A stark WARNING filled the screen, an ominous prelude to the scene unfolding. "THIS EPISODE CONTAINS DEPICTIONS OF VIOLENCE AND ABUSE THAT MAY BE UPSETTING FOR SOME VIEWERS. VIEWER DISCRETION IS ADVISED." Below the text, a gruesome image flashed: a close-up of a knife dripping with blood, a silent, chilling testament to the violence the warning foreshadowed.
The focus shifted to the young man. His face, shown in profile, was unsettlingly neutral, his dark hair neatly cut, his clothing simple—the picture of an ordinary student. Yet, the deep shadows around him and the absolute stillness of his expression suggested a turmoil that belied his outward appearance.
The silence of the room was shattered by a stark, unforgettable confession that appeared in white text on the dark background, cutting through the void. He didn't shout it; the words seemed to emanate from a place of profound finality. "I KILLED MY FATHER."
The words hung in the air, a devastating admission of parricide, explaining the knife, the blood, and the preceding warning. The gravity of the crime weighed on the room, heavy and absolute. The ordinary boy was anything but. He was a killer, and the chilling emptiness of his gaze seemed to indicate that this act, however horrific, was now simply a fact of his life.
A Father's Faith and Fury
The confession of parricide hung heavy in the air, but the silence that followed was swiftly broken by the chilling explanation for the boy's desperate act. He began, recounting the man his father had been, a man of profound and terrible paradox.
"My father was a very religious man," the text box stated, appearing beside the somber image of a dark wooden cross mounted on a muted wall. This symbol of devotion stood as the centerpiece of his father's life. "He dedicated his life to God..."
But the devotion was a cruel mask. The narrative continued, starkly contrasting the father's supposed piety with the reality of his household. "...and beat his children for not believing in God the way he did."
A horrifying flashback image materialized: the father, a large man with a vacant, monstrous grin, standing over his child, shirtless and cowering on the floor. In his hands, he wielded a club or rod. The accompanying text was a visceral condemnation from the boy's perspective: "HE WAS A COWARD AND A MONSTER."
The abuse was not rare; it was a ritual of torment. "He often beat me through the night until the crack of dawn," the boy recounted. The image shifted again to the father's bare foot, bloodied, pressing down on the son who was curled in pain on the floor. It was a vicious, sustained cruelty, cloaked in religious justification. "...saying that it was all to exorcise the demon in my body."
The cross appeared one last time, a silent, damning witness to the terror that had been inflicted beneath its shadow—a reminder that for this boy, faith had not been a source of comfort or love, but a relentless, sanctified source of pain that ultimately led to murder.
The boy, whose name was still unspoken, stared at the wooden cross. It was the same symbol that had presided over years of brutality, and he felt a searing confusion that transcended his pain. The faith his father had wielded like a weapon had broken him, and now, in the wake of his crime, he couldn't find clarity.
"I couldn't tell if this was my father's fault," he reflected, his eyes wide and haunted, looking from the floor up to the heavy shadow of the cross, "...or God's fault." The question was an indictment of the belief system that had sanctioned his endless beatings, a religious conviction so twisted it had led to murder.
The violence had carved a chasm between him and the world. "At a certain point, I realized that I could never have a normal life," he thought, the truth settling on him with the cold weight of despair. His only recourse was escape. A close-up showed his hands gripping the strap of a dark bag, ready to flee. He had to be anywhere but the house of worship and torture. "...and began staying away from the house as much as possible."
Yet, a shadow lingered: his younger brother. "My younger brother worried me," the narrator continued. A poignant image appeared: the older boy, dressed in a clean white shirt, standing by the door, his hand on the knob. His little brother, small and vulnerable, clutched at his sleeve, his eyes full of silent pleading.
He knew he was abandoning him, but he clung to a dangerous hope. "...I thought he'd be okay because I was usually the target of my father's violence." He believed his role as the lightning rod would protect the smaller boy, a rationalization born of desperation and the crushing need to survive. With a final look back, he would leave, running from the demon in his father and, perhaps, the demon he himself was becoming.
He had walked away, the older brother convinced by a desperate, hollow logic. "It wasn't too hard to convince myself that he'd be just fine," the boy, Jaeo, thought, watching the image of his younger self leaving the house, while the small, dark figure of his brother stood alone in the frame, watching him go.
But the self-deception offered no real comfort, and the relief was short-lived. "But that was stupid of me."
The terrible reality of his abandonment came crashing down in a series of frantic, misspelled text messages. Jaeo saw the screen of his phone, lighting up with a desperate plea. The messages read: "WHERE ARE YOU, JAEO? I'M SO SCARED DAD EKEPS SAYIKNG I'M THE DEVIL... P[LEASE COME HOME."
The words tore through him. His father's 'exorcism' had found a new target. "I felt horrible for assuming that... my father wouldn't lay his hands on my little brother." The protective shield Jaeo had tried to offer by taking the brunt of the violence was gone, and the monster, fueled by his warped faith, had simply turned its gaze to the next vulnerable soul.
He knew he couldn't stay away now. He rushed back, arriving at a scene of pure terror. The world seemed to slow as he opened the door. In the foreground, his father, eyes wide and bloodshot, a screaming fanatic, lunged with an upraised weapon. The distorted face of his younger brother, bruised and terrified, was partially obscured behind a blood-smeared wall. His father's roar echoed in the small space, a familiar, terrifying pronouncement: "DIE, YOU DEMON!!!"
But standing in the doorway, caught between the two figures, was Jaeo himself. He wasn't cowering; he was unnervingly still, his clean white shirt and dark tie in stark contrast to the violence erupting around him. His face was a mask of cold resolve. The target was no longer him, or his brother, but the monster himself. He had come home not to save his brother from a beating, but to stop the abuse forever.
The Price of Abandonment
Standing on the threshold, Jaeo's mind raced, a torrent of doubt and searing injustice. He looked at the closed fist hanging at his side, trembling with a mix of fear and righteous fury.
"Was God punishing me for leaving my baby brother behind?" he wondered, the question burning with the guilt of his temporary escape. It was quickly followed by the deeper, more agonizing inquiry that had shadowed his entire life: "What did I ever do to deserve a father like him... and why were we born into this life if we were going to be abused like this?" He looked out, his gaze settling on his younger brother's terrified face, a reminder that the abuse wasn't a phase or an accident. "It was always like this."
The air was thick with the father's screaming, and Jaeo's attention snapped back to the present danger. His father, a dark, primal shape in his fury, was lunging. Jaeo saw the weapon in his father's hand raised high above his head, ready to strike, while a desperate, muffled cry, "FATHER, NO!!!," escaped his brother's lips.
At that moment, the questions about faith and punishment vanished, replaced by a cold, absolute clarity. "The God my father believed in wasn't here to save us..." The realization was final, a rejection of the sanctified violence he had endured. A tight close-up showed his father's maniacal, straining face, his arm pulled back for a heavy blow. Jaeo felt a sharp certainty: "His God never stopped him from hurting us."
With God and the world proving useless witnesses, Jaeo knew what he had to do. The silence from the side of the room where Jaeo stood, facing the attack, was broken only by the swing of the weapon and the gasp of his brother.
The monster was coming for them both, and only one thing could possibly save them now: an unforgivable act of salvation. The image that followed—the knife, the blood, the quiet confession—was the consequence of a son finally deciding to stop the endless cycle of violence when nothing else could.
The Void of God
The father lunged, his bare feet briefly hovering above the floor as his body twisted into the violent arc of his swing. In that fraction of a second, as the rod whistled toward the younger brother, Jaeo moved. He didn't fight; he interrupted. He remembered the years of sanctified horror, the endless beatings, and the monstrous pretense of faith.
"How could he tell us to believe in his God...?" The question was a final, damning rhetorical gasp. Jaeo was close now, the air hot with his father's feral breath. He saw his own reflection in his father's wide, fanatical eyes just as he drove the blade home.
The impact was swift, muffled, and terrible. A stark white splash of motion against a field of black illustrated the sheer force and finality of the act.
Jaeo pulled the weapon back and looked at his father's face—the shock, the confusion, and the sudden draining of that insane fury. Then, he looked at his own reflection. His skin was pale, a speck of blood near his temple, but his gaze was terrifyingly calm. All the noise, the screaming, the religious mania, had been silenced by a single motion.
"THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS GOD," the thought solidified in his mind, absolute and cold. If a benevolent God existed, he would not have allowed a father to terrorize his children under the banner of faith. His God had been useless, a concept his father had weaponized. The only way to stop the madness was to become the final, terrible agent of justice.
The three of them lay scattered on the floor of the room—the victim, the executioner, and the witness. The father lay lifeless, his dark clothes stark against the pale wall, blood pooling slowly on the floor. His younger brother was huddled nearby, a small, trembling survivor. Jaeo stood above them, the enormity of the act finally settling.
He looked around the room, no cross visible now, only the dark walls and the bloody reality. The realization was stark, a profound loneliness descending upon him. "THERE IS ONLY ME AND THE F**KED UP WORLD AROUND ME." His life, once defined by the religious abuse of his father, was now defined by the fact that he was a killer, cast out from any semblance of order or divine grace. The freedom was a horror, and the road ahead was utterly empty.
The narrative has now detailed the complete arc, from the initial confession of murder to the final realization of the motive and the isolation of the aftermath.
A Call from the World
The house, once a fortress of screaming and pain, was now submerged in a deep, unnatural silence. The only sounds were the slow, sickening drip of blood and the shuddering breaths of his younger brother. Jaeo, his mind adrift in the dark void he had just created, sat slumped near a wall, the reality of the lifeless body on the floor yet to fully register.
Then, a sudden, bright jingle sliced through the oppressive quiet. ♪... ♬... ♩...
The sound came from his phone, which lay on the floor near a streak of blood. The screen displayed the contact: "AUNT."
He slowly picked it up, lifting the device to his ear, his hand stained crimson. The outside world, the normal world he had just permanently severed himself from, was calling.
"HELLO...?" Jaeo managed, his voice thin, almost unrecognizable.
The voice on the other end was a burst of shocked exasperation and concern. "JAEO!" his aunt's voice echoed, loud and frantic through the speaker. She didn't wait for a reply. "HOW COULD YOU JUST SEND YOUR LITTLE BROTHER OVER HERE WITHOUT EVEN ASKING ME FIRST?!"
Jaeo listened, his eyes wide and vacant as he took in the familiar, mundane concerns of a relative. The problem wasn't the father, the violence, or the body on the floor; it was the logistics of an unannounced taxi ride.
"THE TAXI ALONE COST 60,000* WON!" she continued, the financial complaint a bizarre counterpoint to the scene of murder surrounding him. "YOUR UNCLE AND I WERE SO STARTLED AND CONFUSED!" The bottom of the screen helpfully clarified the foreign currency: *APPROXIMATELY $54 USD.
Jaeo looked at the open doorway, the light from the outside world pale and distant, a contrast to the shadowy interior of the blood-splattered room. He had sent his brother away, sacrificing the little money he had, ensuring the boy would be safe with his relatives. He had secured his brother's passage out of hell, and now he was listening to a scolding about the fare.
In his aunt's voice, there was no knowledge of the silent, terrible peace he had just purchased for his brother, a peace bought with a knife and a lifetime of pain. He was alone with his choice, the silence of the room broken only by the angry, clueless voice of the woman who would now raise the innocent survivor.
The Final Request
Jaeo listened, his face stained with blood, the phone pressed against his ear. The aunt's concern finally shifted from the taxi fare to the state of the child who had just been delivered to her doorstep. "Also, what the hell happened to him?! HOW DID HE GET SO BRUISED UP??" she demanded.
Jaeo's eyes closed. He saw his younger brother's terrified face, the bruises a silent record of his father's final, desperate attempt at "exorcism." He spoke softly, the request an absolute necessity. "Will you please take him to the hospital...?"
The urgency in his voice must have been undeniable, but his aunt was focused on the source of the trauma. "I would have, but I can't..." Jaeo whispered, looking down at his own blood-splattered shirt, the evidence of his unforgivable choice.
"WHAT IS IT...? WHAT HAPPENED? DID YOUR FATHER HURT YOU AGAIN?!"
Jaeo ignored the question. He couldn't speak the truth to her, not yet, not ever. His job was done; his brother was safe. He leaned his head against the wall, rubbing his eyes with his bloody hand as he made his final request, a lie woven with a sliver of the actual horror.
"Please look after him for me..." He paused, conjuring a quick, simple cover story. "Dad did a number on him... and he saw something he shouldn't have..."
The story was vague, but the devastation in his voice was clear. His aunt's panicked voice crackled back, completely lost. "WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT, JAEO...?"
He cut her off, his final words a quiet confession meant only for himself, a promise to the silent, lifeless man on the floor.
"I'M SORRY, AUNTY... PLEASE DON'T FORGIVE ME."
The line went dead. Jaeo dropped the phone, and it clattered on the blood-spotted floor. He sat there, utterly alone in the room with the body of his tyrant father, the silence ringing in his ears. The debt for his brother's freedom was now due.
He whispered the last words, a vow to the cold, empty world. "I'LL PAY FOR... what I'VE done."
He knew what he had to do next. He had saved his brother, ensuring one life had a chance at a normal future. Now, he would call the only number left, the one that would take him to the justice he deserved. The only demon left to exorcise was himself.
A Drop in the Void
Jaeo dropped the phone. The only sound in the house was the slight drip, drip, drip—a drop of blood falling from the knife or his hand onto the floor, a tiny sound swallowed by the vast, black silence of the aftermath. The sky, glimpsed through a high window, was a serene, pale blue-gray, utterly indifferent to the violence that had just occurred.
He had promised to pay for what he had done. He had ensured his brother's safety. Now, the old life was over, and the new one—the life of a killer—had begun.
A New Setting
The scene abruptly shifted. The oppressive darkness of the house was replaced by the bland, institutional palette of a school. A shot of the building exterior, all beige bricks and reflective glass, suggested a sense of normalcy and routine.
But inside, that normalcy was being strained. The camera focused on a sign above a door: PRINCIPAL'S OFFICE. From behind the closed door, a muffled, deferential voice could be heard: "YES, I UNDERSTAND. YES, OF COURSE..."
Moments later, the door opened with a decisive "CLICK," and a small group of students walked out. Two girls, their faces downcast and serious, were accompanied by a woman, presumably a teacher or staff member. The hushed, concerned atmosphere suggested that the news of what had happened to Jaeo's family—the murder and the subsequent arrest—had already reached the school.
The murder, born in the darkness of a single, abused home, was now a public event, a problem to be discussed in the principal's office, forever changing the lives of those who knew the family. The world that had failed to intervene in the abuse now efficiently processed the crime. Jaeo had paid the price, and now the world was dealing with the bill.
This final shift moves the story from the intimate horror of the murder to the public and institutional response. The previous narrative arc is now complete.
The scene shifted from the principal's door to the hallway, where the grim process of damage control was underway. The principal's muffled voice had given way to the actual conversation between two staff members and a student, Seonghee, who was dressed in a school uniform.
A woman, likely a teacher or counselor, was facing another adult, Ms. Kim, who appeared distraught and apologetic.
Ms. Kim bowed slightly, her voice laced with sincere regret. "I'm so sorry, Ms. Kim. I don't know what to say… I'm very sorry…"
The apology, however, was quickly taken over by the other staff member, who addressed Ms. Kim more formally, attempting to settle the matter. "I… I'd like to apologize for hitting Seonghee… I shouldn't have reacted that way, especially as her teacher." The staff member acknowledged her error, the weight of a physical confrontation with a student hanging in the air.
She continued, shifting into a more administrative tone, detailing the school's decision. "As you heard from the Principal just a while ago, this will not go on Seonghee's permanent record…"
The focus of the conversation was clearly on mitigating the academic damage to Seonghee. The woman speaking ensured Ms. Kim that the matter would be handled discreetly and definitively. "…and the situation will be resolved at the school internally with her transfer to another school." The consequence for Seonghee was a transfer, keeping the incident quiet and off her permanent files.
"We understand that this is a very important time for Seonghee… since she'll be graduating this year," the teacher concluded, emphasizing that the school's priority was protecting the student's future from the taint of the incident, however unfortunate the means of resolution.
The students and staff members stood in the cold, beige hallway, the adults trying to manage the fallout of a physical reaction, and the students—Seonghee and her companion—absorbing the reality that their problem would be solved not with justice, but with a quiet, mandated transfer.

Schoolyard Politics
The conversation in the hallway continued, the adults focused on ending the disciplinary discussion as cleanly as possible.
"I think that will be for the best," I heard one staff member say to Ms. Kim, confirming the resolution of the transfer. Ms. Kim, the apologetic one, was clearly worried about the disruption this whole incident had caused. "I'm so sorry that Seonghee caused so much trouble… especially with your wedding coming up so soon…"
Ligh, I thought, suppressing an eye-roll. How many times is she gonna apologize? That's enough already. I was tired of the drama, tired of the hushed tones and forced sincerity.
The conversation wrapped up quickly. My companion, the staff member who had been speaking, gave Ms. Kim a polite nod. "Yes, of course, thank you again, Ms. Kim." She then turned to me, offering a final, forced pleasantry. "I'll see you back in class, Seonghee."
"Yeah, sure," I replied flatly.
As the adults walked away, the tension didn't lift. I walked down the hall with my friend, unable to shake off the minor irritation that had settled on me.
"I'm so pissed," I muttered, my brow furrowed. "And AJIN'S DAD STILL HASN'T TEXTED ME!!" The drama with the teacher and the principal's office was one thing, but the minor transgression of a tardy text message felt disproportionately infuriating.
My friend, perhaps sensing I was spiraling into petty school stress, gave me a nudge. "Well, I should get up and prep for my next class…" she suggested.
I nodded absently, the hallway filling with the sounds of passing students. The dark drama of Jaeo's life seemed a million miles away, an abstract horror that might have been on the news. Here, in the school, the biggest problems were teacher apologies, class prep, and a missing text message from Ajin's dad. It was a different kind of messed up world entirely.
This small interaction provides a brief, contrasting look at the trivial stresses of ordinary student life in the face of the monumental tragedy of Jaeo's murder and subsequent arrest.
The air was thick and heavy, a suffocating silence punctuated only by the distant sounds of the school day winding down. I stood there, frozen, the weight of my mother's gaze heavier than my backpack.
"Seonghee Shim!"
My name, usually a gentle call, was a sharp, final declaration in her mouth.
"H-huh?" I managed, my voice a pathetic squeak.
My mother, her face set in a grim mask of disappointment, didn't raise her voice, but the low, measured tone was worse than any shout. "I would like a word with you when you get home."
When I get home. That phrase hung in the air, a looming shadow of the interrogation to come. I knew what this was about. The whispers had been circulating all day.
"Mom, I'm innocent!" I blurted out, my hands clenching at my sides. "I never stole a thing—"
BZZZZ.
A sudden, sharp vibration cut me off, rattling my very bones. I nearly dropped my phone. It was the low-battery warning, a frantic, annoying buzz that seemed to mock my own distress. I instinctively reached into my blazer pocket and silenced it, my eyes wide and pleading. My mother watched me, her expression unchanging, unconvinced.
I forced a tight, shaky smile, the kind that didn't reach my eyes, the kind that felt like a betrayal. The world around me blurred, and for a terrifying second, I felt utterly alone, trapped under her judgment.
Later, I managed to escape the tense atmosphere of the hallway, slipping into the girls' restroom.
FLUSH.
The sound of the flushing toilet was a small, temporary escape. I leaned against the cool wall by the sink, pulling my phone out again, staring blankly at the screen. The stress had given me a dull ache behind my eyes. HMMM. I ran a hand through my hair, adjusting the ponytail that was starting to feel too tight. The silence in the cubicle behind the door seemed to stretch on, heavy and unnatural. I felt watched, even though I was alone.
I stared at the closed door, expecting nothing, yet dreading everything. The truth, I knew, was out there, lurking, and I had to find it before it completely destroyed my life. I had to prove my innocence.
A Missed Call and Whispers
I stood in the eerie quiet of the bathroom, the cold porcelain of the sink against my hands as I turned on the faucet, letting the water run over my skin. It was an attempt to wash off the dirt of the day, the invisible stain of accusation. As the water ran, I glanced back at my phone.
A large, black screen stared back, displaying one, stark message: "1 MISSED CALL" from JAEO KIM.
A knot tightened in my stomach. Jaeb Kim. He knew I never pick up when I'm at school. It was our unspoken rule. Why did he call me instead of texting me? His calls always meant something was seriously wrong—something that couldn't wait, or something he didn't want a permanent record of. My pulse quickened, adding another layer of anxiety to the suffocating guilt I already felt.
I was contemplating whether to call him back immediately when the door to the restroom swung open. I quickly pocketed my phone, trying to look casual, but my cover was immediately blown.
Two girls walked in, classmates whose names I couldn't be bothered to recall, and headed straight for the mirror. They didn't see me, or perhaps they simply didn't care that I was there. They began talking almost immediately, their voices low but clear enough to cut through the running water.
"Did you see? Seonghee's mom was at school today."
The name hit me like a splash of cold water. I froze, my hand hovering over the tap, letting the stream of water spill uselessly over the basin.
"Yeah, she looked so normal!" the other girl scoffed, her tone dripping with malicious amusement.
"Hahaha, how did Seonghee turn out like that?"
The sound of their laughter, sharp and unkind, echoed in the small space. They were talking about me, turning my family's private, painful moment into a piece of gossip, a cruel, perplexing joke. How did I turn out like that? I wanted to scream the question back at them, to ask them what exactly they thought "that" was. Was it being wrongly accused? Was it having a mother who believed the worst of me?
I hunched over the sink, staring into the basin, letting my long, dark hair shield my face. I was still so pissed. Pissed at the thief, pissed at the teachers, pissed at my mother, and now, undeniably, pissed at these two self-important gossips.
Suddenly, one of the girls turned and finally noticed me. The smile dropped off her face, replaced by a momentary, startled awkwardness. It was Ajin, a quiet girl from my homeroom.
"Hey Ajin, are you okay?" she asked, her voice instantly shifting to a falsely sweet, concerned tone.
I straightened up slowly, forcing my lips into a small, tight curve that felt more like a snarl. My eyes met hers, and I saw the flicker of surprise at my intense gaze.
"Oh, yeah I'm okay!" I replied, my voice cool and even, an absolute lie.
I was not okay. Not at all. And the longer I stood there listening to their thinly veiled insults, the less "okay" I felt about letting them get away with it. But I couldn't risk a confrontation now. I had bigger problems—a stolen item, an angry mother, and a mysterious missed call from Jaeb.
I took one last, deep breath, deciding to ignore the sting of their words, and pushed open the door to leave the bathroom. I needed to figure out what Jaeb wanted. That call was the key to my next step.
The Final Betrayal
I walked back towards the bathroom door, my blood running cold as I realized the girls were still talking about me. I stopped, hidden just out of sight, and listened as Ajin continued to speak to the other girl.
"Remember how my wallet got stolen earlier this year? She's probably the one who stole it."
The implication hit me with the force of a punch. Not only was I being accused of a recent theft, but they were pinning every unsolved crime on me too.
"Her mom apparently said she'll reimburse everyone for the stuff that was stolen," the other girl mentioned, her voice flat.
Ajin scoffed, a truly ugly sound. "As if that makes anything better, ugh! I'm gonna do everything I can to make sure she gets punished for this."
I pressed my back against the cold tile of the wall, my breathing ragged. So, it wasn't just a simple accusation; it was a crusade. My mother's desperate attempt to fix the problem with money was only fueling their vengeful fire.
Then, the other girl turned to Ajin, her expression expectant. "Aren't you angry, Ajin? Yeah! She was so horrible to you!"
Ajin smiled, and it was a horrifying thing to witness. It was too wide, too cheerful, a mask of sweetness covering something truly malicious. She was loving this.
"Of course I'm upset," she said, her voice dripping with mock sincerity. "I hope she gets what she deserves."
I wanted to scream. I was Ajin. I was standing right there.
I realized with sickening certainty that the girls in the restroom were not talking about me, the student currently accused of theft whose mother was just at school. They were talking about the real culprit, the other girl whom I had just been confused for, the one everyone called "Seonghee." And they thought I, Ajin, was one of them, one of the victims, one of the vengeful classmates.
I stood there, silently trapped in my false identity, listening to their final, chilling words.
"To think that she'll just be transferring to another school and go on as if nothing happened..." Ajin whispered, her eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. "It makes us look stupid, you know?"
"Yeah!" the other girl agreed, her tone ringing with self-pity. "Ajin is right! This just makes us look like a bunch of idiots!"
I swallowed hard, the realization dawning on me. I wasn't the victim they were sympathizing with, nor was I the one they were planning to punish. I was just the eavesdropper, the one who heard the truth: the real thief, Seonghee, was transferring schools. They weren't fighting for justice; they were angry that the culprit was escaping their punishment.
The world suddenly tipped. The reason my mother had been so certain of my guilt, the reason everyone was whispering, the reason the phone buzzed—it all faded into background noise. The path to clearing my name had just been laid bare by the very people determined to see me fail. The real culprit was leaving. I had to act, and fast, before "Seonghee" became just a ghost, and I was left carrying the blame.
Confrontation in the Washroom
The girls' angry whispers filled the cramped space. I was still hidden by the cubicle door, reeling from the realization that Seonghee, the real thief, was transferring and escaping punishment.
"She should have been expelled!" one girl hissed. She was wearing only socks and sandals, having clearly just changed out of her shoes for comfort.
"Yeah! Why are they going easy on her?! Is it because we're in Grade 12?" The other girl's voice was sharp with indignation.
The sound of their MURMUR, MURMUR was like a swarm of angry bees. They weren't fighting for justice; they were furious that the school's compromise—transferring the culprit and reimbursing the victims—was cheating them out of their revenge.
I took a slow, deep breath, preparing to finally leave, when the restroom door swung open with a decisive thud.
A senior student—the class monitor, perhaps, or just someone who thought they had authority—stood framed in the doorway, a stack of folders clutched to her chest. She had a severe ponytail and a stern, almost scolding expression.
"What are you all doing in the washroom?" she demanded, her voice cutting through the gossip. "Haha!" she added, an awkward, forced laugh that didn't hide her irritation.
The girls immediately pulled themselves together, their angry faces instantly replaced by deferential smiles.
The senior glanced around the washroom, her eyes landing on me. I straightened up, expecting her to scold me too, but she didn't. Her expression softened, and she walked past the gossiping group and straight toward me.
"Oh, here you are, Ajin!" she said brightly, her tone shifting completely. She looked genuinely relieved to have found me.
The girls who were just moments ago plotting my fictional downfall now glanced at me with curious eyes. They still assumed I was one of the victims, one of them.
The senior leaned in conspiratorially, lowering her voice just a bit. "Your dad was here looking for you!"
My mind reeled. My dad? The word felt like a jolt of electricity. No, my mother had been here, and she was waiting for me at home, ready for the inquisition. This girl was talking to Ajin, the popular girl, the one who was just speaking to me earlier.
Wait. The senior girl had found the real Ajin—the one whose name I had used to deflect the bullies—and now I was standing here next to her, exposed.
This was a nightmare. The senior had mistaken me for Ajin earlier when I was by the sink, but now she was talking to someone else.
My head snapped up, and I saw a new girl step into the restroom. She had a similar uniform, but her face was softer, her expression more open. That was the real Ajin. The girl who had been speaking to my mother and whose name I had been answering to.
But the senior was still looking at me, expecting a response. I opened my mouth, completely unsure how to untangle this mess of mistaken identity, when the real Ajin finally spoke, her voice light and confused.
"My dad? I haven't heard from him," she said, looking past the senior to the girls gossiping by the mirror.
The senior looked from her to me, a flicker of confusion crossing her face. Who was the real Ajin? I suddenly felt the weight of all the eyes in the room on me. I had to disappear before this misunderstanding became another rumor that would further sink the person they already thought I was: Seonghee, the thief. I had to get out and call Jaeb.

The Stranger's Grip
"WHAT...?" I whispered, my confusion boiling over. The senior was lookin from me to the actual Ajin, waiting for one of us to claim the father. The other girls were just staring. This whole mess of mistaken identity was about to explode and expose me. I needed to run
I didn't wait for another word. I turned, my skirt swirling around my legs, and burst through the washroom door, bolting down the empty, echoing hallway. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence of the late afternoon. I ran past the long line of lockers and the blurred reflection of the outside through the corridor windows. The whispers of "Seonghee" and the missed call from Jaeb drove me forward.
I reached the stairwell, grabbing the railing to slow my momentum, when a hand shot out and clamped down on my wrist. The grip was shockingly tight, a hard, cold pressure that stopped me dead.
"AJIN."
The single word, spoken in a low, gravelly voice, was not a question. It was a command.
My head snapped up in panic. I didn't recognize the man. He was tall, dressed in a dark shirt, and his face was contorted in a wide, unsettling grin that didn't reach his cold, dark eyes. He wasn't the "dad" the senior was talking about; he was a stranger.
NO! NO! NO! My mind screamed, trying to pull away from his viselike grip.
THIS CAN'T BE HAPPENING—!
The shock of his touch, the sheer wrongness of his presence, sent a blinding wave of terror through me. My eyes widened, seeing only the manic edge of his smile.
He let go of my wrist only to place a hand heavily on my shoulder, a gesture that was possessive and threatening. He leaned down, his breath warm and close, and his voice dropped to a chilling, intimate murmur.
"It's been a while."
A strange, familiar feeling, a sense of dread from a forgotten past, washed over me. I looked at the man, the panic momentarily replaced by a terrible recognition. His gaze was too familiar, too predatory. This wasn't a simple mistake. This wasn't about the stealing or the transfer.
This man knew me, and the look in his eyes promised that whatever this was, it was far, far worse than a stolen wallet or an angry mother. The name "Ajin" he spoke was a label, a trap. In the seconds I looked at him, the entire day—the gossip, the misplaced blame, the mystery—all disappeared. All that mattered was the realization that I was in far deeper trouble than I had ever imagined.
I had to get away. Now.