Ji-ah pressed her back against the cold bathroom tiles, knees pulled up, backpack hugged tight. Her short black hair tickled her neck, damp from sweat, and the fluorescent lights above flickered, buzzing like a mocking echo of all the laughter she had endured.
"She's pathetic."
Yoon-hee's voice cut through the hum, smooth and sharp. Behind her, a chorus of giggles followed, like vultures circling. Yoon-hee's long pink hair fell over her pale shoulders, dark yellow eyes glinting with that smile that never touched her eyes. Ji-ah didn't flinch. Not anymore.
It hadn't always been like this.
Middle school.
Yoon-hee had been cornered near the playground, shoved by older girls, trembling, lips quivering. Ji-ah had stepped in without thinking—voice shaking, hands clammy, but firm enough to push them back.
Yoon-hee had looked at her with wide, desperate eyes—relief and awe tangled in that glance.
That's how it started.
They became inseparable almost overnight—sharing lunches, whispers, and sometimes sneaking away to quiet corners when Yoon-hee knew Ji-ah was hurting at home. Ji-ah felt seen. Important. Alive.
But cracks appeared fast. Cigarettes pressed into her fingers. Makeup smeared on her pale skin. Dares that made her stomach twist.
"Everyone's doing it," Yoon-hee said, smooth, insistent. Ji-ah obeyed. She swallowed her discomfort.
It wasn't just the dares.
Yoon-hee began isolating her. She whispered to classmates, turning Ji-ah's other friends against her. Slowly, the world shrank. Ji-ah's attention, her care—everything—was meant only for Yoon-hee.
Then came hide-and-seek.
Ji-ah crouched behind the tree, sleeves damp with sweat, heart hammering. She froze. The boy—curled in the shadows, shoulders shaking, tears streaking his face—was hiding from Yoon-hee.
She stepped closer. "It's okay… you're safe." Hands trembling, she guided him out.
Sunlight brushed them, warm on her pale skin, and for a brief moment, the world felt lighter. Relief pressed heavy on her chest.
Then Yoon-hee appeared.
She was too close. Her yellow eyes were sharp and cold, fixed on Ji-ah like she could tear her apart.
Her smile was thin, empty—every trace of warmth drained away.
Slowly, her gaze slid to the boy, sharp and possessive, as if he belonged to her and Ji-ah had no right to stand near him.
Ji-ah's stomach knotted. "He… he's not taking anything from you," she said, voice trembling.
"I was just trying to help him."
Yoon-hee laughed, low and sharp, and it cut through Ji-ah like a blade.
"Helping him? Or stealing her?"
Everything Ji-ah had been holding in—the dares, the whispers, the lies, the constant pressure—spilled out in a single, shaking breath.
"You're selfish. You don't care who you hurt, as long as you get what you want. I'm done pretending."
Yoon-hee froze. Shock, disbelief, anger flickered in her eyes. Then, deliberately, she walked away.
But the echo of her laughter—sharp, cold—followed Ji-ah all the way home, pressing against her like a shadow she couldn't shake.
Her chest throbbed from the confrontation, stomach twisting with relief and dread tangled together. The world felt smaller, colder, as if Yoon-hee had carved a piece of it away.
That day ended their friendship. Somewhere in the silence, Ji-ah felt the first stirrings of the storm Yoon-hee would unleash.