The next morning, the halls of Haneul Academy felt like a different world. Fluorescent lights flickered as if even the building itself was unsettled. Students walked past me in silence, faces blank or averted, pretending the tragedy hadn't happened. Some whispered behind their hands, but the words felt meaningless, like water running over stone.
I had not slept. I hadn't eaten. My sister's fall, her body in my arms, her eyes half-open but lifeless — it played in endless loops in my mind. And yet, something else pressed at me, colder and sharper than grief: the sense that everything around me had been arranged.
I had heard the rumors. Minah's father, the Governor, had influence over the police. Over the school board. Over every teacher who dared to raise a voice. They could make the inconvenient vanish. My sister's death wasn't an accident, it wasn't random. It was precisely convenient.
The bell rang. I followed the crowd to homeroom, ignoring teachers' attempts at small talk or comfort. Their words were hollow; their faces were rehearsed. I could see them calculating their sentences, afraid to say anything that might upset the Governor's daughter.
I sat at my desk and opened my notebook. But I didn't write formulas. I drew a grid instead — lines like a chessboard, columns for people, their connections, the power they held, the secrets they carried. My sister had been trapped in this web, and I was beginning to map it.
First Signs
By mid-morning, I noticed a subtle shift. Minah arrived, accompanied by her usual entourage — three girls with perfect hair and rehearsed smiles, one boy who laughed too easily. Her presence changed the air in the classroom; the temperature felt colder, as if she were absorbing warmth from the room itself.
She looked at me. For a fraction of a second, recognition flashed in her eyes — amusement, maybe curiosity. Then the mask fell back into place: polite, superior, untouchable.
I studied her quietly. Not for revenge yet. Not out loud. Just observation. Her smile was rehearsed; the curve of her eyebrows was precise. Every glance she gave was a calculation, a test.
It struck me: my sister had known. Jisoo had known exactly what she was facing. And yet she hadn't told me how deep it went.
Evidence in Plain Sight
Lunch break was worse. Minah's followers whispered about her as if she were untouchable, ignoring my presence. I saw it in their eyes — fear, admiration, complicity.
Then I noticed something else. One of the girls had a notebook open, a list of names — students, teachers, even school staff. Beside some names, there were symbols I didn't recognize. Checks, X's, little notes in the margins. This wasn't normal school gossip. This was control.
I memorized everything I could see. Who was marked? Who was protected? Who had influence over others? The grid in my notebook grew.
I didn't have power yet. Not in any official sense. But the pieces were all around me. And if I could understand them, I could move them.
A Hidden Ally?
Later, I went to the library, not to study, but to watch. From the shadows, I noticed a quiet boy in the back stacks, sketching obsessively in a worn notebook. He didn't look like the other students. His eyes darted constantly, noting movements, recording small details.
I approached.
"Why are you always here?" I asked, keeping my voice neutral.
He didn't look up immediately. Then he smirked faintly. "Observing. Details matter."
Something in his tone — the way he didn't ask for anything, didn't brag — told me he knew more than he let on. I couldn't tell if he was friend or enemy. But for now, he could be useful.
First Experiment
By the end of the day, I had a plan forming. Not a plan of violence. Not yet. A plan of influence.
I waited until the last class, when the hallways emptied. I slipped a small note into one of Minah's followers' lockers. A message vague enough to confuse, precise enough to unsettle:
"Things are not as they appear."
I didn't see the reaction, but I didn't need to. Just placing the note was enough. Like dropping a pebble into still water.
Later, as I walked home in the rain, the streets blurred around me. Neon lights reflected on wet asphalt, and the city seemed enormous, indifferent, alive. I realized something: the system that had taken my sister, my parents, would assume I was powerless.
And that assumption was my weapon.
Observation and Patience
That night, I returned to Jisoo's room. I didn't cry. I didn't mourn. I traced her sketches with my finger. One corner of a drawing was torn — maybe from her struggle, maybe from someone else.
It didn't matter.
I started writing in my notebook again. But now the notes were about people. Connections. Behaviors. Timelines. Movements.
Revenge wasn't about anger. It was about patience. Observation. Influence.
And patience was a game I could already win.
The First Move
Over the next week, subtle shifts occurred. I dropped anonymous messages hinting at secrets, arranged minor conflicts between her followers, observed without interference. The chaos was small but telling. Patterns emerged — who lied for Minah, who hid the truth, who was afraid.
Every response, every hesitation, every glance I noted. Every weakness would be a lever. Every fear a door.
The MC had changed. The boy who once sat quietly in class, absorbed in formulas, was now something else. Calculating. Patient. Focused.
And in the quiet moments, when the rain fell outside, I whispered the vow again:
"They will see. They will pay. And they will remember my sister."
The city slept around me. I did not.
Because in a world where the powerful assumed no one could touch them, I had already started moving in the shadows.
And shadows, by nature, are unseen.