As they merged into the corridor, the school's hum slid back into its own rhythm. Harin had Junheon by the crook of the elbow—gentle, but not up for debate. The crystal staff moved at her knee, as if it buffed the ceiling lights on its way past.
"Official record reads like this," Harin said, not bothering to hide the irony. "We were discussing resonance integrals… and a few geniuses decided breaking the door might be fun."
"Geniuses," Junheon echoed. "Broken doors, integrals. Perfectly ordinary."
"Almost there," he added. "Uncle Yoon's clinic."
---
The clinic sign flickered a tired Health Station. Inside, an elderly attendant in a white coat slid his glasses down his nose and looked them over—more habit than alarm.
"Go on," he said. "Falls, bumps, heartbreak—everyone takes a number."
"Rib-cage pride," Harin said.
"Hardest tissue to heal," he grinned. "I'm Yoon—everyone calls me Uncle Yoon. Sit, son; in… out."
Stethoscope. Cold gel. A careful press along the ribs. Yoon took a small mask from the cabinet and offered it to Junheon.
"Two or three breaths," he said. "Relaxes the muscles, dulls the pain. Might make you a touch woozy; you'll rest here. I'll go file the forms."
Junheon didn't argue. Two deep draws through the mask. The sharp edge in his chest softened; his shoulders unwound. His thoughts stayed clear—only the filter between them felt thinner.
The door clicked shut.
Junheon sat, pleasantly dazed. The anesthesia still weighed on his eyelids. Harin drew her chair a little closer, an impish smile at the corner of her mouth.
"Ready?" she said, leaning in. "A few questions. Purely scientific. Of course."
Junheon gave the smallest nod. He looked like someone drifting through a gentle dream.
Harin narrowed her eyes, tilting her head. "One," she said. "Dragons or cats?"
"Dragons," he answered without thinking. "Small ones, though."
Harin laughed. "Two… Be honest: who's smarter—me or you?"
"You," said Junheon. His eyes narrowed in mock seriousness. "But I'm more charismatic."
"Three: would you go bare-knuckle with a monster to protect your family?"
"Fists aren't enough," Junheon said, not pausing. "I'd bite if I had to."
Harin's laugh turned bright and unguarded.
"Four," she went on, then softened. "There's no one else at this school I can trust as much as I trust you—you know that, right?"
Junheon's eyes steadied for a heartbeat. "I trust you the same."
Harin's voice dropped. "Five." She paused, leaned just a little closer. "Who is the sweetest person in the world?"
Junheon didn't look away; the answer settled at the edge of his mouth. "Mira."
Harin nodded. "Correct answer," she said quietly. The smile at her lips thinned. "Then…"—her gaze grew a shade heavier—"who's second?"
Junheon's face stayed calm, his eyes fixed. A syllable fell from his lips: "Har—"
His head tipped to the side before he could finish. The anesthetic claimed its victory.
---
For a few seconds Harin simply sat there. The unspent "Har…" hung in the air. In the room's hush, the only sound she heard was her own pulse running fast.
Then she leaned forward, caught his shoulder, and gave him a small, urgent shake. "Please," she whispered, voice tight. "Was it Harin? Finish the sentence. Please."
But Junheon's eyes were closed. His breathing was even. He was, unmistakably, fast asleep.
Harin heard her own tone and, ashamed of the impatience in it, let her hands fall back. She turned to her chair. "Me?" she murmured to no one, again and again.
The word didn't shatter. It settled—arrow-true.
Her head drifted, almost against her will. Heat in her cheeks, a soft, dizzy sway—then, gently, she tipped onto his shoulder and closed her eyes.
---
About half an hour later, Junheon blinked awake. The first thing he saw was Harin, still resting against his chest.
A quick slice of panic. What—? He eased her upright, supported her under the arms, and settled her onto the clinic cot. The fog was gone from his head; he moved with clear, careful hands. A few stray hairs tickled her brow—an old habit from Mira made him whisper, "Sorry," and smooth them back just as the door opened.
Yoon stepped in, and the scene had flipped: Junheon steady on his feet, Harin the one asleep.
"My turn to faint?" Yoon chirped.
Junheon managed a crooked smile. "Let's call it a temporary nap."
After a brief check, Yoon nodded. "She's fine." He said something else under his breath; Junheon glanced up. "Sorry—didn't catch that."
"Nothing," Yoon said easily. "When she wakes, you two can head out. Take it slow."
Right on cue, Harin's eyes fluttered.
"Speak of good people," Yoon said. "They appear."
"You're both excused from heavy activity today," he added. "But a little time in the gym's rest row will do you good."
"Need a hand?" Junheon asked.
"No, thank you," Harin said, composed but a touch pink. "Just nodded off for a moment." She stood—straight enough to prove it. "Let's go before we're actually late."
---
They took the stairs, then crossed into the gym. A game was on; every shot sent a ripple of applause through the stands. Because they were on the injury list, Harin and Junheon took seats on the rest bench. Up high, a knot of students watched and whispered, tossing glances that said, Is the Queen really with him?
"Your fan club is expanding," Junheon said.
"The only club permitted to expand is the Mira Club," Harin replied, perfectly grave. "Membership fee: strawberry ice cream."
Junheon laughed, then sobered. "I have a favor. No early dismissal today, it seems. Could your driver—pick up Mira at Naves?"
Harin dipped her head as if to say Already thought of it. "I pinged him at noon. If your sister wants it, he'll take her home. Let her decide the route."
"Deal," Junheon said. A notch of tension slid off his shoulders. "Thank you."
A quiet glance from Harin answered You're welcome.
They watched until the buzzer. Junheon's class lost 3–9 to a younger group; the stands took it kindly.
---
The bell rang. They detoured through the canteen for a quick chocolate, then headed downstairs into the Plant Room.
Next period: Control of Magic. Clear, column-shaped capsules lined the room; each held a hazy, hazelnut-sized seed beneath a small hand rest.
Junheon and Harin were already side by side.
"Today we work with Dual Resonance Seeds," the teacher said, fingers tasting the air. "Rules are simple: two people, one intent. If your phases align, the seed blooms a flower that reflects your sum. If they don't—" He snapped his fingers. "Puff."
Murmurs rose. Three students stepped into Harin's path at once.
"Seol, with me?"
"Just one chance—"
"We'd be the best pair—"
Harin smiled—polite, immovable. "I'm already partnered."
Eyes pivoted to Junheon. Some brows knit; some mouths curled into Of course.
"Set up," the teacher said. "Palms to the glass. Eyes closed—no, not you," he added to Junheon. "Keep those open; a blue gaze helps. Count your breath: four in, four hold, four out."
Harin and Junheon placed their hands on either side of the capsule; the seed inside seemed to prick up its ears. Harin's voice was barely there.
"Intent?"
Junheon thought for a beat. "Get home safe."
The corner of Harin's mouth moved. "And dessert."
"Does a seed understand dessert?"
"It does. Dessert equals peace."
Breaths aligned. In the capsule, a pale filament of light woke; fine veins began to spread. The room grew quiet.
Another pair coaxed a daisy—applause. A third pulled up a red rose—whistles. At a fourth station a seed went pof and misted a corner of the class; there were groans, and a few muffled snickers.
Harin and Junheon's seed gathered the light and deepened it. Petal curls took shape; a cool glint at the heart. The teacher drifted closer without meaning to.
The capsule opened into a rose—blue. Not garish—noble. Along the petal edges, the faintest stitch of silver.
A held breath through the room; then applause. The teacher lifted one brow through a tangle of envious looks.
"High resonance: Blue Rose. Clean lock. Your mark is high."
From the back: "But one group got a white rose, sir!"
"And that's why they take first," the teacher said mildly. "White means perfect phase lock. But blue requires clarity of intent and patience of feeling. Well done."
Praise mixed with a low growl of jealousy. Harin sealed the capsule; the bloom clicked softly under guard. She tipped her head toward Junheon and whispered:
"Seems the dessert clause has teeth."
"Then the formula holds," Junheon said. "Will to live + dessert = blue."
"And add don't hurt anyone," Harin said, gaze brief and steady. "You supplied that term."
They stepped back into the corridor, now loud again. A few students passed with sly, needling smiles; a few others said plainly, "I'm copying that guy," like a vow. Harin let her shoulder brush Junheon's—neither too much nor too little.
"Day's summary," she said. "One clinic. One basketball watch. One blue rose."
"And still on our feet," Junheon answered. "I wonder what my tiny menace is up to without me."
"Right," said Harin. "Add KN to the list. After a day like this, I could eat a hundred pastries."
"A bit light," Junheon said. "Make it a thousand."
"I know," Harin laughed. "I usually stop at two slices, though."
The corridor lights flashed once on the crystal staff; two shadows turned the same corner in the same step. Outside, the world was loud again. Inside, their sum had already settled into a simple, clear formula.
From the car beyond the crowd, the driver's voice came through the crush of people: "I'm in position, ma'am."