might happen at the party. Like they want to make Yujin look bad, so she can be expelled.” 

Dani pressed a hand to her mouth. “That’s crazy. That’s— That’s not bullying anymore, that’s—” 

“Dangerous,” Minji finished quietly. 

The three of them exchanged looks — the kind that passes entire conversations wordlessly. 

A look of disbelief.

A look of discomfort.

A look of this is too far. 

Slowly, their eyes drifted toward the dining table. 

Ningning was leaning against Wonyoung’s shoulder, whispering something that made Wonyoung laugh — sharp, delighted, almost cruel. Winter smirked, twirling her spoon between her fingers, watching the two with lazy amusement. 

To Dani, Yuna, and Minji, it suddenly felt like watching a storm form behind glass. 

Dani swallowed hard. “They’re actually giggling about it.” 

“Yeah,” Yuna murmured, eyes darkening. “They are.” 

Minji stayed silent the longest, gaze fixed on her stepsister. Wonyoung looked… alive. Excited. Light shimmering in her eyes in a way that made Minji’s stomach twist. 

After a moment, Minji exhaled, slow and tense. 

“This is too far,” she whispered. “Way too far.” 

Neither Dani nor Yuna disagreed. 

They didn’t dare say it aloud where Wonyoung could hear but all three knew the truth.

Whatever Ningning and Wonyoung were planning… 

It wasn’t just a prank party anymore. 

It was a setup for a girl who probably don’t even drink. 

And even from the safety of that plush couch, it felt dangerous. 

***

The gossip doesn’t die down — it spreads like wildfire. 

“Why Yujin?”

“Is Ning Yizhuo planning something?”

“Maybe they’ll humiliate her at the party…”

“Or maybe Ningning’s bored and wants entertainment.” 

Every version gets worse as it spreads. 

And the more it spreads, the more Yujin and Hanni feel the tension coil around them. Students stare, nudge each other, point. Even teachers overhear and glance at Yujin with a faint, uneasy curiosity. 

Hanni mutters whenever they walk together, “Everyone’s acting like we’re a circus act.” 

And Yujin feels it too — the tightening discomfort, the sense of walking on a stage they never asked to stand on. 

One day, after classes, Yujin heads to the gym for basketball practice with Minji. It’s quiet — just the echo of squeaking shoes, hollow dribbling, and the faint scent of varnished wood. 

They run drills for a while, then shift into a quick one-on-one. Sweat beads on Yujin’s temple, shirt sticking to her back. Minji dribbles low, quick, trying to drive past her, but Yujin blocks her effortlessly. 

Minji laughs breathlessly. “God, you’re like a wall.” 

“Country strength,” Yujin grins, shoulders rising and falling. 

Minji catches the rebound, spins the ball in her hand — casual, but her eyes are studying Yujin. 

“So… you’re going to Ningning’s party?” 

Yujin doesn’t answer immediately. She shrugs like it doesn’t bother her. “Maybe. Probably not.” 

Minji dribbles once more, then asks, “Do you drink?” 

Yujin stops mid-step, tilting her head. “Drink? Like… alcohol?” 

Minji lifts a brow. “Yeah.” 

Yujin huffs a soft laugh. “Just makgeolli or dongdongju during festivals in Cheongha-ri. You know, village stuff. But only a few sips.” 

She takes two steps back, lifts the ball, shoots cleanly. The swish echoes. 

“So you’re not a drinker,” Minji says, retrieving the ball. 

“No,” Yujin shakes her head. “Never been drunk.” 

Minji tosses the ball to her, but her mind is somewhere far darker than the gleaming gym. 

Yujin has only ever tried local rice wine. Barely sips — never drinks. Never been at a party. Never been drunk. Zero drinking experience. Zero understanding of how hard alcohol hits. And absolutely no clue how wild, messy, and dangerous their crowd gets when they’re in clubs with no adults in sight. 

Yujin’s low tolerance makes her an easy target. Too easy. 

The idea of Yujin stepping into that neon-lit club full of privileged, reckless teenagers feels like putting a lamb in the middle of wolves. 

Minji bounces the ball once, twice, eyes fixed on Yujin as they reset their positions. 

 “So then,” she asks, voice light but probing, “what makes you say maybe you’ll go? You sounded pretty dead set on refusing at first.” 

Yujin exhales slowly, palms steady on the ball. “It’s just… tempting, I guess.” She dribbles, the ball echoing sharply in the quiet gym. “She said she’ll give me and Hanni two more uniforms if we show up. Just thirty minutes.” 

Minji lunges to steal — Yujin pivots, barely slipping past her. 

“Two each?” Minji repeats, incredulous. 

Yujin nods. Her voice drops. “Those uniforms cost a million won. One million, Minji. It would take months of deliveries to afford that. For me and Hanni both…” Her jaw clenches. “We can’t ignore that kind of offer.” 

Minji presses again — Yujin blocks, they circle, sneakers squeaking. 

“But,” Minji urges, pushing her to finish the sentence. 

Yujin dribbles slowly, eyes distant.

“But I know it’s a trap. They’ve done worse in school, where teachers can see. So what happens outside? In a club, with no rules and no adults?” She meets Minji’s eyes, a stubborn defiance burning there. “I’m not walking into something blind just for a uniform.” 

Minji smirks faintly, trying to steal once more — Yujin slips around her, drives forward. 

“You should go,” Minji says suddenly. 

The ball nearly fumbles. Yujin’s head snaps toward her. 

“Why should I?” she challenges, dribbling harder now. 

Minji jogs backward, keeping pace. “Because two uniforms each is a sweet deal,” she says casually. 

Yujin lets out a sharp breath. “Sounds like a deal with the devil.” 

Minji intercepts, snatches the ball, spins under Yujin’s arm. “And maybe,” she says, voice low, “this party is exactly where you stop all of this. Once and for all.” 

Yujin freezes mid-step. 

Minji steps past her easily, light as water, and lays the ball into the net. 

The whistle blows — Ryujin calling everyone to center court. 

Players jog toward her, chatter rising, sneakers scuffing. Yujin remains still for a heartbeat, Minji turning back to her with unreadable eyes. 

“We’ll talk later,” Minji says under her breath, stepping close enough that only Yujin hears. “At your fried chicken shop.” 

Yujin stares, stunned, sweat cooling on her skin. 

“And Yujin?” Minji backs away, retreating to the circle. Her gaze holds firm. “Trust me. If you want this bullying to end, if you want Hanni safe — listen to what I say tonight.” 

Yujin’s pulse kicks hard in her throat. 

She doesn’t know what scares her more.

The danger of the party. 

Or the fact that Minji might already have a plan. 

***

The dinner rush had slowed, only three occupied tables left, the fryer hissing in a steady rhythm. Yujin wiped down the counter, but her eyes kept darting to the door, heart thumping every time it chimed.

Minji said she’d come but words from someone in that circle were rarely safe to believe. 

Maybe she said it out of pity.

Or curiosity.

Or worse — maybe it was part of their game. 

By 7:58, Yujin forced herself to focus on restocking napkins, telling herself she didn’t care if they came or not. 

At exactly 8:03, the bell chimed. 

Yujin glanced up and froze. 

Minji stepped inside first. Next to her was Dani but wrapped so ridiculously in a patterned scarf, sunglasses that nearly swallowed her face, and a pastel mask pulled high enough to touch her lashes, she looked like a celebrity in the middle of a mental breakdown. 

Yujin blinked.

No one else in Seoul looked like that except Dani. 

Her stomach twisted. They really came. 

Ahjumma Kim perked up like a sunflower toward light. “Customers, welcome!” she beamed then elbowed Yujin hard enough to make her jolt. “Why are you standing stiff like a statue? Go greet the customers!”

She stepped forward anyway, face carefully blank. “Good evening,” she said formally, head dipping. And then, because she couldn’t avoid the script drilled into her, “Dine in or take out?” 

Minji looked directly into her eyes. “Dine in.” 

Her voice held no mockery. No sugar. Just… a decision. 

Yujin swallowed, grabbed two menus, and led them to the back corner — the quietest table in the shop. Dani kept her head down, like she was hiding from paparazzi or her own conscience. 

Ahjumma Kim came over with her usual cheer. “What can I get for you two girls? Do you go to Janghwa too? Are you classmates with Yujin?” she asked brightly. 

Minji didn’t look away from Yujin as she answered. 

“We’re classmates with Yujin,” she said casually — too casually. “We’re friends.” 

Yujin almost dropped the menu. 

Friends???

Her brain screamed it so loudly she swore it echoed. Her tongue almost rejected the word. 

More like bullies.

More like the reason she scrubs her locker at lunch instead of eating. 
 
Ahjumma Kim’s face lit up, proud as a parent. “Omo! So my Yujin has friends visiting! You girls must eat a lot. I’ll prepare the best seller chicken, three side dishes, and cola. On the house because you’re Yujin’s friends!” 

Minji smiled like she had just been handed leverage wrapped in gold foil. 

Dani, on the other hand, looked like she wanted to die. Her scarf slipped slightly — she yanked it back up, ears red. 

Yujin stood awkwardly at the side of the table, unsure if she should walk away or brace for impact. 

Minji leaned forward, immediately lowering her voice. 

“Relax,” she murmured. “We didn’t come here to cause trouble.” 

Dani nodded, stiff, posture rigid like she was sitting on needles. 

Ahjumma Kim bustled back into the kitchen, leaving the three girls alone. 

Silence thickened. 

Yujin’s fingers tightened around her order pad — not that she needed it, the aunt already decided their meal. 

The tension in the shop seemed to settle into the wooden walls. 

Yujin stood at the edge of the table, fingers tightening around her order pad. “I didn’t know you’d actually want to eat here,” she admitted, voice low. 

Minji didn’t hesitate. “Why not?” She inhaled, eyes flicking toward the sizzling fryer. “It smells good. I’ve always been curious since you went to Dani’s house.”

Yujin’s ears warmed. Compliments weren’t something she received often — especially not from Class 1-A royalty.  

She scratched the back of her neck, unsure where to put her hands or her eyes. “I’ll… go help with your food,” she managed. 

Minji nodded, and Dani sent her a small, awkward wave.

Yujin retreated to the kitchen faster than she walked into it. 

The kitchen was humid with steam, oil popping in the fryer like fireflies. Ahjumma Kim was chopping green onions, humming. 

“So those girls are your friends?” she asked, voice bright. 

Yujin almost dropped the tray. 

“Uh—” she swallowed, forcing a smile, “Something like that.” 

Ahjumma Kim didn’t notice her hesitation. “I nearly forgot you attend that elite school. Janghwa Girls’, right? You should bring more friends next time!” She winked. “They must have money. And they’re pretty, just like the ones you see in dramas.” 

Yujin nodded, lips curved politely, though her thoughts tangled like roots. 

Pretty. Rich. Powerful. The same girls who assault her every single day.

If only Ahjumma Kim knew that school felt more like a battlefield than a campus. 

The fryer beeped, the chicken was ready.

Yujin and the ahjumma plated it together — golden, crackling, fragrant with garlic and sesame glaze, along with pickled radish, fries, and iced cola.  

Before Yujin could reach for another tray, the ahjumma turned to her with a grin. 

“The shop is quiet. Go and join your friends.” 

Yujin blinked. “A-ahjumma, I should help—” 

“No need. If I need you, I’ll call,” she insisted, already pushing the tray into Yujin’s hands. “And take your time. Talk to them.” 

Talk. 

To Minji, Wonyoung’s step-sister.

To Dani, who denied the delivery at her house.

Yujin exhaled, bracing herself. 

She carried the tray out, steps slow and controlled.

Minji and Dani looked up as she approached — Minji’s gaze steady, Dani’s still ridiculously disguised.  

Yujin set the dishes down carefully — crisp chicken steaming, sauce shimmering. 

Then, after a moment of hesitation that felt heavier than her tray, she pulled out a chair. 

And sat with them. 

Her heart thudded loud enough she swore it echoed against the tiled floor.

Minji rested her chin on one hand, eyes calm and assessing. Dani pushed her glasses up, finally speaking through her mask.  “This is the first time we’ve ever eaten together,” she muttered, voice muffled. 

Yujin nodded faintly. “Yeah.” 

And now that she was here — table shared, uniforms hanging back at her apartment like bait, she couldn’t avoid the question anymore. 

Yujin looked at Minji. 

“So,” she said quietly, but firmly. “You wanted to talk about Saturday.” 

Minji’s lips curved. “Yes,” she replied. “And what’s going to happen there.”

Yujin stayed frozen, her hands resting stiffly on her lap. The silence dragged, stretching long enough that she felt the air tighten in her chest. 

She swallowed. Loudly. Minji didn’t look away, didn’t blink, just tracked the movement of Yujin’s throat like she was studying her.

The silence was unbearable. 

Yujin cleared her throat and forced her voice through the dryness. “Uh… w-what’s… gonna happen?” 

It came out awkward, too soft, too desperate to fill the gap. 

Minji inhaled slowly, leaning back in her seat. She tapped her finger once on the table, as if deciding where to start. 

“They want to use the party to get something on you,” she said, her tone flat.. “Something they can use as leverage. So they can finally have you expelled.” 

Yujin didn’t flinch. She only blinked once. Then her jaw tightened. 

She expected worse. 

“Well,” Yujin said under her breath, “that’s not surprising.” 

Her fingers curled around the edge of the table, knuckles whitening. “Wonyoung… already hates me. Everyone knows it. Expelling me is just—” She gave a hollow laugh. “—the natural next step.” 

Dani glanced at Minji in alarm, but Minji didn’t look back at her. 

Yujin exhaled through her nose and pushed her chair back slightly. “That’s why I’m not going. I’m not stupid enough to walk into a trap just because Ningning smiles and offers free uniforms. I know she doesn’t actually want me or Hanni there.” 

Her voice was strained. 

“And honestly… thanks for telling me. But I already expected it.”

She stood up halfway, gripping the chair. “I really don’t want any more trouble with Wonyoung or her friends. So… I’m not going. That’s final.” 

Inside her head, she was sighing.

Minji just told her the obvious. Nothing new. Nothing helpful.
Great. Another reminder she needs to stay small, stay quiet, survive. 

She took a step back— 

“Sit.” 

Minji’s voice wasn’t loud, but it was sharp enough to cut. Yujin blinked as Minji’s eyes lifted to hers. 

“That’s why,” she said slowly, “you need to go to the party.” 

Yujin froze, half-standing. Her heart thumped once, hard. 

Minji didn’t smirk. She didn’t soften. She just looked up at Yujin with a strange mix of certainty and challenge, like she was telling her something dangerous and important at the same time. 

The fried chicken shop hummed in the background, oil sizzling in the kitchen, distant chatter of customers yet the table felt sealed off, the air thick and serious. 

Yujin sank back down into her seat, staring.

Confused.

Nervous. 

“Wonyoung and her friends bully me every day at school,” Yujin murmured. “In the halls, in the cafeteria, in class… everywhere, even here.” She swallowed hard. Her voice came out small, so small Minji had to lean in to hear her. “What more in a club they rented? No bells to save me. No teachers pretending they don't see. No cameras. Nothing.” 

Minji’s expression didn’t flinch. If anything, she looked like she expected that answer. 

“That,” she replied, “is exactly why the party is where you can go head-to-head with Wonyoung.” 

Yujin let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “Head to head? I’m not trying to fight her. I’m not like her. I don’t want power or attention.” Her voice cracked, just a little. “I’m just tired. From all the bullying… the harassment… the sabotages. I don’t want to ‘beat’ Jang Wonyoung. I just want to study, graduate, and walk somewhere without someone throwing food at me.” 

Dani tensed, eyes softening behind her ridiculous sunglasses. 

Minji’s gaze dropped to the table for a moment — thinking. Calculating. Then she looked back up, sharp again. 

“Exams are coming,” Minji said quietly. “And if you want this to end, you won’t get another chance like this.” 

Yujin blinked. “What does exams have—” 

But Minji raised a hand, silencing her, and leaned forward. 

“At the party,” Minji said, “you challenge Wonyoung in front of everyone.” 

The words hit the table like a slammed book. 

Yujin froze. 

Dani’s head snapped toward Minji, shocked. “Minji—” 

But Minji continued. 

“You dare my step-sister. Publicly. Loud enough for everyone to hear. And Wonyoung—” she exhaled, sounding almost amused, “—my sister’s pride will never allow her to back down.” 

Yujin’s brows furrowed. “A challenge… about what?” 

Minji’s eyes gleamed. 

“Exams.” 

Yujin stared at her. 

Minji explained. “You challenge Wonyoung. If you score more than her, all of us leave you and Hanni alone — permanently. No more bullying. No more sabotage. No more tricks.” 

Yujin’s stomach twisted. 

“And if Wonyoung wins?” she whispered. 

Minji didn’t soften it. 

“Then you leave Janghwa Girls’ High.” 

Yujin’s breath caught.

Leave?

After all she worked for?

After all she endured, the entrance exam… the scholarship? 

Her voice trembled. 

“Why would I agree to something that insane?” 

Minji’s reply was immediate. 

“Because Wonyoung will. And the moment she says ‘yes’ in front of the school’s richest teenagers, it becomes a binding social contract. If she breaks it afterward, she loses face. And trust me—” Minji smiled faintly, “—Wonyoung will never let herself be the girl who backed down from a challenge issued by a scholarship student.” 

Yujin felt cold. 

“So you want me to trap her ego.” 

“No,” Minji corrected softly.

“I want you to use it.” 

Dani spoke up gently. 

“Yujin… you already tied Wonyoung on the entrance exam. You score more than her on most days. You’re the one person she can’t academically crush. Minji isn’t making this up from nowhere.” 

Yujin met Dani’s eyes — wide, honest, a little scared for her. 

Her chest tightened. 

Minji leaned back, folding her arms. 

“This is the only way to stop the bullying permanently. You win, and they have to stop. They’ll be humiliated if they don’t. You lose…”

She shrugged once.

“Well. Then you were already planning to survive the school year under them. They will never stop. Leaving would actually be the safer option.” 

Yujin felt her throat close. 

This was insane.

Terrifying.

Unfair. 

But… also the first plan anyone had ever offered her.

A plan with an end.

A way out. 

She shook her head slowly, overwhelmed. 

Minji watched her — calm, waiting, giving Yujin space to process. 

Finally, Yujin whispered, “And at the party… in front of everyone… I should say this?” 

Minji nodded once. 

“Yes. Because when Wonyoung feels challenged publicly, she becomes predictable.” 

Yujin swallowed again, hard. 

Her heart pounded. 

Her mind screamed no but somewhere deeper, quieter, she knew. This could actually end it. 

Minji leaned forward, tapping her finger lightly on the table as if marking steps on an invisible map. 

“At the party,” she said, “you go in, stay for thirty minutes — just enough for Ningning to hand over the extra uniforms. Take them, then leave. Simple.” 

Yujin blinked. She already felt her stomach sinking. 

Minji continued, tone sharpening.

“But listen, Yujin. Don’t accept any drinks. At all. Not even water. And don’t eat anything.” 

Dani nodded, lowering her ridiculous sunglasses slightly to make eye contact. 

“Most drinks will be spiked,” she said, matter-of-fact. “And some of the food too.” 

Yujin stared at her, horrified. In her head, she could only think, These rich kids are insane. They’re so much worse outside school. 

The quiet hum of the fried chicken shop, the clattering pans in the kitchen, the warm smell of soy garlic chicken — everything felt suddenly too normal compared to what she was hearing. 

Minji rested her elbows on the table. 

“Don’t wander. Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t follow anyone. Pick a spot — preferably somewhere visible and stay there for the entire thirty minutes.” 

Yujin nodded slowly, trying to absorb it all. 

If she wanted a peaceful life at Janghwa…

If she was really going to survive three more years in that hellhole… 

Maybe this was the only path forward. 

But still— 

She looked between Minji and Dani, uneasy. 

“Why should I trust you?” Yujin whispered. “You’re Wonyoung’s friends. You bully me every day too. Why are you telling me all this?” 

Minji didn’t look offended. 

She simply shrugged. 

“You don’t have to trust us,” Minji said plainly. “And we’re not trying to be your friends.” 

Yujin’s brows furrowed. 

Minji went on.

“I’m doing this because if Wonyoung keeps going down this path… she’s going to get into serious trouble. With the school, with her father, with the press — who knows. Something will snap.” 

Her tone shifted — quieter, more honest. 

“I’m looking out for her.” 

Dani fiddled with the edge of her scarf, nodding. 

Minji added, “And also… because I was the one who paid the one million won for that fried chicken prank.” 

Yujin froze. 

Her eyes widened so dramatically Dani let out a tiny squeak. 

Dani raised both hands, flustered. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know you were so broke!” 

Yujin blinked. “…What?” 

Dani pointed at the menu on the wall, still half-hidden behind her sunglasses. 

“We thought you’d just laugh or panic or something! I didn’t know you were poor-poor! I thought you were like… budget-poor!” 

Minji sighed, elbowing Dani lightly. “That’s not helping.” 

Dani shrank back. “Sorry…” 

Yujin let out a slow exhale, still stunned, still processing. 

Her life was spiraling into territories she never imagined.

Spiked drinks.

Public dares.

Battles with chaebol heirs.

Schemes inside neon-lit clubs. 

And now…

The bullies she hated were sitting across from her, warning her how to survive them. 

Minji folded her hands together, gaze steady. 

“Saturday,” she said. “Thirty minutes. No drinks. No food. No wandering.” She paused. “You do that, and then you challenge Wonyoung. That’s how this ends.” 

Yujin swallowed hard. 

This wasn’t the future she wanted. 

But maybe it was the only one she had. 

***

Minji and Dani finished the last pieces of their chicken, wiping their hands neatly with the wet tissues Ahjumma Kim always slipped onto the table. Dani leaned back with a tiny sigh of satisfaction, like she had just eaten her first meal outside a Michelin-starred restaurant. Minji, perfectly composed as always, dabbed her lips before standing. 

Ahjumma Kim returned right on cue, carrying two warm, neatly packed take-out bags. 

“Oh! You girls ate so well. Here, take these home,” she said cheerfully, already placing the bags in their hands. 

Both Minji and Dani blinked. Dani recovered first. “Ahjumma, we should pay. Really.” 

“Of course! We can pay,” Minji added, reaching for her elegant wallet. 

But Ahjumma waved them off with a firm flap of her hand. “No, no. You’re Yujin’s friends. Just enjoy. You’re all growing kids. Eat a lot.” 

Minji and Dani exchanged a quick glance — one part touched, one part confused. They were used to people being polite to them… but not kind like this. 

Yujin, embarrassed, scratched the back of her neck. “Ahjumma… they really don’t have to—” 

“Oh hush, go walk your friends out,” Ahjumma said, shooing her. 

Minji and Dani stepped outside first, and the warm restaurant light spilled into the dark street. Yujin followed, holding the glass door open. Ahjumma Kim called out, “Come again, girls! Be safe!” 

When the door clicked shut, Yujin exhaled awkwardly and turned to them. “Um… about the chicken from before — the one million won thing since you guys didn’t get to take any home, I can… I can give you free chicken here. Anytime.” 

Minji actually laughed. “It’s fine. Really.” 

“What did you even do with all that chicken?” Minji asked, eyes soft with curiosity. 

Yujin’s ears warmed. “Um… I kind of… took all my savings and tried to pay for it.” She rubbed her arm. “Combined everything I had. I went back to the restaurant and was going to… but Ahjumma Kim already paid. So I know your group paid for it, at least…” 

Minji blinked. Dani’s jaw dropped a little. 

“Wait. You were going to spend all your money?” Dani asked, horrified. 

Yujin shrugged, avoiding their eyes. “It was my responsibility.” 

“So… you ate it?” Minji asked gently. 

“Ah. Yes. With Hanni.” Yujin nodded. “And I shared some… at school.” 

She didn’t say the names — Rei, Liz, Yunjin. Keeping them safe meant keeping them invisible. 

Minji seemed to catch that thoughtfully but didn’t push. “It’s okay. I’m glad you didn’t lose your whole savings on a stupid joke.” 

She reached into her pocket again and pressed a folded bill into Yujin’s hand. 

Yujin froze. “I— I can’t take that.” 

“It’s not for you,” Minji said firmly. “It’s for the shop. For that old lady who keeps feeding us for free.” 

Yujin hesitated, fingers curling around the money like it burned. 

But because it was for Ahjumma Kim, for the shop, for survival, not pride — she slowly nodded. “…Okay. I’ll give it to her.” 

Minji smiled, brief but real. She stepped back toward the sidewalk with Dani. “Good. And—” she pointed lightly at Yujin’s shoulder “—see you at the party.” 

Dani wiggled her fingers in a little wave. “Be careful going home!” 

The two girls walked off into the evening glow with their take-out bags swinging.

Yujin stayed at the doorway, the folded bill still clutched in her palm, feeling the strange warmth of something she couldn’t name. 

Chapter Text

The black sedan glided away from the quiet streets, leaving the warm glow of Ahjumma Kim’s restaurant behind. Inside, the world shifted back to its usual cold luxury.

Dani immediately slumped, ripping off her oversized sunglasses and tugging the scarf off her head. 

“Ugh, finally.” She shook her hair out. “How do celebrities do disguises? I was suffocating.” 

Minji chuckled under her breath, eyes still forward as she buckled in. “You looked ridiculous.” 

“Thanks.” Dani rolled her eyes, then softened. “But… that was nice. The restaurant, I mean. And Ahjumma Kim. She kept giving us food like we were her grandkids.” 

“She’s kind,” Minji murmured. “Too kind, actually.” 

Dani glanced at her sideways. 

Then, after a moment. 

“…Minji.” 

“Mm?” 

“Are you helping Yujin because you feel guilty?” Dani asked quietly. “Or because this is some… chaebol chess move you’re planning?” 

Minji didn’t answer at first. Her eyes were on the city lights passing by, reflected in the tinted window like small floating shards. 

“I don’t feel guilty,” she finally said. “I didn’t bully her.”

“But you didn’t stop it either.” 

Minji exhaled, slow, nose flaring slightly. Dani wasn’t accusing, just stating it like she always did, soft and sincere.  

“No,” Minji admitted. “I didn’t.” 

The car turned into the main road, neon signs painting streaks of color across Minji’s face. Dani watched the way Minji’s hands tightened on her lap, the only tell she’d give. 

“It’s Wonyoung, isn’t it?” Dani said gently. 

Minji closed her eyes, just for a second. 

“…she’s getting worse.” 

Dani’s expression softened immediately. “Her mother again?” 

Minji didn’t nod, but she didn’t deny it either. 

“She’s bothered,” Minji said. “She’s furious all the time. And the more unstable her home gets… the more she needs control somewhere else.” She rubbed her temple. “And Yujin became the outlet. I don’t want her to end up like her mom.” 

Dani frowned, worried. “But Minji… a challenge? A bet on grades? Will that even help? What if it makes everything worse?” 

“It might,” Minji said plainly. “But right now, everything is already worse.” 

Silence filled the car for a beat. 

Minji looked down at her hands, remembering Wonyoung laughing with Ningning earlier. 

“She needs something she can win,” Minji said quietly. “Something she can focus on that isn’t destroying another person. If she and Yujin compete academically… she will feel more angry, but if she doesn’t stop, she might do things she might regret later. Her father is already worried about her, and always asked me to look after Wonyoung.” 

Dani slowly nodded. “And if Yujin loses, she leaves.” 

“Yes. And Wonyoung gets the closure she thinks she wants.” 

“And if Yujin wins?” 

Minji let out a humorless breath. 

“Then maybe Wonyoung finally stops it,” she said. “Because losing in front of everyone hurts her pride more than anything.” 

Dani leaned back in her seat, absorbing that. 

“Do you think Yujin can really win?” she asked. 

Minji didn’t hesitate. 

“Yes.” 

Dani blinked. “Really?” 

“Wonyoung is smart,” Minji said. “But Yujin… Yujin studies like her life depends on it. Because it does.” She exhaled. “And honestly? Yujin might be the only person who can make Wonyoung grounded.” 

Dani grew quiet, chewing on her bottom lip. 

“…Minji?” 

“Hmm?” 

“You’re not doing this just for Wonyoung, right?” 

Minji looked out the window again — the reflection of her own face staring back, unreadable. 

“…No,” she said finally. “I’m doing it because we all know this can’t continue. Someone will get hurt. And I’m not letting it be someone innocent.”

Dani nodded slowly. 

“Okay,” she said softly. “Then… I’ll help.” 

Minji turned to her, surprised. “You will?” 

“Yeah.” Dani gave a small, lopsided smile. “Just tell me what to do.” 

The car continued down the road toward Janghwa’s wealthy district, two elite girls sitting in silence — both knowing that the party would be a battlefield, and that they had just chosen their side.  

***

The walk home felt longer than usual. 

Maybe it was the cold air, maybe it was the weight in her chest, or maybe it was Minji’s voice replaying in her head — “dare Wonyoung… top 1… she’ll leave you alone.” 

By the time Yujin and Hanni reached their tiny apartment, the hallway lights flickering above them, Yujin’s palms were sweating. 

Inside, the cramped room felt safe. Familiar. Shoes by the door, Hanni’s hair clips scattered on their single desk, the faint scent of laundry detergent clinging to their drying uniforms. 

Hanni flopped onto her bed with a sigh, but the second she saw Yujin’s expression, she sat up straight. 

“Yujin… what happened?” 

Yujin swallowed, clutching the strap of her bag. “There’s… something I have to tell you.” 

Hanni’s eyes sharpened immediately — worry first, then suspicion.

“What did they do this time?” 

Yujin sat beside her, staring at her hands. “You remember Ningning’s party this Saturday?” 

“Yes.” Hanni’s face twisted. “Obviously. The whole school won’t shut up about it.” 

Yujin nodded. “Well… Minji and Dani came to ahjumma Kim’s shop tonight.” 

Hanni’s jaw dropped. “They what?” 

Yujin held up both hands quickly. “They weren’t rude. They didn’t do anything bad. They just… talked.” 

Hanni’s brows furrowed, her voice rising. “Yujin, that is suspicious. Why would they go to your workplace? What if it’s a setup? What if they want you to feel safe so you’ll go to the party? What if they’re doing this for Wonyoung?” 

Yujin looked down. “Minji said she paid for the one-million won chicken prank.” 

“What?” Hanni’s eyes widened. “She paid for it?” 

“And Dani apologized.”

Hanni stood up, pacing the length of their tiny room — three steps one way, three steps back. 

“Yujin, this is bad. I don’t like this. What if this is all Ningning’s idea? Or worse, what if Wonyoung told them to lure you?” 

Yujin’s stomach twisted. “I know. I thought about that too.” 

“So why are you even thinking about going?” Hanni asked, voice shaking. “It’s a club full of drunk teenagers, and they already hate us. What if they do something to you? Or to me? What if—” 

“Hanni.” Yujin’s voice was quiet.

Hanni stopped pacing. 

Yujin exhaled shakily. “Minji… asked me to challenge Wonyoung.” 

Hanni stared. “…challenge her? For what?” 

“For the top exam score.” Yujin rubbed her palms together. “If I get top 1, Wonyoung and her friends leave us alone. Completely. But if Wonyoung wins… I leave Janghwa.” 

Hanni froze, horror dawning. 

“No.” Her voice cracked. “Yujin, no. That’s insane.” 

“I know,” Yujin whispered. “I know.” 

“What if you lose? What if they cheat? What if—” 

“Hanni.” Yujin’s voice trembled now. “I’m tired.” 

Hanni’s anger deflated into something softer — hurt, worry, love. 

Yujin’s fingers shook as she spoke. “I’m tired of walking through the halls knowing something might happen every second. I’m tired of having things thrown at me. I’m tired of seeing you hurt and scared. I’m tired of feeling like we don’t belong anywhere.” Her eyes glistened faintly. “I just… want it to end.” 

The room was quiet except for the faint buzz of their old refrigerator. 

Hanni sat beside her slowly, gripping Yujin’s hand. 

“But risking everything?” Hanni whispered. “You could be expelled. You could lose everything you’ve worked for since Cheongha-ri.” 

Yujin nodded, swallowing. “I know.” 

Hanni squeezed her hand tighter, almost painfully tight. 

“Then don’t go,” Hanni said. “We’ll survive with two uniforms. We’ll survive the bullying. But I can’t lose you. I won’t let Wonyoung take Janghwa from you.” 

Yujin looked at her, conflicted, torn in half.

Minji’s words echoed in her head. “If you want this to stop, the party is the only place to do it.” 

Hanni’s voice echoed too.

“I won’t let Wonyoung take Janghwa from you.” 

Yujin closed her eyes. 

The weight settled on her chest like a stone. 

She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know what to choose. She just knew the choice was coming. 

And she was terrified. 

***

At the Kim family estate, sunlight streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows as Winter stood in front of her walk-in closet — a literal glass-walled room bigger than Yujin’s whole apartment. 

Dozens of dresses hung in perfect color gradients — icy blues, silvers, velvets, satin. 

Winter chewed her lower lip, holding two dresses up to her reflection. 

A white silk one-shoulder. A navy velvet slip. 

“Hm,” she murmured, tilting her head. “Which one says ‘I’m better than you but I don’t need to try’…” 

She tossed the navy one aside. 

Her phone buzzed. 

Ningning – ‘Be ready by 8. Don’t look cheap.’ 

Winter scoffed. “Since when have I ever?” 

She slipped into the white dress, the fabric shimmering like fresh snow, and gave herself a small satisfied smile. 

***

Meanwhile, in a luxury mall, Yuna strutted through a designer store with three shopping bags already in hand. 

She stopped in front of a display of glittering stilettos. 

“Show me these in a size 240,” she told the staff, pointing at a pair with crystal straps. “Actually—all the colors.” 

Her phone lit up with the group chat.

Winter: Which lipstick are you using tonight?

Yuna: Depends which boy I’m ruining after the party.

She smirked as staff laid out five boxes for her. She bought all of them without blinking.   

***

At Dani’s house, her room looked like a bomb of clothes had exploded. 

Dresses on the bed, shoes on the carpet, hangers hanging off the lamp. 

Dani twirled in front of Minji wearing a sparkly lavender top and ripped white jeans. 

“What about this?” Dani asked, grinning. “We would look cute matching!” 

Minji sprawled on the bed, unimpressed. “You look cute. I will not wear lavender.” 

“But Minjiiii, it’s pastel night!” Dani whined, shoving another outfit at her. “Please? Just try it?” 

Minji rolled her eyes so hard it was audible. 

“Dani. No. I’m not dressing like a K-pop dancer for Ningning’s sake.” 

Dani pouted. “You’re no fun.” 

Minji sat up, smoothing her hair. “I’m focused. Tonight is important.” 

***

At an upscale salon, Ningning lounged in a chair with foils in her hair and three stylists attending to her. 

She flipped through her phone lazily, checking the status updates from her party staff. 

Food? Imported wagyu sliders, done.

Drinks? Eight crates of champagne, done.

DJ? Booked.

Security? Briefed to let in only who she personally approves. 

Ningning smirked slightly. 

“Make the curls bigger,” she told the stylist. “Tonight needs main-character energy.” 

Her phone buzzed again: 

Winter: “Is Wonyoung okay for tonight?”

Ningning: “She will be. She just needs… monitoring.”

Yuna: “Monitoring? She’s not a toddler.”

Ningning: “No, but she’s dramatic.” 

She smiled wider. 

Tonight was going to be fun. 

***

In her penthouse bedroom, Wonyoung sat perfectly still with a cold gel face mask hugging her skin. Her long hair was pinned back.

She stared at her reflection — glowing skin, soft lips, eyes sharp even without makeup. 

Her phone sat on the vanity, dozens of messages from her clique lighting up the screen. 

She didn’t look at them. 

She didn’t need to. 

Tonight, everything would fall into place. 

She touched the mask lightly, her expression unreadable. 

“Finally,” she whispered to herself, “you’ll be gone.” 

***

Their tiny dorm apartment was the complete opposite of the elite girls’ worlds — cramped, warm, and cluttered. 

Yujin and Hanni sat cross-legged on the floor in front of their small cabinet, the doors wide open. 

Inside were maybe six shirts, two skirts, three sweaters, and a couple of jeans. 

Hanni held up a simple black cardigan. “Should we just… go like this?” 

Yujin bit her lip. “It’s too plain. They’ll laugh.” 

Hanni tossed it aside and pulled out her nicest dress — a simple cream one she wore to the entrance exam. “What about this?” 

Yujin hesitated. “Isn’t that too formal?” 

“Ugh. I don’t know.” Hanni flopped back on the floor. “Maybe we shouldn’t go.” 

Yujin nodded slowly. “Yeah… maybe we shouldn’t.” 

They sat in silence for two seconds. 

Then Yujin got up again. “Maybe just a sweater and skirt is fine?” 

But as soon as she held it up, her confidence deflated. 

“No. This looks like we’re going to church.” 

Hanni groaned loudly. “This is hopeless!” 

They paced, sat down, stood up again. 

Go? 

Don’t go?

Go?

Don’t go? 

It looped endlessly. 

Yujin scratched the back of her neck, looking at the mess of clothes at their feet. 

“We don’t have anything nice to wear,” she whispered. “And even if we did… I don’t know what’s waiting for us there.” 

Hanni nodded slowly. “And we only have an hour left to decide.” 

They both sank to the floor again — a pair of exhausted teenagers stuck between fear, pride, and the crushing desire to survive. 

Outside, the world of the rich spun on in glitter and confidence. 

Inside, two girls sat on the floor of their tiny room, paralyzed by a decision that could change everything. 

The sun was already dipping behind the dorm buildings when the landline phone in their tiny room suddenly rang — a sharp, unexpected sound that made both Yujin and Hanni flinch. 

Hanni, sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded by rejected outfit options, blinked. “…who would call us?” 

Yujin crossed the room and lifted the receiver. 

“There are deliveries here under An Yujin’s name. Several bags.”

Yujin froze. Deliveries? For her?  

“Yes—yes, I’ll come down,” she said quickly. 

Hanni scrambled to her feet. “Yujin, what? Deliveries? From who?”

Yujin could only shrug, a knot tightening in her stomach. “Maybe… clothes? Or Ningning’s uniforms?” 

They both exchanged a nervous look.

***

When Yujin stepped out of the elevator, the receptionist pointed at the front desk. 

A small mountain of branded paper bags sat neatly arranged — glossy, heavy, expensive-looking.

“Sign here,” the receptionist said. 

Yujin bowed awkwardly, collected the bags, and walked back to the elevator with her arms full.

By the time she reached the room, she was breathless. 

Hanni opened the door fast. “Holy—Yujin, that’s a lot!” 

They carried everything inside, dumping the bags on the bed. 

Yujin pulled open the first paper bag. Her eyes widened. 

Inside, a pair of white minimalist sandals, a sleek pair of black sneakers with a tiny designer logo. Even Yujin who never cared about brands recognized how expensive they looked.
Hanni checked another bag and gasped. “Yujin… this is foundation. Real foundation. The expensive one. And blush. And lip tint. And—oh my god, this isn’t convenience store makeup.” 

Yujin opened a long box containing carefully folded clothing. 
Black fitted pants. A crisp white top and a leather jacket, with a small bottle of perfume tucked beside it.

She touched the jacket like it was a holy relic. 

“This… this is too much,” she whispered. 

Then Hanni found the last bag — and pulled out a dress. 

“Yujin… this is my size.” 

“Try it,” Yujin said. 

“I’m scared to touch it.” 

Hanni noticed it first, a small envelope tucked between the clothes. She pulled it out and opened it. 

Inside, a card with neat handwriting.

For tonight. these seem your style. -Minji & Dani. 

The girls froze. 

Hanni inhaled sharply. “You’re joking.” 

Yujin wasn’t joking. She sat down on the bed, staring at the outfits — the sneakers, the jacket, the perfume and felt her heartbeat spike. 

“I—uh…” Yujin scratched the back of her neck, overwhelmed. “These are all branded… real ones. They probably cost more than our entire dorm room.” 

Hanni nodded slowly, eyes wide as she held the dress up against herself. “It’s beautiful. But… why are they giving us these?” 

Yujin let out a shaky exhale. 

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “But we should take care of everything. Very carefully.” She ran her fingers over the leather jacket again. “We’ll… we’ll have to return them later.” 

Hanni sat beside her, holding the dress in her lap. 

“Yujin,” she said gently. “These aren’t rented. Nobody returns clothes like this.” 

Yujin shook her head. “We should. These cost a fortune. And— I don’t want them to think we’re taking advantage.” 

Hanni looked at her friend — tired, nervous, overwhelmed and sighed. 

***

The back entrance of the club didn’t look like much from the street — just a quiet alley guarded by two men in black suits, a coded gate, and a single red light above the door. 

But every Janghwa student knew. This was where Ningning’s infamous party would unfold. No outsiders. No cameras. No witnesses. 

Inside, the bass thumped deep and heavy, echoing through the walls like a heartbeat. Lights flickered through the small window above the metal door — shadows dancing, bodies moving, secrets being born. 

Outside, the arrival of the rich squad began. 

A black Genesis G90 eased into the alley, headlights briefly illuminating the wet pavement. 

Minji stepped out first — clean lines, black dress, her hair tied back neatly. Dani followed, fixing her cardigan nervously, she kept glancing around, even though the guards clearly recognized them. 

Then, a white Porsche Cayenne pulled up next, loud music playing inside but muffled once the doors opened. 

Winter emerged sharp and quiet, adjusting her dress. Yuna stumbled out behind her, already laughing under her breath — slightly tipsy, slightly loud for the tiny alley. 

“Yuna,” Winter hissed. “Shh. Calm down.” 

Yuna promptly whispered instead of talking normally. “Sorry sorry sorry— okay I’m calm now.” 

They scanned their invitations at the door and slipped inside. 

A Rolls-Royce Cullinan slid into the alley like royalty trying not to be seen. 

Ningning got out slowly, hair glossy and curled, dress glittering under the dim alley light. 

The guards straightened instantly. 

“Welcome back, Miss Ning Yizhuo.” 

Finally, a limousine appeared — its engine silent, its windows dark. Even in a secret alley with no audience, Wonyoung’s presence felt… heavier. 

Her driver opened the door, and Wonyoung stepped out like a blade — sharp, cold, gleaming. 

A champagne slip dress, minimal jewelry, hair cascading effortlessly. 

Minji had already come back to the doorway, arms crossed, waiting. 

“Finally,” Minji whispered. 

Wonyoung didn’t answer.

She just scanned the entrance, eyes calculating, hungry with anticipation. 

“Is she here yet?” Wonyoung asked. 

Minji shook her head. “Yujin? No. She’s late.” 

Wonyoung’s smile was slow… pleased. 

“Good,” she murmured. “Let the party warm up. I want everyone ready when she finally shows her face.” 

She stepped inside, swallowed by the pulsing lights. 

***

Back in their small apartment room, the light overhead flickered softly, casting warm shadows against the plain walls. 

Shopping bags lay open on the bed — paper rustling, plastic crinkling, luxury spilling awkwardly into a space that had never been meant for it. 

Hanni stood in front of the narrow mirror first. 

The dress hugged her gently, soft fabric falling neatly against her frame. Hanni tugged at the hem, clearly uncomfortable, turning slightly from side to side. 

“Yujin,” she muttered, “this feels… wrong. Like I borrowed someone else’s life.” 

Yujin, sitting on the edge of the bed, looked up. 

She froze for half a second. 

Then her expression softened. 

“You’re beautiful,” Yujin said simply. 

Hanni blinked. “Huh?” 

Yujin stood and walked over, fixing the strap on Hanni’s shoulder with careful fingers. “Not just ‘pretty.’ You look… really beautiful.” 

Hanni’s ears turned red instantly. 

“Stop,” she whispered, embarrassed, trying to hide her face as she laughed nervously. “Don’t say things like that.” 

Yujin grinned, satisfied, then stepped back. “I’m serious.” 

They switched places. 

Yujin pulled on the black pants first, the fabric fitting her easily, then shrugged into the leather jacket. It sat perfectly on her shoulders, sharp and clean. She ran a hand through her hair and glanced at her reflection. 

Hanni looked up and stopped breathing for a second. 

“You look…” she began, then blurted, “handsome.” 

The word slipped out before she could stop it. 

Yujin turned slowly, eyebrow raised, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Handsome, huh?” 

Her dimples appeared as she smirked, unmistakable and unfair. 

Hanni covered her mouth, mortified. “I didn’t mean— I mean I did mean— I—” 

Yujin laughed softly. “Relax. I’ve heard that my whole life.” 

She gestured to her reflection. “People back home always said I looked like a boy anyway.” 

Hanni frowned. “That’s not what I meant.” 

Yujin tilted her head. “Then what did you mean?” 

Hanni didn’t answer. She couldn’t. 

Instead, she looked away, cheeks burning, heart racing in a way she didn’t understand how to explain. 

The room fell into a brief, fragile silence. 

Two girls. Two borrowed outfits. One decision neither of them had fully made yet. 

Yujin glanced at the clock on the wall. 

They were still going back and forth. Still unsure. 

***

At the club, an hour had already slipped by. 

The music throbbed through the floor, bass vibrating up the legs, lights cutting the dark into flashes of neon and shadow. The place was full — Janghwa students packed shoulder to shoulder, laughing too loudly, dancing too close, pretending they weren’t minors because tonight felt untouchable. 

But there was a very specific absence. 

Minji stood near the bar, a soda untouched in her hand. Dani lingered beside her, pretending to scroll through her phone. They kept glancing at each other — not obvious, not dramatic — just quick looks, the kind that carried a whole sentence without words. 

Where is she?

Is she coming? 

Every few minutes, Minji’s eyes drifted toward the entrance. 

Nothing. 

On the other side of the club, Wonyoung sat perched on a velvet couch, one leg crossed elegantly over the other. She looked flawless, too flawless like she’d dressed for a victory photo rather than a party. But her fingers tapped impatiently against her thigh, nails clicking in sharp, irritated beats. 

Ningning leaned against the table nearby, inspecting the paper bags at her feet. Four neatly folded uniforms inside. Two sets for Yujin. Two for Hanni. Perfect sizes. Prepared in advance, like props waiting for actors who hadn’t shown up yet. 

“This is boring,” Ningning muttered, glancing at the time on her phone. “What’s the point if she doesn’t come?” 

She took a slow sip of her drink, eyes flicking to the entrance again, then away. 

Wonyoung’s jaw tightened. 

“She didn’t say she will come,” Winter corrected calmly from where she stood, arms crossed, watching the crowd like an observer rather than a participant. “She never confirmed.” 

Yuna, already tipsy, flopped dramatically onto the couch beside Wonyoung, laughing a little too loud. “Maybe the farm girl chickened out,” she slurred. “Can’t blame her. This place is intimidating.” 

Wonyoung shot her a sharp look. “She wouldn’t.” 

Her voice was firm but there was something underneath it. Irritation. Suspicion. A creeping fear that things weren’t moving the way she wanted them to. 

Across the room, Dani shifted uncomfortably. 

She hated this part. The waiting. The not knowing. 

Her gaze slid to the entrance, then back to Minji. Her lips pressed together, worry flickering openly across her face. 

“Maybe it’s better if she doesn’t come,” Dani said quietly, almost to herself. “I don’t think I can handle watching it.” 

Minji didn’t answer right away. 

She followed Dani’s line of sight to the door, then checked her phone again — no new messages. Her expression stayed neutral, but her grip tightened slightly around her cup. 

“She’ll come,” Minji said finally. “Yujin isn’t the type to run.” 

Around them, the party kept swelling — laughter spilling over, bodies moving, drinks changing hands. To everyone else, it was just another wild night. 

But for the people who knew.

This wasn’t a party. 

It was a stage. 

And the main character was late. 

***

After thirty minutes, the heavy doors finally swung open. 

For a split second, nothing changed — the bass still throbbed through the walls, lights still strobed in red and violet, bodies still pressed together on the dance floor. Then Yujin and Hanni stepped inside, and the night subtly shifted around them. 

They entered slowly, fingers laced tight, knuckles almost white. It was their first time in a place like this, and it showed — not in fear, but in caution. The air was thick with perfume and alcohol. Music pounded so loud it felt less like sound and more like pressure, vibrating in Yujin’s chest, rattling behind her ribs. Hanni leaned closer instinctively, her shoulder brushing Yujin’s arm, grounding herself in that familiar presence. 

They didn’t let go. 

They had promised — no wandering, no separating, no matter what. Side by side, always. 

As they moved forward, conversations around them stuttered. A few dancers slowed. A couple of heads turned. Someone whispered a name, unsure at first, then more confidently. Recognition spread not like a shockwave, but like heat — quiet, creeping, inevitable. 

The scholar is here.

Yujin kept her gaze forward, jaw set, posture straight. The leather jacket sat stiff on her shoulders, unfamiliar but protective, like armor she wasn’t used to wearing. She could feel the looks anyway — curious, mocking, confused, anticipatory. Hanni squeezed her hand once, a silent check-in. Yujin squeezed back. 

Upstairs, in the private lounge, the mood shifted instantly. 

“She’s here.” 

The words were enough. 

Wonyoung’s head lifted first, eyes sharp and bright as they flicked toward the staircase. A slow smile curved her lips, one she didn’t bother hiding. Ningning leaned back in her seat, dessert fork pausing midair before she laughed softly, satisfied. 

“Perfect,” Ningning said, like the final piece had just clicked into place. 

Wonyoung’s smile widened. Certain. This was how it was supposed to go. She had imagined this moment too many times not to enjoy it now. 

Across the room, Minji exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. 

Relief washed over her first — quick and fleeting. Yujin came. She actually came. 

 Then tension followed immediately after, coiling tight in her chest. 

Now it started. 

Minji’s gaze sharpened, scanning the room below, tracking where Yujin and Hanni stood near the edge of the dance floor, close to the wall, clearly out of place and painfully aware of it. Minji straightened slightly, her instincts kicking in. From this moment on, she couldn’t afford to relax — not for a second. 

One wrong move. One drink. One person getting too close.

Downstairs, the music surged again, swallowing the moment whole. 

Yujin took one more step forward, still holding Hanni’s hand, unaware of how many eyes were already measuring her, waiting for her to slip. 

***

Minji: I’ll find you later. Stay near the bar. 

Yujin stared at the message, the letters blurring for a second. Her thumb hovered uselessly over the screen, trembling just enough that she noticed. She didn’t reply. She just slipped the phone back into her pocket and exhaled slowly through her nose, like she’d been taught to do when panic threatened to show on her face. 

“Yujin?” Hanni murmured, leaning closer so she could hear her over the music. 

“She says… stay near the bar,” Yujin said quietly. 

Hanni nodded once, jaw tightening. Neither of them moved. 

Invitations came anyway — passing students waving them over, laughing too loudly, shouting that they should dance, drink, loosen up. Yujin pretended not to hear. Hanni pretended to smile. They stayed where they were, backs near the wall, hands brushing whenever the crowd shifted too close. 

That was when Ningning decided to stop waiting. 

She appeared with Winter at her side, black hair gleaming under the club lights, expression sweet enough to be convincing if you didn’t know better. Ningning’s smile widened when she saw Yujin, like she’d expected this exact picture. 

“You actually came,” Ningning said warmly, eyes flicking once to Hanni before settling back on Yujin. “I’m so glad.” 

Winter stood just half a step behind her, quiet, observant, gaze unreadable as it skimmed over the two girls. 

Upstairs, in the private lounge, Wonyoung had moved to the railing. She stood there, hands resting lightly on the glass, looking down at the dance floor below like it was a stage set just for her. Her eyes locked onto Yujin almost immediately. 

She didn’t blink. 

On the couch behind her, Yuna had curled onto her side, heels kicked off, eyes closed — half-asleep, tipsy and bored, the noise washing over her in waves. 

Downstairs, Minji felt it before she saw it. 

Her stomach dropped. 

She grabbed Dani’s wrist and pulled her along, weaving through the crowd with purpose, eyes already scanning for Yujin’s leather jacket, Hanni’s dress. She needed to be close. Needed to see everything. 

Ningning gestured toward the bar. “Drinks?” she offered lightly. “It’s free.” 

Yujin’s shoulders stiffened. “We’re fine,” she said quickly. “We don’t really drink.” 

“Oh,” Ningning said, unbothered. “We have non-alcoholic too.” 

Yujin hesitated. 

She could already feel it — Ningning wouldn’t let this go. Not without making it obvious. Not without turning it into something else. Around them, a few curious glances lingered, waiting to see what the scholar girl would do. 

So Yujin nodded once. 

“Okay,” she said. “That’s fine.” 

Minji, just reaching the edge of the bar, nearly stopped breathing. 

Her heart slammed hard against her ribs as she watched Ningning pass two glasses across the counter, her movements casual, practiced. Minji’s fingers twitched at her side, every instinct screaming, but she forced herself not to interfere, not yet. 

Yujin took the glass, the condensation cold against her palm. She didn’t drink. She didn’t even lift it properly. She just held it there, letting it look right, letting it blend into the scene the way Ningning wanted it to. 

Hanni did the same. 

Ningning’s eyes lingered on them, sharp beneath the smile. Then she glanced at her phone, tapping the screen once before looking back up. 

“Twenty-five minutes,” she said lightly. “That’s all you have left. Then you and your friend get the new uniforms.” 

Her gaze met Yujin’s, unblinking. 

“Easy, right?” 

Somewhere above them, Wonyoung’s lips curved faintly as she watched. 

And Minji stood close enough now to count every second, knowing that from this moment on, there was no room for mistakes. 

***

A few moments later…

Yujin was still standing. 

Still upright. Still moving. 

From the private lounge above, Wonyoung leaned against the railing, her manicured fingers tightening around the glass in her hand. Her eyes never left Yujin — the way she swayed with the crowd, the way she laughed at something Hanni said, the way she didn’t look like someone who should’ve been gone by now. 

Ningning clicked her tongue softly beside her. “…Interesting.” 

Wonyoung turned, irritation sharp in her gaze. “How much has she had?” 

Ningning tilted her head, counting in her mind. “Enough. More than enough for someone who claims she doesn’t drink.” 

Below them, Yujin lifted her cup again. 

What they didn’t see was the way her wrist angled just slightly wrong — how the liquid slid past her lips and down the side of the cup instead. How, when the crowd surged and bodies pressed in, she let the rest spill harmlessly onto the floor. Later, near the edge of the dance floor, she laughed and leaned back, tipping what remained into a potted plant tucked beside a speaker. 

The plant drank more than she did. 

Winter, lounging on the couch with one arm draped over the backrest, snorted as she watched. “Maybe farm girl’s built different.” 

Yuna giggled from her spot, eyes half-closed. “Country tolerance, I guess.” 

But Wonyoung didn’t laugh. “That’s not normal,” she said quietly. “She should be dizzy by now.” 

She exhaled through her nose, annoyed. This wasn’t how tonight was supposed to go. Yujin was meant to unravel — to stumble, to embarrass herself without being asked. 

Instead, she was still there. 

Ningning straightened, setting her glass aside.  “We switch to the special drinks.” 

Winter raised an eyebrow. “Oh?” 

From above, Wonyoung finally smiled again. “Good,” she said. “I’m tired of waiting.” 

***

Ningning leaned closer to Wonyoung, her smile never leaving her lips as the lights pulsed blue, then violet.

“Bartender’s on it,” she murmured. “And a few of the seniors too. Whatever she gets now, it’s the special batch.” 

Wonyoung’s gaze stayed fixed on the dance floor below, on the tall girl in black leather who still hadn’t broken.

“One more problem,” she said quietly. 

Hanni. 

They both watched as Yujin instinctively angled her body toward Hanni, like a shield, every time someone passed too close. As long as they were together, nothing landed cleanly. No pressure stuck. No opening stayed open. 

Winter glanced at the time on her phone. “Fifteen minutes,” she muttered. “Maybe less.” 

If they did nothing, Yujin would leave. With the uniforms. With her spine straight. Untouched. 

That couldn’t happen. 

Downstairs, Hanni leaned close to Yujin’s ear, her voice barely audible over the bass.

“I’m just going to the restroom,” she said. “I’ll be quick.” 

Yujin nodded immediately. “I’ll wait right outside.” 

They moved together through the crowd, hands brushing until the hallway narrowed. The restroom door flickered under a strobe light, bodies slipping in and out. Yujin stopped just outside, planting her feet, back to the wall, eyes trained on the door like an anchor point. 

She exhaled. 

The hallway filled suddenly — girls laughing too loudly, someone stumbling, a group squeezing through all at once. Yujin shifted to give them space, shoulders brushing strangers. She glanced back at the restroom door. 

Still closed. 

Then the DJ cut the beat for half a second, just long enough to breathe— 

And slammed it back in twice as loud. 

The bass jumped. The walls vibrated. The hallway surged like a wave. 

People poured out of the restroom, others pushed in, bodies colliding. Someone grabbed Yujin’s wrist, laughing, thinking she was part of the flow. 

“Hey—” Yujin started, trying to pull back. 

Another hand caught her other arm. 

“Dance floor’s this way!” a voice shouted, already moving. 

Yujin dug her heels in, but the floor felt strange — too slick, too tilted. She tried to call out Hanni’s name, but the music swallowed it whole. The hallway compressed, then released, and suddenly she was moving whether she wanted to or not. 

She twisted, searching for the restroom door. 

Gone behind bodies. 

“Wait—I’m waiting for someone,” she said, louder now, but it came out rough, her tongue heavy in her mouth. 

No one heard. 

Hands at her elbows, her shoulders — guiding, pulling, not cruel, not kind, just careless. The crowd carried her forward, away from the wall, away from the hallway, away from the one person she hadn’t let go of all night. 

The lights opened up into the main floor. Heat hit her face. The bass crawled up her spine. 

Yujin stumbled once, caught herself, heart slamming hard enough to make her dizzy. 

It’s fine, she told herself. Just get back. Just push through. 

But the crowd closed in again, denser now, louder, and somewhere upstairs, unseen, someone smiled as the distance between Yujin and the restroom door disappeared completely. 

Yujin’s chest felt tight long before Ningning appeared. 

The hallway outside the restroom had turned into chaos — music bleeding through the walls, bodies pressing past each other, perfume and sweat and alcohol thick in the air. Someone had pulled her arm, laughing, dragging her toward the center of the floor like it was harmless fun. She’d shaken them off, but in the confusion, Hanni was gone. 

Yujin stood there, scanning faces that blurred together, her pulse loud in her ears. She said the restroom. I was right outside. I was right there. Guilt crawled up her spine, sharp and cold. What if Hanni was looking for her now? What if she panicked? 

“Yujin.”

Ningning stepped into her line of sight like she’d been there all along.

Her hair was perfect, glossy black under the lights, her expression calm in a way that felt almost unnatural against the noise. She tilted her head, eyes sweeping over Yujin with casual precision. 

“You look pale,” Ningning said, already holding out a glass. “Sit. Drink this.”

Yujin stiffened.

“I’m fine,” she said automatically, though the words felt thin even to her own ears.

Ningning ignored that. She glanced around, then back at Yujin, lowering her voice just enough to feel private. “Where’s Hanni?” 

The question landed harder than the bass thumping through the floor.

Yujin swallowed. “She—she went to the restroom.”

Ningning hummed, as if that explained everything and nothing at the same time. “Then sit. You’re shaking.”

Yujin wasn’t shaking. She told herself she wasn’t. But when she looked down, her fingers curled too tightly around the hem of her jacket, knuckles pale. 

Her instincts screamed at her to refuse. Every warning Minji had drilled into her replayed in her head — don’t drink, don’t eat, don’t trust anyone but the room felt like it was closing in. People were watching now. Not openly, but enough. Refusing a drink now, after she’d already accepted glasses earlier, would turn heads. It would invite questions. It would make Ningning linger.

And Yujin needed Ningning gone.

If Ningning left, she could look for Hanni.

“Just a few sips,” Ningning said lightly, as if reading her hesitation. “For the vibe. You don’t have to finish it.”

Yujin exhaled through her nose. Fine. She could handle that. She always had. She took the glass, the cool condensation dampening her palm. 

She didn’t down it. 

She lifted it, took a careful sip then another, slightly bigger, the liquid brushing her lips, warm and sharp. The taste was stronger than before, bitter beneath the sweetness, but she forced herself to swallow. Her throat felt dry. The room felt too loud. 

Across from her, Ningning tipped her own glass back without hesitation, chugging it easily. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and smiled at Yujin, slow and satisfied, like this was nothing more than a friendly toast. 

“See?” Ningning said. “Easy.” 

Yujin nodded, even as something uneasy settled in her stomach. She handed the glass back after a few more sips, her head already feeling oddly light — not spinning yet, not enough to alarm her, just… off. Like the floor had shifted half an inch to the side. 

“Okay,” she said quickly. “I’m going to find Hanni.” 

Ningning stepped aside smoothly, too smoothly. “Of course. Don’t wander too far.” 

Yujin didn’t reply. She was already moving, pushing through the crowd, heart thudding harder now — not from fear of Ningning, but from the growing pressure behind her eyes. 

Ningning reached behind her, fingers hooking around the handle of a paper bag resting near the couch. 

“Oh—before you go,” she said lightly.

Yujin paused. 

Ningning placed the bag into her hands. It was heavier than she expected, the paper stiff, clean, expensive. Through the opening, Yujin caught the familiar sight of folded fabric sealed in plastic — navy blazers, skirts and more items, the Janghwa crest gleaming faintly under the lights. 

“Four sets,” Ningning said. “Two for you. Two for Hanni. Tailored already.” A smile curved her lips. “A deal’s a deal. You stayed.” 

Relief hit Yujin so suddenly it made her dizzy in a different way. 

“Thanks,” she said, voice steady through effort. “I’ll… get Hanni. Then we’ll leave.” 

Ningning waved a hand, indulgent. “Of course. Don’t rush.” 

Yujin clutched the bag tighter and turned, urgency surging now. She needed Hanni, now. Needed to show her the uniforms, needed to find Minji, needed to go upstairs, face Wonyoung, end this night on her own terms before her body betrayed her. 

She took two steps. The floor dipped. 

Just slightly. Enough that she noticed. 

She frowned, blinking, and forced herself forward, disappearing into the crowd with the paper bag pressed to her side like an anchor. She didn’t notice the way Ningning watched her go, eyes glinting under the lights, the empty glass still cool in her hand. Watched the way Yujin’s shoulders stiffened, how her walk lost a fraction of its sharpness. Watched her disappear into the mass of bodies and light and sound. Ningning exhaled, slow and satisfied. 

“She won’t last,” she murmured to no one in particular. “Ten minutes, maybe less.” 

She lifted her gaze to the second floor. 

Wonyoung stood at the railing of the private lounge, one hand resting on the glass barrier, her silhouette elegant and still. Their eyes met across the chaos below. 

Ningning picked up a fresh glass, raised it just enough to be seen, and smirked.

A toast. 

To inevitability. 

Upstairs, Wonyoung’s lips curved. She didn’t hesitate. She lifted her glass and drank it in one smooth motion, eyes never leaving the dance floor where Yujin had vanished. 

Tonight, this finally ends. 

***

Hanni pushed the restroom door open and immediately froze. 

The hallway she’d left barely a minute ago was gone, swallowed by bodies and noise. The bass had been turned up so loud it vibrated in her chest, lights flashing in disorienting bursts of red and blue. Students poured in from every direction, laughing, shouting, stumbling into one another. Someone brushed past her shoulder. Another clipped her elbow. A drink sloshed dangerously close to her shoes. 

“H-hey—sorry,” someone yelled, already gone. 

Hanni’s eyes darted around instinctively. 

“Yujin…?” she called, but her voice was eaten by the music. 

Panic crept in, sharp and cold. Yujin had been right outside. She knew she had. Hanni stepped forward, craning her neck, pushing gently through the crowd, her heart pounding faster with every second that passed. 

Where are you? 

A body collided into her from the side, warm liquid splashing against her arm. She gasped and staggered back and nearly ran straight into someone else. 

“Whoa — sorry,” Minji said, grabbing her elbow before she could lose her balance. 

Hanni blinked up at her, relief flooding her face for half a second before worry snapped back in. “Minji… have you seen Yujin?” 

Minji’s expression tightened instantly. “No. I was just looking for her.” Her eyes swept the hallway, sharp and scanning. “She was with you, right?” 

“She was waiting outside the restroom,” Hanni said quickly, voice trembling despite herself. “But when I came out… she was gone.” 

Minji swore under her breath. “Fuck.” 

The word was almost lost under the music, but Hanni heard it and it scared her more than anything else.

“I lost her too I was just upstairs,” Minji said, already moving, pulling Hanni along with her. “The crowd surged all at once. Ningning’s people are everywhere.” 

Hanni clutched the hem of her dress, forcing herself to keep up. “It’s almost thirty minutes,” she said, breathless. “We’re supposed to leave. Yujin said we’d leave as soon as we got the uniforms.” 

“I know,” Minji replied, jaw set. “That’s why we have to find her now.” 

They pushed deeper into the chaos, shoulders brushing strangers, lights flashing too bright, too fast. Somewhere nearby, people cheered. Glass clinked. Laughter broke out, careless and cruel. 

Minji leaned closer so Hanni could hear her over the music. “If we don’t get to her first,” she said grimly, “Ningning will.” 

Hanni swallowed hard and nodded, fear settling heavy in her chest as she scanned the sea of unfamiliar faces again. 

Yujin had promised not to leave her side. 

And now she was gone. 

Minji leaned in close, her voice tight but steady. “Split up. You check the other hallway on the other side, check the rooms, anywhere she might’ve ducked into. I’ll go upstairs and see if I can hear anything.” Her eyes locked onto Hanni’s. “If you find her, don’t argue. Take her to the first room in the right hallway.”

Hanni nodded, fingers curling into the fabric of her dress. “Okay.” 

They separated into the crowd. 

Hanni didn’t look at the dance floor again. She forced herself not to. Yujin wouldn’t be in the middle of that chaos, not if she had a choice. Instead, Hanni scanned the edges. Hallways half-swallowed by darkness, doors slightly ajar, places where the noise dulled just enough to breathe. 

She moved fast. 

The first door creaked open to a cramped room washed in neon light. Two girls were pressed together on a couch, oblivious, laughter muffled between kisses. Hanni flushed and closed it quickly. 

The second room smelled sharp and sour — alcohol and something burnt. Someone lay passed out on the floor, shoes kicked off, another girl sitting against the wall scrolling through her phone like nothing was wrong. 

Hanni’s stomach twisted. 

The third room had smoke clinging to the ceiling, thick and bitter. A group of students lounged around, coughing, laughing, waving her away without even looking. 

Then — movement. 

Down the hallway, she caught sight of a familiar silhouette: long black hair, confident stride, head tilted like she owned the place. 

Ningning. 

Hanni’s breath caught instantly. She ducked behind a corner, pressing herself flat against the wall just as Ningning passed by, heels clicking lazily against the floor. Ningning didn’t look around.

Hanni peeked out just enough to watch her. 

Ningning stopped near the far end of the corridor, at a door that looked more like a service entrance than a party room. She knocked twice and slipped inside. 

Hanni’s pulse spiked. 

Maybe Yujin is there. 

She waited a few seconds, then crept closer but instead of following directly, she noticed a narrow backdoor slightly ajar near the end of the hall. Cool air drifted in from outside. Heart pounding, Hanni eased it open and slipped out. 

The noise from the club dulled instantly. 

She found herself in a narrow alley - like space, concrete under her shoes, a single window set high in the wall beside her. Light spilled through it — warm, flickering. 

Hanni swallowed and rose onto her toes, carefully peeking inside. 

Her stomach dropped. 

Ningning stood near a low table with a few girls Hanni didn’t recognize. The room was hazy with smoke. Ashtrays overflowed. On the table lay lighters, rolled bills, thin sheets of foil — white powder dusted carelessly across the surface like it didn’t matter. 

This wasn’t a regular party.

This was worse. 

Hanni’s hands began to shake. 

She scanned the room desperately. No Yujin. Not here. 

She was about to pull away — fear screaming at her to leave, when a thought struck her so suddenly it almost made her dizzy. 

Leverage. 

Ningning’s face was clear in the window. Clear enough. This wasn’t something the school could ignore. This wasn’t something Wonyoung’s group could brush off if it got out. 

Hanni’s jaw set. 

She slid her phone out with trembling fingers, steadied it against the wall, and started recording. She didn’t zoom in too much — just enough to capture faces, the table, the smoke curling thick in the air. Ningning laughing. Someone lighting up. White powder disappearing under a careless swipe. 

A moment later, Winter stepped into frame, expression unreadable as she leaned against the wall, clearly familiar with the scene. 

That was enough. 

Hanni stopped recording, heart racing so loud she was sure they’d hear it through the glass. She slipped her phone back into her pocket and stepped away from the window, breath coming fast and shallow. 

Yujin still wasn’t found. 

If they won’t tell me where Yujin is, she thought grimly, then I’ll make them. 

***

Minji pushed through the heavy door of the private lounge, the bass from downstairs muffled into a distant, ominous thrum. The air up here was different — quieter, colder, perfumed with expensive alcohol and arrogance. Wonyoung stood near the railing with a glass in hand, posture relaxed, chin lifted like she was watching a play unfold exactly as rehearsed. Yuna was sprawled across a couch, half-asleep, Winter leaned against the wall scrolling idly, and Dani hovered nearby, tense, fingers wrapped too tightly around her cup. 

She didn’t bother with pleasantries. 

“Where’s Ningning?” she asked. 

Wonyoung didn’t even turn her head at first. She simply tilted her glass downward, nodding toward the railing. 

“Down there.” 

Minji stepped closer, her heart already sinking before she even followed Wonyoung’s gaze. 

On the dance floor below, the crowd surged and pulsed as one living thing. Lights strobed. Bodies collided. And right there, in the middle of it all, was Yujin — too still, too upright, eyes sharp but guarded. Ningning stood close to her, smiling brightly, one hand extended with a drink glinting under the lights. 

Minji’s nails dug into her palm. 

Wonyoung finally spoke again, amused. “I’ll admit, I didn’t expect the farm girl to last this long.” A soft laugh slipped from her lips. “I thought she’d be on the floor by now.” 

Winter snorted faintly. “She’s built tougher than she looks.” 

Wonyoung hummed. “Still. No need to take chances.” She swirled the liquid in her glass. “So we upgraded.” 

Minji’s breath hitched. 

Upgraded. 

Her eyes stayed locked on Yujin as Ningning said something — too close, too intimate for the noise around them and pressed the glass into Yujin’s hand. Yujin hesitated. Just for a second. Long enough for Minji’s chest to ache with hope. 

Don’t drink it, Minji pleaded silently. Please. 

Yujin lifted the glass. 

Not all at once. Just a few careful sips. Measured. Controlled. 

Ningning, meanwhile, threw her own drink back without hesitation, tilting her head and swallowing it all in one go. She grinned afterward, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand like it was a challenge. 

Minji’s stomach twisted. 

Wonyoung chuckled softly beside her. “Did she really think she could come here, take what she wants, and leave in peace?” She clicked her tongue, disappointed rather than angry. “Free uniforms, no consequences. How naive.” 

Minji said nothing. She couldn’t. Her throat felt sealed shut. 

Down below, Ningning finally stepped away, disappearing into the crowd like she’d already lost interest. Yujin lingered for a moment, scanning the room, shoulders tense then she turned and began pushing her way out of the center of the dance floor. 

Minji followed her with her eyes, pulse roaring in her ears. 

Go. Go now. Find Hanni. 

But then Yujin vanished from view, swallowed by bodies and flashing lights. 

Minji swore under her breath. 

“Shit.” 

She turned abruptly, already moving toward the door. 

Wonyoung’s voice stopped her. “Where are you going?” 

Minji forced herself not to flinch. She turned back, schooling her expression into something casual, something bored. “Drink,” she said lightly, lifting her empty glass. “I’m out.” 

Wonyoung studied her for a beat, eyes sharp, suspicious but then she smiled again, slow and lazy. “Don’t take too long.” 

Minji nodded and slipped out before her composure could crack. 

The moment the door closed behind her, the smile vanished. 

She took the stairs two at a time, heart pounding, one thought cutting through the noise in her head.

I have to find Yujin. Before they do. Before the drugs start to take effect.

***

Yujin stumbled out of the densest part of the dance floor, the world tilting sideways the moment the music thinned just a little. It hit her all at once — not like drunken warmth, not like the slow fog she expected but a sharp, nauseating rush, as if someone had flipped a switch inside her skull. 

Her head felt light. Too light. Her limbs followed half a second late, feet barely registering the floor beneath her shoes. 

No. Not now. 

She tightened her grip around the paper bag slung over her arm — the uniforms inside crinkling softly, absurdly loud to her ears. The sound seemed to echo. Everything echoed. The bass. The laughter. Her own breath, suddenly shallow and wrong. 

Her vision blurred at the edges, lights stretching into long, smeared lines. Faces passed her — some familiar, some not and then she realized they weren’t just passing. 

They were watching. 

A couple of girls trailed her, phones raised casually, screens glowing. Someone laughed too loudly. Another voice slurred, “Is she okay?” in a tone that made it clear they hoped the answer was no. 

“Go… away,” Yujin muttered, though it came out softer than she meant, swallowed by the music. She tried again, pushing through them. “Move.” 

She caught herself against a wall, palm sliding uselessly over cool concrete. Her skin felt wrong — too hot, then too cold. Her heart hammered fast and uneven, like it couldn’t decide what rhythm to keep. Sweat prickled at the back of her neck, nausea rising sharp and sudden, her mouth filling with bitterness. 

I didn’t drink that much. 

The thought came with a flash of panic. 

She hadn’t. She knew she hadn’t. Fake sips. Spilled drinks. Pouring them out when no one was looking. She had been careful — so careful. But now her tongue felt thick, her jaw heavy, her head buzzing like it was stuffed with cotton and static. 

It dawned on her slowly, dread sinking in her chest. 

All those fake sips. The liquid just touching her lips. Lingering. Swallowed without her noticing. The stronger ones. The last drink. 

It had crossed some invisible line. 

Yujin fumbled for her phone, hands clumsy, fingers not quite obeying her brain. The screen swam as it lit up. She squinted, blinking hard, trying to focus. 

Hanni. 

She knew where the name was supposed to be. Muscle memory failed her. Letters blurred into each other. She tapped the wrong contact. Then another. Her thumb slipped, sweat-slick, the phone almost sliding from her grasp. 

A laugh burst out nearby. 

“Look at her,” someone said. “She’s wasted.” 

Another voice chimed in, cruel and delighted. “Didn’t expect that from the scholarship kid.” 

Yujin’s jaw clenched. Anger flared — hot, familiar but it had nowhere to go. Her body wouldn’t follow it. Her legs shook. Her vision dimmed again, a wave of dizziness crashing through her so hard she had to bend slightly at the waist, breathing through it, teeth grit. 

Minji. 

The thought surfaced unbidden. 

Challenge her. Don’t back down. 

A bitter almost-laugh bubbled in her chest. How? She could barely stand. Going upstairs felt impossible, like climbing a mountain with her bones turned to water. 

She forced herself to lift her head. 

Up on the private lounge, framed by glass and light, Wonyoung stood at the railing. 

Watching. 

Perfectly steady. Perfectly composed. A faint smirk curved her lips, like this — this exact moment was what she’d been waiting for all night. 

Something inside Yujin snapped into terrible clarity. 

So this was it. 

The dizziness surged again, stronger now. Her ears rang. Her heart raced, then skipped, then thudded hard enough to make her chest ache. The floor seemed to breathe beneath her feet, rising and falling. She swallowed, fighting the urge to gag, fighting the heaviness dragging her downward. 

I’m going to fall, she thought distantly. Any second now. I will lose my scholarship.

Her gaze drifted — unfocused, searching for anything to anchor herself to and then she saw it. 

The DJ booth. 

The platform stood just a short distance away, elevated slightly above the crowd. Lights pulsed behind it. And there — mounted on the stand, gleaming under neon was the microphone. 

Yujin’s fingers tightened around the bag of uniforms. 

Her head swam. Her knees trembled. 

But something sharp cut through the haze, cutting cleaner than fear. 

I need to do it, she thought, breath hitching, before I pass out.

She took one unsteady step toward the booth. 

***

Wonyoung had finally settled back into the couch, one leg crossed over the other, the tension she’d been carrying all night loosening at last. The private lounge felt warmer now. Dani sat beside her with a glass in hand, shoulders stiff, eyes flicking now and then toward the railing that overlooked the dance floor below. 

Yuna had half-lifted herself from where she’d been sprawled earlier, still heavily tipsy, eyes unfocused, hair clinging to her cheek. Winter was gone, Ningning too. Wonyoung had already texted. 

where are you 

A few seconds passed. Then the reply came. 

back soon 

Wonyoung didn’t bother asking more. 

She took another sip from her glass, unhurried. The burn of alcohol barely registered. Downstairs, the party roared on — lights flashing, bodies moving, music relentless. Somewhere in that chaos, Yujin was stumbling through what Wonyoung had already decided was the inevitable end. She didn’t need to watch it happen. That part was boring. 

The others would do it for her. 

Someone would film it. Someone would laugh. Someone would catch the moment the scholar finally cracked — vomiting into a trash can, collapsing against a wall, crying, begging, making a fool of herself. It didn’t matter which version. Any of them would work. Evidence was evidence. Humiliation was humiliation. 

Free uniforms didn’t come without a price. 

Wonyoung tilted her glass toward Dani. “Cheers,” she said lightly, like this was just another party, another small victory already secured. 

Dani hesitated for a fraction of a second before clinking her glass against Wonyoung’s. “Cheers,” she echoed.

Wonyoung drank anyway, long and smooth, already tasting the satisfaction of tomorrow. Of silence in class. Of rumors spreading before Yujin could even defend herself. Of teachers looking away. 

She was already thinking past this. 

Then the music stuttered. 

Not stopped — just disrupted. A sudden scrape of sound, sharp and wrong. A hand tapping metal. Once. Twice. 

Feedback shrieked through the speakers. 

Wonyoung frowned faintly, annoyance flickering across her face. The DJ booth lights blinked. The bass cut out entirely, leaving the room suspended in a hollow, ringing quiet. 

Voices below faltered. Laughter died mid-breath. 

Then through the speakers, distorted and uneven — a voice came through. 

Unstable. Rough around the edges. Too close to the mic. 

“Jang… Wonyoung.” 

Not shouted. Not confident. But clear enough. 

The glass paused halfway to Wonyoung’s lips. 

For a heartbeat, she didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. 

Then she slowly turned her head toward the railing. 

Toward the dance floor below. 

***

Minji pushed through the crowd on the first floor, her expression tight, eyes constantly scanning faces that blurred together under the strobe lights. The music was still loud, still pulsing through her bones, but her mind felt strangely quiet.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. 

Yujin wouldn’t be able to challenge Wonyoung like this. Not now. Not with whatever Ningning had slipped into that drink finally taking effect. Minji knew the signs too well — the delayed hit, the sudden dizziness, the way confidence crumpled without warning. Yujin had been strong, careful, clever. But clever only worked up to a point. 

And Minji had pushed her here anyway. 

She’d been the one who told Yujin she had to come. The one who framed it as strategy, as necessity. Thirty minutes. In and out. She’d promised she would watch her. That she wouldn’t let anything happen. 

She failed. 

Minji’s fingers curled into fists at her sides as she weaved past dancing bodies, past laughing girls with flushed faces and drinks sloshing dangerously close to the rim. She checked corners, hallways, the edges of the floor where people went to hide when things got too much. Every second felt like another chance for Wonyoung or worse, her followers to get there first. 

I need to find her, Minji thought. Get her home. Driver. Now. Before this turned into something that couldn’t be undone. 

Across the floor, Hanni moved more cautiously, clutching her bag to her chest like it was the only solid thing in the room. Her phone was inside, heavy with what she’d seen — photos, video, proof. Leverage. But it didn’t comfort her. 

All she could think about was Yujin. 

Yujin who had always stood in front of her without hesitation. Yujin who chased away kids twice their size when they mocked Hanni’s accent, her clothes, her shyness. Yujin who never once let her walk home alone. And now, now Hanni was the one searching, pushing through strangers while the lights spun and the music swallowed her voice. 

She felt unbearably small in the crowd. Alone in a way she hadn’t felt since they were little. 

They were supposed to leave together. 

Hanni turned sharply and nearly collided with someone. Minji.

“Where’s Yujin?”

“Have you seen Yujin?” 

They spoke at the same time, the words overlapping, identical in panic. 

They froze, staring at each other for a split second, the answer already clear in the space between them. 

No. 

Hanni tightened her grip on her bag, knuckles whitening. Minji swore under her breath. 

Then the music broke. 

A harsh screech of feedback sliced through the air, sharp enough to make people wince. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. The DJ booth lights flickered. 

And through the speakers, unstable and too close, a voice echoed. 

“Jang… Wonyoung.” 

Hanni’s head snapped up. 

Minji’s blood ran cold. 

They both turned toward the booth. 

There — standing under the harsh lights, hands gripping the microphone was Yujin. 

She was swaying slightly. Her posture was wrong. Her face pale, eyes unfocused but burning with something raw underneath. The uniforms were clutched against her side like she’d forgotten she was holding them. 

Every eye in the club was on her now. 

And Minji knew, with a sick twist in her chest, that whatever happened next.

There was no stopping it anymore. 

***

Wonyoung stood the moment her name cut through the air. 

The private lounge had been loud just seconds ago — laughter, clinking glasses, Dani’s nervous half-smile but now everything thinned into a single point. She stepped toward the railing, one hand still holding her drink, the other already tightening at her side. Dani followed instinctively, fingers trembling as she rested them on the glass barrier, eyes wide as she looked down. 

The moment her name echoed through the club, something fundamental shifted. Students sensed it before they understood it, like animals feeling pressure change before a storm. Heads turned. Conversations snapped shut. Phones lifted, not consciously at first, then deliberately — screens glowing as lenses locked onto the DJ booth.

Below them, on the DJ booth that was never meant to hold a person, Yujin stood with a microphone clutched in both hands. 

She didn’t look triumphant. She didn’t look brave. She looked like she was borrowing time she didn’t have. She looked wrong there. Too tall, too still, like a figure placed where it didn’t belong. The lights washed her in harsh white and pulsing blue, catching on the sheen of sweat at her temples, the way her pupils struggled to focus. The leather jacket weighed on her shoulders like armor she’d outgrown in the last hour. 

Say it, she told herself. Before your legs give out. Before your tongue does. 

Her shoulders were tense, as if she were holding herself upright by force alone. The leather jacket sleeves swallowing her wrists. Her head dipped for half a second, chin nearly touching her chest, before she lifted it again — slowly, like the motion hurt. 

Her fingers tightened around the mic. It vibrated faintly in her grip, feedback humming like a warning. Below her, the crowd pressed closer, curiosity sharpening into hunger. 

“I—” Her voice cracked immediately. 

A ripple went through the room. Someone laughed, then stopped when she didn’t recover right away. 

“Is she going to sing?”

Yujin swallowed. The taste in her mouth was wrong — chemical, bitter, layered over alcohol she knew she hadn’t drunk. Her head felt light, detached, like it was floating a second behind her body. The floor tilted. She widened her stance without thinking, grounding herself the way she did on the basketball court. 

One sentence at a time. 

“I’ve been targeted,” she said again, louder now, forcing the words out with her breath, “since my first day here.” 

Phones rose higher. 

Minji stood frozen in the middle of the dance floor, her breath caught when she saw it — how Yujin’s eyes weren’t quite focusing, how her blinking lagged, how her mouth kept parting like she needed more air than she was getting. 

Hanni stood beside Minji, clutching her bag. Her heart slammed against her ribs. That was Yujin’s voice but stripped raw, exposed, nothing like the steady one that used to tell her it’s okay, I’ve got it. 

“I’m tired,” Yujin continued. 

Her knees threatened to fold. She leaned forward, forearm braced against the booth, breath coming shallow now. The crowd leaned with her, instinctively, like they could keep her upright by watching hard enough. 

“I don’t want to fight,” she said, quieter, almost swallowed by the space. “I just want to study. Graduate. Walk. Eat. Breathe without someone waiting to ruin it.” 

Upstairs, Wonyoung’s expression sharpened. 

Behind her, Yuna had sobered enough to stare. Dani’s lips parted, hands shaking around her glass. Ningning appeared at the edge of the first floor with Winter, irritation still on her face from the music cutting out until she saw the DJ booth. Ningning’s steps slowed. Her gaze flicked immediately to the bundle tucked under Yujin’s arm, the neatly wrapped uniforms. A student approached her if they should stop Yujin, Ningning shakes her head. Her interest on what Yujin has to say sparked instead.

Yujin lifted her head. 

The movement made her dizzy — white sparks bursting at the edges of her vision but she forced her eyes upward. She found Wonyoung instantly. Of course she did. Standing above everyone else. Watching. Untouchable. 

Look at her, Yujin thought. Don’t look away. 

“The exams,” she said, and the word dragged, heavy on her tongue. “Next month. Before winter break.” 

Her grip slipped. She re-caught the mic with a sharp inhale, fingers numb now, clumsy. 

“The rankings,” she went on. “Number one.” 

The club was silent enough to hear her breathing — ragged, uneven. 

Her free hand lifted, fingers trembling as she braced herself against the edge of the booth. The room tilted, just a little and she waited it out, jaw clenched, eyes squeezed shut for a heartbeat before she forced them open again. 

“Winner gets peace.” 

A murmur surged, then died as quickly as it came. Phones zoomed in. Someone whispered holy shit. 

“If I win,” Yujin said, voice shaking but eyes locked on Wonyoung, “you leave me and Hanni alone.” 

Hanni’s breath hitched. Her eyes burned. 

“You,” Yujin added, forcing the words out as her vision blurred again, “your friends. And everyone who thinks hurting people is a game.” 

Wonyoung’s hand curled slowly against the railing. 

Then Yujin stopped. 

Too long. 

Her head dipped. For a terrifying second, it looked like that was it — that she’d slump forward, that the moment would dissolve into pity. 

No. 

Yujin clenched her jaw until it hurt. The room spun violently now, her heartbeat roaring in her ears. She tasted bile. Her legs trembled so hard she thought they might snap. 

Finish it. 

She raised the mic one last time. It felt impossibly heavy. 

“And if you rank higher than me,” she said, each word deliberate, carved out of what little strength she had left, “I’ll leave Janghwa High.” 

The sentence landed like a blade. 

For half a second, no one moved. 

Wonyoung’s jaw tightened. How dare she. How dare she stand there like this, swaying, barely holding herself together, and think she could dictate terms. 

Then Yujin’s fingers gave out. 

The mic clattered against the booth, the sound echoing like a gunshot. Her body followed — knees buckling, vision collapsing inward as the lights smeared into colorless streaks. 

Hanni screamed. 

Phones captured everything — the fall, the uniforms slipping from Yujin’s arm, the way her body hit the platform and didn’t get back up. 

Gasps tore through the club. 

Chapter Text

Hanni doesn’t remember deciding to move. 

One second she’s frozen on the edge of the dance floor, the next she’s shoving through bodies, elbows and shoulders and spilled drinks, her name ripping out of her throat as she breaks toward the stage. 

“Yujin—!” 

Someone curses as Hanni bumps into them. Someone else laughs, unsteady. The music is still cut, but the room isn’t quiet — there’s a low, ugly roar of voices, phones raised, whispers colliding. 

Hanni reaches the booth and drops to her knees. 

Yujin is crumpled there, the microphone still clutched loosely in her hand. Her head lolls to the side when Hanni touches her, too heavy, too slack. Her skin feels wrong.

“Yujin,” Hanni says again, softer now, panic breaking through her voice. She cups Yujin’s cheek, taps it lightly. “Hey. Look at me. Yujin.” 

Nothing. 

Hanni shakes her shoulders, harder this time. Yujin’s body moves but doesn’t respond, like a doll. The paper bag with the uniforms has fallen beside her, the handles twisted, one sleeve peeking out.

Hanni’s chest tightens. 

She’s not just passed out. 

Around them, the crowd presses closer instead of backing away. 

“Is she dead?”

“No way, she’s just wasted.”

“What the hell did she just say?”

“Did you record that?” 

The words blur together, sharp and careless. Phones hover above them like insects, recording, lights blinking. 

Hanni looks up, eyes wild. “Stop—stop filming—!” 

No one listens. 

On the dance floor, Minji stands exactly where Hanni left her. 

Every instinct in her screams to run, to push past everyone and get to Yujin but she doesn’t. She can’t. Too many eyes. Too many people who would remember. 

Instead, Minji lifts her gaze and locks eyes with one of the bodyguards she hired near the wall. 

He’s big, sober, not dancing. 

He notices her immediately. 

Minji gives a single, sharp nod. 

That’s all. 

Her hand is already shaking as she pulls out her phone.

Side entrance. Now.

She doesn’t wait for a reply. 

Up on the stage, staff finally start to move, murmurs turning uneasy as reality sets in. Two security members climb up, hesitating when they see Yujin’s condition. 

“She’s underage,” Minji says, her voice cutting cleanly through the noise as she steps closer, calm and cold and loud enough to carry. “If something happens to her here, this club is done. And every single person here.” 

That lands. 

The laughter dies. The whispers falter. 

Drunk teenagers glance at each other, faces paling as the words sink in — underage, club, finished. Someone lowers their phone. Someone else steps back. 

The crowd finally parts. 

Security lifts Yujin carefully, her head falling forward, hair slipping across her face. Hanni makes a broken sound and grabs her hand instantly, fingers locking around Yujin’s like she’s afraid she’ll disappear if she lets go. 

“I’m coming with her,” Hanni says, tears spilling freely now. Her voice shakes, but her grip doesn’t. “I’m not letting go.” 

No one argues. 

As they carry Yujin down from the stage, the room watches in stunned silence — no music, no cheering, just the weight of what just happened pressing down on everyone. 

Hanni walks beside them, crying openly, whispering Yujin’s name over and over.

 Yujin’s weight is half on the staff’s arms, half on nothing at all — her body limp, head lolling slightly with every step. Hanni’s fingers are locked around Yujin’s hand so tightly her knuckles ache, like if she loosens even a little, Yujin might disappear. The music has been cut now, replaced by noise — voices, shoes scraping, laughter that hasn’t realized yet that this isn’t funny. 

As they move through the crowd, whispers follow them like smoke. 

“She’s so done.”

“Isn’t she on scholarship?”

“If there’s a video, she’s finished.”

“Underage too, right?”

“Janghwa won’t let that slide.” 

Hanni’s chest tightens. Her ears ring. For a second, she can barely hear anything except the rush of blood in her head. She looks down at Yujin’s face — pale, slack, lashes resting against her cheeks and something in her snaps. 

She remembers Cheongha-ri. 

Yujin standing in front of her when older kids mocked her accent.

Yujin taking the blame when she broke a window they couldn’t afford.

Yujin always stepping forward first, always saying, It’s fine. I’ll handle it. 

Hanni swallows. 

No, she thinks. Not this time. 

Her steps slow. Just for a moment. Enough that the staff carrying Yujin glance back, confused. Hanni doesn’t look at anyone’s face. She can’t. If she meets someone’s eyes — Wonyoung’s friends, the rich girls, anyone confident and cruel — she knows her voice might die in her throat. 

So she stares straight ahead. 

And she screams. 

“LISTEN.” 

Her voice tears through the murmurs, raw and shaking but loud enough that the hallway quiets in uneven waves. Heads turn. Phones pause mid-air. 

Hanni doesn’t look at them. 

“If anyone posts a video of her,” she says, breath hitching, words tumbling out fast before fear can catch up, “if anyone tries to get her in trouble at Janghwa—” 

Her grip tightens around Yujin’s hand. 

“I will post mine too.” 

A pause.

“The videos. The pictures. From the private rooms near the end of the hallway.” 

She squeezes her eyes shut as she says it, like bracing for impact. 

Silence ripples, then breaks into whispers. 

“What private room?”

“What is she talking about?”

“Wait… that room?”

“That’s where the stuff was coming from, right?”

“No way—” 

Some students look confused, blinking, trying to piece it together. Others go pale, expressions tightening as understanding clicks into place. A few glance instinctively toward the far end of the first floor, toward the hallway everyone pretended not to notice tonight. 

Ningning freezes. 

Her playful, bored smile falters just slightly, but enough. Her eyes flick sideways. 

Winter is already looking at her. 

Their gazes meet across the chaos, across the bodies and the noise and the sudden tension hanging in the air. Winter’s brows knit together, her mind racing, a cold realization creeping in. 

Is that what she means?

Does she really have it? 

Ningning’s smile fades completely. 

Interest drains from her face. Her jaw tightens, eyes narrowing toward Hanni’s back. She doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t scoff. 

She knows. 

Around them, phones slowly lower. Not all of them but enough. Enough to make the room uncomfortable.

Hanni exhales shakily, her whole body trembling now that the words are out. She doesn’t wait for a response. She doesn’t look back. 

She just keeps walking. 

Hanni stays glued to Yujin’s side, tears spilling down her cheeks as they pass through the doors. 

She doesn’t know what happens next. 

She only knows one thing.

No one is touching Yujin tonight. 

***

The room they put Yujin in was too clean and too quiet — nothing like the chaos she had been dragged out of. 

Soft lamplight washed over the wide bed in one of the Marshall residence’s guest rooms. The curtains were half drawn, city lights muted into a distant blur. Machines hummed gently at Yujin’s side. A heart monitor ticking out a steady rhythm, a blood pressure cuff wrapped around her arm, an oxygen line resting beneath her nose. An IV stand stood like a silent sentinel beside the bed, clear fluid dripping slowly into her vein. 

Yujin lay still. 

Her skin had lost that frightening gray pallor from earlier, color slowly returning to her cheeks, but she looked impossibly small like this — lashes resting against her face, brow faintly creased as if even sleep couldn’t quite smooth the tension out of her. Her fingers twitched once, weakly, before going slack again. 

Hanni sat on the couch pulled close to the bed, one hand wrapped tightly around Yujin’s. She hadn’t let go since they arrived. Her thumb traced the same small circle over Yujin’s knuckles again and again. If she stopped touching her, she was afraid something terrible might happen. 

Minji and Dani stood near the foot of the bed. Dani’s arms were folded tight across her chest, her usual brightness gone, replaced by a brittle stillness. Minji stood straighter, face calm, composed but her jaw was clenched so hard it ached. 

The doctor finished adjusting the IV flow and stepped back. 

She was older, composed, clearly used to situations that needed discretion. A private physician — no hospital records, no questions asked beyond what mattered. She glanced once more at the monitors, then turned to them. 

“She’s stable now,” the doctor said quietly. 

Hanni’s breath hitched. “S-stable…?” Her voice cracked despite her effort to keep it steady. 

“Yes.” The doctor nodded. “Her breathing has evened out, heart rate is normalizing, and her blood pressure is no longer dropping. She’s no longer at risk of slipping into a coma.” 

The words landed like a release valve. Dani exhaled shakily. Minji closed her eyes for half a second. 

Hanni squeezed Yujin’s hand tighter, tears finally spilling over. “She’s going to be okay?” 

“She is,” the doctor said gently. “You did the right thing calling me immediately. Another hour or two without intervention, and this could have gone very differently.” 

Minji swallowed. “What did you do for her?” 

“Right now, it’s supportive care,” the doctor explained. “IV fluids to help her body process what’s in her system, oxygen to make sure her brain is getting enough supply, and continuous monitoring. We’ve drawn blood and urine samples — I’ll have those tested at my clinic. I’ll update you once we know exactly what was in her drink.” 

Hanni’s stomach twisted at the word drink. 

“She didn’t drink that much,” Hanni said weakly, as if still trying to make sense of it. “She barely drank…” 

“That’s common in these cases,” the doctor replied. “What she was given was likely a depressant combined with alcohol. Even small amounts can accumulate, especially over time. It builds quietly. By the time symptoms appear, the body has already crossed a threshold.” 

Hanni looked down at Yujin’s face, guilt crashing over her in waves. 

The doctor continued, voice calm but firm. “There’s no instant way to ‘flush’ this out. Her liver and kidneys will do that naturally. What we’re doing is keeping her safe while her body clears it.” 

She gestured lightly to the IV. “The fluids help support that process. We’ll keep her hydrated, monitor her vitals, and manage symptoms as they come.” 

Minji spoke then. “How long?” 

“For the next four to eight hours,” the doctor said, “she may wake up briefly, fall back asleep, or wake confused. Headache, nausea, dizziness — those are all expected. She might not remember everything clearly.” 

Hanni nodded, tears dripping silently onto the back of Yujin’s hand. 

“Within twenty-four hours,” the doctor continued, “the substance will mostly be out of her system. She’ll still feel weak and foggy. Full recovery, physically should take one to three days.” 

Physically. 

The word hung there, unspoken things filling the space around it. 

“She’s lucky,” the doctor added softly. “Very lucky someone was watching her.” 

Hanni bent forward, pressing her forehead briefly against the mattress near Yujin’s arm, shoulders shaking. “She always watches out for me,” she whispered. “Always.” 

Minji looked away, guilt burning behind her eyes. Dani stared at the floor, fists clenched. 

“I’ll stay on call tonight,” the doctor said, gathering her things. “If her breathing changes, if she becomes unresponsive, or if you notice anything unusual — call me immediately.” 

She paused at the door, glancing back once more at Yujin. 

“Let her rest,” she said. “Her body needs it.” 

The door closed softly behind her. 

Hanni didn’t move. She stayed right there, holding Yujin’s hand, until the machines kept proving what she needed to believe. 

Yujin was still here. 

The room settles into a fragile quiet after the doctor leaves. 

The door clicks shut softly, like even it knows better than to make noise.

Dani clears her throat first. “I had one of the guest rooms prepared,” she says gently, gesturing down the hall. “You can rest there. I’ll have someone bring blankets—” 

Hanni shakes her head before Dani can finish. Tears slide down her face unchecked, her grip tightening around Yujin’s hand.

“I’ll stay here,” Hanni says, voice breaking. “I can sleep on the couch. I don’t care.” 

Dani hesitates. “Hanni… are you sure?” 

Hanni nods, hard. Final. 

Minji and Dani stand side by side at the foot of the bed. Neither of them speaks. They don’t need to. The hum of the IV pump fills the space between them, steady and unforgiving, like a metronome counting every bad decision backward. 

Minji’s hands curl into fists at her sides. Her nails dig into her palms, grounding her, punishing her. 

This is my fault. 

She had said it would be fine.

She had said she would protect Yujin.

She had believed, stupidly that she could control the situation. 

Minji exhales slowly. “We’ll be in my room,” she says, keeping her voice level. “If you need anything. Anything at all. Call us.”

Hanni doesn’t look at her at first.  

Then she does. 

Her eyes are red, swollen, shining with something sharper than tears. 

“You told her it would be fine,” Hanni says. Not loud. Not accusing. Just broken. “You told her you’d protect her.” 

The words land heavy in the room. 

Minji doesn’t flinch. 

She nods once. “I did.” 

Silence stretches. 

“This is on me,” Minji continues quietly. “I won’t deny it.” 

Hanni’s shoulders shake as she cries harder, her forehead lowering until it rests against the edge of the bed, close to Yujin’s unmoving hand. 

“I thought…” Minji swallows. “I thought Ningning would just push drinks. Intimidation. Humiliation. I didn’t think she’d go that far.” Her voice tightens despite herself. “I didn’t think she’d drug her.” 

Dani turns away abruptly, pacing a step before stopping, hands raking through her hair. “This is insane,” she mutters. “This is way too far. This isn’t a joke, this isn’t a party—this is—” She cuts herself off, jaw clenched. “This is wrong.” 

The word hangs there, inadequate but true. 

Then Dani stills. 

She looks back at Hanni, really looks at her this time. At the way she’s clutching her bag. At how careful she’s being not to let it fall. 

“What you said back there,” Dani asks slowly. “About posting videos.” She hesitates. “What were you talking about? Were you bluffing?” 

Hanni stiffens. 

Her fingers tighten around the strap of her bag. For a moment, she looks like a cornered animal — unsure, scared, calculating. She doesn’t answer right away. 

Minji notices. 

“You don’t have to tell us,” Minji says immediately, stepping in before Dani can push further. Her tone is calm. “But if you do have something—anything, keep backups. Multiple. Cloud. Offline. Copies.” 

Hanni lifts her head slightly, eyes flicking to Minji. There’s fear there. 

Minji meets her gaze without blinking. “Don’t trust that one copy is enough.” 

Hanni nods, just once. 

The room falls quiet again. 

Machines hum. Yujin breathes. Alive. Stable. 

***

The private lounge no longer felt like a throne room. 

The bass from downstairs had dulled into a distant throb, like a headache that refused to go away. Half-empty glasses cluttered the low table. Someone had turned the lights up — not bright, but bright enough to make everything look less flattering, less glamorous. The aftermath always did. 

Wonyoung sat on the couch with her legs crossed, posture still perfect, but her jaw was tight. Yuna slouched beside her, blinking slowly, the fog in her eyes finally thinning. Winter stood near the window, arms folded around herself, staring at the city lights as if they might offer answers. Ningning leaned against the counter, scrolling through her phone, irritation flickering across her face every few seconds. 

Silence stretched, uncomfortable. 

Wonyoung broke it. 

“What was that about?” she asked coolly. “What Hanni said.” 

Ningning didn’t look up. “Which part?” 

“The threat,” Wonyoung snapped. “The videos. The private room.” 

Winter turned around too fast. “She wasn’t bluffing,” she said, voice tight. “She knew where it was. She mentioned the room at the end of the hallway.” 

That finally got Ningning’s attention. She lifted her head, eyes sharpening. “You don’t know that.” 

“I do,” Winter said. Her fingers curled into the sleeves of her dress. “Because that room wasn’t random. We were there. And if she really took a video—” 

Her voice cracked, just slightly. 

“My family can’t afford that,” Winter continued, more quietly now. “My grandfather is a general. My dad is a general. My brother’s active duty. This isn’t just school trouble for me. This is… real trouble.” 

Yuna straightened a little, sobering further. “Wait,” she said. “Like, actual trouble?” 

“Yes,” Winter shot back. “Not just detention or suspension. Real consequences. It will ruin my family’s reputation.”

Ningning clicked her tongue, annoyed. “You’re spiraling. For all we know, she was just trying to scare people.” 

“Or she wasn’t,” Winter said. “She didn’t even look confident when she said it. She looked desperate. People don’t bluff like that to us unless they have something.” 

Wonyoung watched the exchange, eyes narrowing — not at Winter, but at Ningning. 

“What did you put in Yujin’s drink?” she asked. 

Ningning scoffed. “Relax.” 

“She passed out,” Wonyoung said sharply. “We all saw it.”

Ningning shrugged, too casual. “Minji handled it, didn’t she? She always does. People pass out at parties all the time. They wake up.” 

Winter’s gaze snapped to her. “That wasn’t just alcohol.” 

Ningning’s smile thinned. “It was enough.” 

“That’s not an answer,” Wonyoung said. 

For the first time, Ningning looked mildly offended. “You wanted her drunk. You wanted her humiliated. This was all you. That’s what happened.” 

Wonyoung’s fingers curled against her knee. “I wanted leverage. I wanted proof. I wanted her gone from my school. I didn’t say put actual drugs in her body.”

 “And?” Ningning raised an eyebrow. “She’s not dead.” 

Winter flinched at the word. 

Yuna swallowed. “Can we not say it like that?” 

That edge in the room sharpened the moment Winter stopped pacing and turned fully toward Wonyoung. 

“This didn’t come out of nowhere,” Winter said. “You were the one who wanted her drunk. You were the one who said tonight was the night.” 

Wonyoung’s eyes flicked up, offended. “I didn’t say to overdose her,” she snapped. “I didn’t tell anyone to use real drugs.” 

Ningning let out a short, humorless laugh. “Oh, come on.” 

Wonyoung stood slightly straighter. “I thought it would just be alcohol. Or something mild. Sleeping pills, maybe. Enough to make her sloppy. Not—” She cut herself off, jaw tight. “Not this.” 

Winter stared at her, disbelief creeping in. “You really think that makes it better?” 

Ningning pushed herself off the counter and stepped closer, irritation finally spilling over. “Don’t pretend you didn’t know,” she said. “You of all people should know what happens when you mix anything with alcohol.” 

Wonyoung’s expression flickered. 

The implication hung there, ugly. 

Winter glanced between them, then looked away. 

Ningning exhaled through her nose. “So don’t act shocked now. This is what happens when you push things.” 

Wonyoung’s fingers trembled slightly before curling into fists. “Yujin isn’t dead,” Ningning added flatly. “Minji said she’d take care of it. She always does. So what exactly are you panicking about?” 

“I’m not panicking,” Wonyoung snapped. 

“You are,” Winter said quietly. “You just don’t want to call it that.” 

Yuna shifted on the couch, rubbing her eyes, her earlier sharpness dulled by exhaustion. “Can we… not explode at each other right now?” she murmured. “My head hurts.” 

No one answered her at first. 

Winter took a breath, grounding herself. “We should talk to Hanni tomorrow,” she said. “Directly. Ask her what she has. If she has anything.” 

Ningning frowned. “Tomorrow?” 

“Yes,” Winter said. “Before this gets worse.” 

Yuna lifted her head slightly. “Or,” she said slowly, words slurring just a bit, “we let the weekend pass.” 

They all looked at her. 

“Hanni’s emotional right now,” Yuna continued. “Her friend almost… you know.” She waved vaguely. “If we go at her tomorrow, she might do something stupid. Or we might.” 

The room went quiet again. 

“Let things cool down,” Yuna finished softly. “No moves. No threats. Just… cool down.” 

Wonyoung sank back into the couch, eyes distant, jaw clenched so tight it ached. She hated this — waiting, uncertainty, being forced to pause when every instinct screamed to act. 

But for once, no one was backing her immediately. 

Winter watched her carefully. Ningning crossed her arms. Yuna’s eyes drifted shut again. 

And somewhere beneath Wonyoung’s irritation, beneath the anger and the wounded pride, something else twisted — unfamiliar, unwanted. 

The image of Yujin unconscious. 

Still. 

Breathing. 

She shoved the thought away. 

Wonyoung ignored her. “Tonight was a disaster.”

 The admission tasted bitter. 

“She challenged me,” Wonyoung continued, voice low. “In front of everyone.” 

Winter let out a sharp breath. “And that’s exactly why you need to stop. For now.” 

Wonyoung turned on her. “Stop?” 

“Yes,” Winter said, stepping closer. “Until we know what Hanni has. Because if she really has videos of us then this isn’t just about your rivalry anymore.” 

“We’ll wait,” Wonyoung said finally, voice cold. “But this isn’t over.” 

No one argued. 

***

The limousine glided through the city like a sealed capsule, soundproofed, tinted, insulated from everything except the person sitting inside it. 

Wonyoung sat rigidly against the leather seat, her back straight, knees together, hands clenched in her lap. The city lights slid across the window, smeared into gold and white streaks, but she didn’t look at them. She stared forward, jaw tight, breathing in through her nose, out through parted lips — slow, controlled, the way she’d learned to do when she felt something clawing too hard at her chest. 

In. Out. 

Her fingers trembled despite her effort to keep them still. 

The image kept intruding.

Yujin on the booth.

The microphone slipping in her grip.

Her body folding. 

Wonyoung shut her eyes briefly and exhaled harder, as if she could force the thought out of her lungs. 

Get a grip.

By the time the limousine pulled into the private underground entrance of the penthouse, her expression was smooth again. Perfect. Untouched. The kind of face people mistook for calm when it was really containment. 

The elevator ride up was silent. 

When the doors slid open, the penthouse was dim, the lights lowered to their nighttime setting. The air smelled faintly of expensive candles and disinfectant. Somewhere down the hall, her mother was asleep — finally, mercifully, asleep. 

Yuri stood near the entrance, already alert. She bowed slightly when she saw Wonyoung, then gestured quietly toward the living room. 

“She’s here,” Yuri murmured. “I made sure Madam didn’t see her.” 

Wonyoung nodded once and walked in without slowing. 

Minji was sitting on the edge of the sofa, coat still on, posture stiff. She stood the moment Wonyoung entered, eyes searching her face. 

“Yujin’s stable,” Minji said immediately, like she’d been holding the words in her mouth too long. “Her vitals normalized. She’s sleeping. The doctor said she’ll recover fully.” 

Wonyoung stopped. 

For half a second, just one — her shoulders loosened. The breath she’d been holding slipped out of her chest before she could stop it. 

Then she inhaled sharply, as if annoyed at herself, and her spine straightened again. 

“So, what now?” she said coolly. “You just told me she’s fine.” 

Minji noticed it anyway. The breath. The fraction of relief Wonyoung hadn’t meant to show. 

“You crossed a line tonight,” Minji said. “And you know it.” 

Wonyoung let out a short, humorless laugh. “Did I?” She tilted her head slightly. “You just said she’s stable. Alive. Breathing. So what exactly is the problem now?” 

The words came out sharper than she intended. There was something brittle underneath them, like glass under pressure. 

Minji stared at her. “You don’t even hear yourself.” 

Wonyoung’s eyes flashed. “Hear what? That An Yujin stood in front of half the school, drugged out of her mind, and challenged me?” Her voice rose despite herself. “Do you know how humiliating that was? How dare she—how dare she think she can beat me?” 

Minji flinched. “This isn’t about your pride.” 

“It is absolutely about my pride,” Wonyoung snapped. “She made it public. She cornered me. That poor scholar—” she scoffed, pacing now, heels clicking sharply against the marble floor, “—she thinks a dramatic speech and a fainting act makes her brave?” 

Minji stepped forward. “You wanted her humiliated tonight. You wanted her drunk. Don’t pretend this wasn’t your idea.” 

Wonyoung stopped pacing and turned on her. “I didn’t know they’d use real drugs,” she said flatly. “I thought she’d get sloppy. Loud. Embarrassing. That’s it.” 

Minji searched her face, looking for something — regret, maybe, or fear. What she found instead was fury tangled with something more complicated, something she can’t even figure out.

“Then stop,” Minji said quietly. “Stop now. Before this gets worse.” 

Wonyoung’s lips pressed into a thin line. 

“You think I can?” she asked. “After tonight?” 

Minji hesitated. “You said it yourself. She challenged you. Publicly. So… will you really leave her alone until the exams?” 

Wonyoung’s gaze drifted toward the dark hallway leading to her mother’s room, then back to Minji. When she spoke again, her voice was lower, colder.  

“I don’t have a choice,” she said. “Not now.” 

Minji exhaled, relieved for a split second until Wonyoung continued.

“She forced my hand,” Wonyoung said. “If I touch her before then, I look scared. Desperate.” Her mouth curved into a sharp smile. “So yes. I’ll wait.” 

Her fingers curled slowly, nails biting into her palm. 

“And when the exams come,” she added, eyes gleaming, “I’ll crush her properly.” 

Minji felt a chill run through her. 

Wonyoung wasn’t backing down. 

She was just postponing the blow. 

***

Wonyoung doesn’t turn the light off. 

She lies on her back, staring at the ceiling of her room as if it might crack if she looks hard enough. The city beyond the glass is quiet at this hour, distant traffic reduced to a low, unimportant hum. Normally, this is when her thoughts slow, when the day folds itself neatly away. 

Tonight, it won’t. 

Yujin keeps appearing. 

Not whole, never whole. Fragments. A sway of shoulders that didn’t quite listen to gravity. Fingers clenched too tightly around fabric. A voice that dragged, slow and uneven, but didn’t stop. Didn’t soften. Didn’t apologize. 

Wonyoung shuts her eyes. 

The image sharpens anyway. 

Yujin on the booth, lights too bright, face pale, body betraying her with every second and still, she spoke. Still, she lifted her head. Still, she said her name. 

Jang Wonyoung. 

The sound of it echoes in her skull, wrong in Yujin’s mouth. 

Annoyance coils in her chest, tight and hot. She exhales through her nose, jaw setting. 

It went too far tonight. 

Because of Yujin. 

That’s the truth. It has to be. 

If Yujin had known her place, if she had flinched, even once — none of this would have happened. If she had bowed her head, lowered her eyes, laughed it off like everyone else learns to do eventually, Wonyoung wouldn’t be lying here with her pulse refusing to slow. 

But Yujin doesn’t do that. 

She doesn’t bend. 

She doesn’t beg. 

She doesn’t cry. 

The thought irritates her more than it should. Wonyoung rolls onto her side, fist tightening in the sheets. Why didn’t she cry? Why didn’t she plead, or look scared, or say she was sorry like a normal person would? Why did she stand there, swaying, half-conscious, and still look up? 

And worse — why did she challenge her? 

In public. In front of everyone. Like she had the right. 

Wonyoung’s lips press into a thin line. The memory of it sparks again, phones lifting, murmurs cutting through the music, the way the room had stilled just enough to listen. The way all those eyes had shifted not to Wonyoung, but to the girl who should’ve already been broken. 

Humiliation flares, sharp and immediate, and she pushes it down with practiced ease. 

Yujin should have known better. 

That’s what she tells herself, over and over, until the words feel solid enough to stand on. Yujin walked into a world that wasn’t hers and acted surprised when it bit back. She accepted the invitation. She stayed. She drank. She stood there and dared to speak. 

She brought this on herself. 

Wonyoung’s fingers twitch against the sheets. She turns her face into the pillow, as if that might smother the thoughts, as if sleep might come if she forces her body to obey. 

It doesn’t. 

Alcohol. 

Drugs. 

The word itself feels old to her. Familiar. Like furniture that’s always been in the room. 

She’s seen this before. 

Her mother, glassy-eyed on the sofa, perfume too strong, laughter arriving half a beat too late. Pills lined up on the marble counter, controlled until it wasn’t. Wonyoung remembers being young enough that her feet didn’t touch the floor, sitting there while adults whispered, while staff pretended not to see, while her father’s jaw tightened the same way hers did tonight. 

She remembers learning early that substances don’t always look dangerous. 

Sometimes they look elegant.

Sometimes they look quiet.

Sometimes they look like sleep. 

Her chest tightens. 

Yujin’s body flashes back into her mind — heavy, unresponsive, carried instead of walking. 

What if she hadn’t woken up? 

Wonyoung inhales slowly, as if she can control the idea by rationing air. She doesn’t like where the thought goes. Doesn’t like how easily it connects itself to memories she keeps locked away. 

People always wake up. That’s what Ningning said. That’s what everyone always says. 

But Wonyoung knows better. 

She’s seen what happens when they don’t. 

Her fingers curl into the sheets. For a brief, ugly second, she imagines headlines — not real ones, but the kind that live in the back of her mind. Names attached to consequences. Her father’s silence. Boardrooms. Damage control. The word accident stretched thin until it snaps. 

And then, another voice cuts in. 

Her father’s, low and controlled.

Minji’s, sharp with warning.

Yuri’s, careful, almost pleading. 

Don’t be like your mother. 

The words echo, overlapping, stacking until they feel like pressure on her ribs. 

Wonyoung swallows. 

She’s nothing like her mother.

She’s precise.

She’s aware.

She knows where the lines are. 

Tonight just… blurred. 

Because Yujin didn’t react the way she was supposed to. 

Because Yujin stood there, poisoned by the room, and still chose defiance over survival. Because instead of dissolving, she hardened. Instead of disappearing, she made herself impossible to ignore. 

That’s the part that unsettles her most. 

Her mother had always faded — into sleep, into instability, into absence. 

Yujin did the opposite. 

Even as she fell, she spoke. Even as her body failed, her will didn’t. 

Wonyoung turns her head sharply, as if she can shake the thought loose. 

It’s dangerous to think like this. Dangerous to compare. 

She tells herself again that Yujin should have known better. That this was inevitable. That this is how the world works when you challenge it without power. 

She closes her eyes, forcing the images away. 

Tomorrow, she tells herself, this will be strategy again.

Tomorrow, it will be clean.

Controlled. 

The challenge hangs between them. And no matter how many times she tells herself this is Yujin’s fault, the irritation doesn’t fade.

But in the dark, Wonyoung lies awake — haunted not by what she did, but by how close it came to becoming something she can’t undo.

***

Yujin wakes to weight before sound. 

A dull, pulsing pressure sits behind her eyes, like someone knocking from the inside of her skull. Her tongue feels thick. Dry. There’s a faint chemical taste at the back of her throat that makes her frown before she even opens her eyes. 

Then— 

“H—hey.” 

Hanni’s voice cracks, small and bright all at once. 

Yujin blinks. The ceiling swims, then steadies. Warm light. White walls. A room that smells faintly of antiseptic and laundry detergent. Her hand is being held — tight, like Hanni is afraid she’ll disappear if she lets go. 

“You’re awake,” Hanni says, breathless. “Yujin—you’re awake.” 

Yujin swallows. Her throat protests. “Mm…?” It comes out rough, barely a sound. 

Hanni is instantly hovering, one hand on Yujin’s arm, the other brushing hair away from her forehead. “Don’t move too fast. Don’t—are you dizzy? Does your head hurt? Do you feel sick? Anywhere painful? Your chest? Your stomach?” 

Yujin squints at her, the corner of her mouth twitching despite everything. “You’re… asking too many questions.” 

Hanni laughs, but it breaks halfway and turns into a shaky breath. Her eyes are red. She’s been crying. A lot. 

“Sorry,” Hanni says quickly. “I’m sorry, I just—” She presses her lips together, nods to herself. “You scared me.” 

Yujin exhales slowly and tries to shift. The movement sends a sharp throb through her temples, and she hisses, stopping halfway. Hanni immediately steadies her, hands gentle but firm. 

“Okay, nope. Don’t sit up yet,” Hanni says, then softer, “Or—slowly. We can do it slowly.” 

They do. Inch by inch, Yujin props herself up against the pillows. The world tilts, then settles again. Her heart feels like it’s beating a little too loudly, but it’s steady. Real. Alive. 

“I feel like my head’s full of cotton,” Yujin mutters. 

Hanni nods like she’s been expecting that. “Yeah. The doctor said that might happen.” 

At the word doctor, Yujin’s brows knit faintly. Memory comes back in fragments — lights, noise, heat, the mic in her hand, Wonyoung’s face above her, then nothing. 

“Oh,” Yujin says quietly. 

Hanni squeezes her hand. “I’m going to get Minji and Dani. They’re just in the other room. Okay?” 

Yujin nods. Talking feels like work. 

Hanni hesitates, clearly torn between staying and going, then finally slips out the door, glancing back twice before she leaves. 

A minute later, maybe two — footsteps return. 

Minji comes in first, expression tight with relief she doesn’t bother hiding. Dani follows, quieter, eyes soft and worried. 

“Hey,” Minji says gently. “Welcome back.” 

Yujin looks at her. “Did I… pass out?” 

Minji exhales through her nose. “Yeah. But you’re stable now.”  She steps closer, slipping easily into calm, controlled mode. “Okay, I’m going to ask you a few things. Just answer honestly, yeah?” 

Yujin nods again. 

“Do you know where you are?” 

“Dani’s house,” Yujin says after a second. “Guest room.” 

Minji’s lips twitch. “Good. Do you know what day it is?” 

“…Saturday?” 

“Close enough,” Minji says. “Any chest pain? Trouble breathing? Nausea?” 

“My head hurts,” Yujin admits. “And I feel… slow.” 

“That’s expected,” Minji says. “You were given alcohol plus some drug. The blood test confirmed it.” 

Hanni stiffens at that, jaw tightening. 

Minji continues, careful with her words. “Nothing life-threatening at this point. The IV already helped a lot. The doctor’s on standby — I’ll update her that you’re awake.” 

She pulls out her phone, sending a quick message. 

Dani steps forward with a tray. There’s water, electrolyte drinks, and a couple of juice bottles. 

“Okay,” she says softly. “So—this part is important. Fluids help your body recover, but they don’t magically ‘flush’ drugs out. Your liver still has to do the work.” 

She nudges the water closer. “But staying hydrated helps your system process everything safely.” 

Hanni immediately picks up the water, guiding the straw to Yujin’s lips. “Slow,” she murmurs, like she’s talking to someone fragile. 

Yujin drinks. The coolness helps. A little. 

Minji glances at the monitor, then back at Yujin. “You’ll probably feel foggy for several hours. Headache, confusion, maybe some nausea. That’s normal. Full recovery in a day or two.” 

She pauses. “It was good you got help quickly.” 

That sentence hangs in the air. 

Hanni’s grip tightens again. 

Yujin closes her eyes briefly, then opens them. “Did I… say anything stupid?” 

Minji and Dani exchange a look. 

Hanni lets out a breath that’s half laugh, half sob. “You challenged Jang Wonyoung in front of half the school.” 

Yujin blinks. 

“…Oh.” 

Silence. 

***

The room settles into a quieter rhythm once Yujin finishes another careful sip of water. The headache is still there, but it’s dulled now — no longer screaming, just humming insistently at the back of her skull. 

Minji leans against the foot of the bed, arms crossed, watching Yujin with a look that’s relief.

“You know,” she says lightly, “I’ve never seen Wonyoung that annoyed before.” 

Yujin squints at her. “That’s… comforting?” 

Minji huffs a laugh. “I mean it. She was stressed. Like, real stress. Pacing. Snapping at people. You got under her skin.” 

Hanni lifts her head from Yujin’s shoulder, eyes bright despite the tear tracks. “She looked so mad when you said her name,” she adds, a hint of awe in her voice. “Like she couldn’t believe you actually did it.” 

Yujin closes her eyes for a second, memory flickering back in disjointed flashes. The mic. The lights. Wonyoung’s face above her. 

“…I don’t remember all of it,” Yujin admits. “Just… deciding I had to say it before I fell.” 

“Well,” Minji says dryly, “you succeeded. You hit her right where it hurts. Public. Recorded. No walking it back.” 

Hanni shifts, then takes a breath like she’s been holding something in. “I didn’t tell you yet,” she says, quieter now. “About what I did.” 

Yujin looks at her. “What you did?” 

Hanni hesitates, then straightens a little, shoulders squaring. “I have videos. And photos.” 

Minji’s gaze sharpens instantly. 

Hanni continues, voice trembling but steady. “Near the end of the hallway. Private room. Ningning was there. Winter too. There were… drugs. On the table. I caught their faces clearly.” 

Yujin’s brows draw together. “Hanni—” 

“I didn’t want to,” Hanni says quickly. “But when people started whispering about posting you, about ruining you—I just… I closed my eyes and said it. That if anyone touched you, I’d post everything.” 

She swallows, then lets out a small, disbelieving laugh. “And they stopped. Just like that.” 

For a moment, no one speaks. 

“…You were terrifying,” Minji finally says, impressed. “In a good way.” 

Hanni blinks. “I was?” 

Minji nods. “Yeah. Powerful is the word.” 

Hanni exhales, shoulders slumping as the adrenaline drains out of her. “I’ve never done anything like that before.” 

Yujin tightens her fingers around Hanni’s hand. “You did amazing.” 

Minji’s expression sobers a little. “And it worked. For now. Wonyoung, Ningning — none of them will touch either of you until exams. They can’t afford to.” 

Then her gaze shifts back to Yujin, steady and serious. 

“But,” Minji says carefully, “you know this goes both ways.” 

The room quiets. 

“If Wonyoung wins,” Minji continues, “you have to honor it. You leave Janghwa.” 

Yujin’s throat tightens. She looks down at her hands, at the faint IV mark on her arm, at the reality of what she said into that mic. 

“…I know,” she says softly. She swallows, then nods once. “I meant it.” 

Hanni’s grip tightens again, but she doesn’t interrupt. 

After a few seconds, Hanni clears her throat, forcing the mood to shift. “Um. I should probably wash the clothes before returning them.” 

Dani, who’s been quiet until now, immediately shakes her head. “No. Don’t.” 

Hanni blinks. “What?” 

“They’re yours,” Dani says simply. 

Yujin looks up, startled. “We can’t. They’re expensive.” 

Minji snorts. “Not really.” 

Yujin stares at her. 

Minji tilts her head, amused. “Did you like them?” 

“…Yeah,” Yujin admits. “They’re comfortable.” 

Minji smiles, a little smug. “I figured. You don’t look like a skirt person.” 

Hanni laughs softly. “She hates skirts.” 

“I don’t hate them,” Yujin protests weakly. “I just… prefer comfortable clothes, pants. Sneakers. Jackets.” 

“So that’s what we got you.” Minji says.

Yujin lets out a small chuckle, the tension easing just a fraction. Since she woke up, the room feels almost normal — like the storm has passed, even if the battlefield is still waiting. 

***

The breakfast table was set like a magazine spread — white porcelain, silver cutlery aligned to the millimeter, a vase of pale flowers that smelled faintly of nothing. Morning light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, soft and expensive, touching everything except the people sitting there. 

Wonyoung sat straight in her chair, hands folded neatly on her lap. She had barely touched her food. 

Across from her, Jae-kyung stirred her tea slowly, the spoon chiming against the porcelain with a gentle, pleasant sound. She looked serene this morning. Rested. Her hair was perfectly arranged, her silk robe draped elegantly over her shoulders, her lips curved in a warm, affectionate smile.

“So,” Jae-kyung said lightly, as if they were discussing the weather. “The exams are coming up soon, aren’t they?” 

Wonyoung nodded. “Yes, mom.” 

“And winter vacation.” Jae-kyung lifted her gaze, eyes bright. “I was thinking Switzerland this year. Or perhaps France again. You liked Paris, didn’t you?” 

“Yes,” Wonyoung replied automatically. 

Jae-kyung hummed, pleased, then tilted her head slightly. “You’re still first, right?” 

The question landed softly. Gently. Like a hand resting on Wonyoung’s shoulder. 

Wonyoung’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. 

“Yes,” she said. “I’m still number one.” 

Jae-kyung’s smile widened, warm and maternal. “Good.” 

She took a sip of her tea, then continued, her voice still sweet. “You know, I was worried for a moment. I spoke to one of your teachers recently — just casually, of course.” She waved a hand as if dismissing the thought. “And she mentioned that one of the scholarship students has been… occasionally scoring higher than you.” 

Wonyoung’s fingers curled slightly against her palm. 

Jae-kyung sighed, a soft, almost theatrical sound. “Can you imagine how embarrassing that would be?” 

She leaned forward a little, eyes shining with concern. “A poor scholar. Someone who has to work part-time, no less. Beating my daughter.” She shook her head slowly, pitying. “The daughter of Jang Do-yun, the man who owns the school. A girl who doesn’t need to work, who has all the time and resources in the world to study.” 

Her smile never faltered. 

“That would be very disappointing,” Jae-kyung continued gently. “Very sad.” 

Each word pressed down on Wonyoung’s chest, measured and precise. She felt herself shrink inward, a familiar tightening in her ribs, like she was being folded neatly into a smaller shape. 

“I didn’t raise a second-place child,” Jae-kyung added, still smiling. “Did I?” 

“No,” Wonyoung said quickly. Too quickly. “You didn’t.” 

Jae-kyung reached across the table and patted Wonyoung’s hand, her touch light, almost affectionate. “Of course not. You’re my perfect daughter.” 

Perfect. 

The word echoed in Wonyoung’s head, heavy and sharp. She kept her face smooth, her posture flawless, even as something inside her recoiled with every syllable her mother spoke. She could feel the warning beneath the sweetness, the threat wrapped in silk. 

Do not fail. Do not embarrass me. Do not be weak. 

Behind them, near the counter, Yuri stood quietly with a tray in her hands. She had been in this house long enough to recognize the air when it turned like this — thin, brittle, dangerous. She kept her eyes lowered, but her grip tightened slightly around the tray as she listened. 

She saw the way Wonyoung’s shoulders stiffened. The way her answers came clipped, controlled. The way her eyes never quite met her mother’s for too long. 

Yuri felt a familiar ache in her chest. 

Jae-kyung leaned back, satisfied, and returned to her breakfast as if nothing unpleasant had been said. “Eat more,” she told Wonyoung kindly. “You need your strength. Number one students can’t afford to look tired.” 

Wonyoung picked up her fork. 

“Yes, Mother.” 

She swallowed another bite she couldn’t taste, the room still bright, still beautiful while the weight of being perfect settled deeper into her bones. 

***

The first day Yujin returns to school, she feels it before she sees it. 

The stares. 

They follow her from the gate, from the gravel path, from the moment her shoes touch the polished floor of the main building. Heads turn — not openly, not rudely, but enough. Eyes linger too long, then slide away when she looks back. 

She waits for it. 

A snicker. A whisper loud enough to sting. Something wet or cold or sharp hitting her shoulder. 

Nothing comes. 

The hallway is quiet in a way it has never been before. 

Not kind. Not welcoming. Just… restrained. 

As she walks, conversations dip and resume behind her back. 

“She didn’t die?”

“Did you hear what she said?”

“Don’t. Just—don’t.” 

Yujin keeps her head forward. Her steps steady. Her hands curl once at her sides, then relax. 

Inside the classroom, it’s the same. 

Jang Wonyoung is already there, seated perfectly, posture immaculate. Ningning leans back in her chair, phone in hand. Winter flips through her notes. Yuna rests her chin on her palm, bored. 

They don’t look surprised to see Yujin. 

They don’t look pleased either. 

Yujin walks to her desk. 

Her table is clean. 

No marker stains. No scratches. No notes taped underneath. 

She pauses for half a second — just long enough to register it then sits. 

No bullying. No open hostility. No public humiliation. 

But the eyes never leave. 

It’s like standing in the middle of a field after a storm, the air unnaturally still. Everyone knows something is coming. They’re just waiting to see when. 

After exams. 

That’s the unspoken deadline. 

Students don’t ask how she is. 

No one asks if she remembers collapsing. If she woke up scared. If she was hurt. 

No apologies. No concern. 

But Yujin doesn’t need it. 

Silence is enough. 

Peace — temporary, conditional is enough. 

She opens her notebook. Starts writing. Studies harder than she ever has. 

Around her, rumors move faster than sound. 

“Did you notice? No one’s touching her.”

“Wonyoung said something.”

“Not directly.”

“Still. It’s obvious.”

“Hands off. Until exams.” 

Some say it with awe. Some with irritation. Some with anticipation. 

Bets start quietly. 

Who will rank first.

How far apart the scores will be.

Whether the scholar girl really thinks she can win. 

It isn’t safety. 

It’s a ceasefire. 

And everyone knows what happens after. 

Yujin lifts her eyes once. 

Across the room, Wonyoung isn’t looking at her. 

But her jaw is tight. Her pen presses too hard into the paper. 

Yujin looks back down. 

Because whatever date they’ve chosen for her execution.

She plans to cancel it. 

***

Lunch had barely started, trays clattering and voices rising, when her gaze drifted across the cafeteria and landed again on Hanni. 

Or rather, on Hanni and Yujin. 

They were inseparable. Sitting shoulder to shoulder, knees almost touching under the table. Yujin ate slowly, distracted, while Hanni talked more than she did, leaning in, guarding her space without even realizing it. Every time someone passed too close, Yujin’s eyes lifted. Calm. Watchful. 

A shield without trying. 

Ningning clicked her tongue softly. 

Winter followed her line of sight and exhaled through her nose. “She doesn’t leave her.” 

“Of course she doesn’t,” Ningning muttered. “After last time?” 

Winter’s fingers tightened around her chopsticks. “We can’t talk to her like this.” 

They watched a group of students slow near the table, hesitate, then veer away. No one wanted to get too close. Not with Yujin there. Not now. 

Ningning leaned back in her chair, eyes narrowing. “She’s only alone when Yujin’s gone.” 

Winter didn’t answer immediately. She already knew where this was going. 

“Basketball,” Winter said quietly. 

Ningning smiled, small and sharp. “Two hours. Same days. Same time.” 

Winter glanced toward the windows, where the indoor courts were visible in the distance. “Practice ends late.” 

“Late is good.” 

A pause. 

Winter hesitated. “We’re just talking.” 

Ningning shot her a look. “Obviously.” 

Across the room, Yujin stood, lifting her tray. Hanni rose with her, instinctive, matching her pace as they left together. 

Ningning watched until they disappeared through the doors. 

“After practice,” she said. “When Hanni walks home.” 

Winter nodded once. 

“Not when Yujin’s around,” Winter added. 

Ningning’s smile returned. “Never when Yujin’s around.” 

***

Basketball practice ran late. 

The sun had already dipped low by the time the final whistle echoed through the gym, the orange light outside turning dull and gray. Yujin was still inside, towel around her neck, sweat cooling on her skin as the coach barked reminders about exams and discipline. Hanni lingered by the door longer than usual, watching Yujin stretch, tying her shoelaces again even though they were already tight. 

“You go ahead,” Yujin said, distracted, gulping water. “You have exams, the students went home already, you’ll be safe.”

Hanni hesitated. She always did now. 

But the bell rang again, sharp and final, and she nodded. “Text me when you’re done.” 

Outside the school gates, the crowd had thinned. Most cars were already gone — chauffeurs, black sedans, tinted windows swallowing students whole. The scholars walked in small clusters, backpacks slung low, heads down. 

Hanni walked alone. 

She kept her phone in her hand, thumb hovering over Yujin’s contact, senses stretched thin. Every engine sound made her shoulders tense. She stayed close to the sidewalk, eyes forward, telling herself not to look paranoid. 

That was when the car slowed beside her. 

A sleek mini van, dark windows, expensive without trying. It glided to match her pace, tires whispering against the asphalt. 

Hanni felt it before she heard it, the pressure of attention.  

The window rolled down. 

Ningning.

A familiar, bored voice drawled, sweet as sugar left out too long. “Relax. We just want to talk.” 

Hanni didn’t turn her head. 

Her steps quickened. 

Inside the car, Winter watched through the glass, expression unreadable. Her gaze flicked to Hanni’s clenched fists, the way her shoulders had gone rigid. 

“She’s ignoring us,” Winter said quietly. 

Ningning laughed softly, like it amused her. “Of course she is.” 

“Hanni,” Ningning called again, louder this time. “You don’t want to make this weird.” 

Hanni’s heart pounded. She broke into a faster walk, then almost a jog, breath shallow, eyes fixed on the road ahead. The school gates were already behind her now. There were fewer people. Too few. 

The van slowed further. 

Ningning sighed theatrically and tapped twice on the door. 

The signal was subtle. 

The next second, the sliding door on the passenger side snapped open. 

Everything happened too fast. 

A hand shot out — firm, practiced, not panicked. Fingers wrapped around Hanni’s wrist, yanking her sideways. She gasped, stumbling, her backpack slipping off one shoulder as she struggled instinctively. 

“Hey—!” 

The driver didn’t say a word. 

He shoved her inside with efficient force, not rough enough to leave marks, but strong enough that resistance was pointless. The door slammed shut beside her with a heavy, final sound that made her stomach drop. 

The van pulled away immediately. 

Hanni scrambled upright, heart hammering so hard it hurt. She was wedged into the passenger seat, knees knocking against the console, breath coming in short, uneven bursts. The door was locked. She tried the handle anyway. Nothing. 

Ningning turned toward her slowly, elbow resting casually on the window frame, chin propped in her palm. 

“There,” she said lightly. “See? That wasn’t so hard.” 

Winter glanced back from the seat behind, eyes cool, assessing. No smile. No apology. 

Hanni pressed herself against the door, fingers trembling. “Let me out.” 

Ningning tilted her head, studying her like a puzzle. “You’re shaking,” she observed. “We really are just talking.” 

“That’s not how you talk,” Hanni snapped, voice breaking despite herself. “You don’t drag people into cars.” 

Winter’s gaze sharpened at that. “You shouldn’t raise your voice.” 

The van continued down the road, smooth, silent, insulated from the outside world. 

Hanni swallowed hard. Her phone was still in her hand — she hadn’t even realized it. The screen was dark. No signal bars. Or maybe she just couldn’t see straight. 

Ningning noticed and smiled wider. 

“Don’t bother calling Yujin,” she said pleasantly. “By the time she’s done sweating in the gym, we’ll be finished.” 

Hanni’s chest tightened at Yujin’s name. 

Winter leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on her knees. “We have questions about the videos,” she said calmly. “So let’s be clear before this gets unpleasant.” 

Hanni struggled the moment the door slammed shut. 

“What—what are you doing?” Her voice cracked as she twisted in the seat, fingers scrabbling for the handle. “You can’t—this is—” 

She reached for the window button and pressed it hard. Nothing happened. She pressed again, panic rising in her chest. 

Ningning laughed softly beside her, relaxed, one knee angled toward the door like she owned the space. “It’s locked.” 

Hanni’s head snapped toward her. “You’re kidnapping me!” 

Ningning tilted her head, amused. “You’re being dramatic.” 

Hanni shot back, breath coming fast now. “I didn’t agree to this. That makes it kidnapping.” 

From the other side, Winter sighed and rolled her eyes, staring straight ahead as the car pulled back into traffic. The city lights slid across the tinted windows, blurring into streaks. 

“Lower your voice,” Winter muttered. “You’re not tied up.” 

“That doesn’t matter,” Hanni said, fists clenched in her lap. Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat. “Let me out. Now.”  

No one answered. 

Winter was the one who spoke again, her tone cooler, more controlled. “Do you actually have videos of us?” 

Hanni didn’t move. 

Didn’t blink. 

Didn’t turn her head. 

The lack of response was louder than any answer. 

Winter glanced at her, irritation flickering into something sharper. “I asked you something.” 

Still nothing. 

The car turned. Hanni felt it in her stomach, the sense of direction slipping away. 

Finally, she spoke quietly this time, but steadier. “If anything happens to me,” she said, eyes fixed on the darkened windshield, “or to Yujin… those videos go up.” 

Ningning’s smile didn’t fade. 

“They’ll be posted online,” Hanni continued, voice trembling despite herself, “and sent to every news station I can find. Entertainment, crime, education. All of it.” 

Winter sucked in a sharp breath. “You wouldn’t—” 

“I already planned it,” Hanni cut in, turning her head just enough to look at them. Her eyes were wet, but fierce. “I’m not stupid.” 

For the first time, Ningning’s chuckle sounded forced. “Wow,” she said lightly. “You really committed to the act.” 

Winter stared at Hanni now, color draining from her face. “How much do you want?” she asked, the words tumbling out too fast. “Money? Full ride on college? Just say it.” 

Ningning waved a hand. “Or maybe she’s bluffing,” she said, though her gaze lingered on Hanni a second too long. “Maybe there are no videos. Maybe she just likes feeling important.” 

The word sat heavy on Hanni’s tongue before she finally said it. 

“I have videos.” 

Ningning’s smile sharpened instantly. “Then show us.” 

Hanni’s stomach dropped. 

She didn’t answer right away. Her fingers tightened around her phone, knuckles whitening as thoughts spiraled faster than she could stop them. 

They won’t let me go unless they’re sure. And once they’re sure, they’ll try to bargain. Alone. Without Yujin. 

That thought scared her more than the locked doors. 

These videos were supposed to be a last resort. Insurance. Something she’d never have to use unless things went wrong again — unless even after the exams, even if Yujin won, they still came after them. She hadn’t planned to show them like this, cornered in a van, heart pounding so hard. 

And if she played them inside the car— 

They’ll grab my phone. They’ll break it. I can’t afford another one. 

Her phone was old. Secondhand. It held everything. 

Ningning laughed softly, like she could hear Hanni’s thoughts. “Relax,” she said, tapping the divider. “Stop the car.” 

The van slowed, then pulled over to the side of the road. The engine idled. Streetlights flickered overhead, pale and unforgiving. 

“Out,” Ningning said lightly. 

Hanni hesitated, then pushed the door open and stepped onto the pavement. Cold air hit her face, grounding her just enough to keep her legs from shaking. 

Winter slid across the seat, joining Ningning in the back. Both of them leaned forward as Hanni stood just outside the open door, phone clutched to her chest like a shield. 

“Go on,” Ningning said. “Show us.” 

Hanni swallowed. Her thumb hovered over the screen. For a split second, she considered running. 

Then she hit play. 

The screen lit up. 

The shaky footage filled the silence. Things that were never meant to be seen outside that room. 

Ningning’s expression changed first. 

Her eyes widened. Winter froze beside her, color draining from her face as recognition hit. 

“That’s—” Winter whispered. 

Ningning reached out. “Stop it.” 

Hanni stopped the video instantly. 

Winter turned to her, panic bleeding through her composure. “How much?” she asked quickly. “Name it. Money, connections — whatever. I can get it.” 

The number Winter mentioned was absurd. Life-changing. The kind of money Hanni had never even imagined holding. 

Hanni shook her head. 

“I don’t want money.” 

Both of them stared at her. 

“I want safety,” Hanni said, voice shaking but firm. “For me. For Yujin.” 

Ningning’s jaw tightened. 

“No touching us,” Hanni continued. “No rumors. No pressure. No retaliation. Not now. Not after the exams. Ever.” 

Winter opened her mouth, then closed it again. 

Hanni took a step back. 

Then another. 

She didn’t wait for permission. Didn’t wait for an answer. She turned and walked away, heart hammering, every step feeling like it might be the one where someone grabbed her arm and dragged her back. 

But no one did. 

The van stayed where it was, engine humming softly, the weight of what they’d just seen sitting heavy inside it. 

Hanni didn’t look back. 

***

The restaurant was quiet in the way expensive places always were — muted lighting, low music, servers gliding instead of walking. A private room, curtains drawn. 

The tension sat heavy at the table. 

Wonyoung barely touched her food. She leaned back slightly in her chair, one elbow on the armrest, fingers pressing into her temple as if the conversation itself was giving her a migraine. 

Across from her, Winter looked nothing like the composed student everyone knew at school. Her knee bounced under the table. Her hands were clasped too tightly together. 

“She has them,” Winter said again, voice low but tight. “I saw it. It wasn’t a bluff.” 

Yuna frowned, chopsticks paused midair. “What exactly did she have on the video?” 

Winter swallowed. “Videos. Photos. From that private room. Us. Drugs. Everything.” Her voice cracked despite her effort to keep it steady. “If that gets out… my family is finished. My grandfather—” She stopped herself, inhaled shakily. “He holds a government position. My father, my brother… soldiers don’t survive scandals like that. They don’t get forgiven.” 

Her eyes flicked to Wonyoung, almost pleading. 

Ningning scoffed, though there was tension behind it. “And I’m Chinese,” she said flatly. “You think the public will be kind? My visa, my family’s reputation, our business—gone. They already hate us enough.” 

Yuna set her chopsticks down carefully. “Then we freeze everything.” 

Everyone looked at her. 

“No pranks,” Yuna continued. “No bullying. No little ‘accidents.’ Nothing. We don’t touch Yujin or Hanni. Not until this is over.” 

Silence followed.

Wonyoung closed her eyes, rubbing her temples harder now, as if trying to grind the image of that night out of her head — the music cutting, the mic screeching, Yujin’s unsteady voice saying her name. 

Her name. 

Winter leaned forward slightly. “You can beat her, right?” she asked quickly. “It’ll be easy. Exams are your territory.” 

Wonyoung’s jaw tightened. 

Inside her head, her mother’s voice surfaced uninvited, sweet and sharp all at once. 

I didn’t raise a second-place child. How embarrassing it would be… losing to a poor scholar. 

Her fingers curled against her temple. 

Ningning snorted softly. “You don’t have a choice anymore.” 

That earned her a sharp look, but Ningning didn’t back down. 

“If those videos come out,” she continued, “it won’t just be Winter and me. It’ll be you. Your school. Your father. Everyone goes down together.” 

Minji, who had been silent the entire time, finally spoke. “So that’s it,” she said quietly. “You wait.” 

Dani nodded beside her, expression tight. “And let the exams decide.” 

Wonyoung exhaled slowly, eyes still closed. 

She couldn’t touch Yujin anymore. 

Not because she didn’t want to but because Yujin had taken that option away from her, standing on that stage, daring her in front of everyone. 

When Wonyoung finally opened her eyes, her gaze was steady again. 

“Fine,” she said. “We wait.” 

***

Night settles over their dorm.

The light above it hums faintly, casting a tired yellow glow over open textbooks, handwritten notes layered on top of each other like bandages. Yujin’s handwriting grows smaller the later it gets, tighter, more cramped, as if she’s trying to squeeze knowledge directly into the page. 

Her head dips. 

Just for a second. 

Her forehead meets the edge of the book with a soft, dull sound. She doesn’t even flinch. One arm is still wrapped around a pen, fingers ink-stained, the other curled under her cheek. The page beneath her face is warm now, smudged slightly where her breath fogs the paper. 

She wakes a little later — heart jumping, neck stiff and immediately checks the clock. Too late. Always too late. She rubs her eyes, blinks until the words stop swimming, and keeps reading anyway. 

***

Across the city, Wonyoung’s room is silent in a different way. 

No hum. No flickering light. Just a wide desk, a lamp angled perfectly over neatly stacked materials. Color-coded tabs. Printed summaries. A tablet propped at the exact height recommended by her teachers. Everything aligned. Everything controlled. 

She sits straight-backed, spine tense, pencil held lightly. When she makes a mistake, she erases it completely — no smudges allowed. Her notes are clean, elegant, almost beautiful. 

The door opens without a knock. 

Her mother steps in, silk robe whispering against the floor. She doesn’t raise her voice. 

“Still studying?” Jae-kyung asks, smiling softly. 

“Yes,” Wonyoung answers immediately. 

Her mother’s gaze drifts to the desk, the books, the clock. “Good. You can’t afford to relax now. Your father will be proud of you. I will be proud.”

Wonyoung nods once, jaw tight.  

She studies because she cannot lose. 

***

The next afternoon, Yujin reads while standing behind the fried chicken counter. 

Oil crackles. Orders are shouted. Her apron smells like grease no matter how many times it’s washed. Between customers, she props her phone against the register, earbuds tucked in, replaying recorded notes at double speed. Dates. Formulas. Definitions. Her lips move silently as she repeats them under her breath. 

When a customer walks in, she pauses the audio instantly, smile snapping into place. 

“Welcome.” 

Her break lasts exactly ten minutes. She uses eight of them to reread a chapter summary, two to swallow water and stretch her aching shoulders. 

Survival doesn’t wait. 

***

Wonyoung doesn’t go out after school anymore. 

Invitations pile up unanswered. Messages go unread. Her driver takes her straight home, every day, no detours. Dinner is served quietly. When she studies now, it’s not about understanding — it’s about dominance. Speed. Accuracy. Rank. 

Her mother checks in again, passing behind her chair, fingers brushing her shoulder just briefly enough to feel like a warning. 

“You’re studying well,” Jae-kyung says. “Right?” 

“Yes,” Wonyoung replies, without hesitation. 

“Good,” her mother murmurs. “I would hate to be disappointed.” 

The door closes. 

Wonyoung exhales slowly, fingers curling around her pen until her knuckles ache. 

***

At night, Yujin rides her bike through empty streets. 

The air is cold, sharp against her cheeks. Her backpack bumps against her spine with every pedal stroke. One earbud stays in — just one, so she can still hear cars, footsteps, the world. Recorded notes play softly, her own voice explaining concepts she taught herself weeks ago. 

She recites along with it, breath puffing white in the dark. 

At a red light, she balances on one foot and flips through flashcards taped inside a notebook. When the light changes, she goes again, heart pounding, from time slipping away. 

At home, Hanni waits. 

They sit on the floor, backs against the bed, papers spread between them. Hanni quizzes her.

“What’s the exception?” 

Yujin answers instantly. 

“And the formula?” 

Yujin hesitates, just half a second then gets it right. 

Hanni smiles, proud, worried, all at once. 

“You’re doing great,” she says. 

Yujin doesn’t answer. She just keeps studying. 

***

Wonyoung studies alone. 

No one quizzes her. No one needs to. She knows the material. She always has. Still, she rereads everything twice. Three times. Four. The idea of not being perfect crawls under her skin, makes her chest feel tight. 

She stares at a practice problem longer than necessary, irritation flaring when the answer doesn’t come immediately. 

She remembers a voice, hazy and unwanted. 

Winner gets peace. 

Her grip tightens. She solves it. Then another. Then another. 

She will not be second. 

***

Past midnight, Yujin’s eyes burn. 

She presses her thumb into the bridge of her nose, fighting the headache that’s become a constant companion. Her body still feels fragile sometimes — like glass glued back together too quickly but she ignores it. 

She turns the page. 

Reads. 

Memorizes. 

Because if she stops, everything she fought for disappears. 

***

Past midnight, Wonyoung closes her book with a sharp snap. 

She leans back in her chair, staring at the ceiling, pulse steady and heavy. Somewhere deep inside her irritation coils tighter, sharper, focused on a name she refuses to say out loud. 

Yujin. 

The girl who won’t bow. The girl who won’t disappear. 

Wonyoung sits up again. 

Opens the book. 

Studies harder. 

***

Two girls. Two rooms. Two reasons. 

One studies to survive. 

The other studies to remain untouchable. 

And the exams are coming. 

***

The week of mock exams settles over Janghwa Girls’ High like a held breath. 

Every subject. Every day. No room to recover. 

By the first morning, the classroom already feels different — chairs aligned too neatly, curtains half-drawn to cut the glare, the air sharp with tension. Pens click. Pages rustle. No one talks. Even the usual whispers die before the teachers step in. 

Yujin sits straight, eyes on the paper, her pencil steady. She doesn’t look around. She doesn’t need to. She can feel the stares anyway. 

Across the room, Jang Wonyoung looks… calm. 

Not bored. Not careless. Just composed. Her posture is relaxed, shoulders loose, fingers resting lightly on her pen as if this is familiar territory, because it is. When the exam starts, she moves smoothly, confidently, as though she’s already seen every question before. No hesitation. No second-guessing. 

The classroom is tense, but she isn’t. 

Day one results come out after lunch. 

Wonyoung ranks first. 

The reaction is immediate but muted — no cheers, no applause, just quiet confirmation. Heads nod. Whispers spread like ink in water. 

“Of course.”

“I told you.”

“She’s back.” 

Teachers smile when they hand back papers. One of them pauses by Wonyoung’s desk, praising her consistency. Another mentions her name in the staff room. By the end of the day, everyone knows. 

Yujin places second. Still excellent. Still impressive. 

But not first. 

Day two is the same.

Then day three.

Then day four. 

Subject after subject, Wonyoung dominates the rankings. Her name sits comfortably at the top of the board, as if it never left. The school settles into the narrative easily.

This is how things are supposed to be. 

By midweek, it’s no longer speculation. It’s certainty. 

“Mock exams already proved it.”

“She can’t beat Wonyoung when it matters.”

“That first exam tie was a fluke.” 

They say it casually, as they pass Yujin in the hallway. 

Yujin hears it all. 

She doesn’t react. 

She walks back to her seat, opens her notebook, and keeps studying. 

Inside Wonyoung’s head, the tension finally loosens its grip. 

She got lucky once, she thinks, watching the rankings posted outside the classroom. And this is where things go back to normal. 

The world feels aligned again. Predictable. Stable. 

At home that evening, her mother notices immediately. 

“You look better,” Jae-kyung says, hovering near the doorway, her voice unusually soft. “I knew you’d pull through. You always do.” 

Wonyoung nods, accepting the praise quietly. For the first time in weeks, she exhales fully. The pressure doesn’t vanish but it dulls. She eats more. Sleeps a little easier. The edge in her chest eases just enough to make room for confidence. 

Relief is dangerous like that. 

***

Elsewhere, Dani corners Minji in a quiet hallway between classes, lowering her voice. 

“Yujin lost the mock exams,” Dani says carefully. “Are you… worried?” 

Minji doesn’t answer right away. She watches students pass, watches the way they glance at the ranking board like it’s a verdict. 

Then she shakes her head. “It’s just a mock exam.” 

Nothing more. Nothing less. 

That night, in the Seoul dorm, the light in Yujin and Hanni’s room stays on long after most floors go dark. 

Hanni sits cross-legged on the bed, watching Yujin erase and rewrite the same line of notes for the third time. 

“It’s okay,” Hanni says gently. “You didn’t do bad.” 

“I know,” Yujin replies. 

Her voice is calm. 

She flips back through her exam papers, not lingering on the scores, but on the questions she missed. Circling them. Annotating the margins. Writing why she got them wrong. 

Patterns emerge. 

Careless assumptions. Time management. One weak unit she underestimated. 

So she adjusts. 

She changes how she studies. Stops rereading. Starts drilling. Focuses on her mistakes. Builds around her weaknesses. She studies during breaks, watch more explanations online she doesn’t understand, lets Hanni quiz her until midnight. 

No complaints.

Yujin doesn’t study to win. 

She studies because she has to survive. 

By the end of the week, the school feels strangely calm. 

Everyone thinks they already know how this ends. 

***

The first day of exams arrived without ceremony. 

No music from phones. No laughter spilling down the hallways. Even the usual clatter of shoes against marble floors felt muted, as if the school itself had decided to hold its breath. 

Teachers stood straighter than usual, faces set, voices clipped. IDs were checked twice. Bags were inspected, phones sealed away. A proctor snapped at a student for whispering before the bell had even rung. No one complained. 

This wasn’t a normal school day. This was judgment. 

Hanni walked beside Yujin down the corridor, their shoulders almost brushing. She hadn’t let go of Yujin’s sleeve since they left the dorm, fingers curled tightly into the fabric.

The hallway outside Class 1-A was already crowded, but a small, unconscious space opened around them. Eyes followed Yujin — quiet, curious, restrained. 

Hanni stopped in front of the classroom door. 

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small chocolate bar, slightly melted from being held too long. She pressed it into Yujin’s hand before Yujin could protest. 

“For your brain,” Hanni said softly, forcing a smile. “You forget to eat when you’re nervous.” 

Yujin huffed a quiet breath. “I’m not nervous.” 

Hanni gave her a look that said she didn’t believe that for a second, then slipped a folded piece of paper into Yujin’s palm as well. 

“Read it later,” she said quickly, like if she didn’t say it fast enough she might cry. 

She reached up and straightened the lapel of Yujin’s jacket, smoothing it down with unnecessary care. 

“No matter what happens,” Hanni said, voice low, steady despite the tightness in her chest, “you’ll be okay. Rankings don’t change who you are. They don’t take anything away from you.” 

Yujin looked at her then and nodded once. 

“I know,” she said. 

Hanni stepped back, forcing herself to let go. The bell rang, Yujin turned and walked into the classroom without looking back. 

***

Across the room, the atmosphere around Jang Wonyoung was different but no less tense. 

Ningning sat with her arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes flicking toward the clock every few seconds. Winter had gone quiet, her usual sharp tongue nowhere to be found. She kept glancing at Wonyoung, then away, like she was afraid to distract her and afraid not to look at her at the same time. 

Yuna broke the silence.

“Just do what you always do,” she said. “Don’t overthink it.” 

Wonyoung nodded, though her fingers were curled too tightly around her pen. 

Winter leaned closer, her expression almost pleading. She didn’t say anything but she didn’t have to. The weight of it sat heavy in her eyes. 

Her family. Her name. Her future. 

All balanced on Wonyoung’s score. 

Wonyoung felt it like pressure behind her temples. She straightened her posture, lifted her chin, composed herself the way she always did. Perfect student. Perfect daughter. Perfect rank. 

This was where things returned to order. 

She told herself that as she glanced, just once, toward Yujin’s seat. 

Yujin was already seated, calm, head lowered, reading the instructions as if this were any other test. No shaking hands. No restless movements. 

Too calm. 

The papers were distributed, slid face-down across each desk. The room fell into absolute silence. 

The teacher’s voice cut through it.

“You may begin.” 

Yujin flipped her paper over. 

So did Wonyoung. 

And the room held its breath. 

Chapter Text

The last day comes quietly. 

The scrape of chairs, the low hum of fluorescent lights, the smell of paper and ink that has soaked into everyone’s nerves for days. 

Yujin writes until the very last minute. 

Her wrist aches, like something worn down rather than injured. Her fingers feel stiff, cramped around the pen she’s been gripping for hours, days, weeks. When the proctor calls time, it almost feels distant, like the sound travels through water before it reaches her. 

She stops. 

Looks at the page. 

Not to check answers. Not to fix anything. 

Just to confirm that it’s over. 

Her brain is empty. Not relieved. Not proud. Just… quiet. Like a room after furniture has been dragged out, leaving only dust and dents on the floor. 

She stands when told to. Walks down the aisle. Hands the paper over. 

For a brief second, the edge of the desk presses into her hip, grounding her. Real. Physical. Done. 

No joy swells in her chest. No fear either. 

Just a single, steady thought.

I did everything I could. 

And then even that fades. 

***

Across the room, Wonyoung finishes with far more composure. 

Her handwriting remains neat to the end, every character placed with intention. When time is called, she lifts her pen smoothly, as if she had already decided where to stop. 

She doesn’t stand right away. 

Instead, she rereads the top of the paper. 

Jang Wonyoung. 

Her name looks right there. Clean. Familiar. Belonging. 

She scans a few answers — not because she doubts them, but because she expects reassurance. And it comes, one question after another. No glaring mistakes. No skipped sections. No panic blooming in her chest. 

Her jaw tightens slightly, not from stress, but from certainty. 

I didn’t make a mistake. 

The thought settles in her mind, firm and immovable. 

I couldn’t have. 

This is what she does. This is what she’s always done. Exams are not battles to her, they are confirmations. Proof that the world is still aligned the way it should be. 

When she finally stands and hands in her paper, her posture is perfect. Chin level. Shoulders straight. 

As she turns away from the teacher’s desk, she doesn’t look at anyone. 

She doesn’t need to. 

In her mind, the order of things is already decided. 

Outside the classroom, the hallway fills with noise — voices breaking, laughter spilling, tension snapping at last. 

But inside both of them, something remains suspended. 

Yujin walks out feeling hollow, carried forward by habit alone. 

Wonyoung walks out composed, convinced the ground beneath her hasn’t shifted at all. 

***

After the last exam, the campus exhales. 

Not all at once — more like a slow leak. Laughter breaks out in pockets. Students spill into hallways, voices too loud, movements loose and unguarded, like people relearning how to exist without a timer ticking down their spine. 

Yujin walks toward the dorms with Hanni at her side. 

Hanni is talking — animated, relieved, words tumbling over each other. She’s replaying questions, laughing about trick answers, complaining about one subject and celebrating another. Her hands move when she talks, brushing the strap of her bag, bumping lightly against Yujin’s arm as they walk. 

Yujin hums in response. Nods. Smiles when she’s supposed to. 

But she’s only half there. 

Inside her chest, something has loosened. Not happiness, just space. Her shoulders feel lighter. Her breath deeper. 

Exams are over. 

The thought lands gently, almost cautiously, as if it might break if she presses too hard on it. 

And then, immediately— 

Basketball. 

Next week. Practices. Games. 

Her mind rests, but her body won’t get the same mercy. Muscles, lungs, bruises, sweat. Running until her legs burn, pushing through fatigue because extracurricular points matter, because scholarships don’t care if you’re tired. 

It’s survival in a different form. 

Yujin glances at the gym in the distance as they pass.

She exhales through her nose.

Hanni keeps talking, unaware or maybe aware and choosing not to press. She slips her hand briefly into Yujin’s sleeve, a small, grounding touch.

Yujin lets herself lean into that, just for the walk back. 

***

On the other side of the school, Wonyoung leaves school surrounded by people. 

Ningning is already talking about celebrating. Yuna suggests food. Winter looks visibly relieved, tension finally easing from her shoulders. Even Minji and Dani linger, waiting for Wonyoung to say yes. 

But Wonyoung doesn’t feel like celebrating. 

“I’m tired,” she says instead, voice calm, polite. “I just want to go home.” 

No one argues. They can see it in her face, the exhaustion that isn’t physical. 

They understand. Or at least, they accept it. 

The car ride home is quiet. 

When she reaches the penthouse, she changes out of her uniform. Comfortable clothes. Hair loosened. Shoes kicked off by the door, something she rarely does. 

She sinks into the couch. 

Yuri appears briefly, soft-footed as always, and tells her her mother isn’t home — out shopping, likely gone for hours. 

Normally, that would feel like relief. 

Tonight, it barely registers. 

The exams are finished. The war — weeks of pressure, expectation, silent fear should be over. 

But Wonyoung can’t focus. 

***

While the school waits for the final results, Janghwa Girls’ High stops being a school. 

It becomes a casino. 

It starts quietly — whispers in hallways, numbers scribbled on the backs of notebooks, hushed conversations during lunch. Who ranked first in math. Who blanked during English. Who looked too calm, who looked too shaken. 

Then it spreads. 

By the second day, everyone knows. There are odds now. Multipliers. Names written like racehorses on invisible boards. 

Jang Wonyoung

Safe bet. Low return. 

An Yujin

Underdog. High risk. High reward. 

At first, most of the money goes to Wonyoung. 

Of course it does. 

“She’s always first,” someone says, chewing on a straw. “Since kindergarten. Literally. Why would this time be different?” 

“I heard she has tutors for everything.” 

“She doesn’t miss.” 

“Her father owns the school.”

Betting on Wonyoung is boring, but it’s safe. Small returns, guaranteed pride. People who don’t want to think too hard put their money there and move on. 

But then, slowly — Yujin’s name starts circulating. 

It begins with the quieter students. The ones who actually pay attention. 

“She beat Wonyoung on that pop quiz last month.” 

“She ranked higher on that history essay.” 

“In math, she’s scary. Like, scary scary.” 

“She studies really hard, even during breaks, her life depends on this exam.” 

That last line sticks. 

Because it’s true. 

People have seen Yujin reading during breaks, biking with earphones in, quizzed by her friend in corners of the hallway. They’ve seen her exhaustion, the way she doesn’t waste time, the way she treats every assignment like it matters. 

And for her, it does. 

“She has to win,” someone mutters, half in awe, half in pity. “If she loses, she leaves.” 

That’s when the betting shifts. 

Not massively. Not loudly. 

But the odds on Yujin climb. 

Her multiplier grows bigger, more tempting. Students pause, calculate, imagine the payoff. 

Some students bet on her because they believe. 

Some bet because they want the thrill. 

Some bet because they like the idea of an upset, of watching something impossible happen in a place that prides itself on never changing. 

Others scoff. 

“You’re throwing money away.” 

“Wonyoung doesn’t lose.” 

“She’s built for this.” 

“Yujin got lucky before.” 

The school splits — not into sides, but into instincts. 

Safety versus risk. 

Legacy versus hunger. 

In the middle of it all, Yujin keeps her head down, pretending not to hear the whispers that follow her through the halls. 

And somewhere else, Wonyoung sits perfectly composed, outwardly untouched by the noise while her name is passed around like a sure thing, a guarantee, a rule no one expects to break. 

The results haven’t been posted yet. 

But Janghwa is already gambling on the future. 

***

While the school turns itself into a betting ring, the people closest to the center of it all begin to crack — quietly, unevenly, each in their own way. 

Minji feels like the hinge holding a door that’s about to rip itself off the wall. 

She knows Yujin is capable. She’s seen it — seen how Yujin studies, how she adapts, how she doesn’t waste effort. There’s no delusion there. No comforting lie. 

And that terrifies her. 

Because Minji also knows Wonyoung. 

Knows what winning means to her. Knows what losing would do. 

At lunch, Minji smiles at the right moments, laughs when expected, nods along when people talk about odds and rankings. Inside, her thoughts pull in opposite directions. Silent guilt for bringing Yujin into this. Silent hope that Yujin survives. Silent fear of what happens to Wonyoung if she doesn’t. 

She doesn’t voice any of it. 

She can’t.

So she becomes still. Watchful. The emotional hinge, holding tension without letting it snap yet. 

***

Winter and Ningning don’t care about exam rankings the way everyone else does. 

Not really. 

For them, this isn’t about grades. It’s about control. 

The exams are just a pause. A ceasefire. 

Hanni is still out there. The videos still exist. That fact hums beneath their skin, impossible to ignore. Every time Winter sees Hanni in the hallway, her stomach tightens. Every time Ningning laughs, it comes a little sharper than before. 

Their anxiety doesn’t turn inward, it turns outward. 

Into narrowed eyes. Into clipped tones. Into hostility that has nowhere to go yet but refuses to disappear. 

They don’t touch Yujin. They don’t touch Hanni. 

But the danger doesn’t leave. 

It just waits. 

***

Yuna is the outlier. 

She stretches during lunch, yawns between classes, complains about how stiff her shoulders are from practice. Her grades are fine. Not brilliant, not disastrous. Passable. 

Good enough. 

She wants to play sports. She wants to graduate without drama. She wants her body to work tomorrow. 

While everyone else spirals, Yuna floats — grounded, practical, almost detached. 

“This is exhausting,” she mutters once, scrolling through her phone. “Just let the results come out already.” 

She means it. 

***

Dani feels it coming. 

That’s the worst part. 

She doesn’t know who will win. She doesn’t know what form it will take. She just knows that no outcome is clean. No ending is safe. 

She watches Minji too closely. Watches Wonyoung too carefully. Feels the air tighten every time Yujin’s name is mentioned. 

Either Yujin wins and everything explodes. 

Or Wonyoung wins and something breaks anyway. 

Dani presses her lips together, anxiety settling deep in her chest. 

***

Hanni looks fine. 

That’s what people would say if they bothered to look at her at all. 

She walks beside Yujin through the hallway, their shoulders almost brushing. When someone greets them, Hanni smiles. When a classmate asks how she’s doing, she nods and says, “It’s okay,” a little too fast, like she’s answering before the question can settle. 

Nothing about her looks wrong. 

But she doesn’t stop scanning. 

Her eyes move constantly. She notices who turns when Yujin passes. Who whispers and leans in. Who laughs too late. Who holds a phone chest-high instead of down by their side. She clocks exits without meaning to. Stairwells. Corners. The blind spot near the lockers where teachers don’t stand. 

Without realizing it, she adjusts her steps so she’s always half a pace closer to Yujin. Always on the side facing the hallway, the stairs, the open space. It’s subtle. Instinctive. 

Nothing happens. 

And Hanni doesn’t relax anyway. 

In class, while the teacher drones on about post-exam schedules, Hanni’s notebook stays open but empty. 

Her mind runs in loops. 

If they post something, I post first.

She knows exactly which folder. Which app. Which account. 

If they approach again, I record.

Her phone is already set—camera shortcut memorized, volume button mapped. 

If Yujin loses, I don’t let them touch her.

She doesn’t know how yet. She just knows she won’t let it happen. 

If Yujin wins…

Her jaw tightens.

I still don’t trust them. 

With Yujin. 

Hanni hovers under the excuse of care. She slides snacks across the desk without comment. Pushes a bottle of water closer during study breaks. 

“Did you eat?”

“Drink water.”

“Sleep early, okay?” 

She says it lightly, like it’s nothing. Like she’s always been like this. 

Sometimes Yujin nods without looking up, pencil moving, eyes focused. Sometimes she smiles and says, “I know.” 

And sometimes, when Yujin is bent over her notes, lashes low, completely unguarded — Hanni just watches. 

Her chest tightens then. Not with fear of grades. Not with the exams. 

With the quiet, terrifying knowledge of what it took just to get here. 

She doesn’t say, I was scared you’d die. 

She doesn’t say, I thought I lost you. 

She shifts closer instead. Their knees touching under the desk. Her shoulder brushing Yujin’s arm. A small, steady contact. 

Yujin doesn’t pull away. 

And for a moment, Hanni lets herself breathe. 

***

The gym smells like varnish and sweat, the sharp echo of sneakers cutting across the polished floor. Balls thud in steady rhythms, whistles cutting through bursts of laughter. Practice is already loud before the team even finishes warming up. 

“Newbie,” Ryujin calls out, spinning a basketball on her finger as she strolls past Yujin. “Don’t choke during drills today. I’ve got money riding on you.” 

Yujin snorts, catching a pass and shooting without looking. The ball kisses the backboard and drops cleanly through the net. A few of the girls whoop. 

“Wow,” Ryujin says dramatically. “Confidence. I like that. See? This is why I bet on you. Scholar girl’s about to dethrone royalty.” 

Yujin laughs along with the team, shaking her head. “That bet is insane.”

“Hey, insane makes money,” Ryujin shoots back, jogging backward as the coach calls them into formation. “High odds, high returns. If you beat Jang Wonyoung, I’m buying everyone fried chicken.” 

A collective cheer erupts. 

Across the court, Minji is taking slow, careful shots, the ball bouncing back to her hands each time. Ryujin points at her with exaggerated curiosity. “What about you, Minji? Don’t tell me you didn’t bet.” 

Minji exhales through her nose, eyes fixed on the rim as she shoots. Miss. She retrieves the ball calmly. “I didn’t.” 

Groans and boos rain down immediately. 

“That’s boring,” someone complains. 

Ryujin clicks her tongue. “Neutrality is a crime in this economy. What about you, cousin?” 

Yuna, crouched near the bench, tightens the laces on her sneakers and doesn’t even look up. “Wonyoung, duh,” she says plainly. “Why would I lose money on purpose?” 

Laughter ripples again, easy and careless. Someone throws a towel at Yuna. She ducks it without reacting. 

Ryujin jogs over to Yujin and gives her shoulder a firm pat. “Ignore them. Basketball team’s on your side. Soccer team too. Half the athletes are rooting for you.” 

Yujin smiles, a little stiff, and bows her head slightly. “Thanks, captain.” 

The words come out right. Polite. Grateful. 

Inside, her stomach twists. 

She knows why they’re betting. It isn’t loyalty. It isn’t belief. It’s odds and boredom and the thrill of turning someone else’s life into a game. If she wins, they celebrate. If she loses, they shrug and move on. 

For her, there is no moving on. 

The whistle blows, snapping her back into motion. She sprints, cuts, passes — her body doing what it knows how to do. The court makes sense. The rules are clear. You run, you jump, you shoot. Effort equals outcome, most of the time. 

Exams don’t work like that. 

Tomorrow. 

Tomorrow, the results go up. 

Tomorrow, everything tilts one way or the other. 

Spring feels close enough to touch and just as easy to lose. 

The ball leaves her hands, arcs high, and drops through the hoop. 

The team cheers. 

Yujin forces herself to breathe, to smile again, to keep running. 

***

The cafe is the kind that doesn’t need a sign outside. 

Muted gold lettering. Glass so clean it barely reflects the street. Inside, everything is soft — velvet chairs, marble tables, low music that sounds expensive without being memorable. 

They take the long table by the window. 

Wonyoung sits in the middle without thinking about it. She always does. 

Plates arrive one after another — miniature cakes glazed like jewels, pastries dusted with sugar so fine it looks intentional, drinks layered in careful gradients. No one rushes to eat. Phones are placed face-up on the table, aligned, screens dark but present. Waiting. 

“Exams are finally over,” Dani says brightly, lifting her fork like a toast. “Survived.” 

“Obviously,” Yuna replies, already leaning back in her chair, stretching her legs out. “I’m just glad I don’t have to think for a week.” 

Ningning hums, relaxed, scrolling idly. “You did great, Wonyoung. We all know it.” 

Winter nods a beat too fast. “Yeah. Of course.” 

Wonyoung smiles. 

It’s easy. Automatic. The kind of smile she’s practiced her whole life — gracious, unbothered, victorious without being crude about it. She laughs when someone makes a joke, tilts her head when congratulations come her way, waves it off like it’s nothing. 

“It’s just exams,” she says lightly. “They’re always like this.” 

Because they are. Because she always wins. 

This is just the formality. 

Inside her head, a question resurfaces. 

At first, it’s only one. 

A math problem. A phrasing she hesitated on for half a second. She tells herself it’s nothing — she checked it twice, three times. She remembers the logic, the steps, the neatness of her handwriting. 

Another question follows. 

Then another. 

A history essay prompt. Did she frame the argument too narrowly? No, that’s ridiculous. It was strong. It was hers. 

She reaches for her drink, fingers steady, nails perfect. Takes a sip. The sweetness feels muted. 

Across from her, Minji hasn’t touched her dessert. 

Minji is watching her — not openly, but not subtly either. Her eyes flick up whenever Wonyoung speaks, searching her face, her posture, the space between her words. 

Wonyoung catches it. 

Their eyes meet. 

Minji gives a small smile. Careful. Encouraging. 

Good, Wonyoung thinks. As it should be. 

Someone laughs. Winter taps her spoon against her plate, restless energy she can’t seem to bleed off. Ningning leans back, one arm draped over her chair, already half elsewhere. Yuna checks her phone, unconcerned. Dani keeps talking, filling gaps before silence can settle. 

The cafe hums around them. 

Then Ningning says, casually, “The betting’s kind of insane, though.” 

Wonyoung’s fingers still. 

“People are getting bold,” Ningning continues, amused. “The odds on the underdog shot up like crazy.” 

Yuna snorts, tying the ribbon on her shoe tighter under the table. “I bet on you, obviously. Safe money.” 

“Same,” Dani adds quickly. “I mean—why wouldn’t you?” 

Wonyoung laughs again, but this time it comes a fraction too late. 

“That’s stupid,” she says, tone light clipped. “It’s just exams. Why are people turning everything into a game?” 

Her smile tightens. 

Not wider. Never wider. 

The name comes up anyway. It always does. 

Yujin. 

Just once, in passing. A shrug. A comment about how she’s been “doing better than expected.” 

Irritation sparks sharp and immediate, hot beneath Wonyoung’s ribs. 

She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to. The air shifts enough on its own. Winter goes quiet. Dani changes the subject too quickly. Minji’s gaze flickers again, uncertainty threading through it now. 

Wonyoung leans back, crossing her legs gracefully. 

She tells herself she’s tired. That’s all this is. Weeks of pressure, of focus, of discipline. Anyone would feel strange once it’s over. 

Relief is supposed to feel bigger than this, she thinks. 

But relief doesn’t come. 

Instead, another question surfaces. Then another. Her mind runs them like a checklist she can’t put down, flipping through pages she’s already memorized, searching for something she doesn’t know.

She smiles again when someone speaks to her. 

She nods. She laughs softly. 

She celebrates because that’s what someone like her does. 

Outside, the sky is already darkening. Somewhere across the city, results are being finalized, numbers aligning themselves into ranks that don’t care about tradition or certainty or who has always won. 

Wonyoung doesn’t check her phone. 

She doesn’t need to. 

Tomorrow will confirm what she already knows. 

It has to.  

***

The next morning, the first floor of Janghwa Girls’ High doesn’t feel like a hallway anymore. 

It feels like a crowd pressed around a stage. 

The physical bulletin board, old-fashioned, cork-backed, glass-paneled is completely surrounded. Students are packed shoulder to shoulder, uniforms brushing, bags pressed to chests. Even second-years and third-years hover at the edges, pretending they’re just passing by, curiosity dragging them closer step by step. 

This isn’t just about grades. 

It’s about whether the impossible happened. 

And, more urgently for many of them, whether they bet on the right name. 

Whispers ripple constantly. 

“Did you check yet?”

“I heard someone screamed.”

“No way.”

“I put ten million on Wonyoung — she better still be first.” 

Then Yujin and Hanni arrive. 

They don’t push forward. 

They don’t announce themselves. 

They stop at the back of the crowd, near the stairs, where the noise dulls slightly and the air feels heavier. Yujin keeps her head down, hands curled loosely at her sides. Her shoulders are relaxed in a way that looks like calm but in reality, it’s resignation. 

Inside her head, she’s already packing. 

Second place is fine. Third would still be okay. I did everything I could. 

If this semester ends with her quietly returning to Cheongha-ri, she’s prepared for that too. Disappointed, yes but not broken. She told herself that a hundred times last night. 

Hanni, on the other hand, isn’t looking at the crowd. 

She’s looking straight at the board. 

Her eyes skim past the lower ranks — past names she doesn’t care about until they land at the very top sheet, the one clipped highest, slightly crooked like it was pinned in a hurry. 

She freezes. 

Just… stops. 

Her breath catches so sharply it makes a sound. 

A small, involuntary gasp. 

Nearby students hear it. 

A few others gasp too — not in excitement, but in confusion. The reaction is wrong. Off-beat. Like clapping at the wrong moment in a performance. 

The noise around them falters. 

“What?” 

“Wait—what does it say?” 

Yujin hasn’t seen anything yet. 

She’s still a few steps behind Hanni, head bowed, eyes on the floor tiles. She doesn’t notice the way people are starting to turn — not toward the board, but toward her. 

The murmurs shift. 

Confusion spreads before understanding does. 

“Did they reorder it?” 

“No, that doesn’t make sense.” 

“Is that—are you sure that’s the first page?” 

Questions hang in the air, unanswered, overlapping. 

Hanni doesn’t wait. 

She spins around and grabs Yujin’s sleeve, fingers tight, almost shaking. 

“Yujin—” her voice cracks, urgent, breathless. “Look. Look—now.” 

Yujin frowns slightly, startled more by Hanni’s tone than her grip. She lifts her head, steps forward, and lets Hanni pull her closer to the board. 

 Her eyes go straight to where she expects to see it. 

Second place. 

That’s where her name should be. 

She finds the number 2 first. 

And it says.

2. Jang Wonyoung 

Yujin blinks. 

Once. 

Twice. 

Her brain stalls, like it’s hit a wall it didn’t know existed. 

Slowly — almost reluctantly, her gaze moves upward. 

Just one line. 

Above it. 

1. An Yujin

For a moment, nothing happens. 

No rush of joy. No triumph.

Her mind goes completely blank. 

The hallway seems to pull inward, sound collapsing into a dull hum. The letters don’t rearrange themselves. They don’t fade. They stay there.

Her name. 

At the top. 

Around them, realization finally detonates. 

Gasps turn sharp. Voices rise. Someone laughs in disbelief. Someone else swears loudly. A ripple of shock moves through the crowd like a physical force. 

But Yujin doesn’t hear any of it. 

She just stands there, staring, as if the board might change its mind if she looks away. 

Hanni tightens her grip on Yujin’s sleeve, grounding her, eyes shining — not with celebration, but with relief so intense it almost hurts. 

***

They arrive together. 

Not laughing. Not talking. 

Wonyoung at the front, as always. 

The crowd feels her before it sees her. Students part instinctively, shoulders shifting aside, bodies angling away without conscious thought. It’s muscle memory — years of hierarchy ingrained into posture and breath. 

Wonyoung doesn’t rush. 

She walks like this is still hers to claim. 

Her eyes lift to the board. 

The first thing she sees is the number. 

1.

Her gaze drops to the name beside it. 

An Yujin

For a fraction of a second, her mind refuses to process it. 

That’s not possible. 

The thought is flat, automatic. Like rejecting a typo. 

Her eyes move down. 

2. Jang Wonyoung. 

Her second thought follows immediately, sharp and cold. 

They made a mistake. 

A printing error. A miscalculation. Someone will fix it. Someone always fixes things. 

Then the third thought lands. 

I lost. 

And suddenly, she can feel it. 

The silence that isn’t really silence. The way people are holding their breath. The way the air presses against her skin. The way this moment is being watched, memorized, stored. 

Behind her, the reactions fracture. 

Winter sees the board and stops dead. 

Her brain goes completely blank — no panic yet, no strategy, just a hollow ringing in her ears. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This cannot happen. 

Ningning swears under her breath in Chinese, sharp and vicious, the words slipping out before she can stop them. Her jaw tightens immediately after, eyes flicking around, already calculating fallout. 

Yuna freezes mid-chew. 

Her jaw doesn’t close. Her expression doesn’t change. It’s like someone hit pause on her body while her mind scrambles to catch up. 

Dani goes very still. 

Too still. 

Her hands curl into her sleeves, shoulders drawn in, as if she’s bracing for something she doesn’t know yet but knows is coming. 

Minji doesn’t look at the board right away. 

She already knows. 

She feels it in the way the air shifted, in the way Wonyoung’s back went rigid, in the way the crowd’s energy tilted. Her chest tightens — not surprise, not relief, but a quiet, aching confirmation. 

So this is it. 

Wonyoung’s hands curl at her sides. 

Her fingers dig into her palms so hard her knuckles blanch white. Her jaw locks, lips pressing into a thin, controlled line. She keeps her head high, even as something hot and violent surges up her throat. 

A few steps away— 

Yujin. 

Standing beside Hanni. 

Still facing the board. 

Still processing. 

Wonyoung sees her then, really sees her, and something in her snaps taut. Her nostrils flare, breath sharp and shallow. The anger isn’t explosive — it’s compressed, dangerous, coiled so tightly it hurts. 

Yujin turns. 

Their eyes meet. 

Just for a moment. 

Yujin doesn’t smile. 

Doesn’t gloat. 

She looks… stunned. Grounded. Real. 

That makes it worse. 

Wonyoung’s gaze hardens, sharp enough to cut. Whatever words rise in her chest never make it to her mouth. She turns abruptly, heels clicking against the floor, and walks away. 

The crowd parts again without thinking. 

No one stops her. 

No one says her name. 

Behind her, the bulletin board still stands. 

Unchanged. 

And for the first time at Janghwa Girls’ High, Jang Wonyoung leaves a room without being number one. 

***

Wonyoung doesn’t slow down. 

The moment she turns away from the bulletin board, it’s as if the rest of the school stops existing. The noise — gasps, whispers, someone laughing too loudly — collapses into a dull, irritating hum behind her. Her shoes click sharply against the hallway floor, each step precise, controlled, almost violent in its restraint. 

“Wonyoung—” 

Minji’s voice reaches her first, tight with panic. 

“Wonyoung, wait.” 

Winter calls next, louder. Ningning swears under her breath. Yuna follows with a sharp, confused, “Where are you going?” Dani doesn’t say anything at all, just walks faster. 

Students part instinctively as Wonyoung moves through them. No one blocks her path. No one dares. Heads turn. Phones lower. A few people shrink back, sensing something volatile, like the air before glass shatters. 

She doesn’t look at anyone. 

Not Minji, not her friends, not the students who had been staring at the board seconds ago. Her face is composed in the most frightening way — blank, pale, jaw locked so tight the muscles twitch beneath her skin. Her hands are clenched at her sides, fingers curled hard enough that her knuckles have gone white. 

“Wonyoung, say something,” Winter pleads, breathless now. “Just—just tell us where you’re going.” 

Nothing. 

They spill out of the building behind her, the doors swinging open as sunlight floods the steps. The courtyard feels too open, too exposed. People are watching from everywhere — upper floors, benches, stair rails — drawn by instinct to the collapse of something that was never supposed to fall. 

At the curb, her car is already waiting. 

The driver straightens the moment he sees her. He doesn’t ask a question. He opens the door immediately. 

Minji reaches out, fingers brushing Wonyoung’s sleeve. “Wonyoung—” 

Wonyoung doesn’t pull away. 

She simply keeps walking. 

She slides into the backseat without a word, posture rigid, eyes fixed straight ahead. The door closes with a heavy, final thud that cuts Minji off mid-breath. 

For a fraction of a second, her friends are frozen there on the pavement — Winter staring at the tinted glass, Ningning’s mouth set in a thin line, Yuna squinting as if trying to read something through the darkness, Dani’s hands clenched at her sides. 

Then the engine revs. 

The car pulls away from the curb, smooth and fast, accelerating too quickly for comfort. The tires bite into the road. In seconds, the vehicle is already halfway down the drive, disappearing past the gates, swallowing Wonyoung whole. 

She doesn’t look back. 

Inside the car, the world blurs past the window, but Wonyoung doesn’t register it. Her reflection stares back at her in the glass — eyes sharp and burning with something that has nowhere to go. 

***

The private lounge feels wrong without her. 

It’s too quiet — no sharp laughter cutting through the air, no effortless authority anchoring the room. The low music hums uselessly from hidden speakers, filling the empty space. Phones sit untouched on the table, screens dark. Drinks sweat slowly. 

Wonyoung’s chair is empty. 

That absence weighs more than her presence ever did. 

“She’s not answering,” Winter says again, voice too high, fingers tapping against her knee in a frantic rhythm. “I’ve called her three times. She always answers me.” 

No one responds. 

Winter’s gaze keeps darting to the door, then back to the empty seat, like she expects Wonyoung to storm in any second and reset the universe. Her breathing is shallow now. If Wonyoung lost — if Wonyoung can be beaten, then something fundamental has cracked. The rules don’t work anymore. The hierarchy doesn’t hold. And Winter has built her safety on that structure her entire life. 

“This isn’t normal,” she mutters. “She doesn’t just leave. She doesn’t just disappear.” 

Ningning leans back against the couch, arms crossed, jaw tight. Her anger is quieter, more dangerous. Her eyes are already calculating, replaying events, mapping fallout. The exams. The board. Hanni’s leverage. Yujin’s rise. 

“This changes things,” she says flatly. “Not just rankings. Optics. Control. People will talk now. Teachers. Students. Everyone.” 

Her fingers drum once against her arm. “And they’ll get ideas.” 

Yuna shrugs, tying and untying the strap of her bag without looking up. “It happened,” she says, blunt as ever. “She lost. That’s it.” 

Winter snaps her head toward her. “That’s not it.” 

Yuna finally looks up, expression calm, almost detached. “I’ve got games next week. Coaches breathing down my neck. Rankings don’t change that.” She pauses, then adds, “And honestly? Someone was going to beat her eventually. Just… we didn’t expect it.” 

Dani sits curled slightly inward, hands clasped together, staring at the floor like it might open up and swallow them all. She hasn’t said much since they arrived. Her quietness is heavier than panic, heavier than anger like a slow, sinking feeling in her chest. 

“This isn’t over,” she says quietly. 

The room stills. 

“I don’t know how,” Dani continues, “but this feels like the start of something worse. Wonyoung doesn’t lose and just… accept it.” 

Minji hasn’t moved. 

She sits with her elbows on her knees, fingers interlaced so tightly her knuckles are pale. She hasn’t checked her phone in minutes. She doesn’t need to. She already knows there won’t be a reply. 

“She skipped school,” Minji says finally. 

Everyone turns to her. 

“She never skipped school,” Minji continues. “Yuri said she didn’t come home either.”

Winter’s face drains of color. “That’s bad.” 

Minji nods once. She understands something the others don’t — not because she’s smarter, but because she’s closer. Because she’s seen Wonyoung unravel in private, in pieces small enough to hide from the world. 

“This isn’t something she’ll get over,” Minji says. “Not being second. Not being watched while it happened.” 

Silence settles again, thick and suffocating. 

No one celebrates. No one jokes. No one checks the board again. 

Outside the lounge, the school is already adjusting — whispers shifting, eyes following Yujin now, the center of gravity subtly, irrevocably off-balance. 

Inside, they sit with the echo of a power that has slipped its grip. 

And none of them know where Wonyoung is. 

Only that wherever she went, she didn’t go there to calm down. 

***

Yujin doesn’t feel triumphant. 

She feels full — like something has been poured into her too fast, too suddenly, and she doesn’t know where to put it. 

The rest of the day passes in fragments. 

Jang Wonyoung doesn’t show up. 

That absence spreads faster than the results themselves. By second period, everyone knows. By lunch, it has weight. Teachers glance at the door a fraction longer than usual. Students whisper without covering their mouths. The school feels… unbalanced. Like a crown left on an empty chair. 

Yujin moves through it quietly. 

At first, it’s just looks. Then nods. Then voices. 

“Congrats.” 

“Seriously, that was insane.” 

“I knew you could do it.” 

Some sound genuine — awed, even. Others sound careful, like they’re testing the ground. A few are openly excited, grinning as they mention odds and payouts, laughing about how much money they made betting on her. There are students who never learned her name before today suddenly greeting her like they’ve always been friendly. 

Yujin thanks them. She bows her head slightly. She smiles when she has to, didn’t react to the ones she remembered attacking her.

Inside, it’s strange. 

Relief comes first — sharp and almost painful. The tight knot in her chest loosens just enough for her to breathe. She doesn’t have to leave. She doesn’t have to disappear. Cheongha-ri stays a as her old school, not a return address. 

Then disbelief follows.

This really happened. 

She beat Jang Wonyoung. 

And with that thought comes something else — an awareness she can’t shake. Eyes linger longer now. Conversations pause when she passes. People look at her like she’s something new, something worth measuring themselves against. Being seen like this doesn’t feel warm. It feels exposed. 

By the time classes end, the hallways are buzzing. 

Yujin stands near her locker, books held loosely against her chest, unsure where to look. The noise presses in from all sides. She catches her reflection in the glass — same face, same uniform but it doesn’t feel like the same position in the world. 

Hanni is beside her the entire time. 

She beams when people congratulate Yujin, squeezes her hand when Yujin’s smile falters, answers for her when the attention gets overwhelming. From the outside, Hanni looks purely happy — proud, relieved, glowing in a way she hasn’t allowed herself to glow in weeks. 

But Hanni is watching. 

She notices who congratulates Yujin with too much enthusiasm. Who suddenly laughs too loud. Who waits until others are around before speaking. She notices the way people glance down the hallway as if expecting someone who never arrives. 

Wonyoung’s absence is a presence of its own. 

As they walk toward the exit together, Yujin pauses for a moment, looking down the corridor one last time. Students part without thinking now. The space opens for her. 

Hanni’s smile softens. 

Inside her chest, pride twists into something tighter, sharper. 

Yujin didn’t just win. 

She stepped into the light. 

And Hanni knows, wins like this don’t end things. 

They change the shape of the target. 

Chapter Text

A week passes.

And Jang Wonyoung still doesn’t come back.

At first, it’s just noticed in passing — an empty seat, an untouched locker, the way teachers avoid saying her name out loud. Then the absence stretches. One day becomes three. Three becomes a week.

People start whispering.

Did she drop out?

Did she transfer schools after the humiliation?

Someone swears they heard she flew out of the country.

Someone else says she’s “sick.”

Another lowers their voice and says depressed, like it’s something dangerous to say too loudly.

No one actually knows. And that uncertainty sits over Janghwa like a held breath.

Only after that does everything else begin to shift.

People start noticing Yujin in ways they didn’t before. Teachers pause a second longer when calling her name. Coaches watch her drills instead of glancing past her. During basketball practice, there are more figures leaning against the railings, more phones half-lifted, more eyes following the arc of the ball when it leaves her hands.

There’s a quiet realization spreading through the school.

An Yujin is good at more than one thing.

After practice, the basketball team doesn’t bother being subtle.

Ryujin slings an arm around Yujin’s shoulders and announces, loud and unapologetic, that the team dinner is happening at Yujin’s workplace. The gym erupts — cheers, laughter, chants about fried chicken.

Yujin flushes, ducks her head, thanks the captain properly. She means it. She really does.

Her eyes drift, just briefly, to where Yuna and Minji stand nearby. She wonders without quite meaning to, if they’ll come.

When she whispers to Ryujin that the fried chicken place isn’t big, Ryujin barely hesitates. If there’s no space, they’ll take out. If there are no chairs, they’ll stand. The decision is instant, easy, final.

The team is thrilled.

Yujin laughs, relieved, a little overwhelmed.

***

That night, the basketball team arrives like weather.

The school bus pulls up loud and rattling, headlights washing over the narrow street where Ahjumma Kim’s fried chicken shop sits between a store and a shuttered tailor. Laughter spills out the moment the doors open — sneakers hitting pavement, voices overlapping, Ryujin already clapping her hands like she owns the place.

Yujin had warned Ahjumma Kim hours ago.

Fifteen students. Two coaches. One assistant. Two trainers.

Ahjumma Kim had gone silent on the phone for half a second — then laughed, sharp and delighted and said she’d close after lunch. Said it was fine. Said she’d make room.

Now the metal shutters are half-down on the neighboring shops, but hers is lit warm and bright, tables pushed together, extra chairs dragged out, the smell of oil and garlic already thick in the air.

The team pours in, still buzzing from practice, from winning, from being young and loud and hungry.

Ryujin leads them like a parade captain, calling out orders that aren’t orders yet.

“Take your bags off, no blocking the aisles — hey, coach, you’re sitting there, you don’t get the fan.”

Ahjumma Kim steps out from behind the counter, apron tied tight, hair pinned back. Her face lights up immediately when she sees Yujin.

“Oh! Yujin!” she says, clapping her hands together. “All of you—come in, come in.”

Then her eyes shift.

She pauses.

Her smile changes — subtly, but noticeably when she spots Minji.

“Oh,” Ahjumma Kim says warmly, already stepping closer. “You’re here again, Yujin’s friend.”

Minji freezes for half a beat.

Ahjumma Kim doesn’t notice the hesitation. She never does. She’s already reaching out, patting Minji’s arm.

“Where’s your other friend?” she asks, genuinely curious. “The one from before.”

Minji swallows. “Um… She’s not on the basketball team.”

From behind them, Yuna’s hand pauses.

Her head tilts.

Again?

Before?

She looks from Ahjumma Kim to Minji, then briefly to Yujin, who is busy helping the assistant coach move a chair, oblivious or pretending to be.

Before Yuna can say anything, Ryujin swoops in like a wrecking ball.

“Ohhh?” Ryujin grins loudly, draping an arm over Minji’s shoulders without asking. “So you’re the one gatekeeping this place?”

The team laughs instantly.

“Unnie!” someone calls. “You’ve been holding out on us?”

Ryujin leans closer to Minji, stage-whispering, “Is it actually good?”

Minji exhales, tension easing just enough to speak. “It’s… the best fried chicken.”

Ahjumma Kim laughs, embarrassed and pleased at the same time. “Oh, stop it,” she says, waving her hand. “I reserved the whole restaurant just for you all. Eat well.”

Cheers erupt. Someone bangs the table. Another yells that they’re ordering everything.

Ryujin pumps her fist. “You hear that? We’re eating until this place regrets knowing us!”

They spill further inside, chairs scraping, bags dumped in corners, the noise filling the small space until it feels alive, electric.

Yujin stands near the counter now, caught between pride and discomfort, watching her teammates take over the place she usually exists quietly inside of.

Minji moves with them, smiling, answering questions, blending in.

Yuna doesn’t.

She sits down slowly, eyes lifting only when she’s finished.

She looks at Minji again.

Then at Yujin.

Then at Ahjumma Kim, who is already calling orders into the kitchen like this is a celebration she’s been waiting for.

***

The restaurant fills up the way small places do when laughter starts early and never quite stops.

Ryujin is loud on purpose, leaning back in her chair, arm slung over the seat like she owns the place. She raises her voice so everyone hears.

“From now on,” she announces, pointing her chopsticks around the table, “this is where we eat after every win.”

Cheers break out immediately.

“And when we lose?” someone asks.

Ryujin snorts. “Then you don’t deserve fried chicken. Go home and reflect on your life choices.”

Groans, laughter, someone throwing a napkin at her head. Even the coaches chuckle, pretending not to.

From behind the counter, Kim Ahjumma laughs too — soft, delighted, genuinely happy her place is full. She keeps moving, setting down plates before they’re empty, refilling side dishes without being asked.

“Eat more, eat more,” she says, waving her hand as if hunger is an insult she refuses to tolerate. “You all look too skinny to be athletes.”

Yujin tries to protest from the kitchen — “Ahjumma, it’s really enough”—but the woman ignores her completely.

“Nonsense,” Kim Ahjumma says, already turning back with another basket of chicken. “You take care of Yujin, so I’ll take care of you.”

The table quiets for half a second at that, then someone cheers again, louder, and the moment dissolves.

Ryujin bows dramatically. “We’ll win everything then. Just for this chicken.”

Kim Ahjumma beams, cheeks pink. “Win or lose, come eat,” she says. “But winning is better, yes?”

More laughter. Plates clink. Oil crackles softly in the back.

Yuna sits slightly apart from the noise, tying and untying her fingers around a paper cup, eyes drifting not to Yujin, not to the team but to the woman behind the counter.

Kim Ahjumma smiles at everyone the same way. At Ryujin. At the coaches. At Yuna, even, when their eyes meet. The kind of smile that assumes students are students, that schools are safe, that everyone just studies.

The ahjumma doesn’t know.

She doesn’t know how this school really works. Doesn’t know about the gossips, the lines you don’t cross, the names you don’t say out loud. Doesn’t know how easily students can be chewed up and spit out here.

To her, they’re just kids who play sports and eat too much chicken.

Kim Ahjumma passes by Yuna’s table and sets down another dish, patting her shoulder lightly. “Eat well,” she says. “You’re all working so hard.”

The touch is gentle. Familiar.

For a brief, uncomfortable second, Yuna is reminded of her grandmother — how she used to fuss the same way, how she never saw the sharp edges of the world Yuna learned to navigate early.

Yuna lowers her gaze, jaw tightening just a little.

This woman doesn’t know what kind of school these students belong to.

***

By the time the last plates are cleared, the restaurant looks different.

The tables are wiped clean but the crumbs of laughter still in the air, the kind that sticks to the walls. Kim Ahjumma stands behind the counter counting tips with careful fingers, eyes widening each time she unfolds another bill.

“Oh my,” she murmurs, laughing, disbelieving. “These kids…”

She presses a hand to her chest, genuinely touched. “This is too much.”

“They’re rich,” Ryujin says cheerfully, already shrugging on her jacket. “You deserve it, you fed us well, Ahjumma.”

The team lines up to bow politely, coaches included. Yujin steps forward too, bowing deeper than the rest.

“Thank you for coming,” she says, voice sincere, a little shy. “Really.”

Ryujin ruffles her hair without asking. “We’ll be back after the next win.”

Yujin laughs.

When the bus honks outside, the team files out in high spirits, still arguing about who ate the most wings. Yujin stays behind, tying her apron again, sleeves rolled up.

Kim Ahjumma watches her for a moment, fond.

“You did well,” she says quietly.

Yujin nods, swallowing. “Thank you, ahjumma.”

They clean together in comfortable silence — chairs stacked, floors swept, lights dimmed one by one. When the door finally locks, the street is quiet again, like nothing loud ever happened there.

***

The school bus hums as it pulls away, headlights cutting through the night.

Laughter still ripples through the rows, but at the very back, it’s quieter.

Yuna drops into the seat beside Minji, stretching her legs out in front of her. She doesn’t speak right away. She watches the reflection in the window — passing lights, Minji’s face, thoughtful and closed off.

“You’ve been there before.”

Minji doesn’t answer immediately.

“The chicken place,” Yuna continues. “Ahjumma knew you. Called you, Yujin’s friend.”

Minji turns her head slowly. Their eyes meet.

“And the other friend she mentioned,” Yuna adds. “That was Dani, right?”

Minji exhales. “Yeah.”

Yuna nods, absorbing it. Her fingers drum lightly against her knee.

“Why?” she asks. Not accusing. Just blunt. “Why go there? And why let her think you’re Yujin’s friend?”

Her mind runs through possibilities anyway. Threats. Warnings. Power plays. That’s how things usually work around Wonyoung.

But her gut twists, not quite buying it.

Minji stares ahead at the aisle, where someone is laughing too loudly. The bus rattles over a bump.

Finally, she speaks.

“We went to talk to her,” Minji says. “Me and Dani.”

Yuna turns fully now. “About?”

Minji glances at her, measuring how much to say. Then decides not to lie.

“To persuade her,” Minji says quietly. “To come to Ningning’s party.”

Yuna’s brows lift slightly. Not shocked. Just… recalibrating.

“That’s it?” she asks.

Minji lets out a short, humorless breath. “That’s never ‘just it,’ is it?”

Yuna leans back, crossing her arms. She watches Minji from the corner of her eye, the way she always does when she’s trying to read between the lines.

The bus keeps moving.

The engine hums low, steady, like it’s trying to smooth over what was just said.

Yuna doesn’t let it.

She turns fully toward Minji now, knees knocking lightly against the seat in front of them. Her voice drops, but it’s sharp with urgency.

“Did Wonyoung tell you to do it?” she asks. “To persuade Yujin. Was that her idea?”

Because that would make sense. Because Ningning always plans, and Wonyoung always approves.

Minji doesn’t answer right away.

She stares at her hands, fingers laced together so tightly her knuckles look pale. Then she shakes her head.

“No,” Minji says. “She didn’t.”

Yuna blinks. “Then—”

“I did,” Minji continues, cutting in gently. “I encouraged Yujin to go. I told her to challenge Wonyoung.”

For a second, Yuna genuinely forgets how to breathe.

Her eyes widen, already big, growing comically larger. “You—what?”

Her words trip over each other after that.

“Why would you do that?”

“Wonyoung just lost—she hasn’t even come back to school.”

“Are you—do you hate her or something?”

“You’re step-sisters, Minji.”

“What kind of game are you playing?”

“Are you manipulating both sides now?”

The questions come fast, tumbling out in a rush of disbelief and panic, hands moving as she talks, voice climbing despite herself.

Minji closes her eyes.

Just for a second.

Then she inhales — slow and opens them again.

“Yuna,” she says quietly. “Calm down.”

That alone makes Yuna stop mid-sentence.

Minji turns fully toward her now.

“Let me ask you something,” Minji says. “If Dani and I didn’t step in that night… if we didn’t warn Yujin and get her help, what do you think would’ve happened?”

Yuna opens her mouth. No answer comes out.

Minji doesn’t wait.

“They were going to drug her,” Minji says, flat and unembellished. “You know that. Ningning doesn’t do half-measures.”

Yuna’s fingers curl into the fabric of her jacket.

“And if we hadn’t interfered?” Minji presses. “If Yujin had stay there, unconscious—”

She stops herself, jaw tightening.

“Would you really be able to live with that?” Minji asks softly. “If something happened? If it went too far? If she died?”

The bus slows near a traffic light. Red washes over the windows, over their faces.

Yuna swallows. “But… Wonyoung is our friend,” she says weakly. “She’s—she’s your step-sister.”

Minji nods immediately. No hesitation.

“I know,” she says. “That’s exactly why I’m doing this.”

Yuna looks at her, confused, torn.

“The more Wonyoung does things like this,” Minji continues, voice low, controlled, “the easier it becomes for her. The cruelty. The humiliation. The line keeps moving.”

Her eyes flick briefly to the window, as if seeing something else reflected there.

“I’ve seen where that leads,” Minji says. “I met with it. With her mother.”

She exhales slowly.

“If no one stops her, if everyone keeps enabling her — this just becomes normal for her. And then there’s no coming back.”

Silence settles between them.

Yuna leans back in her seat, staring at the ceiling of the bus, trying to rearrange everything she thought she knew.

Inside her head, resistance flares. Loyalty. Habit. Years of standing beside Wonyoung because that’s what you do.

But beneath that—

She knows Minji isn’t wrong.

She’s seen it too. The way Wonyoung’s punishments have escalated. The way Ningning smiles when something breaks. The way fear has become entertainment.

Still, it’s a lot.

Too much.

Yuna finally looks back at Minji, her expression conflicted, unsettled.

“So you’re just… playing both sides now?” she asks quietly.

Minji meets her gaze, unflinching.

“No,” she says. “I’m trying to stop one side from destroying itself and everyone else with it.”

The bus quiets as it slows near the school gates. Outside, the campus looms — orderly, spotless, heavy with rules everyone pretends are fair.

Yuna looks forward again, jaw tight.

Then, almost to herself, she mutters, “You know Wonyoung’s not going to like this.”

Minji doesn’t answer.

She already knows.

***

Yuna lies flat on her back, staring at the ceiling of her room in the Shin mansion, lights off except for the thin glow bleeding in from the city outside her window. The house is quiet. It always is at night — expensive, insulated silence that makes her thoughts echo louder than they should.

Minji’s voice won’t leave her head.

What if we didn’t help that night?

Could you live with it if she died?

Yuna groans and flips onto her side, shoving her face into her pillow and letting out a muffled scream — long, frustrated, wordless. When she pulls back, her heart is beating faster than it should be for someone who’s done nothing but lie still.

If she tells Wonyoung everything — everything — Yuna knows exactly how it will go.

Wonyoung won’t listen.

She won’t pause.

She won’t ask why.

She’ll explode.

And that explosion won’t stop at Yujin. It will swallow Minji whole. Maybe Dani too, just for standing too close. It’ll tear their group clean down the middle, turn the school into another battlefield. Another bloodbath, louder, more surgical and worse.

Yuna exhales sharply.

But if she stays silent?

Then what?

Then she’s complicit.

Then she’s choosing Minji.

Choosing Yujin, by extension.

And Wonyoung, when she eventually finds out, because she always finds out and will look at Yuna and realize she wasn’t trusted. Wasn’t chosen.

That realization would hurt Wonyoung more.

Yuna rubs her face with both hands, fingers digging into her temples. She hates this part — the thinking, the weighing, the realizing that no option leaves everyone intact. Dani will side with Minji. That much is obvious. Dani always follows her heart, and they have been together since forever. Ningning and Winter? They’ll follow power, wherever it re-forms. Or fractures.

And Wonyoung.

Yuna’s chest tightens.

It’s been a week.

No sight of her at school. No dramatic return. No icy hallway passes. Just absence. Rumors piling up like debris — overseas, transferred, sick, depressed, humiliated. Yuna hates that she doesn’t know which one scares her most.

She rolls onto her back again and stares at the ceiling, blinking hard.

Tomorrow. After school. They’re going to the penthouse.

To check on her, they said. As if Wonyoung is something fragile you tap on glass to make sure it’s still alive.

Yuna lets out a humorless huff.

She doesn’t know what she’ll do if Wonyoung opens the door herself.

She doesn’t know what she’ll do if she doesn’t.

Her phone buzzes on the nightstand. A group chat notification. She doesn’t check it. Not yet. Right now, she just wants the noise in her head to stop.

Yuna presses her palms into her eyes, then drops her arms to her sides.

No matter what she chooses next, something is going to break.

And she’s running out of time to decide what she’s going to do.

***

The next day comes too fast.

Game day.

Yuna feels it the moment she steps into the gym — the charged air, the echo of sneakers, the restless buzz of voices bouncing off the high ceiling. Her body knows this routine by heart, but her mind is slightly off-center, pulled in too many directions at once.

Minji. Yujin. Wonyoung.

She presses her lips together and tightens the straps of her shoes.

No. Team first.

If she lets herself spiral now, she’ll play sloppy. Miss passes. Be half a step late. And that’s unacceptable.

This is Janghwa’s court.

The bleachers are packed, school colors everywhere. Chants roll through the gym in waves — Jang-hwa! Jang-hwa! — loud enough to rattle the metal railings. Even a small cluster of students from the rival girls’ high school has shown up, scattered but vocal, their cheers sharp and defiant in enemy territory.

As the team runs out for warm-ups, the noise spikes.

Ryujin gets her usual reaction — screams, whistles, someone nearly losing their voice yelling her name. She throws a lazy grin toward the stands, already in her element. A few girls chant Minji’s name too, impressed by her calm, precise shooting during warm-up drills. Someone yells that she’s cool. Someone else yells that she’s pretty.

Yuna hears her own name next, a brief but solid cheer, and she lifts a hand in acknowledgment without looking up.

Then. There’s another sound.

Different.

A ripple of surprise, then excitement.

Yuna glances up despite herself and immediately knows why.

Yujin.

She’s just doing layups. Nothing flashy. Headband, expression focused, movements efficient and clean. But every time she drives to the basket, every time she sinks a shot, the reaction builds. Not just from Janghwa students, there are cheers from the other side too.

A few voices call her name.

Someone shouts, “She’s good!”

Someone else yells, “Number one scholar!”

Someone yells, “Marry me, Player #91!”

Yuna’s jaw tightens slightly.

It’s not jealousy. Not exactly.

It’s… awareness.

Yujin isn’t just there anymore. She’s being noticed. Every game, more eyes. More attention. The kind that sticks.

She doesn’t play to the crowd. She never does. She barely reacts, just jogs back into position, listens to Ryujin, nods when spoken to. But the attention follows her anyway, clinging like static.

And that makes the girls scream even more.

From the stands near the back, Ningning leans forward in her seat, arms crossed, eyes sharp. Winter sits beside her, leg bouncing nonstop, gaze flicking between the court and her phone. Dani is quieter, hands folded in her lap, watching Minji more than the game itself.

They’re here for Yuna and Minji, officially.

Unofficially, there’s something else hanging over them.

After this, they’re going to Wonyoung’s penthouse.

Yuna feels it like a countdown ticking somewhere in the back of her skull.

The referee blows the whistle.

Players take their positions. The ball goes up.

And just like that, the noise fades into something distant as Yuna locks in.

For now, she runs. Defends. Passes. Shoots.

For now, they are just a team.

***

The last five minutes felt like the air itself had tightened.

The score was tied.

The court loud, then suddenly quiet in the way that only matters most moments get.

Yujin wiped her palms on her shorts, chest rising fast. She didn’t look at the scoreboard again. She already knew.

The play broke messy.

Someone from the other school fumbled. Ryujin shouted. The ball ricocheted — Yujin moved without thinking.

A clean steal.

A fast pass.

A drive that pulled two defenders with her instead of the shot everyone expected.

The ball left her hands again — another assist, perfectly timed.

The crowd exploded.

The next possession, Yujin didn’t pass.

She cut through, shoulder brushing past a defender, planted, jumped, released.

Swish.

Cheers crashed over the court, louder than before. Not polite applause. Not curiosity.

Belief.

The opposing team scrambled. A rushed shot. Miss.

Yujin grabbed the rebound, heart hammering so hard it felt like it might knock loose. She passed. The clock bled down.

When the buzzer finally screamed.

62–60.

Janghwa won.

For a second, Yujin just stood there, hands on her knees, breath emptying out of her like something heavy finally let go. Then Ryujin tackled her into a hug, laughing, shouting something about “newbie luck” and “future ace” at the same time.

The team erupted. High-fives. Shouts. Someone nearly cried. Someone actually did.

And through it all, Yujin felt that strange double feeling again — joy, yes, but also the uncomfortable weight of being seen. Of being counted.

***

They split afterward.

The basketball team piled onto the bus, already chanting about fried chicken and victory and Ryujin’s promise that losing teams didn’t get to eat but winners always did. Ahjumma Kim’s shop would be loud tonight. Warm. Safe.

Minji and Yuna didn’t go.

They stayed at the edge of the parking lot with Dani, Ningning, and Winter, the noise of celebration fading behind them as a car door shut.

“We should go now,” Yuna said, already pulling out her phone. “If we’re doing this, we shouldn’t wait.”

Minji hesitated, eyes flicking toward the direction of the penthouse towers. Her jaw tightened.

“I’ll stay in the lobby,” she said quietly. “If her mother’s there… she won’t want to see me.”

No one argued. They all knew that was true.

Minji stayed behind, sitting rigidly on one of the leather sofas in the lobby, hands folded too neatly in her lap.

The elevator doors slid shut on the others.

Up.

Higher.

Silence stretching between floors.

When they reached Wonyoung’s level, the hallway felt wrong — no sense of life pressing against the walls the way it usually did.

Dani rang the doorbell.

Once.

Twice.

The door opened.

Yuri stood there, startled, blinking as if she’d been pulled out of another task entirely.

“Oh—Miss Yuna. Miss Ningning. Miss Winter. Miss Dani,” she said, bowing automatically. “You’re here to see—”

“Where’s Wonyoung?” Winter asked, the words tumbling out too fast.

Yuri paused.

Then, carefully, “Miss Wonyoung is in Japan.”

The hallway went very, very still.

“In Japan?” Ningning repeated. “Since when?”

“What do you mean Japan?” Dani asked. “Like—now?”

Yuna stepped forward. “Did she transfer? Is she coming back? Why didn’t she tell us?”

Questions stacked over each other, sharp and frantic. Yuri’s eyes widened, overwhelmed, hands tightening together before she steadied herself.

“She left last week,” Yuri said, slowly, choosing her words. “Her father came personally. They departed the same day the exam rankings were announced.”

Silence.

The four of them looked at each other.

Last week.

The day the bulletin board changed everything.

“So…” Winter said faintly, doing the math out loud without meaning to. “She left right after.”

Yuri nodded. “Yes. Miss Wonyoung hasn’t returned since.”

***

Downstairs, the lobby felt louder than it had any right to be.

Footsteps echoed. The elevator chimed. Someone laughed near the entrance, the sound jarring against the tight silence clinging to the group as they stepped out.

Minji stood up the moment she saw their faces.

She didn’t ask if they found Wonyoung.

She already knew something was wrong.

“She’s not there,” Yuna said, voice low. “She’s in Japan.”

Minji froze.

“In Japan?” she repeated, brows knitting together. “That… tracks. Uncle Do-jun flew out last week.”

Winter’s head snapped up. “You knew?”

“I knew he left,” Minji corrected. “Not that she did.” She frowned, thinking harder now. “But he was only gone a few days. He was back by the weekend.”

“So he left her there,” Dani said softly.

Ningning crossed her arms, irritation flickering beneath the calm. “Japan isn’t hiding. It’s cooling-off territory.”

“But it’s still disappearing,” Winter muttered. “She didn’t even tell us.”

Yuna exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through her hair. “Typical. If she can’t control the board, she removes herself from it.”

Minji looked down, then back up. “I’ll ask him,” she said. “Later. I want to know how long.”

“How long matters,” Ningning agreed immediately. “Because school doesn’t pause just because she’s gone.”

They all knew it.

Exams were over. The school had gone oddly quiet.

“But rankings don’t wait,” Yuna said bluntly. “Neither does attention.”

Winter’s jaw tightened. “Every day she’s gone, Yujin stays on top.”

No one corrected her.

Because it was true.

The scholar was still there. Still attending. Still winning games. Still visible.

“And if Wonyoung doesn’t come back by Monday,” Dani said uneasily, “people will start treating this like it’s permanent.”

“Wonyoung doesn’t lose quietly,” Minji said. “She won’t let this stand.”

Yuna glanced toward the glass doors, where the city lights reflected back at them. “Then she better come back soon.”

Because if she didn’t, Janghwa would keep moving without her. And that might be the one thing Wonyoung could never forgive.

***

That night, dinner at the Kim house was quieter than usual.

The dining table was long, polished to a mirror shine. Too much food, as always. Side dishes refilled the moment they dipped below half. Soup steaming gently in porcelain bowls. The maids moved in practiced silence, placing plates, stepping back, hovering just enough to be useful without intruding.

Minji sat straight, hands folded in her lap, watching it all like an observer instead of a participant.

Across from her, her younger sister swung her legs slightly under the table, distracted by her phone until their mother cleared her throat softly. The phone disappeared. A small, sheepish smile followed.

At the head of the table sat Jang Do-jun.

Uncle Do-jun.

That was what they all called him. Not out of distance, out of clarity.

He smiled easily, already mid-story about a traffic mess near Gangnam, gesturing with his chopsticks, laughing at himself. He was warm in a way that didn’t demand attention. The kind of man who listened more than he spoke, who remembered small things, who asked about exams and actually waited for the answer.

If you didn’t know who he was, you’d never guess.

Minji thought, not for the first time, that it felt like a trick of logic.

This man, who laughed too loudly at bad jokes.

This man, who reminded the maids to eat before the food got cold.

This man, who apologized when he interrupted.

And yet, Wonyoung existed.

Minji’s mother, Ga-hyun, thanked a maid as another dish was set down. She never overstepped. Never tried to play hostess. This wasn’t her house in that way, and she knew it.

They all did.

Do-jun didn’t try to bridge that gap.

He didn’t sit closer.

Didn’t call them “my kids.”

Didn’t force familiarity where it didn’t belong.

He was just… there. Respecting the shape of their family as it already was.

Minji appreciated that more than she ever said.

Her own father existed solidly elsewhere — steady, present, unquestioned. Do-jun didn’t compete with that. Didn’t replace it. Didn’t pretend.

But the ghost at the table tonight wasn’t him.

It was Jae-kyung.

Wonyoung’s mother wasn’t here, never was. And yet her absence pressed in harder than a presence ever could. Minji could almost feel the shape of her disapproval in the room. The old resentment. The bitterness that had never cooled.

Jae-kyung hated them.

Hated her mom, most of all.

As if Minji’s mother had stolen something that had already been broken long before she arrived. As if divorce timelines mattered less than pride. As if someone had to be blamed, and it might as well be the woman who moved on.

Minji stabbed at a piece of fish, appetite dulled.

Her younger sister chatted quietly about school, about a classmate who cried over a quiz, about a teacher who talked too fast. Normal things. Safe things.

Do-jun listened, smiling, nodding, asking follow-up questions like this wasn’t a house full of landmines.

Minji watched him closely.

He’s the one who sent her away, Minji thought.

Not cruelly. Not as punishment.

But as protection.

From the school.

From the whispers.

From Jae-kyung.

And maybe from herself.

Minji wondered if Wonyoung was sitting at some hotel table in Japan right now, eating quietly, pretending not to care, replaying everything over and over in her head.

She wondered if Uncle Do-jun knew just how badly Wonyoung had needed control and how losing it might crack something deeper in her.

Minji eats slowly, barely tasting anything.

The soup cooled.

The maids refilled it anyway.

Her eyes drift to the far end of the table, to the empty chair that is always Wonyoung’s whenever she is here.

It’s strange how absence can feel louder than presence.

She thinks about Jae-kyung.

About how the hatred started the moment Minji, her siblings, and their mother moved into this mansion — as if their existence itself was an offense. The way her gaze lingered on Minji and her siblings like they were stains that wouldn’t come out.

Honestly, Minji had hated this place too.

She missed their old house, the way it smelled like her childhood. This mansion was too big, too polished, too full of echoes that didn’t belong to them. But they had followed their mother anyway. Because that’s what kids do when parents make decisions that are supposed to be “for the best.”

Her older brother had escaped first. University. Dorms. Their dad’s place during breaks. Freedom disguised as responsibility.

Minji envied him for it.

She had thought about moving back too, living with her dad full-time, leaving all of this behind. She still does, sometimes. But somewhere along the way, something complicated had happened.

Wonyoung happened.

When they were younger, Wonyoung had hated her.

Not subtly. Not quietly. She expressed it every single time.

Wonyoung had been sharp even as a child — possessive, territorial, cruel in small, precise ways. Minji had hated her back just as fiercely. They had been two girls forced into proximity, neither willing to bend.

Then there was that day.

Minji doesn’t remember how old they were. Only that it was afternoon. Only that Minji’s mother had brought a small gift — an expensive hairband, just something thoughtful. And Wonyoung had accepted it, hesitating, like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to.

Jae-kyung had seen it.

Minji remembers freezing in the hallway. The sound of raised voices. The way Wonyoung flinched before the impact even came, like her body already knew what was next. Minji had stood there, unable to move, watching Jae-kyung strike her daughter for something as harmless as kindness.

That was when something shifted.

From then on, Minji started noticing things. How tightly wound Wonyoung always was. How perfection wasn’t ambition for her, it was survival. How she learned early that love came with conditions, and mistakes came with consequences.

They never became soft with each other.

But they became… real.

As they grew older, seeing each other in casual dinners, going to the same school. Minji saw how often Wonyoung was trapped between impossible expectations and absolute control. How she learned to dominate because she was never allowed to be weak.

Do-jun asks every week how Wonyoung is doing at school.

Every week.

And every week, Minji lies by omission.

She can’t tell him that his daughter has been tearing someone else apart to feel whole. She can’t say, Your daughter drugged a classmate. She can’t say, Your daughter is becoming her mother in ways that terrify me.

Minji doesn’t know what Do-jun would do if he found out.

Part of her thinks he already knows. Or at least suspects. Maybe guilt keeps him quiet. Maybe leaving Jae-kyung made him feel like he forfeited the right to intervene. Maybe love, twisted by fear, made him choose to support his only daughter, whatever she does.

But Minji knows one thing for sure.

Do-jun loves Wonyoung desperately.

He has always wanted her to live with him instead. Away from her mother. Away from the house where affection comes wrapped in control and punishment.

Because everyone who is close enough to see the truth knows it.

Jae-kyung isn’t just difficult.

She is a monster.

And Minji sits at this table, between politeness and dread, wondering whether saving someone sometimes means standing against them before it’s too late.

Dinner continued, polite and composed, like nothing in the world was wrong.

Plates are cleared, replaced, cleared again.

She waits for an opening — watches Do-jun laugh at something her younger sister says, watches her mother politely smile, watches the way the staff move in and out like shadows. He looks… normal. Relaxed. Too relaxed for someone whose daughter vanished from school without a word.

When the conversation dips, Minji finally speaks.

“Uncle Do-jun,” she says, carefully casual. “Where’s Wonyoung?”

The table stills just a fraction.

Do-jun looks up, surprised. Just momentarily caught off guard, like he hadn’t expected the question to come from her.

Then he smiles.

“She’s resting,” he says easily. “I took her away for a bit. She needed it.”

Minji nods, fingers tightening around her chopsticks. “When is she coming back to school?”

“Monday,” he answers without hesitation. “She’ll be back by then.”

There’s something reassuring in how certain he sounds. Like this was never a crisis, just a pause.

Minji hesitates, then asks the question she’s been holding back all week.

“Is she… okay?”

Do-jun doesn’t sigh. Doesn’t deflect. He simply nods.

“She’s better now,” he says. “Much better.”

His smile widens, gentle and sincere, the kind that makes people believe him even when they shouldn’t. “She just needed some space.”

Minji lets out a breath.

“That’s good,” she says quietly.

Do-jun studies her for a moment, then adds, almost casually, “When she gets back, keep an eye on her, okay?”

Minji looks up.

He’s still smiling, but there’s something underneath it now — trust, maybe. Or relief.

“She listens to you,” he continues. “More than she lets on. Thank you, Minji.”

The words land heavier than he probably intends.

Minji nods. “Of course.”

Across the table, her mother watches the exchange in silence. She doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t comment.

Minji doesn’t look at her, but she knows.

Her mother knows Do-jun already flew to Japan. Knows this wasn’t just a spontaneous break. Knows there’s more behind that calm smile.

But she lets it pass.

The dinner ends shortly after that. Polite goodbyes. Warm thanks. Normalcy carefully restored.

As Minji stands to leave, one thought settles firmly in her chest, relief.

Wonyoung is coming back.

***

The championship didn’t end with the final buzzer.

It spilled.

Into the hallways, into the lockers, into the bus ride back, into the narrow streets leading to Ahjumma Kim’s fried chicken shop, where the lights were already warm and waiting.

Janghwa celebrated like it hadn’t in years.

Ryujin was loud, ecstatic, voice hoarse from shouting. It was her last season, her last chance and she wore that victory like a crown. She kept throwing an arm around anyone close enough, laughing, calling everyone champions, promising she’d come back to watch their games even after graduation.

Inside the shop, the atmosphere was chaos in the best way.

Uniform jackets slung over chairs. Damp hair. Red cheeks. Shoes kicked off under tables. Trays of chicken arriving nonstop. The sound of oil still sizzling in the kitchen mixed with laughter and overlapping voices.

Ryujin stood up on a chair, nearly tipping over, raising her soda can like a trophy.

“Basketball done,” she declared dramatically. “Now you better work just as hard for soccer this February. No slacking. If we lose, I’m haunting all of you.”

The team groaned and laughed, throwing napkins at her.

Ahjumma Kim wiped her hands on her apron, smiling so wide her eyes nearly disappeared. She kept saying how proud she was, how strong they all were, how she’d give them extra portions because champions needed to eat well.

Yujin mostly stayed quiet, sitting near the edge, smiling when spoken to, nodding when praised. The noise washed over her like waves. It felt distant, like she was watching something through glass.

When the crowd finally thinned and the team left in groups, still buzzing with victory, Yujin stayed behind.

She tied her apron back on, rolled up her sleeves, and helped Ahjumma stack chairs, wipe tables, gather empty boxes. The shop slowly returned to its usual quiet rhythm — buckets of water sloshing, plates clinking, the soft hum of the refrigerator.

That was when her phone started vibrating.

Once.

Twice.

Then nonstop.

She paused, confused, pulling it from her pocket. The lock screen was flooded with notifications — tags, messages, follows, comments.

Her brows knit together.

When she unlocked it, the screen exploded.

Photos of her mid-jump shot.

Slow-motion clips of her steals.

Crowd videos screaming her name.

Her follower count was climbing so fast it felt unreal, the numbers refreshing every time she blinked.

Comments stacked endlessly.

Who is she?

Isn’t she the scholar who beat Jang Wonyoung?

She’s insane at basketball.

Drop your study tips please.

How does she do both??

Praise mixed with curiosity. Awe tangled with speculation.

Yujin stared at the screen, chest tightening.

It felt… too loud.

Too bright.

Like standing under a spotlight she hadn’t asked for.

Her thumb hovered, then she quickly turned off her notifications, the sudden silence almost startling.

She slipped the phone back into her pocket and returned to the sink, letting warm water run over her hands, scrubbing plates until the noise in her head softened.

Plates. Soap. Steam.

Simple things.

Ahjumma Kim glanced over, smiling gently. “You did well today, Yujin-ah.”

Yujin nodded, lips curving faintly.

But inside, she couldn’t shake the strange weight settling in her chest.

Being unseen had been lonely.

Being seen like this felt… dangerous.

***

The next day, Janghwa held something it had never held before.

A parade.

It wasn’t grand in the way public schools did it, no open streets or city permits, but within the high walls of Janghwa Girls’ High, it felt monumental. The entire campus was transformed. Banners stretched between buildings. Ribbons lined the balconies. The courtyard was packed shoulder to shoulder with students from every grade, even teachers gathering at the edges, murmuring in disbelief and pride.

For a school known for its academics, its cold elitism, and its quiet cruelty, this was history — their first-ever basketball championship.

The team stood on a raised platform at the center of the courtyard, sunlight glinting off the polished trophy. Cameras flashed. Phones were already in the air, recording everything. The air vibrated with excitement.

At the front stood Ryujin.

For once, the usually laid-back, teasing captain looked genuinely emotional. Her eyes shone, her grin so wide. She held the microphone with both hands, bouncing slightly on her feet like she couldn’t quite contain herself.

“I honestly thought we were hopeless,” she admitted, laughing, and the crowd burst into laughter with her. “Like— truly, deeply hopeless.”

More cheers.

“But somehow,” she continued, sweeping her gaze across her teammates, “we made it. And not just barely. We won.”

The roar that followed shook the courtyard.

Ryujin lifted a hand, motioning for quiet. “This season, we had rookies who changed everything.”

Her eyes flicked first to Minji, then to Yuna, and finally to Yujin.

“Kim Minji, Shin Yuna, and An Yujin,” she said clearly. “Our lucky charms.”

The crowd erupted again. Whistles, cheers, chanting. Minji smiled awkwardly, Yuna lifted a hand in a casual wave, but Yujin stiffened, caught off guard by the sudden spotlight. Her face warmed instantly, and she ducked her head, overwhelmed by the sound of her name echoing through the courtyard.

Ryujin laughed at their reactions. “They worked their asses off. They trained. They pushed through injuries, exhaustion, and pressure. This trophy isn’t just for the seniors — it belongs to all of them.”

She lifted the trophy high.

“And we’re not stopping here.”

The noise dimmed just enough for her voice to cut through.

“Soccer season is coming this spring,” Ryujin declared. “And Janghwa doesn’t settle for just one championship.”

The crowd leaned in.

“We’ll work harder. We’ll train smarter. And we’ll bring another trophy home.”

For a heartbeat, there was silence.

Then the courtyard exploded.

“JANGHWA! JANGHWA! JANGHWA!”

The chant rolled in waves, students stomping, clapping, shouting until the sound echoed off the surrounding buildings. Teachers watched with stunned smiles. Even the strictest instructors looked momentarily caught up in it.

On the platform, the team stood shoulder to shoulder, grinning, flushed, dizzy with adrenaline and pride.

Yujin glanced out at the sea of faces — students who had once ignored her, mocked her, looked through her — now cheering, filming, calling her name. The feeling was surreal. Too loud. Too bright. Too sudden.

Beside her, Yuna’s shoulders were squared, focused, already thinking about the next season. Minji’s expression was thoughtful, proud but distant. And Ryujin stood at the front, soaking in the moment like sunlight.

For Janghwa, this wasn’t just a win.

It was a shift.

And everyone could feel it.

***

After the morning ceremony, the noise of applause and chanting still lingered faintly in the hallways, echoing through Janghwa’s corridors.

Class 1-A slowly refilled.

Students returned in clusters, still buzzing, still energized, still replaying the championship highlights and Ryujin’s speech in excited fragments. Laughter bounced off the walls. Desks scraped. Chairs shifted. Phones were passed around, videos replayed, photos zoomed into, names tagged, reactions dissected.

In the middle rows, Ningning, Winter, Yuna, Minji, and Dani gathered naturally, as if pulled by habit and gravity.

They congratulated Minji and Yuna first.

“Seriously, you two were insane out there,” Dani said, eyes bright. “That last play—”

Yuna shrugged, trying to act casual. “Ryujin carried, honestly.”

Minji smiled softly, nodding along, accepting the praise with her usual quiet grace.

They talked about celebrating later. Maybe dinner. Maybe karaoke. Maybe something loud and reckless to burn off the adrenaline still buzzing under their skin.

But underneath it all, there was a different tension.

One they weren’t saying out loud.

Eventually, the conversation drifted, inevitably.

“What time is she coming?” Winter asked, eyes flicking toward the classroom door.

Minji hesitated for half a second. Then nodded. “Today. Her dad said Monday.”

Ningning let out a short scoff. “Of course she wouldn’t show up early. Why would she come just to watch people praise Yujin?” She rolled her eyes. “That would be psychological torture for her.”

Yuna snorted quietly. “Yeah. No way she’d sit through that.”

Dani shifted in her seat, fingers twisting together. “So… after lunch?”

“Probably,” Ningning said. “She loves dramatic timing.”

Winter didn’t say anything. She was staring down at her desk, mind spinning, trying to calculate the ripple effects of Wonyoung’s return. The hierarchy. The tension. The social atmosphere that had been dangerously unstable for the past week. If Wonyoung came back different — quieter, colder, more calculating then everything could change again overnight.

Or worse.

At the far back of the classroom, Yujin sat alone.

Her posture was more stable now — shoulders slightly hunched, head lowered, one arm resting on the desk as she stared blankly at the grain of the wood. Her phone lay face down beside her, silent for once. The noise around her blurred into background static.

The ceremony already felt unreal.

The cheers. The applause. Her name spoken into a microphone.

It all felt like something that had happened to someone else.

A few students glanced her way, whispering behind hands, curiosity and admiration tangling awkwardly together. Some smiled at her when their eyes met hers. Some looked away quickly, unsure of how to act around her now.

Yujin kept her gaze down.

She didn’t want to think about who wasn’t here.

At the front of the room, Ningning leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “Honestly, I’m more curious than nervous. Like… what version of Wonyoung are we getting?”

“The quiet one is scarier,” Dani murmured.

Yuna hummed in agreement. “Yeah. Loud Wonyoung, you know what she’s thinking. Quiet Wonyoung? That’s when people get hurt, for real.”

Minji said nothing.

Her eyes drifted, briefly, toward the back of the classroom — toward Yujin’s bowed head, before returning to the empty doorway.

A strange heaviness settled over her chest.

The clock ticked forward.

Second period began. Then ended.

Still no Wonyoung.

By lunch, the tension in their group had sharpened into something brittle.

It felt less like waiting for a friend to arrive and more like waiting for a storm.

***

After lunch break, the hallways of Janghwa were louder than usual.

Students streamed back from the cafeteria in clusters, still buzzing from the morning ceremony, from the championship, from the shifting hierarchy that everyone could feel. Laughter echoed. Lockers slammed. Shoes clicked briskly against polished marble floors.

And then, the hallway changed.

It wasn’t sudden. It was subtle, like a pressure shift before a storm.

Jang Wonyoung was walking down the corridor.

Tall. Straight-backed. Immaculate.

She looked exactly the same.

And yet, everything felt different.

Conversations faltered as she passed. Voices dropped. Laughter thinned into nervous silence. Some students froze mid-step, instinctively pressing themselves flatter against the walls to let her through. Others lowered their heads, pretending to adjust bags or check phones, as if eye contact itself might be dangerous.

A week ago, her presence would have commanded fear.

Now, it commanded uncertainty.

Because in that week, something unthinkable had happened.

Yujin had risen.

And Janghwa had started to adjust.

Wonyoung walked through that shifting world as if she owned it.

Her heels clicked softly, rhythmically, down the hallway. Students tracked her with cautious glances, wondering.

Would she explode?

Would she pretend nothing happened?

Would she destroy everything that had started to settle?

No one knew.

When she reached Class 1-A, the hallway seemed to hold its breath.

She slid the classroom door open.

The sound was soft.

But the reaction wasn’t.

A collective, barely audible gasp rippled through the room.

Heads snapped up. Conversations died mid-sentence. Even the air seemed to still.

Wonyoung stepped inside.

Her squad reacted instantly.

Ningning straightened. Winter’s eyes widened in relief. Dani let out a breath. Yuna turned fully in her seat, surprise and concern flickering across her face. Minji looked up slowly, her gaze searching Wonyoung’s expression, scanning for cracks, shadows, warning signs.

But Wonyoung looked… fine.

Better than fine.

She didn’t scan the room.

She didn’t pause.

She didn’t acknowledge the sudden silence.

She simply walked forward, graceful and unhurried, toward her seat.

At the far back of the classroom, Yujin remained invisible.

Wonyoung didn’t spare her a single glance.

Not a flicker of irritation.

Not a spark of contempt.

Not even curiosity.

It was as if Yujin didn’t exist at all.

The deliberate absence of reaction was louder than any outburst.

Wonyoung reached her desk, set her bag down neatly, and slid into her seat with controlled elegance. She adjusted her blazer, crossed her legs, and only then turned toward her friends.

Immediately, they crowded in.

“Are you okay?” Dani asked.

“You disappeared,” Ningning said, accusing. “No replies, no calls, no nothing.”

“Where did you go?” Winter added. “You scared us.”

Yuna leaned closer. “How are you feeling?”

Minji stayed silent, watching.

Wonyoung blinked slowly, then smiled.

It was polite. Light. Almost warm.

“I’m fine,” she said calmly. “My dad just thought I needed a break.”

Her voice was smooth, untroubled, as if the last week hadn’t shaken the foundations of Janghwa’s social order.

“Japan?” Ningning confirmed.

Wonyoung nodded.

“What, just shopping and spa days?” Ningning scoffed.

“Rest,” Wonyoung corrected lightly. “Sleeping. Walking. Not thinking.”

Dani searched her face. “And now?”

Wonyoung tilted her head slightly, considering. “Now I’m better.”

Her gaze was steady. Clear. Almost serene.

Yuna frowned faintly.

Minji felt a chill crawl up her spine.

Because this wasn’t the Wonyoung they knew.

Controlled. Composed. Disturbingly calm.

Around them, the class slowly resumed movement, though the tension never fully dissipated. Students pretended to focus on their notebooks. Teacher began writing on the board. Pens scratched against paper.

But every few seconds, someone would glance toward Wonyoung.

And then, without meaning to, toward the back of the room.

Where Yujin sat, head lowered, unaware or perhaps deliberately unaware of Wonyoung’s presence.

Two centers of gravity.

Two silent forces.

Existing in the same space.

And no one could predict which one would pull harder.

***

Yujin had been staring long before she realized she was.

The moment the classroom door slid open, her body reacted on instinct. Muscles tensed. Shoulders stiffened. Her breathing slowed, shallow and careful, as if bracing for impact.

She didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

She felt Wonyoung’s presence the way one feels a storm approaching — pressure in the air, a tightening in the chest, a familiar dread coiling low in her stomach.

So she looked.

Not openly. Not obviously. Just enough to catch sight of Wonyoung’s silhouette moving down the aisle, tall and composed.

Out of habit and survival.

Yujin’s body had learned to anticipate humiliation before it arrived — to read the smallest signs, to prepare for the worst before it unfolded. A tossed cup. A whispered order. A cruel smile. A prank waiting to happen.

She waited for it.

The pause.

The turn.

The sharp remark.

The deliberate collision.

But none of it came.

Wonyoung didn’t slow.

Didn’t look. Didn’t acknowledge her existence.

She simply walked to her seat and sat down like any other student.

And somehow, that unsettled Yujin more than open hostility ever had.

She stared at Wonyoung’s back, trying to understand what she was feeling.

Relief came first.

A cautious, fragile relief.

The dare was still holding. The rules hadn’t changed. Ever since the exam rankings were announced, the bullying had stopped. No sabotage. No public humiliation. Even the students who once eagerly joined in had retreated, watching her now with hesitant respect instead of contempt.

For once, she could walk through the halls without bracing herself.

She could sit at her desk without checking for stains or hidden notes.

She could breathe.

And yet, Wonyoung being back made that fragile peace feel temporary.

Like calm before something worse.

Yujin tried to tell herself she didn’t care.

Tried to tell herself Wonyoung’s absence, her return, her moods — none of it mattered.

But she couldn’t help the small, intrusive thoughts that crept in.

Did she really leave just because she lost?

Was she that devastated?

Was she… sad?

The idea felt absurd. Wonyoung didn’t seem like someone who could break so easily. She was too sharp, too proud, too arrogant.

And yet.

Yujin had seen the fury in her eyes that day. The way something inside Wonyoung had cracked when the rankings were announced. The way her composure had barely held together.

For a fleeting moment, Yujin wondered what it must feel like to grow up always winning, always adored, always untouchable and then suddenly, not.

To fall from a height so great.

She didn’t pity Wonyoung.

She didn’t sympathize.

But she understood pressure.

She understood what it was like to carry invisible weight on her shoulders.

Her gaze lingered on Wonyoung’s back, tracing the straight line of her posture, the careful stillness in her movements.

Yujin lowered her eyes back to her notebook, forcing herself to focus on the words in front of her.

But her mind kept drifting.

She knew, deep down, that the moment Wonyoung decided to look her way again, nothing in Janghwa would remain calm for long.

***

After school, Wonyoung’s group gathers at a newly opened restaurant in Gangnam — glass walls, dim golden lighting, soft jazz humming through hidden speakers. A place where reservations are hard to get and the staff bow too deeply.

They sit in a private booth near the window, the city glowing beneath them like a sea of diamonds.

Wonyoung sits at the center, posture relaxed, one leg crossed over the other. Her blazer is draped neatly over the back of her chair. She looks untouched by the week of rumors, by the whispers, by the way the school’s atmosphere has shifted.

If anything, she looks… refreshed.

Ningning is the first to break the silence, tapping her manicured nails lightly against her glass.

“So what now?” she asks, trying to sound casual. “You’ve been gone for days. The whole school’s basically rewriting history.”

Winter nods. “People are acting like Yujin’s some kind of legend now. Even students from other schools are talking about her. My cousin from Hanyang asked me if I knew her.”

Yuna leans back, arms crossed. “She’s getting popular.”

Minji stays quiet, eyes lowered, while Dani frowns into her drink.

“She’ll calm down,” Wonyoung says finally, lifting her glass and taking a slow sip. Her voice is even, almost bored. “It’s just noise.”

Ningning stares at her. “That’s it?”

Wonyoung glances at her. “What else would it be?”

“But—” Winter leans forward, agitation flickering in her eyes. “You lost first place. People saw it. They celebrated it. They’re acting like the hierarchy changed.”

Wonyoung sets her glass down gently. The soft clink against the table makes everyone pause.

“I’ll take my spot back next exams.”

The statement is simple. Calm. Absolute.

Winter blinks. “That’s… all? We’re just waiting until spring?”

Her voice rises despite herself. “You’re really going to let her walk around like she owns the place?”

Wonyoung turns her head slightly, finally meeting Winter’s eyes.

Winter freezes.

Wonyoung studies her for a moment, then exhales slowly, as if tired. She looks away, gazing out the window instead, where traffic flows endlessly like veins of light through the city.

“You’re all too loud,” she murmurs.

The table falls silent.

Her fingers idly trace the rim of her glass. “I don’t need to rush.”

No one speaks.

Ningning shifts uncomfortably. Dani glances at Minji, who still hasn’t said a word. Yuna watches Wonyoung’s reflection in the glass, her stomach tightening.

There is something unnerving about how calm she is.

Wonyoung straightens, smoothing her skirt. “Winter break is coming. Let people celebrate.”

She lifts her gaze, eyes dark and unreadable.

“Enjoyment never lasts long at Janghwa.”

***

That night, in Yujin’s and Hanni’s dorm.

Outside, winter air presses against the windows.

Inside their small shared room, Yujin sits cross-legged on her bed, towel draped around her shoulders, hair still damp from her shower. Hanni lies on her stomach on the opposite bed, chin propped on her hands, staring at the ceiling.

“So,” Hanni finally says, breaking the silence. “Did she do anything?”

Yujin knows exactly who she means.

She shakes her head. “Nothing.”

Hanni lifts her head instantly. “Nothing? Like—nothing nothing?”

“Nothing,” Yujin repeats. “She came in. Sat down. Talked to her friends. Didn’t even look at me.”

Hanni frowns deeply.

“That’s worse,” she mutters.

Yujin lets out a small huff of amusement. “Of course you’d say that.”

Hanni rolls onto her side, facing Yujin. “You don’t get it. Wonyoung is dangerous.”

Yujin doesn’t answer right away. She squeezes the towel tighter around her shoulders, her gaze drifting to the window.

“She used to explode,” Yujin says softly. “Now she’s just… calm.”

That unsettles her more than she wants to admit.

Hanni sits up. “But we still have leverage.”

Yujin glances at her.

“The dare still stands,” Hanni continues, voice firm, grounding herself as much as Yujin. “She can’t break it without losing face. Not after everything. And we still have the videos.”

Yujin exhales slowly.

The videos.

Short clips, shaky, dimly lit. Ningning laughing too loudly, pupils blown wide. Winter swaying, glassy-eyed, clearly not sober. The flashing club lights, the music vibrating through the frame.

Proof.

Insurance.

A thin but crucial shield.

Hanni scoots closer. “You saw how Ningning and Winter look at you now, right?”

Yujin nods. “Like they want to kill me.”

“Exactly.” Hanni gives a tight smile. “They know we have something on them. They can’t touch us.”

“In public,” Yujin corrects quietly.

Hanni’s smile fades a little.

“Yeah,” she admits. “In public.”

For a moment, neither of them speaks.

Yujin remembers the way Winter’s gaze lingered in the hallway — sharp, cold, calculating. Ningning’s smile had been bright, but her eyes were dark, irritated, burning with humiliation.

They hadn’t said a word.

But their silence screamed.

“Are you okay with her being back?” Hanni asks gently.

Yujin blinks, then turns to her.

Hanni’s voice is softer now, cautious. “I mean… really okay. Not just pretending.”

Yujin considers the question.

She thinks of Wonyoung’s back as she walked down the aisle of desks. Straight. Perfect. Untouchable.

She thinks of the week of peace. The way her shoulders had finally loosened. The way she’d started breathing again without flinching.

“I don’t like that she has power over how I feel,” Yujin says finally. “But I won’t let her take that from me.”

Then she smiles — a small, crooked thing, full of stubborn warmth.

“When did I ever give up in life?”

Hanni stares at her for a second.

Then she snorts. “Yeah. Stupid question.”

She flops back onto her bed, arms spread dramatically. “You’re the most hard-headed person I know.”

Yujin laughs softly.

The room settles into something almost peaceful again.

Almost.

***

Wonyoung sat alone in the vast quiet of the penthouse, porcelain teacup cradled between her fingers. The evening feels too soft, too calm for what she was remembering.

Yuri hovered nearby, silent, careful, moving only when necessary. Even she could feel it — the tension coiled tightly inside Wonyoung, invisible but suffocating.

She was waiting for someone.

And waiting always made her think.

The tea was fragrant, calming. Imported leaves, perfect temperature. Everything in her life was designed to be perfect, down to the smallest detail.

Yet her hands still trembled slightly.

Her mind slipped back to that day.

The day the rankings were released.

She had walked home — spine straight, expression flawless, footsteps controlled. Not a single crack in her composure. She hadn’t expected anything different. She never did.

But the moment the penthouse doors slid open, she knew.

The air felt wrong.

Too heavy.

Her mother was already there.

Jae-kyung rarely waited.

She was always moving, traveling, chasing distractions, drowning herself in luxury and attention. But that evening, she stood in the center of the living room, back straight, arms folded, eyes fixed on the entrance as if she had been standing there for hours.

Wonyoung barely had time to take off her shoes.

“You ranked second?”

The voice was calm.

She hadn’t even seen the official results yet.

That was when she understood — Jae-kyung had already known. She always knew. One call to the right person, one order barked into a phone, and the world bent.

Wonyoung didn’t answer right away.

That hesitation was enough.

Her mother crossed the distance in seconds.

Yuri’s soft gasp echoed faintly behind them.

Jae-kyung seized her, dragging her forward, her grip unforgiving. Wonyoung stumbled, barely managing to keep her balance as she was pulled down the hallway toward her room.

“Madam— please—” Yuri started, panic slipping into her voice.

“Don’t interfere.”

Two words.

Yuri fell silent instantly.

The door to Wonyoung’s room slammed shut behind them, cutting off the rest of the world.

And then came the words.

“Do you know how humiliating this is?”

“Do you know how much I sacrificed for you?”

“Do you know what people will say about me now?”

Every sentence was a blade.

Not once did Jae-kyung insinuate it was about Wonyoung.

It was all about her.

Wonyoung stood there, back straight, nails biting into her palms. She didn’t argue. She had learned long ago that emotion only made things worse.

Inside Wonyoung’s room, the world collapsed.

Jae-kyung shoved her.

Wonyoung lost her balance and fell hard onto the thick carpet, her bag slipping from her shoulder, books scattering across the floor.

Before she could even process it, her mother loomed over her.

“Stand up.”

Wonyoung slowly pushed herself upright, knees trembling, heart hammering against her ribs.

Jae-kyung studied her with cold, assessing eyes — the same way she would inspect a flawed dress.

“What was your excuse?” she asked softly.

Wonyoung swallowed.

“I… I studied. I really did.”

A pause.

Then Jae-kyung laughed.

A short, hollow sound.

“You studied?”

Her voice sharpened instantly.

“Then why did you fail?”

Wonyoung flinched.

“I didn’t— I ranked second—”

The words barely left her mouth before Jae-kyung exploded.

“Second is failure.”

The word cut clean and brutal.

“Do you know how many women would kill to live your life?” her mother demanded, pacing back and forth. “Do you know how many people would sell their souls for your opportunities?”

Her heels clicked sharply against the marble.

“I destroyed my body to give birth to you. I sacrificed my career, my youth, my dreams, everything so you could be perfect.”

She turned suddenly, eyes blazing.

“And you dare repay me like this?”

Each word struck like a blow.

Wonyoung’s throat tightened.

Her vision blurred.

“I tried,” she whispered.

Jae-kyung scoffed.

“Tried?” she repeated. “Trying is for mediocre people.”

She grabbed the nearest pillow and hurled it at Wonyoung.

It struck her shoulder and fell uselessly to the floor.

Then a book.

Then another.

Whatever her hand touched, she threw.

“Do you know what you are if you’re not perfect?” Jae-kyung demanded.

Wonyoung raised her arms instinctively, shielding her face.

“I asked you a question.”

Her voice trembled.

“I don’t know.”

Jae-kyung stepped closer.

“If you’re not perfect,” she whispered, “then you are nothing.”

That was when the tears finally slipped free.

Wonyoung hated them.

Hated how they betrayed her.

Hated how weak they made her look.

But they fell anyway, silent and unstoppable, streaking down her cheeks as she curled inward, arms wrapped tightly around herself.

It was never about her.

It never had been.

It was always about image.

Pride and ownership.

Jae-kyung saw her not as a daughter but as proof of her own worth.

A trophy.

A possession.

A mirror.

And now that mirror had cracked.

“You humiliated me,” her mother said quietly. “You humiliated me.”

The words sank deep.

For a long moment, there was nothing but harsh breathing and the sound of Wonyoung’s quiet sobs.

Then.

Voices.

Footsteps.

Urgent. Heavy.

The door burst open.

Two bodyguards rushed in, moving quickly.

“Madam,” one of them said firmly. “Please calm down.”

Jae-kyung spun around, fury blazing.

“Get out!”

They didn’t.

Instead, they stepped forward.

Yuri appeared behind them, pale, shaking, eyes glossy.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I had to…”

Wonyoung recognized the men instantly.

Her father’s people.

Her breath hitched.

Relief flooded her chest so fast it almost hurt.

The guards gently but firmly restrained Jae-kyung, holding her back as she struggled and shouted.

“Let go of me!” she screamed. “She’s my daughter!”

Wonyoung stayed frozen on the floor, watching, heart pounding.

One of the guards knelt beside her.

“Miss Jang,” he said softly, “we’re taking you to your father.”

Her body felt numb as they helped her stand.

Her legs were weak.

Her hands were still trembling.

As she was guided toward the door, she glanced back once.

Jae-kyung was still fighting them, hair disheveled, eyes wild.

For a fleeting moment, Wonyoung didn’t see her mother.

She saw a broken woman.

And it terrified her even more.

Wonyoung didn’t remember leaving the penthouse.

Only fragments.

The elevator ride.

The hushed voices.

The steady presence of her father’s men.

And then, her father’s private office, high above the city, walls of glass reflecting distant lights.

She sat on the leather couch, knees drawn close, staring blankly at the floor while her father spoke in low, urgent tones to someone on the phone.

When he finally turned to her, his face softened instantly.

“My princess” he murmured, sitting beside her.

Wonyoung broke.

She collapsed forward into his arms, fingers clutching the front of his jacket as sobs tore out of her chest, violent and uncontrollable. Weeks of pressure, years of restraint, everything she had swallowed down — it spilled all at once.

Do-jun held her tightly, one hand cradling the back of her head.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “It’s okay. You’re safe now.”

She cried until her throat burned, until exhaustion dulled the edges of her fear.

That night, they didn’t go home.

They went straight to the airport.

The private jet was waiting.

Inside, the lights were dim, the cabin hushed. Soft blankets, warm drinks, quiet music — everything curated for comfort. But Wonyoung barely noticed.

She lay curled against her father’s side as the plane ascended into the night sky.

Tokyo.

Distance.

Silence.

Safety.

Her father stroked her hair gently.

“Come live with me,” he said again, softly. “You don’t have to go back there. You don’t have to endure that.”

Wonyoung closed her eyes.

She wanted to say yes.

God, she wanted to say yes.

But she couldn’t.

She didn’t know how to explain it — how her mother’s shadow followed her everywhere, how guilt chained her in place, how fear and loyalty twisted together until she no longer knew which was which.

So she didn’t answer.

She only cried.

***

Now, back in Seoul, back in the penthouse, back in control.

Wonyoung stood near the windows, city lights glittering far below like a scattering of stars.

Yuri approached quietly.

“Miss Jang,” she said softly. “He’s here.”

Wonyoung inhaled slowly.

“Let him in.”

A moment later, the doors opened.

The man who entered was in his late forties, dressed in a dark suit, posture respectful. His eyes were sharp, observant in the way of someone who made a living noticing what others missed.

“Mr. Moon,” Wonyoung greeted.

He bowed deeply.

“Miss Jang.”

He approached and handed her a thick envelope, sealed, organized, meticulously labeled.

“Everything you asked for is here,” he said. “From childhood records to present connections.”

Wonyoung took the file.

Its weight felt heavier than paper.

“It wasn’t difficult,” Mr. Moon continued calmly. “An Yujin left a wide trail. Foster records, school scholarships, hospital documentation from her parents’ accident, community references from Cheongha-ri. Clean. Honest. Poor.”

Wonyoung’s fingers tightened around the envelope.

She didn’t respond.

“She had a difficult upbringing,” he added neutrally. “No scandal. No criminal records. No hidden benefactors. Her achievements are legitimate.”

Wonyoung finally looked down and opened the file.

Photos.

Documents.

School rankings.

Teacher comments.

Scholarship evaluations.

Medical reports.

Her eyes skimmed rapidly, absorbing every detail.

“She currently works at a fried chicken restaurant,” Mr. Moon continued. “Owned by Kim Seonghee. I investigated her as well. Widowed, no children, strong community ties. She appears genuinely fond of Yujin.”

Page flip.

“Pham Hanni,” he said. “Vietnamese-Korean. Foster sibling. Same care facility along with Kang Haerin, Lee Hye-in.”

Another page.

“The foster care director, Eun-soo. Known for being helpful. No exploitable history.”

Flip.

“Classmates. Teachers. Coaches. Teammates.”

Each name.

Each weakness.

Each connection.

Mapped.

Categorized.

Predictable.

This was gold.

Wonyoung felt her heartbeat steady.

The chaos inside her quieted.

Wonyoung’s lips curved slightly.

The silence in the penthouse thickened.

Wonyoung closed the file slowly, the soft rustle of paper echoing far louder than it should have in the vast space. The city lights of Seoul shimmered beyond the glass walls, distant and unreal, like a world she no longer fully belonged to.

“So,” she said quietly, lifting her eyes to Mr. Moon. “She’s clean.”

Mr. Moon nodded. “Exceptionally. Her circle, too.”

Wonyoung tilted her head slightly, as if considering this. For a moment, she looked almost amused.

“Then we make cracks.”

Mr. Moon hesitated, only a fraction. “There are always… vulnerabilities. Even in people who live carefully.”

Wonyoung sat down and leaned back into the couch, one leg crossing over the other with elegance. Her gaze drifted to the window, then back to him.

“Start with the places she loves,” she said. “The fried chicken shop. The foster home. The people she protects.”

Mr. Moon inhaled slowly. “If action is taken against the foster home, children could lose their shelter. And the restaurant, its owner would lose her livelihood.”

Wonyoung’s eyes snapped to his.

Sharp. Cold. Absolute.

“You were hired to do what I want,” she said evenly. “Not give moral commentary.”

The air seemed to tighten around them.

Mr. Moon immediately lowered his head. “My apologies.”

Wonyoung stood, walking toward the window. The city reflected faintly in her eyes, breaking her face into shards of light.

“Dig,” she said. “Every legal weakness. Every social pressure point. Every delicate thread that can be pulled.”

She turned back to him.

Mr. Moon straightened. “Understood.”

“Also,” she added, almost lazily, “Pham Hanni. Her workplace. Her background. Everything connected to her. Leave nothing untouched.”

He nodded once. “I’ll bring it soon.”

Wonyoung smiled.

Not the bright, public smile the school adored.

A smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Good.”

Mr. Moon bowed deeply before retreating from the room. The doors closed behind him.

Wonyoung remained by the couch, staring at the files.

An Yujin was strong. Clean. Resilient.

Which meant she had something precious to lose.

And Wonyoung had learned long ago, Victory didn’t come from breaking people.

It came from making them choose which part of themselves to sacrifice.

Her reflection in the glass table looked calm.

Certain.

This time, the ending will belong to me.

Chapter Text

After school, Yujin pedals straight to Golden Fry Chicken, the familiar weight of her bag slung across her back, the smell of oil and seasoning already clinging to the air before she even steps inside. 

The bell over the door rings. 

It’s louder than usual. 

The diner looks the same at first glance — fluorescent lights humming softly, the tiled floor freshly mopped, the counter wiped clean but something is off. Too quiet. The rhythm is wrong. 

Ahjumma Kim isn’t behind the counter. 

Yujin slows, her eyes instinctively scanning the room, and that’s when she sees her. 

Ahjumma Kim is sitting alone at the corner table near the window, her back slightly hunched, both hands wrapped around a paper cup of barley tea that’s already gone cold. She isn’t drinking it. She’s staring past it, eyes unfocused, brows drawn together in a way Yujin has never seen before. 

The other cook, Jun-seo is at the fryer, moving stiffly. The server is wiping tables that are already clean. 

They’re avoiding that corner. 

Yujin frowns. 

She slips off her jacket, hangs it behind the counter, and leans toward the server. “Is… ahjumma okay?” she asks quietly. 

The server, In-youp hesitates, then sighs, lowering his voice. “Something happened earlier.” 

Yujin straightens. “What happened?” 

Jun-seo glances over from the fryer, oil crackling sharply, and shakes his head. “Inspections,” he says. “Sudden ones.” 

“Inspections?” Yujin repeats, blinking. “For what?” 

“Everything,” In-youp answers. “Kitchen hygiene. Supplier paperwork. Fire safety. Noise complaints. Customer complaints.” He lets out a short, humorless laugh. “All at once.” 

Yujin’s mouth falls open slightly. “But… this place—” 

“I know,” the Jun-seo cuts in, flipping a basket harder than necessary. “We’ve never had a problem. Not once. Ahjumma Kim runs this place cleaner than some hospitals.” 

Yujin looks back at the corner table. 

Ahjumma Kim hasn’t moved. 

“But they came anyway,” In-youp continues. “Three different offices. All saying it’s ‘routine.’” 

Yujin shakes her head, disbelief creeping into her voice. “That doesn’t make sense. This place is famous. People line up here. Half the neighborhood eats here.” 

In-youp nods. “Jealous competitors,” he says immediately, like he’s been holding that explanation in all day. “Has to be. Someone probably filed fake complaints.” 

“Has to be,” Jun-seo agrees. “You get too popular, people start getting nasty.” 

Yujin lets out a breath. That explanation settles in her chest easily, comfortably. 

Of course. 

That makes sense. 

She forces a small smile. “I mean… yeah. Our chicken is the best.” 

In-youp laughs softly. “Right? If I were running a failing shop down the street, I’d be mad too.” 

Jun-seo grunts in agreement. “They can complain all they want. Everything’s clean. Everything’s legal. They won’t find anything.” 

Yujin nods, reassured. 

Still, her gaze drifts back to Ahjumma Kim. 

The older woman rubs her temple slowly now, eyes closing for just a second too long. She looks tired in a way Yujin has never seen, like someone who’s just been reminded that hard work doesn’t always protect you. 

Yujin hesitates, then picks up a fresh cup of tea and walks over. 

“Ahjumma,” she says gently. 

Ahjumma Kim startles, blinking up at her, the practiced smile coming too late. “Oh, Yujin-ah. You’re here already.” 

Yujin sets the cup down in front of her. “You should drink it while it’s warm.” 

Ahjumma Kim nods, fingers tightening briefly around the cup before she takes a sip. “I’m sorry,” she says, almost immediately. “I wasn’t paying attention.” 

“Did something bad happen?” Yujin asks carefully. 

Ahjumma Kim shakes her head. “No, no. Nothing bad.” She smiles again, thinner this time. “Just a long day.” 

Yujin studies her face, the faint tremor in her hands, the way her eyes keep drifting toward the counter like she’s afraid of leaving it unattended for even a second. 

“If it’s inspections,” Yujin says, trying to sound confident, “it’ll be fine. We don’t do anything wrong here.” 

Ahjumma Kim looks at her then and for a moment something unreadable passes through her eyes. 

“Yes,” she says softly. “We don’t.” 

***

It’s the last day before winter break, and the school feels like it’s holding its breath. 

Classrooms spill noise into the hallways — chairs scraping, lockers slamming, laughter bouncing off the walls with a kind of careless relief that only comes when students know they won’t see each other for weeks. Teachers’ voices blur into background hums as attendance sheets are signed for the last time this term. 

Yujin slings her bag over her shoulder, exhaustion and quiet satisfaction settling into her bones. She made it through. 

Hanni walks beside her, bumping her arm lightly. “We survived,” she murmurs, teasing.

Yujin exhales a small laugh. “Barely.” 

Near the shoe lockers, Yunjin is already dramatic about it, arms spread wide. “Don’t forget me over break,” she declares. “Some of you act like I don’t exist once school ends.” 

Rei grins, adjusting her scarf. “You text every three hours. How could we forget?” 

Liz nods enthusiastically. “Eat well! Sleep a lot! Don’t study too much!” 

Hanni laughs, cheeks pink from the cold seeping in through the open doors. “You too. See you next year.” 

As they separate, Yujin feels lighter than she has in weeks. 

Down the hall, a very different cluster stands untouched by the chaos. 

Wonyoung and her circle occupy space the way royalty does — effortlessly, unquestioned. Their voices laced with plans that sound like inevitabilities rather than wishes. 

“Beach sounds nice” Minji says, scrolling through her phone. 

Dani beams. “We’ll overlap for a few days. My parents already booked the hotel.” 

Ningning hums thoughtfully. “Then I go back to China. My grandmother misses me.” 

Winter shrugs casually. “Italy for me. My mom wants to see architecture.” 

Yuna smiles faintly. “I’m staying in Korea. Grandparents’ house. Ryujin unnie’s family will be there too.” 

Ningning’s gaze drifts down the hall then, catching sight of Yujin and Hanni walking past the windows, coats pulled tight, heads bent close together as they talk. 

She tilts her head, amused. “I wonder what kind of winter Cheongha-ri gets.” 

Winter follows her gaze. “Cold,” she says easily. “Lots of land, farms, nothing blocking the wind.” 

Ningning smiles. “Sounds lonely.” 

Wonyoung has been quiet. 

Her eyes track Yujin with a focus that never wavers. When she finally speaks, her voice is light, almost pleasant. 

“I’m sure An Yujin will have a nice winter vacation.” 

The words land wrong. 

Dani blinks. Yuna glances sideways. Even Winter looks mildly surprised. 

Minji, however, feels it immediately — that subtle shift in the air, the familiar tightening in her chest. She doesn’t look at Wonyoung, but she knows. 

That wasn’t politeness. 

She was certain about it.

Ningning’s lips curve slowly, her eyes s harp with recognition. She studies Wonyoung like she’s just been handed the punchline to a joke she already understood. 

Yujin doesn’t hear it. She doesn’t see the look. She’s too focused on the cold air rushing in as the doors open, on Hanni tugging her scarf higher, on the idea of home — simple and finally quiet.

Wonyoung watches her go. 

Her smile doesn’t fade. 

Winter break begins. 

***

Minji arrives just past noon, the penthouse lobby washed in pale winter light that reflects off marble floors and glass walls.

 She steps out of the car and immediately spots Wonyoung. 

Wonyoung stands near the center of the lobby, coat draped perfectly over her shoulders. She’s speaking to a man Minji doesn’t recognize — older, neatly dressed, holding himself with the careful politeness of someone who knows exactly where he stands in the hierarchy of the room. A leather briefcase rests at his side. 

They’re not close, but they’re not distant either. 

Minji slows without meaning to. 

The man says something low. Wonyoung nods once. Her fingers slip into her coat pocket, light tapping against the fabric, as if sealing something away. When the man bows slightly and turns to leave, his gaze flicks up and briefly meets Minji’s. 

Then he’s gone, walking briskly toward the exit, disappearing through the glass doors as if he was never meant to be remembered. 

Minji reaches Wonyoung’s side. “Who was that?” 

Wonyoung turns to her, already smiling. 

“No one,” she says easily, the word smooth and empty at the same time. “Just business.” 

Minji searches her face, instinct prickling. “Business… during winter break?” 

Wonyoung’s smile widens just a fraction. “Even vacations need loose ends tied up.” 

She links her arm through Minji’s without waiting for a response. “Come on. We’re going to be late.” 

Before Minji can say anything else, heels click softly behind them. 

Yuri follows at a respectful distance, her expression carefully neutral, hands folded in front of her as she trails. She doesn’t ask questions. She never does. But her eyes linger for a moment on the glass doors the man exited through, then return to Wonyoung’s back. 

“Hawaii,” Minji says finally, forcing brightness into her voice. “At least it’ll be warm.” 

Wonyoung hums in agreement. “Warm is good.” 

As they step inside the car, Minji glances back once more, unease tugging at her chest. She doesn’t know why but it feels like Wonyoung is up to something again.

Wonyoung settles into her seat, crossing her legs neatly, looking every bit like someone leaving everything behind. 

As the car pulls away from the penthouse, her gaze drifts briefly to the window, to the city sliding past. 

Winter break has begun. 

But whatever she set in motion hasn’t paused at all. 

***

The bus groaned as it rolled to a stop at the edge of Cheongha-ri, tires crunching softly against gravel dusted with frost. When the doors opened, cold air rushed in immediately — sharp, rural cold, nothing like the filtered chill of Seoul. It slipped through sleeves and collars, biting at exposed skin. 

Yujin stepped down first, shoulders tense from the long ride, breath fogging the air. Hanni followed close behind, clutching her bag tighter as her boots touched familiar ground. For a second, neither of them moved. The rice fields stretched out in pale winter rows, the village quiet except for the wind brushing dry stalks together. It smelled like earth, smoke, and home. 

“Unnie!” 

Hyein’s voice cut through the cold like a spark. 

She came running first, scarf unraveled, nearly slipping as she barreled straight into Hanni’s side. Haerin followed more calmly, but her eyes were bright, hands already reaching for Yujin’s sleeve. Behind them, the other foster kids clustered together, chattering all at once, faces lighting up in recognition. 

And then Eun-soo appeared. 

She stood just a few steps back, bundled in her thick coat, eyes soft and tired and full all at once. The moment she saw Yujin and Hanni properly, she pressed a hand to her chest to steady herself. 

“You’re frozen,” she said immediately, voice brisk but trembling underneath. “Look at your faces — come inside, hurry. I’ve had the broth simmering since noon.” 

Before either of them could respond, Eun-soo was already ushering them forward, hands warm and firm on their backs, steering them toward the house as if the cold itself were something she could fend off for them. 

Inside, the difference was instant. 

Warmth wrapped around them, thick and comforting. Steam curled from a large pot in the kitchen, carrying the smell of anchovy broth, garlic, and radish. Yujin felt her shoulders loosen without realizing they’d been tight. Hanni’s fingers finally unclenched from her bag. 

The foster kids swarmed them the moment shoes were off. 

“Is Seoul really that big?”

“Are the buildings taller than mountains?”

“Is your school scary?”

“Are the Janghwa girls pretty?”

“Did you make friends?” 

The questions overlapped, tumbled over each other, relentless and curious and innocent. 

At that last one — did you make friends — Yujin and Hanni both paused. 

Just for a heartbeat. 

Their eyes met across the small space, a quick, quiet exchange. In that look lived everything they couldn’t say —  the whispers, the bullying, the way hallways felt narrower than they should have, the bruises. 

They looked away almost at the same time. 

Hanni smiled first. 

“I joined the music club,” she said. “There’s Rei, Liz, and Yunjin. They’re… really nice. We hang out after school sometimes.” 

The kids leaned in closer immediately. 

“A music club?”

“Do you sing?”

“Is Yunjin cool?”

“Are they rich?” 

Hanni laughed softly, shaking her head. “Some of them are loud, some are weird,” she said, glancing briefly toward Yujin. “But they’re good people.” 

Yujin picked up the thread smoothly. 

“I’m on the basketball team,” she added. “Practice is tough, but… it’s good. The court’s huge.” 

Haerin studied her carefully, eyes sharp in a way that felt older than fourteen. “Do you like it?” 

Yujin nodded. “Yeah. I do.” 

Eun-soo set bowls down in front of them then, interrupting before anything deeper could be asked. The broth was steaming, clear and golden, heat radiating upward. She watched them closely as they lifted their spoons, relief softening her features when she saw color slowly return to their faces. 

“Eat first,” she said gently. “You can talk all you want after you’re warm.” 

The kids grumbled but obeyed, settling around the low table, still sneaking glances at Yujin and Hanni. 

As Yujin swallowed the first mouthful, warmth spread through her chest, sinking deeper than the cold ever had. Hanni sighed quietly beside her, shoulders relaxing at last. 

They weren’t lying. 

They had made friends — just not many. Just enough to hold onto. And here, in this small house filled with noise and steam and familiar voices, that felt like enough for now. 

***

That night, the house felt smaller than Yujin remembered. 

It wasn’t anyone’s fault. Mattresses were laid out carefully, bags stacked neatly against walls, coats hung wherever there was space. The foster house had always been like this — elastic, expanding and contracting depending on who needed it most. Tonight, it had stretched as far as it could. 

Yujin stood near the doorway of the shared room, counting sleeping bodies without meaning to. One, two, three… There was no corner left unclaimed. Even the narrow strip near the heater had already been taken by one of the younger kids, curled up like a kitten. 

She exhaled slowly. 

This had happened before. 

When new kids arrived and there wasn’t enough room, the older ones were the first to move out. Not because they were unwanted but because they could endure it. Because they were supposed to be able to stand on their own. 

Just like the others had, one by one. 

Yujin turned away quietly and found Eun-soo in the kitchen, rinsing bowls that were already clean. The house had finally gone quiet.

“I don’t have space anymore,” Yujin said softly. 

Eun-soo paused, hands still submerged in water. For a moment, she didn’t turn around. 

“I know,” she said after a beat. “I was going to talk to you.” 

She dried her hands slowly, carefully, as if choosing the pace of the conversation on purpose. 

“There’s a small apartment nearby,” Eun-soo continued. “Just past the bus stop. It’s old, but clean. Someone moved out recently.” 

Yujin nodded. She had already pictured it — a narrow room, thin walls, maybe a small window that rattled when the wind came in from the fields. 

“I’ve paid the deposit already,” Eun-soo added. 

From behind them, Hanni stiffened. 

“I’ll move with her,” she said immediately, voice firm, like it wasn’t even a question. “If Yujin’s leaving, I’m going too.” 

Eun-soo turned then, looking between them. She opened her mouth then closed it again. Her gaze dropped briefly to the floor. 

“I…” She hesitated. “I can only cover two months.” 

Silence settled over the kitchen. 

Yujin felt it immediately — not guilt exactly, but understanding. It made sense. It always did. Eun-soo had mouths to feed, uniforms to buy, heating bills to pay. She had already given more than most people ever would. 

And if Yujin was the one moving out, then it was only right.

“I’ll pay after that,” Yujin said calmly. 

Hanni turned to her sharply. “Yujin—” 

“It’s fine,” Yujin interrupted, gently. “Really.” 

She met Eun-soo’s eyes, offering a small, steady smile. “You’ve done enough. More than enough.” 

Eun-soo’s lips trembled. She reached out, squeezing Yujin’s hand with both of hers, rough palms warm and familiar. “You shouldn’t have to grow up this fast,” she whispered. 

Yujin didn’t respond. She didn’t know how. 

Hanni stood frozen, fingers curling into her sleeves. Yujin could see the thoughts racing behind her eyes — the calculations, the worry. Hanni didn’t have much saved. Yujin knew that. Knew it without being told. 

“Hanni,” Yujin said quietly, turning toward her. “Stay here.” 

“What?” Hanni’s voice cracked. 

“This is your home,” Yujin continued. “You still have space here. I’ll be close by. Five minutes’ walk. Nothing will change.” 

“That’s not true,” Hanni said, shaking her head. “Everything changes.” 

Yujin softened then, reaching out. 

“I’ll be fine,” she said. “I promise.” 

Hanni swallowed hard, eyes shining, but she didn’t argue again. She just nodded once, sharp and small, like accepting something she didn’t want to accept. 

Later that night, as Yujin lay awake listening to the quiet breathing of the house, she stared at the ceiling and thought about the apartment. About rent, shifts, savings. About how this was the natural order of things. 

She wasn’t being pushed out. 

She was stepping forward. 

And that made it hurt more and feel more right at the same time. 

***

The next morning, the sky over Cheongha-ri was a pale winter blue, thin clouds stretched like torn paper above the fields. The air was cold.

Yujin unlocked the door to the apartment with a small, metallic click. 

“That’s it,” she said. 

Hanni leaned in first, peering inside with immediate seriousness. Hyein followed, stepping over the threshold as if entering a secret base, while Haerin paused just long enough to scan the hallway outside before slipping in and closing the door behind them. 

The apartment was… small. Honest about it. 

A narrow living space greeted them, where the kitchen, dining area, and living room all blurred into one cramped rectangle. A single window let in weak winter light. The kitchen counter was barely wide enough for two people to stand shoulder to shoulder. Beyond it, a tiny bathroom with a lone showerhead mounted directly into the wall. And past a thin divider, just enough space for a bed, nothing more. 

Hyein immediately dropped her bag. “Okay, I’ll sleep here,” she announced, pointing decisively at the floor near the window. 

“No, I want that spot,” Hanni said instantly, already measuring the space with her feet. 

Haerin tilted her head, thoughtful. “If we rotate, three people can fit. Two on the floor, one on the bed.” 

Yujin stared at them for a moment then laughed. 

It surprised even herself. 

“Hey,” she said, shaking her head. “Why are you all planning to sleep here? It’s just me.” 

“But we’re staying over,” Hyein replied as if it were obvious. 

“No, you’re not,” Yujin said, still smiling. “This is good enough. Really. It’s more than enough for one person.” 

She dropped her bag near the empty bed space and looked around again. The walls were plain, the floor a little scuffed, the heater old but functional. It wasn’t pretty. But it was warm. And it was hers. 

They spent the next hour cleaning. 

Hanni wiped down the counter with focused care. Haerin opened the window briefly to air the place out, then closed it quickly with a grimace at the cold. Hyein swept the floor energetically, humming under her breath and occasionally bumping into furniture that barely existed. 

At some point, Hyein looked up, broom paused mid-air. “Yujin unnie,” she asked, suddenly serious. “Can you really pay for this?” 

Before Yujin could answer, Haerin spoke calmly. “It’s just winter break. In summer, we can look for a better apartment. One that looks nicer.” 

Hanni snorted lightly. “Better looking means more expensive.”

Haerin shrugged. “Not necessarily. But probably.” 

Hyein frowned, thinking hard. “Then how is it in Seoul? Your part-time jobs.” 

She looked between them eagerly. “The chicken place and the cafe.” 

Yujin leaned back against the counter. “The chicken job’s tough,” she admitted. “But it pays.” 

Hanni nodded. “The cafe’s okay. We save what we can.” 

She hesitated, then looked at Yujin. “Won’t you lose a lot of money renting here? You’re not even working in Seoul right now.” 

“I’ll just work harder,” Yujin said. “While it’s winter break, I’ll help out at Mr. Yoon’s supermarket. He already said he needs extra hands.” 

Hyein’s eyes lit up. “I’m working at the stationery shop.” 

“I’m helping the laundry place in the mornings,” Haerin added. 

Hanni smiled faintly. “I’ve got shifts at the bakery near the bus stop.” 

Yujin looked at them, one by one, something warm and heavy settling in her chest. 

That’s how it was for them. 

Vacation didn’t mean rest, not really. It just meant no textbooks, no exams, no homework pressing down on their backs. The grind didn’t stop. It just changed shape. 

More hours. More shifts. More money. 

Winter break meant freedom from studying and time to work harder. 

As sunlight crept slowly across the bare floor of the apartment, Yujin thought that this was what growing up looked like for them. 

***

That evening, the foster home was louder than it had been all day. 

Yujin arrived with her arms full — plastic bags crinkling, the smell of hot food cutting through the cold as soon as she stepped inside. The younger kids swarmed her immediately, eyes wide, hands already reaching. 

“Unnie brought food!”

“Is it chicken?”

“There’s so much!” 

“It’s for everyone,” Yujin said, laughing as she carefully set everything down. “Don’t rush.” 

Eun-soo hurried out from the kitchen, apron still on. “Yujin, you didn’t have to—” 

“I wanted to.”

They ate together, shoulder to shoulder on the floor and around the low table, bowls passing back and forth, laughter filling the gaps between bites. For a while, it felt like nothing had changed — like Yujin hadn’t just moved out that morning, like the house hadn’t grown tighter and heavier with responsibility. 

But Hanni noticed it first. 

Eun-soo smiled, thanked Yujin, urged the kids to eat more but her eyes were distant, unfocused. She winced slightly when she sat, one hand pressing briefly against her side before she smoothed her expression away. 

“Are you sick?” Hyein asked suddenly, chopsticks paused. 

Eun-soo startled, then shook her head. “No, no. It’s just cold,” she said lightly. “This weather gets into the bones.” 

The answer didn’t convince any of them but no one pushed further. Not yet. 

Later, when the younger kids had been put to bed and the house had finally settled into its nighttime hush, Hanni, Haerin, and Hyein sprawled in the living room. Blankets were half-draped over legs, whispers drifting lazily between them — small jokes, memories, plans for work tomorrow. 

Yujin stayed in the kitchen. 

Eun-soo stood at the sink, washing dishes, the water running longer than necessary. Yujin stepped up beside her without a word and began drying. 

For a few minutes, there was only the sound of water and ceramic. 

“Are you okay?” Yujin asked quietly. 

Eun-soo nodded automatically. 

Yujin didn’t stop drying. “You know you can tell me,” she said. “About anything.” 

Eun-soo glanced at her then, eyes tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep. 

“We’re family,” Yujin added. “You don’t have to carry things alone.” 

Eun-soo’s shoulders sagged. 

“This afternoon,” she began slowly, “a man from the local office came by.” 

Yujin stilled, listening. 

“He said it was about an audit,” Eun-soo continued, frowning faintly. “Funding. Donations. Paperwork.” She let out a small, confused laugh. “But you know us. We barely receive donations. Most of what we use comes from farming, odd jobs… people helping when they can.” 

Her hands tightened around a plate. “He asked a lot of questions. About records. Inspections. It felt… sudden, like he wants to get something.” 

Just outside the kitchen doorway, three figures froze. 

Hanni’s chatter cut off mid-sentence. Haerin lifted her head. Hyein sat up straighter, all three of them listening without meaning to. 

Yujin kept her voice calm. “It’ll be okay,” she said. “Sometimes they just check things. Especially lately.” 

Eun-soo nodded, but the worry didn’t leave her face. 

Yujin reached into her coat pocket. 

She pulled out an envelope — slightly worn, edges soft from being handled too many times and placed it gently on the counter. 

“What’s this?” Eun-soo asked, alarmed. 

“Take it,” Yujin said. 

“No,” Eun-soo replied immediately, pushing it back. “Yujin, I can’t. That’s your money.” 

“I want to help.” 

“That should be for you,” Eun-soo insisted, voice trembling now. “For rent. For school. For college.” 

Yujin shook her head. “My college savings are still there. This is extra. I’ve been putting it aside for weeks.” 

She met Eun-soo’s eyes. “This place raised me. Fed me. Gave me a home when I didn’t have one.” 

Her voice softened. “This is my home. You’re my family. Let me give back.” 

Eun-soo stared at the envelope for a long moment then covered her mouth with one hand as tears slipped free despite her efforts. 

She pulled Yujin into a tight hug, arms wrapping around her with a strength born of gratitude and fear and love all tangled together. 

***

As the days passed, the stress only deepened.

The man came again then again after that. Always during the day, always polite in a way that felt rehearsed. He wore the same neutral jacket, carried the same thin folder, and introduced himself with the same calm smile. 

“Mr. Bae,” he said every time. 

At first, Eun-soo welcomed him with forced courtesy, offering tea despite the cold that crept deeper into her bones. But with each visit, the questions grew stranger. 

“Are the children truly safe here?”

“Have any of them complained about harassment?”

“Are you certain no one is being pressured to stay?”

“Do the older ones take advantage of the younger ones?” 

They made no sense. 

Yujin and Hanni were always there now, standing just a little closer to Eun-soo than before, their bodies instinctively forming a barrier. Yujin answered calmly, jaw tight. Hanni watched closely, her eyes never leaving the man’s face. 

“We’ve lived here for years,” Yujin said once, unable to hide her frustration. “If something was wrong, it would’ve been noticed long ago.” 

Mr. Bae only nodded, scribbling notes that felt unnecessary, invasive. 

The younger kids started to notice too. 

They grew quieter when the man was around, clinging closer to Eun-soo, whispering questions at night.

Are we in trouble? Are we going to be taken away? 

That was what broke Yujin. 

She hated the way Eun-soo’s smile had become brittle. Hated how the house, once loud and warm, now held tension in its walls. Hated that she couldn’t do anything — couldn’t make the man stop coming, couldn’t protect them the way she wanted to. 

Who was he? 

Why now? 

Cheongha-ri was the kind of place where strangers were noticed immediately. Everyone knew everyone. And yet, when Yujin asked around, no one recognized the name. 

“Mr. Bae?” the village chief repeated, brows knitting together. “I don’t know anyone like that.” 

That answer chilled her more than the winter air. 

Yujin walked home with her hands clenched in her pockets, anger simmering low and steady in her chest. This wasn’t normal. It wasn’t concern. It felt like someone watching, prodding, trying to find cracks that weren’t there. 

At night, she lay awake in her small apartment, staring at the ceiling, thinking of Eun-soo alone in the kitchen, of the kids asking questions they shouldn’t have to ask. 

She had faced bullies before. Cruel words, deliberate humiliation — those were things she can endure.

But this?

No.

***

The man came back again. 

By now, the sound of footsteps outside the gate was enough to make the house go quiet. 

Eun-soo felt it first every time — the way her shoulders tensed, the way her hands stilled mid-motion. Yujin noticed it too, the split second where the air seemed to tighten, as if the house itself was holding its breath. 

“Mr. Bae,” he introduced himself again, like he always did, voice smooth, expression neutral. 

This time, he didn’t sit for tea. 

He stood. 

Clipboard tucked under his arm, pen already uncapped. 

His questions were no longer casual. 

“Have you considered that temporary relocation of the children may be necessary?” 

The words dropped into the room like a stone into water. 

For a second, no one reacted. 

Then, Hyein gasped.

One of the younger kids let out a small, broken sound. Another clutched Eun-soo’s sleeve so tightly. 

Temporary. 

Relocation. 

Everyone in that room knew what those words really meant. 

Every child there had lived with fear before. Fear of being left behind. Fear of being unwanted. Fear of waking up somewhere unfamiliar with no explanation. That was how they had all ended up here — abandoned, lost, hurt, abused or orphaned without warning. 

This house wasn’t just a shelter. 

It was the place where fear had finally stopped chasing them. 

Yujin felt something hot rise in her chest.

“That won’t be necessary,” she said quickly, stepping forward without thinking. “There’s nothing wrong here.” 

Mr. Bae glanced at her briefly, then back to Eun-soo. 

“We’ll determine that,” he said calmly. “To proceed, I’ll need to conduct individual wellness checks.” 

The room froze. 

“I’d like to speak to the children one by one,” he continued. “Privately. To ensure they are not being coached.” 

That was when the younger kids truly panicked. 

Whispers broke out immediately. 

“What does that mean?”

“Will we get in trouble?”

“What if I say the wrong thing?”

“Are we being sent away?” 

One child began crying outright. 

Another shook her head over and over, murmuring, “I don’t want to go, I don’t want to go,” as if repeating it might make it true. 

Eun-soo knelt down immediately, arms wrapping around the closest child, her voice trembling as she tried to soothe them. “It’s okay. It’s okay. No one’s going anywhere.” 

But her eyes, Yujin saw them — were full of fear. 

Mr. Bae’s pen scratched against paper again. 

“There’s another concern,” he added. “Is it appropriate that some of the older children contribute financially to the household?” 

Yujin stiffened. 

“Are they being pressured to work?” he asked. “Because that could be interpreted as child exploitation. Or child labor.” 

The word exploitation made something snap inside Yujin. 

“They choose to work,” she said sharply. “We all do. No one forces anyone.” 

Mr. Bae didn’t argue. He simply nodded and wrote something else down. 

That was worse. 

Mr. Bae closed his clipboard. 

For a moment, everyone thought it was over. 

Then he reached into his folder. 

“One more thing,” he said. 

He held out a thin brown envelope. 

“This is a preliminary notice of assessment,” he continued. “There will be a formal review process.” 

Eun-soo stared at it. 

“This isn’t an accusation,” he added. “But it authorizes follow-up interviews and record reviews. Cooperation is expected.” 

Yujin stepped closer, heart pounding. 

“And if we don’t?” she asked. 

Mr. Bae met her eyes for the first time. 

“Then protective measures may be taken.” 

He placed the envelope into Eun-soo’s shaking hands. 

Then he left.

The door closing softly behind him, the house didn’t return to normal. 

It shattered. 

The younger kids cried openly now. Some clung to Eun-soo. Some hid behind furniture. Others sat frozen, eyes wide, terrified of saying anything at all. 

“What if they take us?”

“What if we mess up the interview?”

“What if we can’t come back?” 

Yujin felt her chest tighten until it hurt. 

She had faced cruelty very recently. But this wasn’t something she could fight. There was no one to glare down, no words sharp enough to cut through bureaucracy. 

She didn’t know how to protect them. 

That helplessness overwhelmed her. 

“We’ll be okay,” Yujin said suddenly, voice breaking through the chaos. 

Everyone looked at her. 

She knelt down so she was eye-level with the younger kids, hands trembling as she spoke. 

“Listen to me,” she said firmly. “You are not in trouble. None of you. You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

Hanni joined her immediately, sitting beside her, voice soft. “You don’t have to be scared. If anyone asks you questions, just tell the truth. About how you live. About how you feel.” 

Haerin crouched near the doorway, calm and observant, speaking only when it mattered. “No one here is being hurt. That’s the truth. They can’t take you away for telling the truth.” 

Hyein wiped her eyes aggressively and forced a brave smile. “And we’re not letting anyone split us up. Okay?” 

Eun-soo watched them, tears slipping down her face now, unhidden. 

Yujin stood and turned to her foster mother. “We’ll get through this,” she said. “You’re not alone.” 

Eun-soo nodded shakily, clutching Yujin’s hand like a lifeline. 

That night, the house stayed awake longer than usual. 

Lights stayed on. And though fear peeked in every corner, so did something their stubborn defiance. 

They had already lost too much. 

They weren’t going to let this home be taken without a fight. 

***

The Hawaiian sun was relentless but in the indulgent, postcard-perfect way that made everything feel unreal. 

Jang Wonyoung lay stretched across a white lounger beneath a wide cream umbrella, the ocean a glittering blue expanse just beyond the sand. Her bikini was expensive, effortless — nothing loud, nothing trying too hard. Everything about her looked curated without effort, as if the world naturally arranged itself to suit her comfort. 

A tall glass of pineapple juice rested in her hand, condensation beading slowly down the side. She lifted it lazily, took a sip through the straw, and sighed in contentment. 

This was how winter break was supposed to feel. 

Her phone buzzed softly. 

Wonyoung didn’t rush. She let the vibration go once, twice, before finally tilting her head and glancing down, lips already curving in anticipation. The sunlight caught the screen as she unlocked it. 

Mr. Bae. 

A report. Cleanly formatted. Neutral language. Professional to the point of coldness. 

She read slowly, savoring it. 

The foster home had been “destabilized.”
The children were “emotionally distressed.”
The guardian appeared “overwhelmed.”
Further inspections were recommended.
Individual interviews proposed. 

Wonyoung’s smile deepened, she was very pleased.

She took another sip of her juice, eyes scanning the lines that mattered most. The part where it mentioned Yujin — older child, visible agitation, protective behavior bordering on confrontational. 

Stressed, she thought. Good. 

She leaned her head back against the chair, closing her eyes for a second as the breeze moved through her hair. Somewhere nearby, laughter rang out. Waves rolled in and out with steady patience. Everything was calm. Perfect. 

She wasn’t planning to make anyone homeless. 

That would be messy. 

No — this was better. 

Winter break was supposed to be a pause. A breath. A moment where Yujin could lower her guard, forget the pressure of school, forget the eyes on her, forget the hierarchy that crushed her daily. 

Wonyoung had simply… taken that away. 

Ruining a break was temporary. Cruel, but controlled. A wound that keeps reopening.

She opened her eyes again, gaze drifting back to the phone as if rereading the words might make them sweeter. 

Nearby, Minji sat on a lounger angled slightly toward the water, sunglasses perched on her nose. Dani sprawled beside her, legs tucked up, half-distracted by the ocean, half by a drink she was stirring absentmindedly. 

Minji turned her head. 

She’d noticed it earlier — the way Wonyoung’s shoulders had relaxed after checking her phone. The way her mouth kept curving upward, again and again, like she was replaying a joke no one else could hear. 

Minji lowered her sunglasses just enough to look properly. 

“You’re in a really good mood.”

Wonyoung didn’t look at her right away. She set her phone face - down on her stomach, fingers resting lightly over it, as if claiming ownership of whatever secrets were inside. 

“Am I?” she replied lightly. 

Dani glanced between them, sensing something but not fully invested. “She’s been smiling at her phone like it told her a secret,” she added. “Kinda creepy.” 

Wonyoung laughed softly — an airy sound, harmless on the surface. She shifted on the lounger, stretching her legs, basking in the sun like a cat that knew it owned the house. 

“Can’t I enjoy my vacation?” she said. “Is that suspicious now?” 

Minji watched her carefully. 

Wonyoung never smiled like this for no reason. 

Not for the ocean. Not for the weather. Not even for luxury. 

Her happiness always came from either food or people. 

Or what she did to them. 

Minji leaned back again, masking her thoughts. “Just saying,” she said lightly. “You look… entertained.” 

Wonyoung reached for her juice once more, straw tapping softly against the glass as she took another slow sip. 

“Oh,” she said, eyes glinting faintly beneath the shade of the umbrella. “I am.” 

The waves crashed gently in the background, oblivious. 

Thousands of miles away, fear sat heavy in a small cold house that refused to sleep. 

And here — under the sun, with salt in the air and sweetness on her tongue, Wonyoung closed her eyes again, perfectly at peace, already satisfied with how winter break had begun. 

***

The last traces of Christmas disappeared overnight. 

No more glittering garlands draped across classroom doors. No paper snowflakes taped to windows. No soft instrumental carols playing faintly from the student council speakers. 

Just bare hallways again. 

Cold tile floors.

White fluorescent lights.

Breath faintly visible in the morning air when the heating lagged behind. 

Winter break was over. 

The corridors buzzed with returning students, their voices louder than usual, overlapping stories filling every corner. 

“My dad booked us first class.”

“We went skiing in Sapporo.”

“Europe was freezing but worth it.” 

Laughter spilled freely. Photos flashed across phone screens. Designer coats, souvenir keychains, airport selfies. 

Yujin walked through it all like someone moving underwater. 

She hadn’t rested. 

Her break had been split between shifts at the supermarket and long nights at the foster home, helping Eun-soo organize paperwork for the inspection. Sorting receipts. Reviewing forms. Making sure everything was in order in case Mr. Bae returned. 

Every knock still made the younger kids flinch. 

And she hadn’t slept properly in days. 

Her uniform felt heavier than usual as she reached her locker. Her hands were dry from the cold. Her mind foggy from exhaustion. 

Across the hallway, laughter again.

Wonyoung’s voice. 

Clear. Bright. Effortless. 

Yujin didn’t need to look to know where she was standing. But she did anyway. 

Wonyoung stood near the windows with her usual circle — Minji, Dani, and the others. Perfect hair. Polished boots. Long coat. She looked warm despite the cold hallway, as if winter simply didn’t apply to her. 

“We stayed at a private villa,” Dani was saying excitedly. “The view was insane.” 

Minji added something about snorkeling, her hands animated. 

Wonyoung laughed, tilting her head slightly as she spoke. Calm. Composed. 

Yujin looked away first. 

When the final bell rang, the cold outside felt sharper. 

Yujin pulled her coat tighter and headed straight to Ahjumma Kim’s fried chicken diner. The familiar smell of oil and seasoning wrapped around her as soon as she stepped inside. 

“Yujin-ah,” Ahjumma Kim greeted warmly from behind the counter. “You look tired.” 

“I’m okay,” Yujin replied automatically. 

She wasn’t. 

But work was simple. Work made sense. 

Orders came in. Orders went out. Tables needed wiping. Floors needed sweeping. Oil needed changing. It was physical, repetitive — something she could control. 

Unlike paperwork. Unlike anonymous complaints. Unlike people with too much time. 

By the time her shift ended, her legs ached. 

The walk back to the dorm was quiet. The sky had already darkened, early winter evening settling heavy and blue. 

When she opened the door to the small dorm room she shared with Hanni, something felt wrong immediately. 

Broken quiet. 

“Hanni?” she called softly, stepping inside. 

She found her sitting on the edge of her bed. 

Shoulders shaking. 

Face buried in her hands. 

Yujin’s exhaustion vanished instantly. 

She crossed the room in two steps. “Hey, what happened?” 

Hanni looked up. 

Her eyes were red. Wet. Shocked. 

“I—I got fired,” she said, voice cracking. 

The words didn’t register at first. 

“What?” 

“The cafe,” Hanni whispered. “They said they had to let me go.”

Yujin blinked. 

“Why?” 

Hanni shook her head helplessly. “They didn’t explain properly. Just said there were… complications. The manager wouldn’t even look at me.” 

Her voice broke completely then. 

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” she said. “I was on time. I covered shifts. I— I don’t understand.” 

Yujin sat down beside her slowly. 

Closed her eyes for a second. 

Fried chicken diner trouble. Foster home inspection. Now Hanni’s café. 

It didn’t feel random anymore. 

She inhaled slowly and pulled Hanni into her arms. 

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Yujin said firmly, even if her chest felt tight. “This isn’t your fault.” 

Hanni clutched her coat. “What if I can’t find another job? What if they blacklisted me? What if—” 

“Stop.” Yujin tightened her hold slightly. “We’ll figure it out. I’ll help you find a new job.”

 But her mind was racing. 

Why does this keep happening to us? 

Every time they stabilized something — another piece fell apart. 

Yujin leaned her head back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. 

She was so tired. 

Not just physically. 

Tired of bracing for impact. Tired of fighting problems that didn’t have faces. 

Her jaw tightened slowly. 

No. 

That wasn’t entirely true. 

This one had a face. 

Across the hallway earlier. 

Laughing. 

Sun-kissed from vacation. 

Perfect. 

Yujin’s eyes opened again.

If this wasn’t coincidence, then someone was making moves.

***

The field was still very cold.

Thin frost clung to the edges of the grass, turning silver under the late afternoon light. Every exhale came out in pale clouds. The goalposts were cold enough to sting if you touched them too long. 

Muscles stiff. Lungs burning faster in the cold. 

Yujin liked it that way. 

It gave her something physical to fight. 

The sharp whistle cut through the air, and the team split into pairs for drills. Cleats dug into brittle grass. The ball thudded back and forth.

Minji ended up across from Yujin during passing drills. 

“Long break,” Minji said casually as she kicked the ball toward her. “You survive it?” 

Yujin trapped it easily, nudged it back. “Barely.” 

Minji smirked lightly. “That bad?” 

Yujin hesitated. 

She normally wouldn’t talk about it. But practice felt neutral. The field didn’t belong to any social hierarchy. It wasn’t hallways or classrooms. 

“It was just… a lot,” she said finally, adjusting her stance as she returned another pass. “The foster home had some inspection issues.” 

Minji’s foot paused a fraction too long before she sent the ball back. 

“Inspection issues?” 

“Yeah.” Yujin shrugged, trying to sound like it wasn’t consuming her life. “Someone filed concerns. They’ve been coming back. Asking about relocation. Private interviews.” 

Minji’s brows knit slightly. “Relocation?” 

“For the kids.” Yujin’s jaw tightened, but she kept her voice steady. “They said it’s procedural. But it’s stressing everyone out.” 

The ball rolled to Minji’s feet again. She didn’t pass it immediately this time. 

“That’s… sudden,” she said carefully. “Did something happen?” 

“No.” Yujin shook her head. “That’s the thing. Nothing happened.” 

A whistle blew somewhere across the field. Other teammates shouted. The world continued normally around them. 

Yujin kicked the ball back harder than necessary. 

“It feels like I’m just on a bad luck streak or something,” she added with a short, humorless laugh. “It started even before that.” 

Minji tilted her head slightly. “Before?” 

“Ahjumma Kim’s fried chicken diner got hit with sudden inspections too,” Yujin said. “Labor checks. Paperwork reviews. Random compliance visits. Sudden low reviews.” 

That made Minji fully still. 

The team knew Ahjumma Kim. They’d eaten there after games more times than they could count. The place was practically unofficial team headquarters. 

“Sudden low reviews?” Minji asked. 

“Anonymous complaints, I think,” Yujin replied. “They didn’t find anything major. But it slowed business. Stressed her out.” 

Minji’s fingers curled slightly inside her gloves. 

“And now,” Yujin continued, exhaling, “Hanni got fired from her cafe job. Out of nowhere. They said there were complications. Wouldn’t explain properly.” 

Minji’s eyes sharpened. 

“Complications how?” 

Yujin shrugged again, but it was forced. “I don’t know, so now we’re looking for another part-time job that’ll take her.” 

The wind swept across the field, colder now as the sun dipped lower. 

Minji passed the ball again automatically, but her mind wasn’t on the drill anymore. 

Foster home inspection. Fried chicken diner inspections. Cafe job termination. 

All tied to Yujin. All within the same window of time. All initiated through formal channels. 

Minji swallowed slowly. 

That didn’t sound like bad luck. 

That sounded like targeting. 

“You think they’re connected?” she asked, testing the waters. 

Yujin shook her head instinctively. “I don’t know. It just feels like everything is falling apart at the same time.” 

She forced a small smile. “Maybe I’m just overreacting.” 

Minji didn’t smile back. 

Her mind drifted unwillingly to Hawaii. 

Wonyoung lying under the umbrella. Smiling at her phone. Saying she was “entertained.” 

And then, Uncle Do-jun stepping away from the balcony during a call. Lowering his voice. Ending it when Minji walked out. 

Minji’s chest tightened. 

Coincidence required randomness. 

This didn’t feel random. 

“Hey,” Yujin called lightly, snapping her out of it. “You zoning out?” 

Minji blinked and quickly kicked the ball again. “No. Just cold.” 

Yujin gave her a short nod and moved into position for the next drill. 

But Minji’s thoughts were no longer on soccer. 

***

Minji stayed behind after practice longer than usual. 

The field lights had already flickered on, washing the grass in a pale white glow. Most of the team had left — laughing, complaining about sore legs, talking about dinner plans. Dani had rushed off early, saying something about a family thing. 

That left Minji and Yuna walking side by side toward the gates. 

Minji’s eyes were glued to her phone. 

She wasn’t scrolling mindlessly. Her thumb moved with intention — opening messages, texting one of her family’s private investigator. Her jaw was tight, her steps a little too fast. 

Yuna noticed. 

“You’re gonna trip if you keep staring at that thing,” she said lightly. “What’s wrong with you today?” 

Minji didn’t answer right away. 

Her phone buzzed again. 

She exhaled slowly and locked the screen, finally slipping it into her pocket. 

“Yujin’s being attacked again,” she said. 

Yuna blinked. “Again?” 

“Yeah.” 

Yuna frowned, then shrugged almost immediately. “So what?” 

Minji stopped walking. 

Yuna took two more steps before realizing and turning back. “What?” 

“How is that your problem?” Yuna continued, genuinely confused. “You’re not her guardian. You’re not even close to her.” 

Minji stared at the concrete for a second, then looked up. 

“I think it’s Wonyoung,” she said quietly. 

Yuna laughed. 

Just reflexively, like the idea itself was absurd. 

“No way.” 

Minji didn’t react. 

Yuna waved a hand. “Come on. She lost the bet, remember? That was the deal. She can’t touch Yujin. None of us can.” 

“That was about school,” Minji replied. “About direct stuff.” 

Yuna crossed her arms. “Still. A deal’s a deal. Wonyoung wouldn’t—” 

She stopped. 

The words caught somewhere in her throat. 

Minji raised an eyebrow slightly. “Wouldn’t what?” 

Yuna looked away. 

Wouldn’t go back on her word? 

Wouldn’t sabotage someone quietly, indirectly? 

Wouldn’t hurt someone without leaving fingerprints? 

Yuna thought about it and didn’t like how quickly doubt crept in. 

“She wouldn’t go that low,” Yuna said, less confidently now. “She lost the exam. Everyone knows it. Why would she still target Yujin after that? It’d make her look pathetic.” 

Minji didn’t answer immediately. 

She started walking again, slower this time. Yuna followed. 

“Think about it,” Minji said. “Inspections. Paperwork. Jobs disappearing. Only someone with money and influence can do that.” 

Yuna frowned deeper. “But if it’s her and people find out—” 

“She won’t be found out,” Minji cut in. “That’s the point.” 

Yuna swallowed. 

If it was true… then this was obsession. 

“But she’d lose face,” Yuna insisted, almost to convince herself. “If it came out that she lied. That she still went after Yujin.” 

Minji stopped again and finally turned to face her. 

“Only if it comes out,” she said softly. 

The night air felt colder all of a sudden. 

Yuna’s thoughts spiraled. 

Wonyoung smiling like nothing mattered. Wonyoung saying she was done. Wonyoung always needing to win, even when she’d already lost. 

Could she really break her word? 

Or had she simply rewritten it in her head? 

Yuna hugged her jacket tighter around herself. 

“…Do you have proof?” she asked quietly. 

Minji shook her head. “Not yet.” 

They stood there in silence for a moment, the school gates looming ahead, lights buzzing faintly above them. 

If Minji was right, then Yujin was being dismantled. 

And the scariest part was how cleanly it was being done. 

***

Minji didn’t rush the investigation. 

That was the first thing she made clear. 

She wanted a map. 

The private investigator she hired worked quietly. Their communication was sparse — short updates, no unnecessary commentary. It took days. Then a week. Minji waited, pretending everything was normal, going to practice, sitting near Wonyoung in class like nothing inside her had shifted. 

Then, one evening, her phone vibrated. 

Update ready. Can we speak privately? 

Minji left her room without telling anyone. She walked until the house was quiet, until even the staff were out of sight, and answered the call. 

“Let’s start with the fried chicken diner,” he said. 

Minji leaned against the wall, heart beating steadily. “Okay.” 

“There were no violations,” he continued. “No legitimate complaints. No labor issues.” 

Minji closed her eyes. 

So she’d been right. 

“The inspections were triggered by anonymous tips,” he said. “But they were worded in a way that forced the local office to act. Very… specific. Very careful.” 

Her fingers curled slowly. 

“What about the cafe?” she asked. 

There was a brief pause. 

“That one was uglier,” the investigator said. “The manager was pressured.” 

“Pressured how?” 

“Indirectly,” he replied. “No written threats. No traceable payments. But someone approached him privately. Made it clear that keeping a certain employee could ‘invite complications.’” 

Minji swallowed. 

“So he fired her.” 

“Yes.” 

“For nothing.” 

“For nothing,” the investigator confirmed. 

Minji stared at the floor, jaw tight. 

“Who did it?” she asked. 

“The pressure came through an intermediary.” 

Her pulse quickened. “Name?” 

“…A consultant who specializes in risk mitigation,” he said slowly. “Goes by Mr. Moon.” 

Minji felt a chill crawl up her spine. 

She didn’t interrupt. 

The investigator continued, “At first glance, Mr. Moon appears to be freelance. Background checks are clean. No criminal history. No obvious affiliations. But his name appears again.” 

Minji listened as the pieces came together. 

Mr. Moon had advised on the cafe situation.

Mr. Moon had submitted risk assessments that aligned with the timing of the fried chicken inspections.

And.

“There’s a man named Mr. Bae,” the investigator added. “The one pressuring the foster home.” 

“Yes,” she said. “Him.” 

“Mr. Bae is the one physically showing up,” the investigator explained. “But his involvement began after consultations with —again, Mr. Moon.” 

The silence stretched. 

“So it’s all him,” she said. 

“It all routes through him,” the investigator corrected. “He doesn’t touch anything directly. He doesn’t file reports. He doesn’t make threats.” 

“Then what does he do?” 

“He advises,” the investigator said. “He identifies pressure points. Suggests legal pathways. Connects the right people.” 

Minji pressed her back against the wall, eyes unfocused. 

“And Mr. Moon,” she said slowly, carefully, “who does he work for?” 

There was a longer pause this time. 

Long enough that Minji already knew the answer before it came. 

“He’s retained by Chairman Jang,” the investigator said. 

Minji’s stomach dropped. 

“He’s part of the Chairman’s private network. Used for… sensitive matters.” 

Her chest felt tight now. 

“Do you have proof I can use?” Minji asked quietly. 

“No,” the investigator said honestly. “Nothing that would hold up publicly without connecting it to the Jang Group.” 

Minji let out a slow breath. 

“But you’re certain.” 

“Yes,” he said. “All roads lead to the same man.” 

The call ended shortly after. 

Minji stood there for a long time, phone still pressed to her ear, even after the screen went dark. 

She hadn’t wanted this. 

Hadn’t wanted it to be this deep. 

Because now, the problem wasn’t just Wonyoung. 

Her father is enabling her.

***

Minji waited until she heard the front door close softly, the muted sound of her mother’s heels disappearing down the driveway. The lights in the hallway dimmed automatically a few seconds later, as if the house itself had decided it was time to sleep. 

That was her chance. 

She walked toward the study. 

Chairman Jang Do-jun’s study was always immaculate — dark wood shelves, framed awards, books, and Wonyoung’s photo framed on his desk. He sat behind his desk, glasses low on his nose, reviewing documents like it was any other evening. 

“Uncle,” Minji said. 

He looked up, surprised but only for a moment. 

“Yes?” he replied, voice gentle. The same voice that calmed shareholders. 

Minji stepped inside and closed the door behind her. 

Her hands were clenched so tightly she didn’t notice until her nails bit into her palms. 

“Why are you helping Wonyoung sabotage innocent people?” 

Do-jun blinked. 

Confusion flickered across his face. Questions begin to surface in his mind immediately. What does she know? How much? From where? For a split second, he considered asking her to explain herself. 

But that would mean pretending ignorance. 

And that would mean admitting he had passed responsibility as a father. 

He straightened slightly in his chair. 

Minji didn’t wait. 

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” she continued, voice shaking now despite her effort to stay calm. “The foster home. The inspections. The jobs. People who have nothing to do with school.” 

Her chest felt tight. 

Thoughts collided violently. 

How can he be like this?

How can someone who smiles so kindly at charity events tolerate this?

How can the Chairman of Jang Group — praised for ethics and leadership enable his daughter to terrorize people who can’t fight back? 

She looked at him and suddenly didn’t recognize him. 

Do-jun leaned back slightly, fingers folding together. His expression softened into something almost paternal. 

“Minji,” he said gently, “calm down.” 

That word made something snap. 

“You let her go to Hawaii,” Minji shot back. “You let her lie on a beach while people here were freezing, panicking, crying. While she was still bullying them from thousands of kilometers away.” 

Do-jun’s smile didn’t disappear. 

It tightened.

She knows more than I expected.

He stood. 

The chair slid back quietly against the floor. 

He walked past Minji toward the window, hands behind his back, looking out at the dark garden like a man contemplating the weather rather than the damage done under his roof. 

“You think this is about cruelty,” he said calmly. “You think it’s about enjoyment.” 

Minji turned toward him. “Isn’t it?” 

Do-jun didn’t answer right away. 

In truth, he had asked himself that question before. More than once. He had promised himself he would handle it, that he would redirect Wonyoung, not indulge her. That he would prevent scandal, prevent escalation, prevent permanent damage. 

Prevent her to do as she pleases like her mother and getaway with it.

But he had also chosen timing over morality. 

Control over confrontation. 

“You’re young,” he said finally. “You see things in absolutes.” 

Minji’s voice trembled. “And you don’t?” 

He turned back to her. 

“This won’t continue the way it has,” he said calmly. 

Minji looked up at him at once. “So you’ll stop it?” 

For a moment, he only studied her — long enough for hope to form. 

Then he smiled. 

A gentle one.

“I’m grateful,” Do-jun said instead. “For how you look after Wonyoung. You’ve always done so, like a real sister.” 

Minji’s chest tightened. “That’s exactly why I’m here,” she said, her voice sharper now. “Uncle, you need to stop her before this escalates. She’s hurting people who have nothing. This isn’t just school drama anymore.” 

Do-jun walked past her toward the door, already finished with the conversation. His hand rested on the handle for a second longer.

“You’ve done more than I expected,” he said quietly. “You’ve watched over her when I couldn’t.” 

Minji’s jaw tightened. “Then let me keep doing it. Because if you don’t stop her now—” 

“I ask you about Wonyoung because I trust your judgment,” he continued. “And I’m grateful for it. Truly.” 

Minji swallowed. That sounded like praise. 

But praise wasn’t action. 

“Then stop her,” she insisted. “Before this becomes something irreversible.” 

“My daughter will not continue unchecked,” he said evenly. “That much, you can be assured of. You don’t need to carry this burden anymore.”

***

Yujin stepped out of Ahjumma Kim’s restaurant, the night air slicing clean and cold across her face. 

She liked this part of the walk.

The streets were quieter past ten. The neon signs dimmer. The world smaller. Manageable. 

Her hands were shoved into her pockets as she headed toward the dorm she shared with Hanni, mind half on tomorrow’s homework, half on how many working hours she could still squeeze in before the next exams. 

Her phone vibrated. 

It was Hyein.

She answered immediately. 

“Hello?” 

“UNNIE—” 

“YUJIN UNNIE—” 

Two voices collided in her ear at once. 

Hyein. Haerin. 

Panicked. 

Overlapping. 

Yujin stopped walking. “Hey, hey—calm down. One at a time.” 

They didn’t. 

“Unnie don’t get mad—”

“Just listen first—”

“We didn’t mean to—” 

Yujin exhaled sharply. “Hyein. You talk first.” 

There was rustling. Wind. Heavy breathing. 

Hyein’s voice came through messy and breathless. “Unnie… don’t get mad, okay? But we followed him.” 

“Followed who?” 

“…Mr. Bae.” 

The cold no longer felt refreshing. 

“What do you mean you followed him?” Her voice lowered instantly. “That’s dangerous. You can’t just trail adults around like that—” 

“We stayed far!” Hyein rushed out defensively. “We were careful! He didn’t see us, I swear—” 

“Yujin unnie,” Haerin cut in. 

Unlike Hyein, her voice was steady. Calm. 

“We weren’t trying to be reckless.” 

Yujin pressed her lips together. “Then why?” 

“Because he lied,” Haerin said quietly. 

The night seemed to grow still around her. 

“What do you mean?” 

“We heard him talking on the phone,” Haerin continued. “Behind the convenience store near the bus stop. He said there weren’t any violations.” 

Yujin’s fingers tightened around her phone. 

“…What?” 

“He said,” Haerin repeated carefully, as if reciting something memorized, “‘There’s nothing illegal there. No safety issues.’” 

Hyein jumped back in, words tumbling over themselves. “He laughed, unnie. He actually laughed. He said it’s just drama between rich high school students. That rich kids are bored and he will never say no to free money.” 

The streetlight above Yujin flickered once. 

Her pulse began to pound in her ears. 

Haerin’s voice returned. “He said it’s a school matter. From Janghwa.” 

“And then…” Hyein hesitated. 

Yujin swallowed. “Then what?” 

“He said—” Hyein’s voice dropped. “He said when the heiress of Jang Group wants something, you give it to her.” 

The world narrowed. 

The sound of passing cars faded. 

Cold air struck her cheeks, but she didn’t feel it. 

Heiress. 

In her world, that word belonged to one person. 

Haerin continued. “He also said… these poor kids don’t even realize they’re being used. That they’re just pawns in a rich girl’s playground.” 

Yujin’s grip on her phone tightened so hard. 

Pawn. 

Playground. 

Rich girl. 

She could see it now. 

Ahjumma Kim’s inspection notice. 

The sudden pressure on the foster home. 

Hanni’s café firing. 

The timing. 

All of it. 

It wasn’t misfortune.

There was only one girl bored enough, proud enough, wounded enough to stoop this low. 

Only one heiress of Jang Group who had both the power and the pettiness. 

Hyein’s voice wavered. “Unnie… are you there?” 

Yujin inhaled slowly. 

The air burned on the way down. 

“I’m here.” 

She forced her voice steady. Gentle. The way Eun-soo would. 

“You two go home. Right now.” 

“But—” 

“Inside,” she repeated softly. “Lock the door. Don’t follow anyone again. That was dangerous.” 

A small sniffle from Hyein. “Sorry…” 

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Yujin said. And for once, she meant it without hesitation. “You helped.” 

Haerin was quiet for a moment. Then, “Is it her? Hanni unnie said there was a rich girl who was hurting you in Janghwa…” 

Yujin didn’t answer. 

“Go inside, I’ll take care of it,” Yujin repeated. 

The call ended. 

Yujin remained standing under the flickering streetlight, the cold finally seeping into her skin. 

The night didn’t feel manageable anymore. 

She had thought the worst part was humiliation. 

She thought it was done.

She had been wrong. 

***

Inside a modest but well-kept traditional house tucked into a quiet neighborhood, the atmosphere was warm. 

A kettle whistled softly in the kitchen. 

Bookshelves lined the walls of the living room — old textbooks, literature, worn binders of lesson plans accumulated over decades. Framed photos hung between them —  graduating classes, school festivals, smiling groups of students who had long since grown up. 

At the low wooden table in the center of the room sat a man who rarely bowed to anyone. 

Yet tonight, he was. 

Jang Do-jun lowered his head respectfully, his posture composed and humble. 

Across from him sat an elderly woman wrapped in a thick cardigan, her gray hair tied neatly at the back of her head. A pair of reading glasses rested low on her nose as she poured tea into small porcelain cups. 

Kim Anna had the calm presence of someone who had spent an entire lifetime around children and had survived all of them. 

She was older than the man sitting across from her. 

Old enough, in fact, that now most people call her grandma.

Anna had known generations of students pass through the halls of Janghwa. And among them, one particular group had always stood out — bright, talented, and just a little too powerful for their own good. 

Wonyoung and her circle. 

Anna knew them well. She had watched them grow up since their first years at Janghwa Middle. 

But her connection to the family sitting before her went even further back. 

Anna had known Do-jun long before he became one of the most powerful businessmen in the country. 

Years ago, decades now — she had been one of his teachers at the school he attended as a boy. Even then he had been polite, disciplined, and frighteningly ambitious. 

Time had simply proven what she had already suspected. 

Later, when the Jang family built Janghwa’s school system, Anna had been invited to join the faculty. She started as a teacher there, guiding the early generations of students. 

Over the years, through sheer experience and respect, she eventually became the headmaster of Janghwa Middle School. 

Which meant she had watched Wonyoung’s class grow up from the beginning. 

And she knew exactly the kind of storm that group of girls could create when they wanted to. 

Anna exhaled slowly and shook her head. 

“Aigoo…” she muttered, glancing at Do-jun over her teacup. 

“Your daughter is causing trouble again, isn’t she?” 

Do-jun bowed his head slightly from where he sat, accepting the remark without defense. 

And for a moment, the room felt less like a meeting between a chairman and an educator and more like a former student being quietly scolded by the teacher who still remembered him as a boy. 

“I’m afraid so.” 

Anna clicked her tongue softly and took a sip of tea. 

“Hmm.” 

Outside, snowflakes tapped quietly against the window. 

“I was already thinking about retirement,” she continued. “My bones ache every winter now. I finally thought I could rest.” 

She peered at him over the rim of her cup. 

“And here you are, coming to give me more stress.” 

Do-jun smiled faintly, though there was a seriousness in his eyes. 

“I wouldn’t ask if there were any other way.” 

He placed his cup down carefully, then bowed again — lower this time. 

“Please help me.” 

Anna blinked. 

The only sound in the room was the quiet ticking of the wall clock. 

When he spoke again, his tone was humble — almost pleading. 

“I’ll triple your salary,” he said calmly. “Your retirement plan will be secured. Your home, your healthcare, your grandkids — everything. I will personally take care of it.” 

Anna raised an eyebrow. 

But he continued. 

“I only ask for one thing.” 

He finally looked up. 

“Guide my daughter.” 

The words hung between them. 

“Just until she finishes high school at Janghwa.” 

Anna stared at him for several seconds. 

Then she sighed again, long and dramatic. 

“Aigoo…” 

She set her tea down and waved her hand dismissively. 

“First, lift your head.” 

Do-jun straightened. 

Anna shook her head, chuckling under her breath. 

“You’re one of the most powerful men in this country,” she said. “Chairman of the Jang Group.” 

Her eyes twinkled faintly. 

“And yet here you are bowing to an old teacher.” 

Do-jun didn’t reply. 

He simply waited. 

Anna studied him carefully. 

Then her expression softened just a little. 

“If every parent loved their children this much…” 

She glanced toward the old class photos lining the wall. 

“…the world would have far fewer cruel people.” 

Her gaze returned to him. 

“Children who grow up knowing they’re loved tend to grow up kinder.” 

Do-jun didn’t interrupt. 

Anna leaned back in her chair, folding her arms. 

“But your daughter,” she continued dryly, “has never exactly been an easy student.” 

A faint smile tugged at Do-jun’s lips. 

“That’s precisely why I came to you.” 

Anna stared at the ceiling for a moment, thinking. 

Then she sighed. 

“Fine.” 

Do-jun looked up. 

“I’ll do it,” she said. 

“But on one condition.” 

She leaned forward slightly, pointing a finger at him. 

“I will run that school however I see fit.” 

Her voice carried the authority of someone who had disciplined generations of students. 

“If I decide someone needs punishment, they will be punished.” 

Her gaze sharpened. 

“Even if that someone is your daughter.” 

Do-jun answered right away.

“Yes.” 

“No parents interfering.” 

“Yes.” 

“No students throwing around their family names.” 

“Yes.” 

Anna narrowed her eyes at him. 

“You won’t protect her if she crosses the line?” 

Do-jun held her gaze calmly. 

“No.” 

“And your ex-wife?” 

Anna leaned back slightly in her chair. 

“That woman,” she continued with a sigh, “likes to be very hands-on with Wonyoung’s education.” 

Her brows knitted faintly. 

“She’s very unpredictable.”

A polite way to describe someone the entire education circle whispered about. 

“If she decides to interfere, will you stop her?” 

“I will.” 

Anna raised an eyebrow. 

“Are you sure about that?”

She folded her hands over her lap. 

“Jae-kyung has always been a very wild woman. Not the type who listens easily.” 

“Jae-kyung still relies heavily on me,” Do-jun smiled. “Lifestyle. Finances. Stability.” 

The smile faded slightly. 

“And if necessary,” he continued evenly, “I would not hesitate to cut those things off.” 

Anna watched him carefully. 

“She is still the mother of your child,” she pointed out. 

Do-jun did not look away. 

“And that,” he said quietly, “is the only reason she has as much freedom as she does.” 

Silence filled the room again. 

Then Anna gave a satisfied nod. 

“Good.” 

She reached for her tea again. 

“Because if I’m coming out of a planned retirement after the school year ends for this headache,” she muttered, “I’m doing it properly.” 

Do-jun finally allowed himself to relax slightly. 

He bowed once more, this time in gratitude. 

“Thank you.” 

Anna waved him off again.

“Your daughter better survive me,” she grumbled. Then she added with a sly smile, “From what I remember… that girl of yours might actually enjoy the challenge.” 

Chapter Text

The next morning, the air inside Janghwa Girls’ High still carried the cold of winter. 

Yujin had arrived before almost everyone. 

She sat at her desk in Class 1-A, her bag resting on the floor beside her chair, hands folded tightly on top of the table. The classroom clock ticked slowly above the board. 

Each second felt louder than the last. 

Her eyes remained fixed on the door. 

She hadn’t slept much. 

The call from Cheongha-ri echoed in her mind over and over, the words Haerin had repeated so carefully. 

There are no violations. 

Rich kids are bored. 

When the heiress of Jang Group wants something, you give it to her. 

Yujin’s jaw tightened. 

There was only one heiress of the Jang Group.

The classroom door slid open.

A few students entered first — girls chatting softly. Laughter drifted through the room. 

Yujin barely noticed them. 

More chairs scraped. Bags dropped onto desks. 

Soon, familiar figures began to appear. 

Yuna walked in first, already mid-conversation with someone behind her. She glanced around casually before sliding into her seat. 

Then Dani followed, pulling off her scarf and draping it over her chair. 

Winter came in shortly after, earbuds still in, expression half-awake. 

The three of them settled in without noticing anything unusual at first. 

Two seats in their usual circle were still empty. 

Ningning wasn’t there yet. 

Neither was Minji. 

But the last one to arrive, the one everyone unconsciously waited for, has not appeared yet.

Yujin kept watching the door. 

Her pulse beat steadily in her ears. 

Then the door opened again. 

And the classroom shifted. 

Wonyoung stepped inside. 

Even on an ordinary school morning, she carried herself like someone who expected space to open for her. Her hair perfectly styled, expression calm and faintly amused as she glanced around the room. 

She was halfway toward her seat when a chair scraped loudly across the floor. 

Yujin stood.

The sound cut through the classroom chatter like a blade. 

Several heads turned. 

Before Wonyoung could reach her desk, Yujin stepped forward. 

And stopped directly in front of her. 

Blocking her path. 

The room fell quiet in seconds. 

Wonyoung blinked once, surprised. Curious. 

“What is this?” she asked lightly. 

Yujin didn’t smile. 

“I know what you’ve been doing.” 

A few nearby students exchanged confused looks. 

Behind Wonyoung, Yuna straightened slightly in her chair. 

“What are you talking about?” Wonyoung replied. 

Her tone was calm, almost bored. 

That only made Yujin angrier. 

“All winter break,” Yujin said, her voice low but shaking with fury. “You’ve been sabotaging the people around me.” 

Now the room was silent. 

Completely. 

“You harassed Ahjumma Kim’s diner with fake inspections,” Yujin continued. “You pressured my foster home. You got Hanni fired from her job.” 

Her fists clenched at her sides. 

“And you think that’s funny?” 

Wonyoung’s eyes narrowed just slightly. 

Students around them leaned closer without realizing it. 

“You have no idea,” Yujin went on, her voice rising now, “what that did to those kids.” 

Images flashed in her mind, the younger foster children huddled together, terrified they might be taken away. 

“They’ve already lost families once,” she said harshly. “And you think it’s entertainment to scare them again?” 

A murmur spread through the classroom. 

Wonyoung’s expression remained controlled but the faint amusement had disappeared. 

“You’re so low,” Yujin said. 

The words came out sharp and unforgiving. 

“So bored.” 

Another step closer. 

“And a loser.”

The word hit the room like an explosion. 

Gasps erupted immediately. 

“Did she just—” 

“No way—” 

Behind Wonyoung, Yuna’s eyes widened. 

Dani actually covered her mouth. 

Winter straightened completely in her seat, stunned. 

No one called Wonyoung that. 

No one. 

The word itself felt illegal. 

But there was something else now, because everyone in that room remembered the midterm exam. 

Everyone remembered the scoreboard. 

And who had stood above it. 

For the first time since she was born, Wonyoung had lost. 

And the girl standing in front of her now, the one daring to call her a loser, was the one who had beaten her. 

And since entering the classroom, Wonyoung’s face changed. 

Her eyes hardened. 

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. 

Around them, no one moved. 

No one spoke, but everyone could feel the intensity.

Wonyoung stood perfectly still in front of Yujin, her expression frozen in something that wasn’t quite anger yet. 

How does she know? 

That was the first thing. 

Her mind moved quickly. 

Mr. Moon was careful. 

Mr. Bae was discreet. 

The inspections had been structured to look legitimate. Hanni’s firing had been quiet. Nothing tied back to her directly. 

So how? 

Around them, whispers began to spread through the room like wind through dry grass. 

“What is she talking about?” 

“Sabotage?” 

“Foster home…?” 

“Wait—did Wonyoung actually—” 

The murmuring grew louder. 

Several of her own friends were no longer relaxed. 

Yuna was staring at Wonyoung now with a quiet, searching confusion. 

Because she remembered something. 

The bet. 

The agreement. 

Leave Yujin alone. 

If Wonyoung had really done all this… Then she had broken her word. 

Next to her, Dani looked just as unsettled. 

Her eyes flicked between Yujin and Wonyoung. 

Because Dani knew Ahjumma Kim. 

They had eaten there countless times after practice. 

The idea that the warm little diner they joked around in had been dragged into this— 

It didn’t sit right. 

Even Winter, usually detached from most drama, looked stunned. 

The atmosphere in the classroom had shifted completely. 

And Wonyoung could feel it. 

Feel their eyes. 

Their doubt. 

That made the anger finally arrive. And there was only one outlet she can see.

Slowly, her head tilted. 

Her voice, when it came, was no longer light. 

“What did you just fucking say?” 

The curse word cut through the classroom like glass. 

Yujin didn’t hesitate. 

She stepped even closer. 

Her voice rose, louder now so the entire room could hear. 

“I said you’re a loser.” 

A ripple of gasps moved through the students again. 

But Yujin wasn’t done. 

“And pathetic.” 

Wonyoung’s composure shattered. 

Her hand lifted before she even consciously decided to move. 

The motion was fast, sharp, meant to land hard across Yujin’s face. 

But the slap never came. 

Halfway through the swing, Yujin caught her wrist.

The crack of skin against skin echoed in the silent room. 

Yujin’s grip was firm. 

Strong. 

Years of practice, deliveries on a bicycle, and farm work had built strength that most students in this room didn’t have. 

Wonyoung’s arm stopped midair. 

Their eyes locked. 

The power dynamic looked… different. 

Wonyoung tried to yank her arm free. 

Yujin didn’t let go immediately. 

The tension between them felt electric. 

“You think you can just destroy people’s lives because you’re bored?” Yujin said, her voice low with fury. 

Then she released her. 

The moment the grip disappeared, Wonyoung shoved her. 

Hard. 

Gasps erupted again. 

But the push barely moved Yujin. 

She rocked back half a step at most before planting her feet again, steady as a wall. 

And that only made Wonyoung angrier. 

Because that wasn’t how this was supposed to go. 

People were supposed to shrink when she pushed. 

People were supposed to back down. 

But the girl standing in front of her didn’t look like she planned to move at all. 

Around them, the classroom had fully erupted into whispers. 

Phones were already being pulled halfway out of bags. 

Some students looked horrified that it turned physical. 

Others looked fascinated. 

Then Wonyoung snapped. 

Jang Wonyoung lunged forward again, fury completely overtaking whatever composure she had left. 

Her hand swung toward Yujin’s face again. 

Yujin tilted her head.

The slap missed.

Another strike came immediately — wild, fast. 

Yujin blocked it with her forearm. 

The sound of skin hitting muscle echoed sharply. 

Gasps erupted across the classroom. 

Wonyoung tried again. 

And again. 

Her movements were quick but unstructured now, anger guiding her more than control. Each hit landed against Yujin’s arms as Yujin kept raising them to block or simply shifting her body slightly out of the way. 

To the students watching, the difference between them suddenly looked obvious. 

Yujin was solid.

Wonyoung, meanwhile, looked increasingly frantic — her strikes hitting bone and muscle with more force than they hurt Yujin. 

After the fourth or fifth attempt, whispers spread rapidly. 

“Jang Wonyoung has lost it.” 

Yuna suddenly pushed her chair back. 

“Wonyoung, stop!” 

Dani stood up immediately after her, alarm clear on her face. 

Winter followed, moving quickly toward them. 

“Wonyoung, enough,” Yuna said, reaching for her arm. 

But Wonyoung spun toward them, eyes blazing. 

“DON’T TOUCH ME!” 

She shoved Dani away violently. 

Dani stumbled backward with a startled cry, but Yuna caught her before she could fall. 

“What are you doing?!” Dani shouted, shocked. 

But Wonyoung wasn’t listening anymore. 

She turned back to Yujin. 

By now, the repeated hits had begun to leave marks — Yujin’s forearms were reddening where the blows had landed, thin streaks of irritated skin appearing where Wonyoung’s nails had grazed her. 

Still, Yujin hadn’t struck back. 

Not once. 

Then suddenly, Wonyoung jumped.

The movement caught everyone off guard as she threw her full weight forward, tackling toward Yujin in pure frustration. 

They staggered together. 

At that exact moment, the classroom door slid open again. 

Minji stepped inside with Ningning just behind her.

Both froze instantly. 

The classroom looked like a battlefield. 

Desks crooked. 

Students standing. 

Wonyoung and Yujin tangled together near the front. 

“What the—” Ningning muttered under her breath. 

Minji moved first. 

“Wonyoung!” 

She rushed forward, grabbing for Wonyoung’s shoulder to pull her away. 

But Wonyoung lashed out blindly. 

Her arm swung back and struck Minji across the arm. 

Minji recoiled in shock. 

“Wonyoung!” 

Behind her, Ningning remained near the doorway, eyes wide as she took in the chaos. 

“What the hell happened here…” she murmured. 

Meanwhile, Wonyoung grabbed a fistful of Yujin’s short hair. 

Hard. 

Yujin winced as her head jerked back. 

Without hesitation, Yujin grabbed Wonyoung’s long hair in return. 

Now they were locked together. 

Hair clenched in both fists. 

Pulling.

Students screamed.

Several girls backed away from the desks completely as the two dragged each other a step across the classroom floor. 

“STOP—” 

“Someone get a teacher—” 

The door burst open again. 

A teacher rushed in. 

“What is going on here—?!” 

She hurried toward them, trying to wedge herself between the two girls. 

“Let go! Both of you—!” 

But Wonyoung refused. 

Her fingers tightened.

Another teacher appeared behind the first. 

Then another. 

Three adults now trying to pull them apart. 

“Jang Wonyoung, release her immediately!” 

“An Yujin, let go!” 

Still, Wonyoung would not stop. 

Even as hands tried to pry her grip loose, she kept pulling. 

“Office. Now!” one teacher ordered sharply. 

“Both of you—right now!” 

“Shut up!” Wonyoung snapped without even looking at them. 

The teachers froze for a second. 

Students gasped again. 

Because Wonyoung had just told faculty to shut up openly. 

Meanwhile, Yujin was no longer attacking at all. 

She was simply holding on so she wouldn’t lose half her hair. 

Then, a new voice cut through the chaos. 

“That is enough.” 

The entire classroom stilled. 

Slowly, an elderly woman stepped into the doorway. 

Kim Anna.

The room reacted instantly. 

Students who had attended Janghwa Middle recognized her immediately. 

Ningning’s eyes widened. 

Winter sucked in a breath. 

Yuna and Dani gasped almost simultaneously. 

Even Minji stared in surprise. 

The fierce, no-nonsense headmaster from their middle school days. 

Now standing inside Janghwa High. 

Her gaze swept across the chaotic classroom once. 

Then landed on the two girls still gripping each other’s hair. 

Her voice came down like a hammer. 

“Jang Wonyoung.” 

A pause.

“An Yujin.”

Every student held their breath. 

“You will both walk to my office this instant.” 

Her eyes sharpened. 

“Or I will expel the two of you on the spot if you do not stop.” 

The word expel hit Yujin like ice water. 

Her scholarship. 

Her entire future at Janghwa. 

Her fingers loosened immediately. 

She stepped back. 

Wonyoung heard the voice again. 

And finally recognized it. 

Her grip slackened. 

Because there were very few adults in the world who could make even Jang Wonyoung hesitate. 

And Kim Anna was one of them. 

***

The classroom remained frozen long after the fight stopped. 

Desks were still crooked. A chair lay on its side. Several students stood halfway out of their seats, too stunned and too invested to sit back down. 

At the center of the room, the two girls who had just been tearing at each other’s hair now stood apart, breathing hard. 

The teachers who had rushed in moments earlier were still hovering nervously nearby. 

And in the doorway stood the elderly woman whose voice had cut through the chaos. 

Anna didn’t raise her voice again. Her presence alone seemed to steady the entire room. 

Her gaze swept once across the overturned desks, the scattered students, the lingering tension in the air. Then it returned to the two girls standing at the center of the mess. 

“Jang Wonyoung. An Yujin.” 

Her tone was firm.

“You will both walk to my office this instant.” 

For a moment, no one spoke. 

Then, from behind Wonyoung, a voice broke the silence. 

“Your… office?”

It was Yuna.

Her brows were drawn together in disbelief, her voice cautious — as if she wasn’t entirely sure she had heard correctly. 

Anna turned her head slightly toward her. 

“Yes,” she said calmly. 

“My office.”

The room stayed quiet. 

Anna adjusted the sleeve of her cardigan with deliberate patience before adding, almost casually, “As of this morning, I am the new headmaster of Janghwa High.” 

For half a second, the words didn’t seem to register. 

Then the reaction rippled through the classroom all at once. 

“What—?” 

“Headmaster?” 

“Wait—seriously?” 

Gasps spread through the room. 

Near the back, Winter blurted out instinctively. 

“Oh no.”

Her hand flew to her mouth immediately after the words escaped. 

But it was too late. 

Several students turned toward her. 

Winter’s eyes widened slightly as she realized she had spoken out loud. 

Behind her, Dani stared at Anna like she had just seen a ghost from the past. 

Next to her, Yuna’s expression had completely changed. 

Recognition. Then dread.

Across the room, Ningning let out a low whistle under her breath. 

“Well,” she murmured quietly, “that explains the timing.” 

Near the front, Minji had gone completely still. 

She knew exactly who this woman was. 

They all did.

Because every one of them had passed through the halls of Janghwa Middle School. 

And that meant they had all once answered to Kim Anna. 

Anna, the headmaster who memorized every student’s name, caught cheating without even looking at the papers and punished rich kids exactly the same way she punished scholarship students.

Family names meant nothing to her. 

Money meant nothing to her. 

Reputation meant nothing to her. 

If a student crossed the line, she corrected them. 

Immediately. And without mercy.

That reputation had followed her through the entire Janghwa system like a legend. 

Which was why the room suddenly felt colder. 

Even the teachers standing nearby seemed slightly relieved that she had taken over the situation. 

Anna glanced once more around the classroom. 

Her sharp eyes lingered briefly on the overturned chair, the crooked desks, the lingering shock on the students’ faces. 

Then she looked back at the two girls standing at the center of it all. 

Her voice, when she spoke again, was more calm.

“Now,” she said. “Both of you.”

She turned toward the hallway. 

“My office.”

***

The moment Kim Anna turned her back and stepped out into the hallway, the weight of her command lingered in the air. 

For a second, neither of them moved. 

Then, Yujin followed.

Wonyoung followed. 

And just like that, the entire classroom seemed to exhale. 

The hallway outside was colder. 

Quieter.

But not for long.

The sound of the door sliding open had already drawn attention. A few students passing by slowed. Others turned their heads. 

Then they saw who it was. 

At the front, Anna.

Walking with steady, unhurried steps. 

Behind her.

Wonyoung and Yujin.

Not side by side. Not equal.

Like criminals.

Whispers began before they had even taken ten steps. 

“They were fighting—” 

“I heard they pulled each other’s hair—” 

“No way—” 

“Anna caught them—” 

“Anna?!” 

The name spread faster than anything else. 

Doors cracked open. 

Students peeked from inside classrooms. 

Some leaned out just enough to see without being obvious. 

Others weren’t subtle at all — standing fully in the hallway now, staring openly as the trio passed. 

The further they walked, the more the attention grew. 

It was like a ripple turning into a wave. 

Teachers paused.

A group of first-years fell silent as Anna walked past them, instinctively straightening. 

Even upperclassmen — students who usually carried themselves with confidence, lowered their voices. 

Because no one missed the detail that mattered most.

 Wonyoung was walking behind someone. 

And not just anyone. 

Someone she wasn’t talking back to. 

***

Behind Anna, the silence between the two girls was thick. 

Yujin kept her eyes forward. 

Her arms still stung faintly where the hits had landed. Her scalp burned where her hair had been pulled. 

But that wasn’t what occupied her mind. 

It was the word Anna had said. 

Expelled.

The thought pressed heavily against her chest. 

Her scholarship. Her future.

Everything she had worked for balanced on what happened next.

Her jaw tightened. 

She couldn’t afford to make another mistake. 

Beside her, Wonyoung walked with her chin slightly raised. 

Her expression had returned to something controlled. 

But only on the surface.

Inside, her thoughts were anything but calm. 

Anna, of all people.

The one adult in the entire Janghwa system who couldn’t be influenced. 

Who didn’t care about status, and never once treated her differently from anyone else. 

And now she’s the headmaster of Janghwa high.

Wonyoung could feel the eyes on her.

Students whispering. 

Judging, not just the fight.

But the fact that she had been stopped.

That she had been seen losing control. 

Her fingers curled slightly at her sides. 

By the time they reached the administrative wing, the whispers had already evolved. 

Rumors outran them. 

“They’re getting expelled.” 

“No way—both of them?” 

“I heard it was bad.” 

“Anna doesn’t play around.” 

“Wonyoung is actually in trouble this time—” 

The words followed them like shadows. 

And when Anna finally stopped in front of the office doors, the hallway behind them had gone eerily quiet again. 

The school was holding it’s breath, waiting.

To see what would happen next.

***

The door closed behind them with a quiet, final click. 

The noise from the hallway disappeared instantly. 

Inside, the headmaster’s office was warm but not in a comforting way. It was neat to the point of severity. Shelves lined with organized files. Certificates framed precisely on the walls. A large wooden desk sat at the center, cleared of anything unnecessary. 

Everything about the room felt… controlled. 

Kim Anna walked past them without a word and took her seat behind the desk. 

Only then did she look up. 

“Sit.”

It wasn’t loud. But it wasn’t a suggestion either.

Yujin sat first, careful, straight-backed. 

Wonyoung followed a second later, slower, her posture still composed but her movements more measured now. 

For a brief moment, silence settled in the room. 

The kind of silence that forced you to hear your own breathing. 

Wonyoung was the first to break it. 

Her voice, when she spoke, had regained its usual smoothness. 

“What happened to the previous headmaster?” 

She crossed her legs slightly, as if trying to reclaim control of the situation. 

“Mrs. Hwang.”

Anna didn’t answer immediately. 

She picked up a pen. 

Adjusted a paper on her desk. 

Then, without looking rushed, she replied. “Dismissed.”

The word landed flat. 

Clean.

Wonyoung’s brows shifted just slightly. 

Anna paused.

Then added, almost thoughtfully. 

“Corruption.”

A small tap of the pen against the paper. 

“Incompetence.”

Another tap.

“And an unfortunate addiction to accepting favors.” 

The faintest hint of disdain entered her tone. 

Yujin stayed still, listening. 

Wonyoung’s expression remained neutral but her fingers tightened just slightly against her arm. 

Anna leaned back in her chair. 

“For someone entrusted with education,” she continued, “she managed to do remarkably little of it.” 

A pause.

Then, with dry bluntness.

“She embarrassed our profession.” 

Anna’s gaze shifted slowly. 

And landed directly on Wonyoung. 

“A disgrace, really,” she added. 

Silence.

Then, almost as if speaking to herself.

“No wonder children these days lack manners,” she said. “Even with all the advantages of a wealthy background.” 

The implication was clear.

The room went still. 

Wonyoung felt it.

That line wasn’t general.

It was aimed.

Direct.

At her.

Her composure faltered just slightly. 

Her shoulders stiffened.

Her throat tightened.

A small, involuntary swallow. 

Anna didn’t look away. 

Didn’t clarify. 

She simply let the silence stretch. 

The silence lingered for a few seconds more before Kim Anna finally set her pen down. 

She didn’t raise her voice. 

“When you wear that uniform,” she said, her gaze moving between them, “you represent this school.” 

Her tone was steady. 

“Janghwa students are expected to have discipline. Restraint. Awareness of their actions.” 

A pause.

“And yet I walk into a classroom and find the two of you behaving like this.” 

Her eyes sharpened slightly. 

“Fighting. Shouting. Creating a spectacle.” 

She exhaled softly, disappointed.

“And I am not stupid.” 

Anna folded her hands neatly on the desk. 

“I am aware,” she continued, “that the two of you have… history.” 

Yujin felt her pulse spike. 

Her mind raced. 

History.

That meant Anna knew there was more beneath this. More than just a fight. 

Her fingers curled tightly in her lap. 

She couldn’t afford this. 

If she got suspended, she wouldn’t be able to play. 

Soccer practice. Matches.

Everything tied to her extracurricular record. 

Everything she needed to build her future. 

And worse, if she fell behind even a little, if her grades slipped.

She knew exactly what would happen. 

The bullying would come back. 

Relentless. Just like before.

Her jaw tightened as she forced herself to stay still. 

To not speak and not make things worse.

Across from her, Wonyoung sat stiffly. 

Her posture was perfect.

But the annoyance was there, clear in the slight tension of her shoulders, in the way her fingers pressed against her arm. 

She had thought she was done with this. 

Done with Kim Anna.

That strict, unyielding presence from middle school. 

And yet here she was again, sitting across from her like a student being called out. 

Her irritation simmered just beneath the surface. 

Anna let the silence stretch just long enough to settle over both of them. 

Then, she spoke.

“You will both serve detention.” 

Yujin’s heart skipped.

Wonyoung’s head lifted slightly. 

“One week,” Anna continued calmly. “After school. One hour each day.” 

Yujin almost felt relief. 

Detention.

Not suspension. Not expulsion.

She could manage that. 

But beside her, Wonyoung reacted instantly.

“You can’t be serious.” 

Her voice was sharp.

Disbelieving.

Anna didn’t respond immediately. 

She simply looked at her. 

Then, very calmly.

“Two weeks.”

The shift was immediate. 

Wonyoung’s expression hardened.

“This is ridiculous,” she said, the control in her voice slipping. 

Anna didn’t blink.

“Three weeks.”

Then, as if adjusting something minor.

“One hour and thirty minutes.” 

Silence.

It hit.

The escalation.

Wonyoung’s lips pressed into a thin line. 

Her hands tightened into fists in her lap. 

And this time, she said nothing.

Because she understood now. 

Every word she spoke only made it worse. 

Across from her, Yujin stayed completely still.

But inside, her heart was still racing.

Three weeks. 

It was harsh.

But it wasn’t everything.

She could survive this.

She had to.

***

The office door opened. 

And just like that, the verdict stepped back into the world. 

Kim Anna didn’t follow them out. Her decision carried enough weight on its own. 

For a brief second, Wonyoung and Yujin stood side by side in the hallway. 

Then Wonyoung moved first. 

Fast.

She walked ahead without a word, her pace sharp, controlled—like she was cutting through the space rather than walking through it. 

Yujin followed a step behind. 

The hallway, which had been pretending to function normally, immediately reacted. 

Students who had been lingering nearby turned. 

Whispers ignited almost instantly. 

Eyes locked onto them from every direction. 

Wonyoung didn’t look at anyone. 

Her gaze stayed forward. 

Untouchable, as always.

But something had changed. 

Because now, people weren’t just looking at her with admiration. 

There was curiosity.

Speculation.

Even doubt.

***

By the time first break period hit, the entire school already knew. 

Not the result.

But the details.

“Three weeks.”

“Detention.”

“Everyday.”

“With Anna.”

The words spread faster than truth ever needed to. 

Hallways buzzed.

Classrooms filled with quiet discussions. 

Even students who had never spoken to either of them were now invested. 

Because everyone is curious on how Jang Wonyoung is being punished. 

***

Inside the private lounge of Janghwa, the atmosphere was completely different. 

Unsettled.

The space that usually felt relaxed, exclusive, almost untouchable now felt tense.

Wonyoung sat on one of the couches, posture composed, legs crossed, expression unreadable. 

But the silence around her said everything. 

One by one, the rest of the group had gathered. 

Dani sat near the edge of her seat, fingers fidgeting slightly. 

“I don’t like this,” she admitted quietly. “Anna-ssi…” 

She trailed off, shaking her head. 

“You know how she is.” 

Across from her, Winter leaned back, arms crossed, expression more focused than usual. 

“If she’s here, everything changes.” 

Next to her, Ningning tilted her head slightly, studying Wonyoung. 

“What I don’t get,” she said, “is why you acted alone.” 

The room shifted slightly. 

Wonyoung didn’t respond.

Ningning continued anyway.

“You knew we wanted to corner Hanni.”

Winter nodded slightly.

“That was the plan,” she added. “We were handling it together.” 

A beat.

“So why move on your own?” 

Wonyoung’s fingers tightened subtly against her arm. 

Before she could answer—

Another voice cut in.

“You said you’d leave them alone.”

All eyes turned.

Yuna stood near the window, arms folded. 

“The deal,” she continued. “You lost. That was the condition.” 

Silence.

Even Dani looked up now. 

“And the deal was clear,” Yuna added. “Leave Yujin and her friends alone.” 

The words landed heavier than any accusation. 

Because they were true. 

Across the room, Minji stood slightly apart from the group. 

Watching.

Saying nothing.

But her presence alone added pressure. 

Because if anyone here knew the full picture, it was her.

The room felt tighter now. 

These weren’t just classmates. 

These were the same girls who had stood beside Wonyoung for years. 

Since childhood.

Since kindergarten.

Loyal.

Untouchable.

Unquestioning.

Until now.

They were questioning her. 

Her decisions.

Her judgment.

Her words.

Wonyoung didn’t immediately respond. 

She just sat there. 

Still and composed.

But everything is shifting.

She could feel it. 

The difference.

It was almost invisible to anyone outside the room but to her.

The way Yuna looked at her now, with expectation. Not with the automatic agreement.

The way Dani fidgeted, uneasy instead of blindly supportive. 

The way Winter and Ningning weren’t just observing but calculating.

And most of all, Minji who was always watching and waiting.

This was new.

Unfamiliar.

And dangerous.

Because these weren’t just classmates. 

These were the same people who had stood beside her since childhood. 

Since kindergarten.

The ones who had followed her without question. 

Who trusted her decisions. 

Who never needed explanations. 

And now, they were asking for one. 

Wonyoung felt something tighten in her chest. 

Something close to… urgency. 

They’re doubting me. 

The realization was clear. 

Unacceptable.

Because she could tolerate a lot of things.

Losing an exam.

Being challenged.

Even being punished.

But not this.

Not losing control of the people she actually cared about. 

The only ones she didn’t see as disposable. 

She lowered her gaze briefly, just enough to gather her thoughts. 

Her mind moved quickly. 

Sorting, reframing, adjusting.

Emotion had no place here. 

If she reacted defensively, she would lose more ground. 

If she stayed silent, she would confirm their doubts. 

No, she needed to remind them why they followed her in the first place. 

Slowly, she looked up. 

Her expression had changed. 

Calm and controlled.

“You think this is about a bet?” 

Her voice cut cleanly through the room. 

Everyone stilled.

Yuna’s brows tightened slightly. 

Wonyoung’s gaze moved across them one by one. 

Her tone was steady, almost detached. 

“You’re thinking too small.” 

She leaned back slightly into the couch, reclaiming space without force. 

“Hanni has something we can’t control,” she said. “Videos.” 

A glance toward Ningning and Winter. 

“You already knew that.” 

They didn’t interrupt.

Because it was true. 

“If those get out,” Wonyoung continued, “this doesn’t stay a school issue.” 

A pause.

“It becomes a reputation issue. Our family’s image will be ruined.”

Now her eyes shifted to Yuna. 

“And reputation and our family name,” she added quietly, “is the only thing that actually matters at our level.” 

Silence. 

Dani swallowed slightly. 

Winter’s expression sharpened.

Ningning tilted her head, listening more closely now. 

Wonyoung let the words settle before continuing. 

“You wanted to wait,” she said, almost casually. “Plan. Corner her.” 

A faint tilt of her head. 

“That’s slow. I moved first when they least expect it.”

Her gaze hardened just a fraction. 

“Because we won’t let anyone blackmail us like that. Yujin and Hanni made us look weak, and now half of the school think they can take us down.”

The room felt tighter. 

More focused.

She wasn’t defending herself anymore. 

She was reframing everything.

Yuna didn’t speak immediately. 

Because the argument wasn’t emotional. 

It made sense.

Even if she didn’t like it. 

Wonyoung leaned forward slightly now. 

“And if you’re worried about the deal, then you’re missing the point.”

Her eyes flickered, just for a second. 

“Or would you rather wait until those videos get out?” 

The room went completely still. 

No one answered.

Because no one had a better option. 

The silence that followed was different. 

Their doubt didn’t disappear completely. 

But it shifted.

From questioning her to reconsidering the situation. 

Wonyoung watched them for a moment longer. 

Then she stood effortlessly.

Back in control.

“Next time,” she said, adjusting her sleeve lightly, “keep up.”

And with that, she walked out of the lounge. 

The door closed softly behind her. 

Leaving the others in silence. 

Inside the room, no one spoke for a few seconds. 

Because they all felt it. 

She had answered them. 

It didn’t fully convinced them.

But in a way that reminded them exactly why they had followed her for so long.

***

The dorm room was quiet when Yujin pushed the door open. 

The small space felt colder than usual. The heater hummed faintly in the corner, but it didn’t quite reach the tension that still clung to Yujin’s shoulders. 

Hanni was already inside, sitting cross-legged on her bed, waiting. 

The moment she saw Yujin, she stood up immediately. 

“What happened?” she asked, voice tight with worry. “I heard—everyone’s talking—” 

Yujin closed the door behind her. 

Then she exhaled.

“Detention.”

Hanni blinked.

“That’s it?”

Yujin nodded, stepping further into the room and dropping her bag beside the chair. 

“Three weeks,” she added. “After school. One hour and a half.” 

Hanni’s shoulders dropped slightly in relief. 

“Okay… okay, that’s not—” she paused, trying to steady herself. “That’s not the worst.” 

She ran a hand through her hair, letting out a small breath. 

“At least it’s not suspension.” 

Yujin gave a faint nod. 

“Yeah.”

For a moment, both of them just stood there, letting that reality settle. 

Then Hanni’s expression shifted again. 

Concern creeping back in. 

“But… your soccer practice?” 

Her brows furrowed.

“You’ve been working so hard for that. If you miss training—” 

Yujin shrugged. “I’ll join after detention,” she said. “Whatever time’s left.” 

Hanni frowned.

“That’s barely anything.”

“Yeah.”

Yujin sat down on the edge of her bed, leaning forward slightly, resting her forearms on her knees. The faint redness on her skin was still visible. 

“But I don’t really have a choice. I’ll just have to work harder. Catch up faster. Push more during the time I do have.” 

She glanced up at Hanni. 

“Being a starter gives extra points,” she added. “Coach said it matters for records. For opportunities later.” 

Her jaw tightened slightly. 

“I need that.”

Hanni looked at her for a long second. 

She knew that tone. 

Yujin wasn’t just talking about soccer. 

She was talking about staying ahead, and not falling back into the position they had just barely crawled out of. 

Then Hanni’s expression darkened. 

Her hands curled slightly at her sides. 

“And Wonyoung?”

The name came out sharp. 

Yujin didn’t respond immediately. 

Hanni let out a frustrated breath. 

“I can’t believe this,” she said, pacing a step across the small room. “Who does that?” 

Her voice rose slightly. 

“Messing with the diner, the foster home—those kids—” 

She shook her head, anger flashing in her eyes. 

“That’s not just petty. That’s—” 

She stopped herself, but the word was clear in her expression. 

Cruel.

“Threatening kids who already have nothing?” Hanni continued, voice tight. “What kind of person does that?” 

Yujin stayed quiet.

Hanni turned to her again. 

“If the videos I had were about her,” she said, frustration spilling over now, “I would’ve released them a long time ago.” 

Yujin finally lifted her head.

She was tired.

“As long as we’re here,” she said quietly, “there’s always going to be a target on our backs.” 

Hanni stilled.

Yujin continued.

“This doesn’t end with detention.” 

A small pause.

“It doesn’t end with one fight either.” 

She looked directly at Hanni now. 

“And we can’t trust anything she says.” 

Her tone hardened just slightly. 

“Not a single word.” 

The room felt smaller suddenly. 

Colder.

Because they both knew it was true. 

Hanni swallowed, her anger still there.

Yujin leaned back slightly, exhaling again. 

“We just…” she hesitated for a brief second, then continued, “have to be smarter. And stronger.” 

Hanni nodded slowly.

She understood.

This is far from over.

And whatever came next, they would have to face it knowing one thing for sure. 

They were on their own.

***

Night settled differently in the penthouse. 

Wonyoung sat at the edge of her bed, still in her uniform, blazer draped carelessly over the chair beside her. 

Her room was immaculate as always. 

Everything in placed.

Everything controlled.

Except her thoughts.

Her phone lay in her hand, screen glowing faintly against the dim lighting. 

No messages from her mother. 

That wasn’t unusual.

Jae-kyung was somewhere overseas again — shopping, traveling, drifting between cities the way she always did when she didn’t want to be home. 

Lavish boutiques.

Luxury hotels.

Endless shopping.

All of it funded by the same source. 

Her father.

Wonyoung stared at the screen for a moment longer. 

Then tapped.

A number she rarely needed to call. 

Because she usually didn’t have to. 

Things in Janghwa… handled themselves. 

Or rather, were handled for her.

The line rang once. 

Twice.

Then connected.

“Janghwa Office.”

Wonyoung didn’t waste time. 

“This is Jang Wonyoung. I need clarification regarding a recent administrative change.”

A pause on the other end. 

Recognition came immediately.

“Of course, Miss Jang. How may we assist you?” 

 Wonyoung leaned back slightly against the headboard. 

“The appointment of the new headmaster,” she said. “Kim Anna.” 

Another brief pause.

“Yes, that appointment was finalized recently.” 

Wonyoung’s gaze sharpened.

“By whom?”

Silence.

Then the answer came. 

“By the chairman.”

Her grip on the phone tightened just slightly. 

“Clarify.”

“The decision came directly from Jang Do-jun,” the voice continued carefully. “It was processed at the highest level.” 

Wonyoung didn’t speak. 

The city lights outside blurred faintly as her focus shifted inward. 

Her father.

“Is there anything else you require, Miss Jang?” the voice asked politely. 

“No.”

Her voice returned to its usual steadiness. 

“That will be all.” 

She ended the call. 

Silence flooded the room again. 

Wonyoung lowered her phone slowly. 

Her mind moved fast. Recalculating.

Anna. Placed.

By her dad.

Her thoughts sharpened.

Why?

Her fingers curled slightly against the edge of the bed. 

Does he know?

The inspections, the diner, the foster home, Hanni Pham.

Every move she made.

Nothing that should have traced back to her directly. 

So how?

Her jaw tightened.

Mr. Moon is a possibility.

Wonyoung stood abruptly, pacing a few steps across the room. 

Her reflection followed her in the glass wall — sharp, composed, but her eyes… 

Her eyes weren’t calm. 

Is he controlling this now? 

Her father had always intervened when necessary. 

Guided. Adjusted.

But never like this. 

Never by placing someone like Anna directly above her. 

Someone who didn’t care who she was.

Wonyoung stopped in front of the window. 

The city stretched endlessly below her. 

Usually, that view made her feel untouchable. 

Tonight, it didn’t.

Is my influence limited now? 

The thought pressed harder. 

Her position in Janghwa, her control.

All of it suddenly felt… less absolute. 

Her fingers tightened into a fist. 

Is he not on my side? 

That question lingered the longest. 

Because it was the one she had never needed to ask before. 

For years, everything had aligned. 

Her father built the system. 

She moved within it. 

And the system bent. 

For her.

And now, something had been placed inside that system… that didn’t bend at all.

Wonyoung exhaled slowly. 

Her expression settled again. 

If this was control, then she needed to understand the rules. 

If this was a warning, then she needed to decide how far she was willing to push. 

Her gaze lifted slightly. 

Because one thing hadn’t changed. 

Not yet.

She hasn’t lost.

***

The faculty room of Janghwa Girls’ High had never felt this quiet. 

Not even during inspections. Not even during exam season. 

The teachers sat in their seats, backs straighter than usual, conversations cut short the moment she entered. 

Kim Anna walked to the front with unhurried steps, a thin folder in hand, glasses resting low on her nose. Her gaze swept across the room once, observant — taking everything in. 

“Good morning.” 

Calm.

But no one relaxed.

“I’ll keep this brief,” Anna continued, placing the folder on the table. “As of today, there are changes in how this school will operate. Standards will be enforced. Uniformly.”

A few teachers shifted slightly. 

Because everyone in that room understood what that meant. 

Anna opened the folder, scanning a page before closing it again. 

“Certain students,” she added, “require closer observation.” 

Her eyes lifted.

“An Yujin and Jang Wonyoung.”

Another.

“And their immediate circle.” 

The room held its breath. 

Anna’s tone didn’t change. 

“This is supervision.” 

Her gaze lingered just long enough to make sure that distinction was understood. 

“I expect professionalism,” she continued. “No bias. No favoritism. No fear. No bribes.” 

That last word settled heavily. 

Because that had been the problem before. 

Anna stepped away from the front, walking slowly between the rows. 

Then she stopped beside one teacher — a younger faculty member, clearly nervous. 

Anna leaned slightly, voice lowered just enough that only a few nearby could hear. 

“Keep an eye on them,” she said quietly. 

A pause.

“Especially when they think no one is.” 

The teacher swallowed and nodded quickly. 

“Yes, headmaster.”

And just like that, the system changed.

***

It happened quietly, everywhere.

Over the next few days, Janghwa felt… different. 

Teachers who used to look away, didn’t anymore.

Hall monitors actually monitored. 

Rules that had once been suggestions were enforced.

Uniform checks.

Attendance checks.

Behavior reports.

Even small things.

Everything tightened.

Rumors spread quickly.

“They’re watching everyone now.” 

“I heard even the upperclassmen got called out.” 

“No more exceptions.”

In the middle of it all, Wonyoung changed.

Not in a way most people would notice. 

But the ones who knew her did.

She was quieter.

Her words chosen more carefully. 

The impulsiveness from before is gone.

She didn’t act. Not immediately.

Wonyoung was watching.

Learning the new shape of the system around her. 

Testing its edges.

Until she decided to try. 

It was something small. 

After class, she approached a teacher. 

One who had always been… accommodating before. 

Lenient.

Understanding of “circumstances.”

Wonyoung stood in front of her desk, posture relaxed, expression calm. 

“I’ll be excused from detention today.”

The teacher hesitated just slightly, out of habit.

But then, something changed.

A flicker of uncertainty passed through her expression. 

Then resolve.

“I’m sorry,” the teacher said carefully. “But you’ve been assigned detention by the headmaster. Today is the first day.” 

 Wonyoung didn’t move.

“Reschedule it,” she said, tone even. 

“I can’t.”

The answer came faster this time. 

Stronger.

“It’s non-negotiable.”

Silence.

Wonyoung’s gaze sharpened.

Before, this conversation wouldn’t even exist. 

The outcome would already be decided. 

In her favor.

“I think you misunderstand,” she said quietly. 

A subtle shift.

Pressure.

“I don’t think I do,” the teacher replied. 

Still polite.

“I’m following school policy.” 

Wonyoung studied the teacher.

There was no fear.

That was the difference. 

That was what had changed. 

Wonyoung straightened slowly. 

Her expression returned to neutral. 

“Understood.”

Her father had made sure that her influence is no longer absolute.

***

By the time the last bell rang, the entire school felt like it was waiting for something. 

There was a quiet kind of anticipation in the air. Because everyone knew, this was the first day of detention.

Wonyoung stood by her desk, phone pressed against her ear, her expression composed but her fingers gripping the device just a little too tightly. 

The call rang.

And rang.

Then, voicemail.

Again.

She ended it immediately, jaw tightening. 

Without hesitation, she dialed again. 

Same result.

This had been happening for the past hour. 

Between classes.

During breaks.

Even as she walked down the hallway. 

Call after call.

No answer.

Her thumb moved quickly across the screen, dialing another number. 

This time, it connected. 

“Chairman Jang’s office.”

Wonyoung didn’t waste time. 

“Put him on.”

A small pause.

“I’m sorry, Miss Jang. The chairman is currently unavailable.” 

Her gaze hardened slightly. 

“Tell him I called.” 

“Yes, Miss Jang. I’ll relay the message.” 

Another pause.

“And when will he be available?” 

Another pause.

“The chairman has a full schedule for the rest of the week,” the secretary replied. “He mentioned he’ll see you this weekend.” 

Weekend.

Wonyoung’s fingers tightened.

“That’s not what I asked.” 

“I understand, Miss Jang, but—” 

She ended the call.

Silence.

For a moment, she just stood there. 

Phone still in her hand. 

The realization settling in slowly. 

He’s avoiding me. 

Her father never ignored her calls. 

This wasn’t coincidence.

Wonyoung exhaled slowly, lowering her phone.

Frustration flickered beneath her calm exterior. 

She didn’t even know what detention looked like. 

What it meant.

What she was supposed to do. 

And worse, why she had to do it with Yujin. 

A voice broke through her thoughts. 

“So.”

Yuna leaned casually against the desk nearby, arms crossed, watching her with a faint smirk. 

“First day of training.” 

Wonyoung glanced at her. 

Unimpressed.

“Training?” she repeated flatly. 

Yuna shrugged lightly.

“Think about it,” she said. “Daily sessions. Same time. Same place.” 

A small grin.

“You’re basically an athlete now.” 

Across the room, Winter looked up from her phone.

“Yujin’s going to lose half her soccer practice every day,” she pointed out. “Coach won’t like that.” 

Minji shrugged from where she stood, leaning against the window. 

“I wouldn’t worry about her,” she said casually. 

All eyes turned to her. 

Minji’s gaze remained steady. 

“She’s athletic enough,” she added. “She’ll catch up.” 

Nearby, Dani made a face.

“Still,” she said, “three weeks is a lot.” 

She glanced at Wonyoung. 

“You’re going to miss everything.” 

Ningning, seated comfortably on the couch, tilted her head slightly. 

“And one hour and thirty minutes,” Ningning added, almost playfully. “Every day. That’s dedication.” 

Wonyoung didn’t react outwardly. 

She simply picked up her bag. 

Her grip on the strap tightened slightly. 

“Don’t wait up,” she said flatly, glancing briefly at them. 

Then she turned and walked toward the door. 

Because whether she liked it or not, this was happening.

***

The last bell had barely finished echoing when chairs began to scrape and students poured out of the classroom. 

Yujin took a step at the same time as Wonyoung. 

For a brief second, they stood side by side. 

Wonyoung noticed it immediately. 

She stopped and turned around.

And without raising her voice, said, ““Don’t walk next to me.” 

Yujin blinked.

Caught off guard by how… natural it sounded coming from her. 

Like it wasn’t an insult but a known rule.

Before Yujin could respond, Wonyoung had already stepped forward. 

Walking ahead and not looking back.

Yujin stayed where she was for a second.

Then exhaled quietly through her nose. 

A small shake of her head. 

She just adjusted her grip on her bag and followed. A few steps behind. 

The hallway felt longer than usual. 

Quieter too.

Most students had already left, but the ones still around slowed down just enough to notice to watch and gossip about it.

Wonyoung ignored all of it. 

Behind her, Yujin walked at her own rhythm. Not trying to fall further behind. 

When they reached the designated room, the door was already slightly open. 

Light spilled out into the hallway. 

Wonyoung pushed it open without knocking. 

And walked in first. 

Anna was already there. 

Seated at the front. 

Glasses low on her nose, flipping through a thin stack of papers. 

She didn’t look up immediately. 

The room itself was simple. 

Bare. Just two chairs, two desks.

Placed parallel to each other but with a noticeable distance in between. 

Not close enough to interact easily. Not far enough to ignore each other completely. 

Wonyoung walked straight to one of the desks and sat down. 

She placed her bag down, leaned back slightly.

A moment later, Yujin stepped inside. 

She paused near the door. Then bowed her head respectfully. 

“Good afternoon, Headmaster.” 

That made Anna look up slightly.

Her eyes flicked from Yujin and to Wonyoung who hadn’t moved.

“Sit.”

Yujin nodded. “Thank you.” She walked to the remaining desk and sat down properly. Hands placed neatly on the surface before her. 

The contrast between them was immediate. 

Wonyoung looked like she didn’t belong there. Like the room was beneath her. Like detention itself was an inconvenience she hadn’t agreed to. 

Yujin looked like she was prepared to endure it. To get through it. To do what needed to be done. 

Anna reached for a stack of plain bond paper from the desk in front of her. 

The sound of sheets sliding against each other filled the quiet room. 

She walked between them without hurry, placing one sheet on each desk. 

And another. 

Until both had a small stack in front of them. 

“Write,” Anna said. “The school rules. And a reflection.”

Her eyes moved between them. 

“Everything you’ve done since the semester started.” 

Yujin straightened immediately.

Wonyoung didn’t move.

Anna adjusted her glasses. 

“I expect honesty,” she added. “I will return shortly.”

Her gaze sharpened just a fraction. 

“And while I’m gone, no fighting. If I come back to anything resembling a disturbance. I will extend your detention.”

She didn’t wait for a response. 

Didn’t ask for acknowledgment. 

She simpled turned and walked out.

The door closing softly behind her. 

For a few seconds, neither of them moved. 

Yujin picked up her pen and started writing immediately.

Across from her, Wonyoung stared at the paper. 

Unmoving.

School rules. And reflection.

Her lips pressed together. 

Subtly, she pouted just a little. Annoyance slipping through her otherwise composed expression. 

What is this? 

She had never done anything like this before. 

Her gaze dropped to the blank page again. 

The emptiness of it felt almost… offensive. 

Write what?

School rules.

Of course, she knew them.

She just… never had to think about them this way. 

Never had to sit down and copy them like— 

It should’ve been simple. Write something acceptable. Something neutral. Something that sounded right. 

Her grip on the pen tightened slightly. 

Then her eyes flicked up briefly.

She watched Yujin for a second.

The name didn’t belong there. It had nothing to do with the task in front of her. 

The way Yujin’s pen moved without pause. Line after line. Like she already knew exactly what to say. 

Wonyoung’s eyes narrowed slightly. 

A faint scoff escaped under her breath. 

She probably has a whole story ready. Trying to look good. Trying to gain sympathy. 

Her pen tapped lightly against the desk. 

Once. Twice.

The clock ticked louder. 

Finally, with a small exhale, she lowered the pen to the paper. Slowly and reluctantly and began to write.

She wrote the school rules in clean, perfect lines — each word spaced just right. Then she reached the next part. 

Reflection.

Her pen stopped. Just hovered there. A breath above the paper. 

Nothing.

Her mind went black, which annoyed her. Because she didn’t do blank. She always had an answer. Always knew what to say. 

What am I supposed to write? 

I bullied her.