A day in Dulwich College Seoul felt like a looping drama for the Diamond League's top rankers—predictable, theatrical, and just a little unhinged.
Jaehwan, for one, was once again nearly trampled by a herd of overexcited fangirls. He practically side-stepped a flying flower bouquet and ducked under a signboard that read MARRY ME, JAEHWAN-OPPA! in glittery pink font.
"Okay," he muttered, pressing himself against the wall like a secret agent, "I need guards. Actual guards. Or a decoy. Or maybe just a trench coat and a fake mustache."
As he narrowly avoided an incoming selfie stick swung by a mom who looked suspiciously like a professional sasaeng, he winced.
"I mean, I can't even walk into school without someone's mother blowing me a kiss. A mother!" He muttered, he muttered to himself during the whole traumatic experience
***
Meanwhile, Chaeyoung strolled into the school building with all the grace of royalty and all the chill of a snowstorm. Head high, posture perfect, expression unreadable—like always.
Inside that figure of poise, beneath the layers of luxury and media perfection, lived a girl who secretly longed for a different kind of life. One where she could find her long-lost sister. One where she wasn't flanked by three bodyguards and stared at like a walking news headline.
Her Louboutin heels clicked against the marble floors as she made her way to the far end of the school—to Room X.
Room X wasn't on any school map. You just knew about it. The exclusive space was reserved for the ten highest-ranking elites in the Diamond League. That is, until Chaeyoung entered. Then it was a one-woman show.
No one told the others to leave when she arrived. Her aura did all the talking. It was said that birds didn't dare fly past Room X's windows when she was inside.
As expected, the moment she stepped in, eight of the other nine elites scrambled to their feet and evacuated in hushed whispers, not even daring to make eye contact.
Chaeyoung didn't blink. She simply closed the door behind her with a calm click, signaling her guards to wait outside.
She walked over to the corner and poured herself a glass of water from the dispenser, the silence comforting in its own cold way.
And then—
BANG.
The door flew open like a scene from a zombie apocalypse, and in stumbled Jaehwan, gasping as if he'd just run a marathon in a war zone.
Chaeyoung raised an eyebrow mid-sip, unimpressed.
"What is it now?" She asked, her tone flat but loaded with disdain. "Did someone confess to you using skywriting this time?"
Jaehwan, still panting dramatically, staggered toward the nearest couch like he was auditioning for a K-drama death scene.
"Oh nothing," he wheezed. "Just barely escaped a fan mob. You know, the usual."
Chaeyoung didn't reply. She just stared at him like he was a badly written side character.
"I swear," he said, flopping into the couch with a heavy sigh, "One of them had a cardboard cutout of me. Life-sized. With a QR code on the forehead."
Chaeyoung blinked. "Why would someone put a QR code on your forehead?"
He leaned forward, serious. "Because apparently it leads to a fanfic where I fall in love with a barista named Minji and run away to Jeju Island to open a dog café."
"...Right."
Jaehwan groaned, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead dramatically. "I'm too pretty for public school."
She rolled her eyes. "You're too dramatic for private school."
"And yet, here we are," he said with a crooked grin.
***
The room grew quiet...quieter than usual. The kind of quiet only rich kids could afford—where secrets echoed off the velvet walls and gossip was laced with imported espresso.
Chaeyoung sat with her usual straight posture, tapping one perfectly-manicured nail against her phone screen, pretending not to be irritated. But she was. Very.
Across from her, Jaehwan sat with his back nearly pressed against the chair, legs together, hands resting neatly on the couch. His eyes darted between her and the floor.
"So," Chaeyoung said, voice low but sharp, "What did you mean by 'watch your back'?"
Jaehwan blinked. Once. Twice. Then finally looked up at her.
"I... I just thought you should be careful," he said quietly. "Some people might not want you digging into... all of that."
"All of what?" She asked, eyes narrowing.
"You know," he said, fidgeting slightly, "Dongducheon. The orphanage. Yeojin."
That made her freeze for a second.
"How do you know about Yeojin?" she asked slowly, her tone colder now. "And Dongducheon?"
"I overheard Joon one night," Jaehwan replied, voice soft. "In the hallway. He didn't know I was there."
Chaeyoung leaned forward, skeptical. "And you decided to just—what—follow the drama silently? Spy on everyone from the corner like some... wallflower?"
He gave a small shrug, cheeks pinking slightly. "I wasn't trying to spy. I just... noticed things. I always do."
She stared at him for a long moment, trying to read him like one of the case studies she'd mastered in leadership class. But Jaehwan didn't have the typical signs of a liar—no shifting gaze, no arrogant posture, no defensive tone.
Just nervous honesty.
"Why didn't you say anything earlier?"
"Because... I didn't know if you'd listen," he admitted.
Chaeyoung blinked. "Excuse me?"
He hesitated, eyes briefly flicking to the door before he spoke again.
"You're... intense," he said quietly, like the word might explode between them. "Most people don't get to speak twice around you."
She raised a brow. "Oh so you're afraid".
He didn't answer right away. Then: "I think everyone is, a little."
The air in Room X shifted—just slightly. Less tension, more surprise.
Chaeyoung let out a soft scoff. "You're surprisingly honest for someone so quiet."
He looked down at his hands. "I don't like pretending."
"You don't like pretending? I mean, you're an upcoming actor. You must hate it here, then."
A faint smile touched the corner of his lips. "A little."
She leaned back, observing him again—this time with a bit less venom. He wasn't like the others. And maybe that's why his words stuck harder than most.
"So when you said watch your back... you weren't threatening me."
He looked at her, his voice barely above a whisper. "No. I was warning you."
She nodded once. "Okay."
The silence returned, but it was different now. Less brittle. Still awkward—but not dangerous.
Jaehwan stood up slowly. "I'll go now."
"Wait," she said suddenly, her eyes still glued onto her phone screen.
He turned.
"If you were in my place... would you still keep digging?" She looked up to see his expression to her question.
He paused, then nodded.
"I think you already know something's wrong. Even if no one says it."
She didn't respond. Just sat there as Jaehwan quietly left the room.
***
Classes had begun, and first up was Art—the one class where students could pretend they were deep while throwing paint around like they were auditioning for an indie film.
Miss Han stood at the front, her fingers clasped, the smile on her face suspiciously enthusiastic. The kind of smile that said she probably cried into a sketchbook last night and thought it was therapeutic.
"Today, we're doing something different," she announced with a dramatic flair, eyes shining with passion. "I want you all to pour your emotions onto your canvas. Every line must matter. Every color must reflect who you are inside. Think of this not just as a painting, but as an extension of your soul."
It was the kind of language only true artists understood—or at least pretended to.
Miss Han clapped once and added, "This will be part of your CA, so give it your all. Let your brush lead the way."
Chaeyoung let out an audible sigh and muttered just loud enough, "Let's get this over with."
No one dared laugh. No one dared even look in her direction. Her tone could ice over boiling water.
***
The next forty minutes dragged by like an eternity. The classroom was a quiet storm of silent strokes, whispered brush movements, and intense stares. Canvases filled with color—bright pastels, vivid blues, bleeding reds.
Everyone was immersed.
Some painted fantasy lands with fairy-winged boys and dreamy skies. Others opted for sleek, polished depictions of materialistic success—sports cars, city lights, marble mansions. A few painted themselves as queens or social media icons, drenched in glitter and spotlight.
Chaeyoung glanced at them and scoffed.
"I thought this was supposed to be about emotions," she muttered, wiping her brush clean on the corner of her smock. Her canvas stood out like a bruise in a field of flowers.
Dark. Raw. Stark black and white.
At the center of her piece was a small child, crouched in the corner of a dim, hollow room. No windows. No furniture. Only a single, faint beam of white cutting through the darkness, barely illuminating the child's haunted face.
Miss Han didn't even bother calling Chaeyoung up to present. She knew better.
Instead, she walked over and stood in silence, taking in the image.
Her mouth parted slightly. "Oh... Chaeyoung," she whispered. "This is... powerful."
She crouched beside her, eyes still fixed on the painting. "Another masterpiece from you. Have you reconsidered the regional art competition? You could take first place easily."
Chaeyoung began packing her things, slipping her brushes into a leather roll. "I'll pass."
The bell rang just as she slung her bag over her shoulder. Her guards were already waiting at the end of the hall.
As she stepped out of the art room, one of them approached her quickly, adjusting his earpiece.
"Miss Chaeyoung," he said, voice low but urgent. "Mr. Park called. He wants you home—immediately."
She stopped.
"Why?" She asked, brows drawing together.
The guard hesitated, then leaned in closer.
"He said... it's about your sister."