"THE ART TEACHER MUST BE STUPID..."
I was dimly aware of the crowd, the silhouettes of my classmates blurring into a dark, accusatory mass behind the speaker. My own back was to them, but their eyes felt like lasers burning into my skin. The voice, loud and venomous, rose again, the final words striking like a poisoned dart.
"...TO LOVE A SLUT LIKE YOU!!"
I flinched, my fingers tightening into a useless, trembling fist. That word. That terrible, dehumanizing word, spat out in public for everyone to hear and judge. A wave of icy dread washed over me, numbing the pain but leaving a terrible, hollow ache in its place.
"YOU TWO ARE BOTH F**KING MESSED UP!!!" the voice roared, a final, thunderous condemnation.
I could feel my composure shattering. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic, trapped bird trying to escape. My breath hitched, a tiny, powerless sound that was swallowed by the dark atmosphere.
My eyes, wide with a horror that was part shock and part raw, undisguised terror, were fixed on something unseen in the gloom. The edges of my vision narrowed, focusing only on the stark, horrible reality of the moment. Every muscle in my body felt seized, rigid with the need to either run or fight, but my mind was blank with panic.
Then, a flicker of movement. A desperate, reflexive motion. My hand, pale and unsteady, shot out in a blur.
WHISH
The sound was a sharp, cutting noise, an echo of my sudden, violent reaction. Was it a punch? A slap? A desperate attempt to push the world away? All I knew was the sickening rush of motion and the total, deafening silence that followed, broken only by my own ragged breathing. Everything was dark now, except for the blinding terror reflected in my eyes. I was trapped, exposed, and utterly alone in the face of this brutal accusation.
"I," who is the victim of the attack.
The sound was massive, a brutal punctuation mark ending the torrent of abuse: SLAP.
It wasn't a warning, or a push, or a clumsy miss. It was a vicious, flat-handed strike. The force of it sent a shockwave through my skull, throwing me off balance. My cheek felt instantly hot and numb, the sting quickly replaced by a throbbing, pulsing agony. I remember the floor rushing up to meet me, the hard, cold tiles against my face as I crumpled under the impact.
He stood over me—the one who had just called me a "slut"—his body tense with a residual, terrifying rage. The crowd around us, which had been loud and condemning moments before, now seemed to gasp in unison, a horrified collective intake of breath. The room had gone from a shouting match to a silent, sickening tableau. I lay there, stunned, tasting something metallic—blood—and feeling the cold, dark shame of being sprawled on the ground.
Aftermath
The Interview
(A break in the action, shifting to a later time in an interview or documentary format.)
Q. SO WHAT HAPPENED AFTER THAT...?
The question hung in the air, a sharp, clinical blade slicing through my memory.
I looked down, adjusting my posture on the stiff chair. The camera felt enormous, its lens like a judging eye. The man who had attacked me was Seonghee Sim, a High School Friend in name only. I remembered her face, the vicious snarl right before the slap, and then again as I lifted my head and saw her being pulled away.
"What do you mean, what happened?" I asked, my voice flat, a little rough. I had practiced sounding detached, but the memory still had claws. "I was dragged into the Counselor's Office and got an earful."
I looked directly at the interviewer, my expression hardening.
They didn't ask him what happened. They didn't ask him why he felt entitled to hit me in the middle of a hallway after calling me vile names. They just sat me down, the victim with the throbbing cheek and the ruined reputation, and proceeded to scold me for my "involvement" in the scandal and the "disruption" it caused. The message was clear: my pain, my humiliation, and my integrity mattered less than the school's desire for silence and order. The slap had hurt, but the injustice that followed felt like the real knockout blow.
attacked the other student and is now being interrogated. The name of the other student, Ajin, is mentioned in the dialogue.
Counselor's Office
The door clicked shut with a low sound—CHHHHH—and I was trapped. I was in the Counselor's Office, seated across a round table from two stern-faced adults. The air was thick with the smell of old paper and judgment. My back was ramrod straight in the chair, but inside, I was shaking.
The woman leaned forward, her eyes narrowed and relentless.
"TELL US THE TRUTH, SEONGHEE!" she demanded, her voice sharp.
I tried to keep my face composed, but panic was starting to boil over. This wasn't supposed to happen. This wasn't about Ajin anymore; it was about me.
The man, who had been leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, spoke next, his voice heavy with disappointment. "EVERYONE SAW THE THINGS THAT WERE IN YOUR LOCKER!"
My chest tightened. They knew. The MP3! THE CELL PHONE! AND EVEN THE MONEY ENVELOPE! HOW ARE YOU GOING TO EXPLAIN ALL THIS?!
My mind raced. How could they have found that? I had only taken one thing, the rest... The room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in on me. I scrambled for a defense, anything to sound plausible.
"I TOLD YOU!" I cried out, my voice cracking under the pressure. I looked from the man to the woman, trying to plead my case. "YES, I FOUND JAEO'S PHONE ON THE GROUND AND PUT IT IN MY LOCKER, but I was just going to give it back later! BUT I DON'T KNOW HOW THE OTHER STUFF GOT IN THERE!!"
It was a pathetic defense, and I knew it. My eyes were wide with a desperation I couldn't hide.
The woman sighed, cutting me off dismissively. "OKAY, FINE!"
She paused, and her expression morphed from police-like interrogation to cold accusation. "THEN TELL ME WHY YOU SPREAD THOSE RUMORS ABOUT AJIN AND THE ART TEACHER!" She leaned in again, her face just inches past the table's edge. "HOW COULD YOU SAY SUCH..."
She didn't have to finish the sentence. I knew what she meant. They were pinning everything on me—the theft and the gossip. The shame was a bitter, suffocating blanket. I wanted to scream that Ajin deserved it, that she was messing with the teacher, but the memory of the slap and the immediate fallout was enough to seal my lips. I just sat there, the weight of their accusations and the contents of my locker crushing me. I had thought I was punishing her, but now I was the only one in the chair.
The woman—Ms. Kim—was unrelenting, her face contorted with fury and disappointment. "HOW COULD YOU SAY SUCH HORRIBLE THINGS? YOU COULD RUIN THEIR LIVES!" Her voice was climbing, shrill with genuine outrage. "DON'T YOU KNOW WHAT COULD HAPPEN TO THEM BECAUSE OF YOUR LIES?!"
Lies? My chest heaved. They were calling me a liar. They thought the whole thing was fabricated, just spiteful gossip! The injustice of it was maddening. I jumped to my feet, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
"I SAW THEM HOLDING HANDS IN THE ART STUDIO, I SWEAR!" I cried, clutching my hand to my chest in a desperate, pleading gesture. I was telling the truth, or at least, my version of it. The memory was vivid: the two of them, close, intimate. "THEY WERE TALKING ABOUT BEING IN TRUE LOVE AND..."
I didn't get to finish.
"SHUT THAT FILTHY MOUTH RIGHT NOW!!!" Ms. Kim erupted, her composure finally snapping. She was halfway out of her seat, her eyes blazing, looking less like a counselor and more like a protective fury. "HOW DARE YOU?!"
The man immediately lunged forward, placing a restraining hand on Ms. Kim's arm. He spoke in a rush, a low, urgent murmur that was just barely a WHISPER. "MS. KIM... PLEASE CALM DOWN FOR THE SAKE OF YOUR BABY!... YOU SHOULDN'T BRING YOUR PERSONAL FEELINGS INTO THIS EITHER."
A baby? Ms. Kim was pregnant? The man's words hung in the air, a small, shocking detail that momentarily stole my focus. She sank back into her chair, still glaring at me, but the sheer force of her anger seemed to dissipate under the pressure of the man's quiet command.
He turned to me, his expression softening slightly, adopting a tone of stern reason. "SEONGHEE," he began, "I spoke to Ajin earlier and she told me there's NOTHING BETWEEN HER AND THE ART TEACHER."
I opened my mouth to protest, but he cut me off with a raised hand.
"THE ART TEACHER JUST REFERRED AJIN TO A THERAPY CENTER CALLED TRUE LOVE. THAT'S ALL." He looked directly into my eyes, delivering the final, crushing blow of logic. "WHY DO YOU KEEP INSISTING THERE'S SOMETHING BETWEEN THEM?"
The world tilted.
T-TRUE LOVE THERAPY CENTER...?
The words echoed hollowly in my head. I stared at him, the desperate conviction draining out of me like sand. The hands I saw holding. The whispers of "true love." I had taken a few seconds of a moment—a gesture of comfort, a professional referral—and twisted it, ballooned it, and built a whole mountain of malice on top of it. I had ruined everything because I jumped to a conclusion, because I wanted it to be true.
My knees felt weak, and I slumped back into my chair. "W-WHAT?" I managed, the single word small and ridiculous in the silent, oppressive room. It wasn't just a lie I told; it was a truth I had desperately misread. The shame was suffocating. I had been wrong. Terribly, catastrophically wrong.
My head was spinning with the revelation: T-TRUE LOVE THERAPY CENTER...? The humiliation of my mistake was already unbearable, but the man—the homeroom teacher—wasn't done. He turned his attention to the furious Ms. Kim, the one I had just yelled at.
"MS. KIM IS MARRYING THE ART TEACHER SOON."
S-SHE IS...?!
The two statements struck me like a one-two punch. First, the rumors about the Art Teacher were based on a misunderstanding of a therapy center's name. Second, the woman whose fiancé I'd been slandering was currently pregnant and sitting across from me, her anger righteous and justified. The guilt was a heavy stone dropping into my stomach. I had been attacking the fiancé of my own teacher, a woman who was now completely beside herself.
The homeroom teacher's voice snapped me back to the present, sharper now, directed wholly at me. "HOW DO YOU THINK SHE FEELS WHEN HER OWN STUDENT HAS BEEN GOING AROUND SPREADING HORRIBLE RUMORS ABOUT HER FIANCÉ?"
He then slammed his hand on the table—a gesture of final, total exasperation. "ALSO, WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO AJIN, HUH?!" He leaned forward, pointing across the table at me. "WHY ARE YOU BULLYING HER?! WHAT DID SHE EVER DO TO YOU?"
I slumped, unable to even meet his eyes. My defense—that I saw her with the teacher—was gone. All that was left was the truth of my behavior: the jealousy, the malice, the sheer, blind cruelty of it.
"SEONGHEE, LISTEN TO ME..." he continued, listing my crimes with cold, hard facts: "SPREADING RUMORS ABOUT HER, AND HARASSING HER IN THE SCHOOL CAFETERIA..."
He moved around the table and stood towering over me, the final arbiter of my fate. "AS YOUR HOMEROOM TEACHER, I CAN'T LET THIS SLIDE. YOU HURT A LOT OF PEOPLE WITH YOUR ACTIONS."
His words were firm, leaving no room for argument or pity. I could feel Ms. Kim's furious gaze burning a hole in the side of my head. I had caused pain, disgrace, and now, I was facing the consequences.
"ALSO, STEALING IS A SERIOUS CRIME. YOU COMMITTED A CRIME, SEONGHEE. I CAN'T JUST GIVE YOU DETENTION AND CALL IT A DAY."
The word "CRIME" hung in the air, heavy and inescapable. Detention would have been nothing. This was serious. This was police, parents, and perhaps a court. I finally understood the terrifying depth of the hole I had dug for myself. The consequences of my jealousy and my snap judgment were not just emotional; they were legal and life-altering. The chair felt like an electric hot seat, and I sat there, small and utterly vanquished, waiting for the final verdict.
The Aftermath
The interrogation was over, but the fallout was just beginning. I watched the door close after the teachers, the sound heavy and final. My mind was reeling, a jumble of shattered pride and cold fear. I placed both hands on the cool surface of the table, pushing myself up to STAND, but my knees still felt watery.
A desperate, useless plea escaped my lips. "M-MS. KIM, I REALLY DIDN'T—"
She cut me off with a serene, terrifying calm. Her expression was utterly composed, lacking any trace of the fury she'd shown earlier, which only made her words colder.
"PLEASE TELL YOUR PARENTS TO COME TO THE SCHOOL TOMORROW." Her eyes were unblinking, steady, and entirely devoid of sympathy. "I'M GIVING YOU A CHANCE TO TELL THEM YOURSELF. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"
The words were a direct order, a death sentence delivered with a gentle voice. I knew what this meant. My parents would be furious. The theft, the bullying, the slander against a teacher's fiancé—they would know everything. The weight of it all was too much.
My body seemed to betray me. I didn't answer. I simply slumped, letting the heavy shame pull me down into the chair, and then forward until my arms were stretched out, gripping the table's edge. I lay there, collapsed and defeated, the hard edge of the table pressed against my stomach.
"...ANSWER ME, SEONGHEE," the homeroom teacher's voice pressed, distant and impatient.
I couldn't speak. I could only offer a silent, drawn-out ellipsis of despair...
Home
Hours later, the crushing reality of what awaited me at home settled in. As I stumbled out of school and into the evening air, I pulled out my phone, a sense of dread already consuming me. I opened a message thread, my eyes scanning the latest texts.
MESSAGES
WHERE ARE YOU, JAEO? I'M SO SCARED. DAD KEEPS SAYING I'M THE DEVIL. PILEASE COME HOME.
My friend, Jaeo, was gone. He was running away, escaping the terror of a home where his own father called him a demon. I read the text again, the misspelled plea tearing at my heart.
The problem wasn't just my own mess at school; it was the chaos I was responsible for, and the chaos that surrounded me. I was the one who had hurt Ajin, and yet, my own life was a sinking ship.
I muttered to myself, the words barely a whisper: "WHY WON'T HE LISTEN TO ME AND STAY AT A FRIEND'S HOUSE?" He was putting himself in danger, and I couldn't help him.
I looked at the message one last time, then shoved the phone back in my pocket. There was nowhere left to go. The school had issued its ultimatum, and my best friend was in danger. But first, I had to face my own nightmare.
"I GUESS I SHOULD GO HOME," I concluded, the thought heavy as lead, "AND TELL THEM MYSELF." The chance they had given me wasn't mercy; it was the opportunity to walk myself into the trap. Tomorrow, I would face the music. Tonight, I had to survive my own personal hell.
The student, dressed neatly in his uniform, stood alone in the stark, late-afternoon light of the corridor. He held his phone, staring at the message he'd just received from Jaeo—a plea for help, a desperate, childish message claiming his dad thought he was the devil.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose, his expression a mix of worry and frustration. "WHY WON'T HE LISTEN TO ME AND STAY AT A FRIEND'S HOUSE?" he muttered to the empty air. Jaeo was putting himself in danger, and the student felt the weight of that responsibility, compounded by his own life's growing complications. With a heavy sigh, he pocketed the phone. "I GUESS I SHOULD GO HOME AND CHECK ON HIM..."
He started walking, his steps slow and resigned. He moved down the hallway, passing the high railing that separated the upper floor from the ground below. As he walked, the pressure and stress of the day—the scandal, the interrogation, his friends' trouble—began to surface.
He stopped, closing his eyes, and brought a hand up to the back of his neck. He squeezed, feeling the tension locked in his muscles. CRACK. The sound was the loud, audible release of that tension, a small, violent reaction to the storm brewing inside him.
"UGH... I HATE MY LIFE!" he whispered, the words escaping him in a rush of pure, raw despair. He didn't know what tomorrow would bring, only that it would be another confrontation, another round of pain.
Further down the hall, another figure came into view, small and huddled against the railing. It was a girl, her back to him. The sound reached him even before he could make out her details: a low, broken noise of deep sorrow.
My steps slowed, the desperate need to check on Jaeo momentarily forgotten. The noise was what stopped me, freezing my body in place with a sick jolt of recognition. It was the sound of someone crying uncontrollably, their whole body shaking with grief, their small frame huddled against the railing. In this desolate, quiet hallway, our shared misery echoed the chaos of our lives. I, Seonghee, stood there, a defeated bully facing ruin, and she, a separate victim of a world's indifference, were now utterly alone with our pain.
My eyes fixed on the crying girl's shoulders, which shook with every painful, ragged SOB SOB. I wasn't sure what to do—offer comfort? Ignore her? I was still reeling from my own disaster.
Then, she slowly turned her face towards me. It was Ajin.
My stomach clenched. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, her eyes red and puffy, but the look she gave me wasn't one of weakness; it was a furious, wounded glare. She was the one I'd hurt, the one whose reputation I'd tried to ruin. The gravity of my actions felt impossibly heavy.
I couldn't just walk away. My voice came out flat, quiet, and maybe even a little awkward.
"ARE YOU GOING HOME?"
Ajin didn't answer right away. She just stared at me, a silent judgment that felt worse than any shouting. She took a step toward the railing, wiping her eyes roughly with her sleeve. I could see the fresh tear tracks on her cheeks, and a surge of unwanted guilt twisted in my chest.
Then, she spoke, her voice laced with bitterness and contempt. "I TOLD YOU. NOSY, STUPID PEOPLE LIKE YOU ARE USUALLY THE FIRST TO DIE IN MOVIES."
It was a cold, sharp retort, a refusal to accept my presence or pity. She was calling me a busybody, stupid for getting involved, and suggesting I deserved whatever terrible fate was coming to me.
I felt the last thread of my own composure snap. She was crying because of me, yet she still had the nerve to insult me. The sheer stress of the day—the interrogation, the crime, the threats of expulsion, and Jaeo's disappearance—boiled over into pure rage. My voice was a snarl as I threw the vile insult back at her.
"SHUT UP, YOU B*TCH!!"
The word hung in the air, a final, toxic explosion that severed any chance of a peaceable end to the day.
Ajin flinched slightly, but her face hardened, showing me the same stubborn, furious resolution that must have kept her going through the rumors. She raised her voice, throwing my own hate-filled words back in my face.
"GET THE HELL... AWAY FROM ME..."
She turned and stumbled toward the exit, leaving me standing there alone. My face was hot, my breath coming in short, angry gasps. I had come looking for trouble, or maybe for redemption, and instead, I had just cemented my role as the villain. I hadn't just ruined Ajin's life; I was actively destroying my own. I watched her go, then turned and headed for the darkness outside, where my parents and my own personal disaster awaited.
My shout—"SHUT UP, YOU B*TCH!!"—had not made her retreat. Instead, she turned to face me fully, her tear-streaked face now dangerously calm. She stepped closer, forcing me to look up at her, and her composure only fueled my frantic rage.
"THIS WAS ALL YOUR FAULT!" I screamed, pointing an accusing finger at her.
She simply shook her head. Her voice was steady and quiet, utterly devastating. "IT ISN'T, AND YOU KNOW IT. I NEVER DID ANYTHING TO YOU."
Lies! It had to be lies. She was the one behind all my trouble, I just knew it. I remembered her smug face, the perfect grades, the way the teachers looked at her.
"YOU WENT THROUGH MY STUFF..." I began, my voice trembling with indignation, as the image of my disturbed locker flashed in my mind.
She cut me off, her eyes darkening as she started listing the abuses she had endured. "EVEN WHEN YOU POURED MILK ALL OVER MY LUNCH IN FRONT OF EVERYONE... AND POURED WATER ON ME IN THE WASHROOM."
She paused, and then a faint, terrible smile touched her lips. It was a smile of superior tolerance, a smile that said she was better than me because she had endured my cruelty.
"I NEVER FOUGHT BACK."
The confession was meant to crush me under the weight of my own past bullying, but it only made me angrier. She was trying to play the victim, but I knew the real game she was playing. I pointed to myself, desperate to shift the blame away from my own ruined life.
"DO YOU REALLY THINK I DON'T KNOW THAT YOU'RE THE ONE WHO MADE ME LOOK LIKE THE THIEF?!" I shouted, my voice hoarse.
My mind raced, grabbing onto the one piece of information that explained her sudden power over me.
"IT'S BECAUSE I KNOW YOU'RE THE LOANSHARK, RIGHT?"
It was a gasp of an accusation, a furious, desperate shot in the dark. I felt a sliver of terrifying vindication as I watched her expression flicker.
"THAT'S WHY YOU'RE DOING THIS TO ME—" I pressed, convinced I had finally found the core of her malice, the secret she was using to destroy me. She was a criminal, and she had framed me to shut me up. Everything—the rumors, the stolen items in my locker, the interrogation—it all fell into place. I was not the bully; I was the target. And I was going to make sure everyone knew the truth.
But as the words hung in the air, her face remained impassive, her lips set in that faint, knowing half-smile. I had thrown my last, most vicious punch, and I had no idea if it had landed.

My lips curved into a tiny, tired smile,
one that didn't reach my eyes. I had to end the fight with Seonghee quickly; her desperate screaming was drawing too much attention. My final words to her were the cold, hard truth: "IF YOU WEREN'T SUCH AN IDIOT, THINGS WOULD HAVE TURNED OUT DIFFERENTLY..."
She was an idiot for being so easily manipulated. An idiot for assuming the worst about the Art Teacher and me. An idiot for believing her petty jealousy could lead to any real power. I watched her storm off, her face a mask of furious, defeated innocence. Let her believe I was the one who set the trap. It was easier than dealing with the truth.But I wasn't the saint she claimed I was.
The terrible words, a mix of contempt and jealousy, echoed in the dead air of the hallway.
"THE ART TEACHER MUST BE STUPID... TO LOVE A SLUT LIKE YOU!!"
I flinched, the accusation feeling like a physical blow even before her fist landed. I was the "slut," the lightning rod for all her bitter rage. Her final scream was a vicious condemnation that drowned out the gasps of the surrounding crowd: "YOU TWO ARE BOTH F**KING MESSED UP!!!"
My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic, trapped bird trying to escape the humiliating spectacle. My breath hitched, and a wave of pure, white-hot terror washed over me, stripping me of all rational thought. I could only see the violent rage contorting her face, the wide, crazy eyes of Seonghee closing in.
WHISH.
It was the sound of my own reflexive defense, a desperate, clumsy attempt to push the whole horrible moment away. But it was too late. The blow landed, and the world tilted sideways. I stumbled, the cold floor rushing up to meet me, leaving me sprawled in the darkness.
The True Secret
Later, in the silent, empty hallway, I watched Seonghee approach me, her own life now ruined by the fallout she'd caused. I was still shaking from the encounter, but I had learned how to armor myself. I spoke to her with cold contempt, dismissing her with insults, letting her think the entire conflict was just the predictable result of her own "stupidity."
But as I finally turned to walk away, having pushed her to the breaking point with my icy composure, I felt a sudden, frantic force.
GRAB.
Her hands, surprisingly strong, shot out and seized my arms, stopping me dead in my tracks. Her face, tear-streaked and flushed, was just inches from mine, a mask of desperate, cornered aggression. She was going for the kill, throwing out her final, venomous accusation: "DO YOU REALLY THINK I DON'T KNOW THAT YOU'RE THE ONE WHO MADE ME LOOK LIKE THE THIEF?! IT'S BECAUSE I KNOW YOU'RE THE LOANSHARK, RIGHT?"
I felt a dangerous flicker of emotion beneath my cool exterior. She was grasping wildly, yet she had snagged a piece of the truth—not the whole truth, but enough to be lethal. I had to end this now.
"IF YOU WEREN'T SUCH AN IDIOT, THINGS WOULD HAVE TURNED OUT DIFFERENTLY..." I hissed, my voice low and cutting.
I remembered the real secret, the dark agreement I was protecting. It wasn't about love, or loansharking, or theft. It was about what was written on the blackboard in the Art Studio, the message that had been hastily concealed: Come to the art studio. don't forget to erase this.
I remember the face of the Art Teacher who wrote it—his panicked, darting eyes, the sweat on his brow. The therapy center lie had protected him from the school, and now Seonghee's ruin protected him from the greater truth.
I wrenched my arms free from Seonghee's grip, leaving her raging in the empty hall. My composure was back, a perfect mask over a deep, unsettling fear. I had won the battle, but I knew I was carrying the teacher's secret, a burden heavier than any rumor. I adjusted the collar of my uniform, trying to settle the nerves that still trembled under my skin. I was free of her, but I was not free of the fear that someone, someday, would find the real truth I was working so hard to bury.
The adrenaline of the confrontation had left me trembling, but I managed to keep my face a serene mask as I delivered my parting shot, dismissing Seonghee as an idiot. I turned to walk away, done with her drama, when I felt the jarring, violent lunge.
GRAB.
Her hands clamped around my arms, her face inches from mine, contorted by a raw, desperate fury. I saw her desperation, her utter ruin, and it should have made me feel victorious, but it only felt exhausting.
As I struggled to break free, her voice, thick with emotion, cut through the tension. Her words were chaotic, leaping from the present fight to a dark corner of my past I thought was buried forever.
"EVEN WHEN WE LIVED WITH X, HE WAS ALWAYS ON MY SIDE." She squeezed my arms tighter, her breath hot on my face. "AND NOW, YOU GET TO BE MY SECOND X."
X. The letter hit me like a physical shock. My blood ran cold. The word was a code, a trigger that instantly shattered my carefully constructed composure. My eyes, which had been cool and aloof moments before, widened in genuine alarm.
"YOUR SECOND X...?" My voice was barely a whisper, a strained gasp of disbelief.
Seonghee was talking about him. The person who had been a specter in my life, the one I had run from, the person whose shadow I still lived under. How could she possibly know?
I could feel her grip tighten on my arm, the pressure a stark reminder that this wasn't just a school fight anymore. It was personal, terrifyingly personal. I ripped my arm out of her grasp, the pain nothing compared to the shock.
"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!" I demanded, no longer the calm, superior victim, but a girl cornered by a ghost from her past.
She knew. Somehow, the one person I had sought to destroy had stumbled upon the very reason I had to be strong, the deep, dark secret that controlled my every move. And now, I was exposed. The Art Teacher's secret, the rumors, the theft—all of it paled in comparison to the fear of having X brought back into the light. I looked at Seonghee, no longer seeing a bully, but a terrifying prophet of my own inevitable destruction.
My arm still burned where she had clutched me, the desperate fire of Seonghee's fury now extinguished by her own self-inflicted ruin. I watched her stomp off toward the school gates, her shoulders slumped under the weight of her impending punishment. I didn't care about her parents, her crime, or her friend Jaeo—I only cared that the target had been successfully shifted.
I leaned back against the cool hallway wall, letting out a slow breath. She had been foolish enough to think her jealousy could ruin me, and stupider still to believe she had stumbled upon a real truth.
I smiled then, a private, venomous curl of the lip. My victory felt sweet, and I spoke the words into the quiet, echoing corridor, not caring who might hear.
"I HAD A GREAT TIME THANKS TO YOU, SEONGHEE."
I pushed off the wall and began walking, the words following me like a shadow.
"THANK YOU FOR ENTERTAINING ME..."
I adjusted my uniform, smoothing out the wrinkles. The fear I had felt when she mentioned "X" was real, but I had masked it, turning her wild accusation back into just another piece of her craziness. The Art Teacher was safe; I was safe. And I was the one who had engineered it all.
"...BY PAINTING A TARGET ON YOUR BACK."

The words were the simple, undeniable truth of the last forty-eight hours. She had accused me of things, hit me, and harassed me in the cafeteria, but every single one of her actions, every lie she spread, was a distraction that worked perfectly to my advantage.
I remembered the whole sordid sequence: her angry attack, the SLAP that knocked me to the floor, the Counselor's Office where the teachers focused their fury and investigation entirely on her, the contents of her locker—the MP3, the money envelope, the phone—that suddenly made her look like a criminal. The homeroom teacher himself had told her she committed a crime.
She had been an easy mark. Her volatile temper and her baseless rumors about the Art Teacher being in "TRUE LOVE" were the perfect storm to bury the real secret—the hastily erased message on the studio board, the truth about X.
I walked out of the school and into the evening sun, feeling lighter than I had in months. She had provided the perfect scapegoat, and for that, I owed her a dark, cynical debt.
I F**KING HATE HER!!!
I knew that was her final, impotent scream echoing behind me. Let her hate me. Let her believe I was a loan shark or a bitch. Her hatred was just noise. My survival was silent, cold, and absolute. I smoothed my hair back from my face. I was the one walking free. I was the one who was entertained. And now, the game was over.
My last word, the desperate gasp of an accusation—"LOANSHARK"—did nothing to break Ajin's chilling composure. She simply looked at me with that calm, sickening smile, and delivered her final, cold judgment.
"IF YOU WEREN'T SUCH AN IDIOT, THINGS WOULD HAVE TURNED OUT DIFFERENTLY..."
She walked away, leaving me simmering in the silence, my mind racing. I had been grabbed, insulted, and utterly defeated. I felt the heat rise in my chest, a burning core of hatred that threatened to choke me.
I stomped out of the school gates and into the evening light. "WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH HER?!" I screamed at the empty sidewalk. "I F**KING HATE HER!!!"
I should have recorded her saying those things to me! How could she maintain that icy calm, looking me straight in the eye as she ruined my life? I was a criminal facing police and parents, all because of her.
My rage was a white-hot shield against the crushing reality of my situation. I walked fast, my backpack heavy, thinking only of escape.
Then, I saw him.
He was a middle-aged man, rough-looking, standing near a brick wall, finishing a phone call. I heard his cynical TSK as he spoke into the phone.
"IT'D BE NICE IF I COULD FIND HER AND GET SOME MONEY OFF HER BEFORE I GO GAMBLING..."
The words were instantly sickening, a brutal confirmation of the darkness that existed outside the school walls. But it was his next line that made me stop dead in my tracks, the cold, hard realization settling like a stone in my gut.
"YOU REMEMBER AJIN, RIGHT?"
He was looking for his daughter, Ajin. I watched him continue his call, his gaze roaming the local area with a desperate, predatory hunger.
"I DON'T KNOW WHERE SHE LIVES, BUT I KNOW SHE GOES TO SCHOOL SOMEWHERE AROUND HERE." He gave a short, bitter laugh. "HEH. SHE REALLY TOOK AFTER ME WITH THAT SWEET LITTLE FACE OF HERS. SHE SHOULD BE THANKFUL SHE HAS SUCH A GOOD-LOOKING DAD."
A gambling addict. Desperate for money. Looking for Ajin.
Suddenly, everything shifted. The accusations I had thrown at her—the loanshark, the girl messing with the Art Teacher—they were all wrong. But the one thing I saw—the panic in her eyes when I mentioned her past, when she snapped and grabbed me—that had been real.
Ajin wasn't cold, she was terrified. She wasn't a criminal, she was running from one. Her composure wasn't superiority; it was armor. She had to be strong, she had to deflect all attention, because if the spotlight ever fell on her, if anyone started asking questions, her own father would find her.
The fury drained out of me, replaced by a cold, unsettling pity. I had been the villain, the cruel bully, but I finally saw the person I was tormenting: a terrified girl trying to survive a nightmare. She took my insults and she used my breakdown to create a massive distraction. She let me ruin myself to save herself.
I looked at the man, then back toward the school. The Art Teacher's secret, the "True Love Therapy Center"—it was all a shield. The entire sequence, from the slap to the crime in my locker, was a desperate, brilliant manipulation orchestrated by a girl who had to disappear
My own fate—the interrogation, the crime, the expulsion—it was terrible, but I realized I wasn't just ruined by my own stupidity; I was the collateral damage in Ajin's desperate war to survive her life. I turned and ran, not toward home, but away from the school, leaving the gambling father and his missing daughter to their terrible fate.
I was muttering curses, walking fast, when I saw him near the brick wall. A man in a tan coat, finishing a phone call. He looked rough, desperate, and was talking about gambling. I had a flash of recognition.
He was talking about Ajin.
My steps faltered as I heard the key words: "YOU REMEMBER AJIN, RIGHT?" and his cynical talk about finding her to "get some money off her."
A cold, horrifying realization dawned. I ran up to him, grabbing his arm, desperate for confirmation. "E-EXCUSE ME, MISTER...! IS YOUR DAUGHTER'S NAME AJIN BAEK...?"
He glared at me, annoyed, but the look that crossed his face when I named her was one of recognition, tinged with a predatory calculation. "WAIT, YOU KNOW MY DAUGHTER?"
"I DO! SHE'S MY FRIEND! WE'RE IN THE SAME CLASS!" He blurted, the word friend feeling like a ridiculous lie on my tongue.
He smiled then, a cruel, greedy curve of the lips. "IS THAT SO? LOOKS LIKE I REALLY LUCKED OUT. I'M GLAD I DON'T HAVE TO WALK AROUND LOOKING FOR HER."
I recoiled as if struck. No way. This worthless loser was her father. The pieces of the puzzle clicked into place with sickening clarity.
Ajin wasn't a ruthless loan shark, she was terrified. The "TRUE LOVE THERAPY CENTER" lie, the way she let me fall for the theft charges—it wasn't just to save the Art Teacher; it was to save herself. She needed all the chaos and attention to be focused on me, the loud, jealous bully, so she could stay invisible and keep this man from finding her.
The hatred for Ajin suddenly collapsed, replaced by a devastating wave of pity and self-loathing. I hadn't been attacking a villain; I had been attacking a victim. I, Seonghee, had not only ruined my own life with my blind rage, but I had nearly exposed Ajin to the monster she was running from.
My own fate—the earful from the counselors, the crime charges, the impending visit from my parents—suddenly felt small, a consequence of my own incredible stupidity. I let go of the man's arm and stumbled away, leaving him to his desperate search. My only thought was to get far away from this entire nightmare.
His face lit up with greedy relief. "I'M GLAD I DON'T HAVE TO WALK AROUND LOOKING FOR HER.".
"H-HERE! IF YOU GIVE ME YOUR NUMBER, YOU CAN TEXT ME AND I CAN COME MEET YOU AT THE FRONT GATE TOMORROW! I'LL TAKE YOU STRAIGHT TO HER!".
He agreed. The deal was done.
As I walked away, a cold, monstrous satisfaction settled in my heart. "I HAVE A FEELING THAT AJIN HATES THIS MAN...". I knew the absolute terror she was about to face. My ruin might be total, but I wouldn't go down alone.
"THIS IS GOING TO BE FUN! SHE'LL GET TO HAVE A TOUCHING REUNION WITH HER DAD". It was my final, desperate, and darkest act of revenge against the girl who had survived me.
"THIS IS GOING TO BE FUN! SHE'LL GET TO HAVE A TOUCHING REUNION WITH HER DAD IN FRONT OF THE ENTIRE CLASS!". It was my final, spiteful victory.
Authors pov :
The night hung heavy with silence, stars faintly scattered across the velvet sky above the old apartment complex. From a distance, the building looked ordinary—rows of windows glowing faintly with the pale light of late-night televisions and desk lamps, lives being lived behind closed doors. Yet, beneath the quiet façade, one apartment held a darkness that the night itself seemed to shy away from.
Inside, the stale air was thick with the metallic scent of blood. The hallway light flickered weakly, barely illuminating the figure standing in the center of the room. A young man, his once-white shirt stained with deep crimson, stood unmoving. His face was expressionless, his eyes cast downward, but in his hand, the cold steel of a knife reflected the dim light, still wet and dripping.
The room bore signs of violence—splatters of blood across the wall, streaks smeared onto the floor. Above it all, a wooden cross hung on the wall, a silent witness to the carnage, its shadow stretching across the boy's face.
His breathing was steady, almost unnaturally calm, as though the chaos around him belonged to someone else, not to him. Beyond the door, the world continued in ignorance—neighbors asleep, children dreaming, couples whispering about tomorrow's plans. But here, in this apartment, time seemed to have stopped.
The boy tilted his head slightly, listening to the faint hum of the building's pipes, the distant sound of traffic outside. His grip on the knife tightened—not out of fear, but out of certainty. Whatever had happened, whatever line had been crossed tonight, there was no going back.
The night outside was quiet. Inside, silence pressed down like a suffocating weight, broken only by the soft drip of blood on the floor.