Junheon! It's eight ten. The yolk's turned to concrete—up!
My eyelids weighed the gray light leaking through the window and tried to close again.
For a heartbeat I drifted between dream and morning: a snow-choked train yard; my sketchbook on a bench with an orange cat curled asleep on it; most of the world collapsed into white and twisted steel—one sign still standing: SHIORA 🌑.
A carrion crow perched on the post watched me, head tilted, claw quietly scratching letters into the frost.
When its eyes met mine, a cold splinter ran down my spine and fear tightened my breath—yet as the half-shattered train dragged itself closer through the stand of black trees, the crow hopped back, then lifted away, keeping its distance.
The engine neared; the snow around my shoes softened and ran, and from the wet earth slender shoots pushed up—then thin branches, then small flowers, opening as if warmed by the approach.
The train's front plate burned clear: SHIORA - Departing 🕯️—and as it eased to a stop in front of me, I woke. Then the door clicked, and Seo Mira swept in, swinging a pan like a baton.
"I swear your scholarship is worth more than I am. If you don't get up right now, I'm confiscating breakfast."
"A person," I said into the pillow, "should be able to wake up without hearing the word confiscate from his own sister."
"A person," Mira shot back, eyes narrowing, "who got into Novarion Institute on scholarship shouldn't be late on day one."
The line stamped itself between my ears. I snapped upright. The uniform on the chair—razor crease, white collar—looked like a promise someone else had ironed into my day. Cold water. Mirror. A kid stared back: hair mussed, faint shadows under the eyes, and, behind them, a thin stubborn bar of light. No one put that there, I told myself. I carried it here.
In the kitchen: toast (a shade too dark), an egg already turning firm, a cup of weak tea. Mira pulled one plate away from me with the graceful theft of a professional.
"Scholarship rations transfer to the younger sibling," she said. "Ancient treaty."
"I never signed it."
"You did," she said, "two years ago, when you told me, don't worry, I'll take care of you."
I laughed, finished the tea, and stood. As I reached for the door, the sentence stitched into our doormat rose again: I'll take care of you.
Outside, the morning air drew a fine, sharp line through the lungs. The low sky swung between gold and violet; above it, Shiora's dark band stretched like a trail of soot. At the building's entrance a small Lightward emblem rattled in the breeze; a motion sensor gave one polite ping and went quiet.
On the way toward her school, I noticed Mira adjusting her bag a bit too often.
"Your bag's heavy," I said.
"It isn't," she said, then let one shoulder drop a centimeter. "Maybe a little."
I slid the strap off her and onto my shoulder.
"Scholarship brothers are obligated to carry things," she said with an impressively serious face.
"I must've missed the fine print," I said. "Still counts."
The shutter at KN Bakery was half up. The baker tipped his chin through a cloud of flour; I mimed, I can come by this afternoon, boss. He nodded back. I grabbed two bottles of water; Mira, pretending not to, eyed a hot meat pastry. We walked out with it anyway, trying not to look like we had.
The neighborhood minibus pulled in. A fading Lightward sticker clung to the door; the driver called, "Secure Shuttle Route (SSR), two stops." Our cards beeped. Window seats. The city was only just waking: clacking shutters, a patrol beam sketching a quick line across the next block, an old man pouring water for a cat outside his shop. Mira fogged the glass with her breath, drew a tiny heart —M ❤️ J— then wiped it away as if it had never existed.
"If they take your ID photo today, smile," she said. "On your last card you look like bad news."
"My budget doesn't cover smiles," I said. "They don't allow installments."
She snorted, and we kept talking until, two stops later, it was time to get off.
The road to Naves ran under trees; yellow leaves had laid a thin carpet on the walk. Halfway down, her hair tie loosened. She didn't notice. I stopped and tightened it.
"Dad move," she said.
"Big-brother package," I corrected.
At the start of the school street, a Lightward patrol drone drifted by; none of the kids bothered to look up. The bell was clearing its throat. Mira sped up half a beat, then slowed again to glance at me.
"Are you picking me up after school?"
"Depends. If they dismiss early, I'll swing by KN and grab you from there."
"Plan B: I grab you," she said, sticking out her tongue.
The crowd at the gate parted. A teacher waved the tide through. Mira stepped in, then doubled back and hugged me quick.
"You'll make me cry, princess," I murmured. "It's not the first time we split at this corner. Have a good one. And hey—if anyone messes with you, call the most handsome guy who's always on your side: your brother."
"See you, big bro," she said, equal parts happy and sad.
By the time I left Mira at Naves Middle School, the sky looked freshly unhooked from the dark. Three girls at the gate swarmed her; their eyes drifted—couldn't help it—over my shoulder.
"That him?" one whispered. "The brother who got a Novarion scholarship?"
"This one," Mira said, pointing at me, "is fifty percent handsome, fifty percent workaholic. My brother. He'll carry your bag and fix your notes."
A big-eyed girl bowed. "Congratulations," she said. "Novarion means… well… top tier. And you also… um…" Her sentence tangled midair. An elbow. Double blush.
"Thank you," I said, with the smile you use to catch a falling balloon without popping it. Mira's look said, you didn't embarrass me; proceed. I waved and headed for the bus.
There's no special Novarion line. The rich glide to the gate behind tinted glass. I got off at the closest stop and ran.
From the bus window I'd watched the sky cross-hatched in black over a wash of gold and violet. A patrol light flickered like teeth and vanished. No one turned. Here, small alarms dissolve into the hum of the day; surprise is impolite.
I hit the pavement and ran.
Weeds along the curb. Puddles from old rain. The strap thumped my shoulder in steady meter; somewhere under my ribs a motor of nerves and hope turned over. Metal on my tongue, a sting in my soles. Run, I told myself. This city doesn't owe you.
By the time the gates rose into view, my knees felt like chewed pretzel sticks. The clear barrier sifted sunlight and poured it soft across the campus. At the entrance stood a poised woman in a dark suit: Assistant Principal Lenny.
"Seo Junheon," she said—no inspection, just confirmation.
"That's me," I said, evening out my breath.
"Welcome to Novarion. Listen carefully. Scholarship protocol: if you score high in every course, our Staff Atelier will grant you a personal staff—yes, free—under your award."
My eyes tried to widen on their own. Lenny's face didn't move.
"Harder than it sounds," she went on. "Since we opened, students who've cleared all trials at that level? About one hundred. Maybe fewer. Trials cover arcane capacity, mathematical acuity, emotional control, endurance, ethics, resonance metrics… and more. Minimum ninety-five. Below that is the mud pool."
I nodded. The metal taste tucked a cold coin under my tongue. "Understood."
"One more thing," Lenny said, lowering her brows like an underline. "Don't make trouble. You know who recommended you. I put your name on the principal's desk myself. Don't make me regret it."
"Thank you," I said—plainly, because anything else would be wrong.
"That's enough talk. Opening ceremony will be at dismissal—the principal's ill." The smallest smile touched her lip. "Your class is first floor, A-14. Don't be late."
"Got it, boss," I said before I could stop myself, and jogged off. The corner of her mouth sharpened—maybe a smile; maybe wishful thinking.
The corridor flowed like a river of glass buttons and soft leather. I slipped through and took the stairs two at a time. A-14. Fifty pairs of eyes pivoted as I walked in. For a second I was a polar bear in a desert: wrong place, wrong coat—impossible to ignore.
Packed room. One open seat: front row, far left. I took it. Sometimes the right move is simply the visible one.
A hush. The teacher entered—black hair, eyes bright with mathematics' private pride. One motion and the room aligned.
"Everyone chose their own seats," he said. "Bad habit. We'll do lottery placement. Write complaints in erasable ink and keep them in your pocket."
Whispers orbited a single name: Seol Harin. It ran like a red bloom down the room's spine. Slips were drawn. Begging looks multiplied. Not you, a dozen eyes tried to tell me.
He read the slips without a twitch. When he reached mine, he said one word:
"Harin."
A cough like a date stuck halfway down someone's throat. A swallowed breath. I didn't move; I was already in front. Seol Harin crossed the aisle and sat beside me. The room cooled by a degree. The queen had entered; the wind changed accordingly.
She glanced at me. Whatever hunger she was used to seeing in other eyes wasn't there. Mine stayed where they belonged: respectful, curious, not clinging. A little pressure slid off her shoulders. Her face didn't change; her breathing did.
On the board, the teacher drew a single symbol in white chalk: ∮—a slender curve threaded by a short line.
"Today," he said, "Arithmancy and Resonance Calculus. At Novarion, mathematics measures not only the obedience of numbers but the phase of feeling. To call a being is to close an integral: beginning and end must bind."
The chalk didn't spark, but it felt as if it might.
"We'll relate emotional phase to mana density. Start simple:
Φ = ∬_S (∇×A)·dS—A is your vector field of intent, Φ the call's flux. If you want a call to succeed, you phase-lock intent and emotion. Mathematics invented this before you did."
The room muttered. Some students fogged over; some hid daydreams under neat notes. A long-missing gear clicked into place in my head. My pen ran.
"A small exercise," he said, sketching values into curves. "If A(x, y) = (αx, βy) and θ(t) = ωt + φ, what's the lock condition? Think it. Feel it. Write it."
Harin's wrist swept clean lines—a perfect flux surface. I wrote one sentence beside the equation: Two hearts have to say yes at the same time. Under it: ω_intent = ω_emotion.
He drifted through the rows, granting small nods. At my desk one eyebrow rose a millimeter.
"Physics arriving with poetry," he murmured. "Rare."
Harin's gaze slid to my notebook. In the margin sat a sketch of a tangerine cat. The angle of its tail looked… different from last week. Our eyes met. She didn't look away. Not looking away meant there was nothing she needed to avoid.
When he drew one more ∮, class ended. Chairs scraped in chorus. I packed quietly and headed for the cafeteria.
Under the glass dome, round tables and thin benches fanned out. A quiet corner looked like it had my name on it. Soup, bread, a small cheap cream cake—like Mira's on a good day. Steam unknotted the muscles under my jaw.
Across the room a cluster in black uniforms watched and whispered, lips curling, brows like icicles. Not loud enough to dirty the air—just enough to carry the smell: poor, fluke, pretty but empty, bought scholarship, bug.
I ate. Salt perfect. Cake tolerable. Fork down.
Seol Harin didn't detour. She set her tray with a firm thock at the nearest table, lifted her bag, and made three precise taps—tak, tak, tak—across three skulls. Glasses rattled; one slapped the floor. No one got wet. A few egos did.
Her eyes cut the group, crystal-clear.
"Words that seep through cracks rot fast," she said. "And rot stinks up the hall."
A short boy with a big voice shoved to his feet. "Who do you think—"
Chairs scraped. Volume climbed. A fight was about to find itself. Reflex pulled me up; I slipped between them.
"Enough," I said. "This isn't worth a suspension."
The principal strode in on the echo—thin face, impatient lines. His scan landed on me with the laziness of a biased algorithm.
"You," he snapped. "New scholarship. Starting trouble on day one?"
"No," I said. "Only—"
Harin stepped forward, voice iced. "They started it. They talked behind my friend's back. I warned them; they lunged."
Friend hovered above us like a small shield.
"I know your family, Seol," he began, "but in my school—"
"My family," she said—calm, steady—"expects me to follow rules. I do. We expect you to do your job. Pull the footage. Write the names. Now."
The air held its breath on a wire. Then Lenny appeared in the doorway with that geometric almost-smile.
"A problem, Principal?" she asked, weight on the first word.
A beat. The principal's voice softened. "Review the footage. Identify everyone involved. The scholarship student—no penalty. For now." He turned to the group. "You. With me."
Tension drained; porcelain and sugar returned. Harin swung her bag up. I dipped my head.
"Thanks," I said.
She didn't turn. Over her shoulder: "I can't stand bad smells."
I chuckled. "You've got ketchup on your sleeve," I added. She checked—true—then attacked it with a napkin and made it worse. Lenny slid by and murmured to me, "Don't play hero in the cafeteria. Heroes read red. Your palette, for now, is blue."
"Understood," I said, smiling. "Blue."
We ducked into the restroom to clean up. I finished first and stepped out.
A cool breath had moved through the halls. The PA crackled:
"Attention. Due to an unspecified security advisory, Novarion will dismiss early today. Please proceed home promptly. Guardians have been notified. Lightward units will provide escorts at the exits."
Students flowed toward the doors. Bag on my shoulder, I ignored a few final looks from the whisper crowd. Harin emerged—annoyed at the stain, otherwise composed.
"Shall I walk you to the bus stop?" I asked, keeping my voice easy.
She gave me a short look and nodded. "Thank you. My driver is waiting. But if you'd like, we can walk to the car together."
"Walking's good," I said.
"Feet shouldn't be wasted," she replied, the corner of her mouth lifting.
We fell into step. Campus lights drew quiet shadows across the stones.
"Art and writing," she said suddenly. "They're what I like."
"What you drew on the board today was… beautiful," I said.
"Resonance graph," she corrected gently, then flashed a brief smile. "But thank you."
"Math is probably jealous of you."
"I hope secretly," she said. "If it gets obvious, class becomes unbearable."
We both laughed. The talk slid on, and I kept it simple: "I work part-time at KN Bakery, making sweets. Sometimes I help relatives with deliveries or work as a waiter when needed. And there's Mira—my little sister. I take care of her."
By the time we reached the gate, the campus was trying to leave all at once. Farther down the curb, Harin's black sedan waited with its lights low. The driver stepped forward and opened the rear door.
Harin, unruffled, slipped inside. Before the door shut, she leaned toward the window and called, "Would you like to come with us?"
"I'm grateful," I began, "but we barely know each other. Getting in now might be—"
A dull blast rolled across the grounds: BOOM. The sound flattened the chatter for a heartbeat.
"You don't need to worry," Harin said evenly. "I trust you. And if you try anything foolish," she added, perfectly deadpan, "my driver will handle you before you lift a finger."
The driver lifted one hand in a calm, apologetic wave. "Please don't mind Miss Seol," he said. "She likes to scare her friends. The only accurate part is my résumé: former Naraka Hand, now retired. I serve the Seol family."
Something like a laugh slipped out of me; the nerves ebbed. "In that case… I'd like to come. One favor: could we stop at Naves Middle School first? Mira—my little sister. I can't go without her."
"Of course," Harin said, nodding once. "In times like these, helping is the least we can do."
"Destination to confirm?" the driver asked.
"Naves Middle School," I said.
"Understood," he replied. "We'll pick up your sister, then continue with Miss Seol."
I hesitated a breath longer at the open door. From inside, Harin added softly, "You don't need the stars to decide. Come."
"The sky looks harsher than usual," I muttered, stepping in, "and somehow kinder."
The door closed; the engine purred like silk. As the sedan eased away from the gate, Harin breathed on the glass and traced a small ∮—a promise more than a mark.
In the mirror the driver glanced back. "First day at Novarion?"
"Yes."
"Leaving gets harder once you settle."
"We'll see," I said, as the city opened ahead.
The sedan slipped into the Lightward escort lane and traffic thinned. Patrol beacons pulsed at measured intervals, tapping the glass like a soft metronome. The driver's hands sat at ten and two—the posture of someone who'd outlived noise and now preferred silence.
From behind the tinted window, Harin watched the frightened city pass in neat panes of shadow and light. She drew her gaze back inside.
"Your sister must mean a lot to you," she said.
"She's my little goof and the last of our family," I said. "We're two goofs who complete each other." I laughed under my breath.
The corner of Harin's mouth moved—not quite a smile, more like a gentle verdict. "Good. There are many who chase the stage at Novarion. It's rare to prefer protecting over performing."
The driver cleared his throat with theatrical care. "Careful, Miss. A compliment from you can be hazardous."
"I don't do compliments," Harin said, eyes still on the glass. "I state facts."
I let out a breath I hadn't noticed I was holding. "Truth isn't always kind," I said. "If people wake up believing tomorrow will be worse, they collapse faster than the monsters can make them—and then the world collapses."
Harin gave a small, warm laugh. "You're more polite and thoughtful than I expected. Are you fragile, Junheon?"
"Not while Mira's watching."
The driver's shoulders rose with a short, quiet chuckle. "Solid answer, sir."
Harin turned a little further toward me. "When you show up in a black sedan with an escort pass, what will your sister say?"
"She'll say I struck it rich," I said. "Then she'll ask where it came from. And finally she'll demand snacks—the important part."
"Someone I'll like," Harin said—frank and sincere at once.
"She's easy to like," I said. "As long as she doesn't play the little-sister card."
"The little-sister card?" the driver asked, amused.
"Sibling law," I said. "Article One: Everything at home belongs to the sweetest person."
"Enforced under Lightward authority?" Harin asked.
"Under Mira authority," I said. "A higher court."
The corner of Harin's mouth curved again, as if a secret checked the time. "Then we don't move without dessert. Driver?"
"Yes, Miss."
"If there's a vendor near Naves, let's buy something sweet."
"Understood." He glanced into the mirror. "GPS says: two minutes to the secure arterial."
Some of the tension in me dropped a notch. "How strong is this vehicle?"
"As strong as it is beautiful," the driver said. "The Big Boss paid well. Top-grade chemicals and explosives won't mark this finish."
Harin tapped a slow rhythm on the door armrest. "You bake at KN Bakery, right? Across from the new mall where the old hospital used to be?"
"Yes—across from the mall. It's busy, but we still have plenty of regulars. The owner is excellent," I said, then caught myself. "Yes. There."
"No problem," Harin said. "We can't stop now; but if I drop by unannounced, will there be a discount?"
"There's a special rate for intimidating heiresses and their legendary retired chauffeurs," I said.
"Don't exaggerate, sir," the driver murmured.
I looked out to hide a smile. The city had softened: fewer shuttered alleys, more watchful lights; the anxious rhythm of distant blocks settling into a steady hum. A Lightward checkpoint saluted us through.
"Secure arterial," the driver announced.
Harin traced the window's edge with a fingertip; a crescent of fog appeared and faded without a mark. "When this is over, and the noise stays noise behind us—what do you want, Junheon?"
"Stability for Mira," I said. "And enough room to breathe without counting the cost."
"Reasonable," she said. "I prefer reasonable to grand."
"You don't look like someone who avoids grand," I said.
"I avoid waste," she said. "Grandeur is often waste, dressed well."
The sedan slid past plain brick buildings and a tidy square with a fountain that pretended to be old. We'd arrived. Students in navy uniforms were spilling hurriedly out of the Naves gate. The air felt like a kept promise.
The driver slowed and checked the mirror once more. "Approaching the entrance. In this ring, Lightward operates openly. I'll park where everyone can see."
"Perfect," I said. "Mira likes an audience when she lectures me."
Harin cracked the window, gave the quickest smile. "We'll try not to interrupt the process."
I turned back. "Thank you—truly. When you visit, I'll treat you to our best pastries. I'll go grab my little goof now. Please wait here."
The driver nodded. "I'll handle the sweets; you bring your sister." He closed the door; Harin remained inside.
---
I walked to the school gate. A Lightward patrol scanned from a distance. The post-bell crowd was flowing.
Mira spotted me with two friends and sprinted over, throwing her arms around my neck.
"Big bro!"
"Easy—breathe," I said, tightening her hair clip.
Her friends' eyes flicked from the sedan to me. Around us, students and a couple of teachers whispered:
"Is that the scholarship brother?"
"That car… looks expensive."
Mira grinned. "Yep. That's my crazy brother: fifty percent handsome, fifty percent workaholic."
One girl found her courage. "Is it true you got into Novarion on a scholarship?"
"True," I said. "Your rumor mill is fast."
Mira hooked her arm through mine. "We're taking the car, right? I need to show off a tiny bit."
"No showing off," I said. "We're just going home."
"If we pick up dessert on the way, it's not showing off," Mira said, smirking.
Right then the driver came back with two paper bags, a little out of breath.
"Report: two chocolate, one vanilla, one caramel, and one strawberry ice cream. Price normal. Receipt here. (The receipt has no flavor.)"
He secured the bags at the foot of the rear seat.
Mira raised a finger. "One chocolate is mine."
"One is yours," I said. "The other is shared. No calling dibs later, no sneaking bites." I turned to the driver. "Thank you. I'll take the strawberry if no one's claimed it."
Her friends edged closer, unable to help themselves. "Could you give us a ride too?"
"Car's full today—and I'm a guest myself," I said, laughing. "Next time I'll escort you on foot right to your door."
"Deal!" they said, staring at the sedan again.
Mira waved at the tinted rear window. "Hello… Beautiful lady in the car."
I tapped her lightly. "Be polite to strangers."
The window cracked the slightest bit; Harin's brief smile showed. "Your sister's bolder than you. It's fine—come on."
"Sorry for the disturbance," I said as we climbed in. Harin added, "Now that the little princess is here, let's enjoy ourselves."
Mira reached out with a playful tap. "What did I do now, big bro?"
"You're getting it, don't worry," I said. "Seatbelt first, then dessert."
"But I need it now—"
"Seatbelt first."
The driver set it in stone: "Procedure is clear: seatbelt first."
"Okay," Mira said, clicking it in. She waved to her friends. "I'll tell you tomorrow. Title: Sedan + Dessert = Fantastic."
"Write it when you get home!" they shouted, laughing.
The driver closed the doors, stowed the bags securely, and started the engine. "Ready? We'll take the secure route."
"Ready," I said. "Mira, seatbelt?"
"On. Dessert?"
Without opening her mouth, Mira held up the ice cream. "Ready."
"Got it… Our place is near the bakery. Drop us there; we'll walk the rest," I said.
"We'll get off there," Mira echoed. She tucked the wrapper neatly into her pocket. I handed her the strawberry. "Here, princess—save your strength."
"Best brother," she said, already softening.
"It's amazing she stays that slim after all this," Harin said.
"She has a pile of swimming medals," I said. "We're running out of shelf space at home."
The driver glanced into the mirror. "We're here, sir. Left side is clear. You can get out. Give me the trash, I'll bag it."
I passed the wrappers; Mira grabbed her bag. "Thanks again," we said, and stepped out.
"See you at school. Get home safe," Harin said as the driver pulled away.
Mira watched the car disappear, then looked at me. "Nice girlfriend, big bro," she teased.
I started to raise a hand, then stopped, sighed, and let it fall.
"Let's go home, princess."
After the sedan left the Lightward escort lane and turned into the neighborhood, two Lightward soldiers at the building entrance gave a crisp salute. Junheon returned it politely. A minute later, as he unlocked the apartment door, the wind and street noise cut off; inside the building the familiar city hum vanished. The corridors were as quiet and empty as a museum after closing.
"Looks like everyone ducked out early today," Junheon said, toeing off his shoes.
"Empty building = fast elevator," Mira replied. "Plus one."
The moment they stepped in, Mira dropped her schoolbag by the door, swept through the living room like a queen, and collapsed onto the couch. "My life could end here," she declared into a pillow.
Junheon opened the fridge, grabbed a bottle of cold water, set it on the coffee table, then rolled up his sleeves and headed for the kitchen. He pulled a frozen pizza from the freezer and slid it into the microwave.
"Chef Junheon's daily special: 'Pride of Poverty,'" he muttered. "With seasonal greens… and morale."
He took out tomatoes, cucumbers, and a few leaves of lettuce. Tck tck tck on the cutting board. A drizzle of olive oil into a small bowl, a shake of salt and pepper. He plated the salad and set it on the table. Napkins, forks, two plates. He moved the water to the table's edge.
The microwave chimed: ding.
"Work of art is ready," Junheon said. He pulled on an oven mitt, lifted the pizza out with care, set it on the counter, and cut precise slices. Steam and basil filled the room.
Mira still lay on the couch like a decorative fossil.
Junheon took a slice and waved it two centimeters under her nose. "Ms. Mira, initiating cardiac massage—with pizza."
She inhaled and cracked an eye. "Is that… basil? Did I die and ascend?"
"Heaven doesn't go 'ding.' Up you get."
"You can drag me," Mira said. "I'm basically unconscious."
"Nope. Procedure is: you arrive at the table of your own free will. Otherwise the pizza goes to our 'ghost guest.'"
"Who's the ghost guest?"
"Me," Junheon said, pretending to bite.
Mira sprang upright on reflex. "Wait! Fine, I'm coming." She fussed with her hair and slid into a chair. "See? I came entirely of my own free will."
"Yes," Junheon said solemnly. "Your willpower deserves applause." He set a slice on her plate, added salad, and fixed a plate for himself.
They ate the first bites in a gentle, satisfied silence. Then Mira couldn't hold it.
"My day: new class, new desk, new drama—but the good kind. Friends are great, teacher's sweet. Yours?"
"Mine…" Junheon considered, then kept it broad. "School's big; the halls are a maze, but I didn't get lost. Teachers are strict. Classes are interesting—we started a new topic in math, something 'resonance'—I liked it. The cafeteria… soup was more balanced than I expected. People are curious; they ask questions. Not bad at all."
"'Not bad at all' = 'something happened,'" Mira said, lifting a brow. "I'll let it slide to protect your handsome face, but I expect the full version when the time is right okay?. Quick topic switch: were the questions good at least?"
"Curiosity questions," Junheon said. "Curiosity's good—exercise for the brain."
"Hm." Mira nabbed a second slice. "By the way, Naves is a legend. I like my friends already. And the chem lab—no exaggeration—looks like a Christmas tree waiting to be exploded."
"It will not be exploded," Junheon said on instinct. "Rule one: safety first."
"Safety," Mira echoed, waving her slice like a flag. "And then fun."
"They can coexist," Junheon said. "Seatbelt first, ice cream after."
Mira grinned. "Let's not skip ice cream today. I still carry the Dessert Rights Charter in my bag."
"Article One: Everything at home belongs to the sweetest person?"
"Yup," Mira said, proud. "Signed: The High Court of Mira."
"Very well, High Court," Junheon said. "Ruling: tonight's dessert—fifty–fifty."
"Make it two–thirds," Mira bargained.
"Fifty point five."
"Deal," Mira said. "Fifty point five."
They ate in companionable quiet for a while. Junheon poured water into two glasses and handed one to her.
"Tomorrow," Mira asked, "are you picking me up from school?"
"I don't know yet," Junheon said. "We got out early today because a teacher was out; tomorrow might be tight. Focus on your homework first."
"Homework," Mira sighed. "Fine. And you… um… going to talk to my future sister Harin?"
Junheon's sip caught in his throat. "We're just acquaintances," he said when he recovered. "Class, projects, that sort of thing…"
"Sure, sure," Mira said with a sly smile. "Class, projects, that sort of thing."
"Look," Junheon said, unable to hide a laugh, "long-term plan: smooth days, solid grades, dessert."
"Dessert," Mira confirmed. "Dessert fixes everything."
The microwave clock cast a faint glow across the kitchen. Far outside, a distant siren traced a single line through the night and went still. For a moment the apartment felt like the safest place in the world.
"That's it for today," Junheon said. "I'll do the dishes."
"No," Mira said. "Dishes are on me. High Court ruling. Because my brother performed heroism today."
"I… made pizza and salad," Junheon said.
"Pizza is heroism," Mira said. "Let's put that in the history books."
Junheon laughed, gathered the plates, and set them by the sink. Mira stood, straightened the napkins, and carried the glasses.
"Tomorrow," Mira said at the hallway, "can we stop by KN after school? I promised someone a discount."
"Hopefully not the opposite gender?" Junheon teased.
Mira winked. "That doesn't work on me, big bro. My girl friends want to see where you work—and it's great for work."
"For work, huh?" Junheon said with an overly serious look. Mira bit her lips to keep from laughing, her whole face straining.
"Deal," Junheon said. "Tomorrow—seatbelt, homework, dessert. In that order."
"Aye aye, boss!"
As the lights dimmed, the apartment stayed warm and quiet; from the empty hallway outside, only the crumbs of their laughter remained.