The shower was scalding hot and exactly what I needed. I stood under the spray longer than I should have, letting it turn my skin pink and wash away the sweat and the lingering buzz of endorphins. My legs already felt like they were going to hate me tomorrow, but that was Future Ji-Mang's problem.
Present Ji-Mang had approximately forty-five minutes to get ready, grab something resembling breakfast, and make it to Constitutional Law II without looking like she'd just run five kilometers at dawn. Which I had. Because I made excellent life choices.
By the time I emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, wrapped in my ancient towel with my hair dripping everywhere, Yoo-Na was sitting at our tiny kitchen table with her tablet, looking like she'd stepped out of a business magazine. Again. Still.
"How do you look like that at seven in the morning?" I demanded, padding past her to my room.
"Discipline and a good skincare routine," she said without looking up. "You should try it."
"I have discipline. I woke up at 5:30."
"To run. That doesn't count."
"It absolutely counts!"
Min-Ji's head popped out of her room, hair wet and chaotic. "Are we fighting about Yoo-Na's supernatural beauty again? Because I'm too tired."
"You're always tired," Yoo-Na observed.
"I'm a vet student. Tired is my natural state." Min-Ji disappeared back into her room, and I heard the sound of drawers being yanked open with unnecessary violence.
I threw on clothes with the efficiency of someone who'd perfected the art of getting dressed in under three minutes—jeans, a black turtleneck, my oversized blazer that made me look more put-together than I was. Good enough for undergrad law classes, where everyone was either trying too hard or not trying at all, and I firmly planted myself in the latter camp out of spite.
Hair still damp, minimal makeup, grab my bag, grab my notes, grab the travel mug of coffee Yoo-Na had already prepared because she was secretly an angel.
"You're the best," I told her, kissing the top of her head as I passed.
"I know. Don't forget you're working library shift today."
"How could I forget? It's literally my entire personality at this point." I checked my phone—7:43. Constitutional Law II started at 8:30, which gave me enough time to grab a seat and mentally prepare for whatever fresh academic hell Professor Kwon had planned.
"Good luck!" Min-Ji called out.
"I don't need luck. I need a miracle and about five hundred thousand won for LEET prep courses."
"So... luck."
"Exactly."
I made it to the law building with ten minutes to spare, which by my standards was practically early. The building was already filling with students—some caffeinated and ready, most looking like they'd rather be literally anywhere else.
Constitutional Law II was held in one of the larger lecture halls on the third floor, the kind with stadium seating and acoustics that made every whisper echo. By the time I arrived, about half the seats were filled, students scattered in their usual patterns.
The front two rows: the gunners. Laptops open, color-coded notes, probably already having read next week's material. These were the students who asked questions not because they were confused but because they wanted everyone to know they'd done the reading.
The middle section: the elite kids. You could spot them by the designer backpacks, the relaxed posture of people who knew their family name would open doors regardless of their GPA. They sat together, a cluster of inherited wealth and casual arrogance.
And then there were the rest of us, scattered throughout. The scholarship students, the middle-class kids fighting for every advantage, the ones who knew we had to be twice as good to get half as far.
I headed for my usual spot—third row from the back, aisle seat. Close enough to see and hear everything, far enough back to not draw attention unless I wanted to. Strategic positioning was half the battle.
I'd barely sat down when I felt someone slide into the seat next to me.
Park Seung-Ho.
Of course.
"Ji-Mang," he said, like we were friends. Like he hadn't spent the last two years being a thorn in my side.
"Seung-Ho," I replied, not bothering to look at him. I pulled out my laptop and opened my notes from last week's lecture.
"Light schedule this semester?" he asked, and there was something in his tone—casual curiosity with an edge of judgment.
"Manageable schedule," I corrected. "Some of us have to work."
"Right, right. Your jobs." He said it like jobs was a foreign concept. "Must be tough, balancing everything. Especially with LEET prep coming up."
I finally looked at him. Park Seung-Ho was handsome in that conventional way that came from good genes and expensive skincare. His father was a prominent prosecutor, his mother came from old money, and he'd spent his entire life being told he was special. It showed in everything from his posture to his watch—a Rolex his parents had given him for getting into SNU.
"I manage," I said evenly.
"I'm sure you do. I actually just signed up for that private LEET academy—you know, the one in Daechi-dong? My parents insisted. Apparently it has a 95% acceptance rate into SKY law schools." He paused, like he was waiting for me to be impressed. "It's expensive, but they say it's worth it."
Daechi-dong. The educational district where rich parents sent their kids to elite hagwons that cost more than most people's rent. I'd looked into LEET prep academies once, seen the price tags, and immediately closed the browser.
"Good for you," I said, turning back to my laptop.
"You should look into it. I mean, if you can afford it. They might have scholarship options?"
He said it like he was being helpful. Like he wasn't reminding me that while he could drop millions of won on test prep without blinking, I was saving every spare thousand for a mediocre prep course and hoping it would be enough.
"I'll keep that in mind," I said, my voice flat.
"I'm just saying, law school admissions are brutal. LEET scores matter almost as much as your undergrad grades. And with your... situation... you probably can't afford to just barely pass, you know? You need to be perfect."
There it was. The thing Seung-Ho always did—wrapped his cruelty in concern, his judgment in advice.
I smiled at him. Not a friendly smile. The smile I used when I was about to say something that would leave a mark.
"You're absolutely right, Seung-Ho. I do need to be perfect. Which is why I'm ranked in the top 1% of our class while you're... what was it last semester? Just inside the top 10%?" I tilted my head. "But hey, I'm sure your father's connections will make up for the GPA difference. That's what legacy admissions are for, right?"
His jaw tightened, that muscle near his temple jumping. "I earned my spot here."
"I'm sure you did. Just like you earned that Rolex."
Before he could respond, the lecture hall door opened and Professor Kwon walked in.
Every conversation died instantly.
Professor Kwon was a small woman in her late sixties, barely five feet tall, with steel-gray hair cut in a sharp bob and eyes that could dissect your soul. She'd clerked for the Constitutional Court, taught at SNU for thirty years, and had a reputation for making grown adults cry during office hours.
She commanded respect the way some people commanded armies—absolutely and without question.
Seung-Ho gave me one last look—somewhere between fury and wounded pride—before gathering his things and moving to his original seat a few rows away.
I watched him go, feeling that familiar mix of satisfaction and exhaustion. Petty? Yes. Necessary? Also yes.
Because people like Seung-Ho needed to be reminded that money and connections didn't make you untouchable. That some of us had to fight for everything, and that made us sharper. Hungrier. Better.
"Good morning," Professor Kwon said, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade. She set her leather briefcase on the desk with deliberate precision. "I hope you all completed the assigned reading on proportionality review in constitutional adjudication. We'll be discussing the Constitutional Court's 2018 decision on abortion law today."
A few nervous shifts in seats. The abortion decision had been massive—128 pages of legal reasoning, multiple concurring and dissenting opinions, and enough constitutional theory to make your brain melt.
I'd read it twice. Once over winter break, once last night to refresh.
Professor Kwon scanned the room with the practiced eye of someone who could spot unpreparedness from fifty feet away. "Let's begin with the framework. Ms. Han."
My stomach dropped.
"Yes, Professor?" I said, keeping my voice steady.
"Walk us through the four-part proportionality test the Court applied. And please, be specific."
This was how Professor Kwon taught—Socratic method cranked up to eleven. She'd call on you without warning, grill you on the material, and if you stumbled, she'd move on to the next person while you sat there drowning in shame.
But I'd read the decision. Twice.
I stood up—Professor Kwon was old-school and expected it. "The Court applied a four-part proportionality test to determine whether the abortion ban violated constitutional rights. First, legitimacy of purpose—whether the law serves a legitimate government interest. Here, the Court acknowledged the state's interest in protecting fetal life but questioned whether a complete ban was the appropriate means."
Professor Kwon nodded slightly. "Continue."
"Second, suitability of means—whether the law actually achieves its stated purpose. The Court found that criminalizing abortion doesn't necessarily reduce abortion rates; it just makes them less safe."
"Third part, Ms. Han."
"Necessity—whether there are less restrictive means to achieve the same goal. The Court said yes—regulations on abortion timing, mandatory counseling, and other measures could protect fetal life without completely eliminating women's reproductive autonomy."
"And fourth?"
"Balance of interests. Whether the law's benefits outweigh its costs to constitutional rights. The Court held that a complete abortion ban excessively burdens women's self-determination rights, right to privacy, and equality—especially for low-income women who can't access safe alternatives."
I could feel the entire class watching me. Some impressed, some envious, some—like Seung-Ho—probably irritated that I hadn't stumbled.
Professor Kwon studied me for a long moment. "Adequate. Sit down."
From Professor Kwon, "adequate" was basically a standing ovation.
I sat, adrenaline still pumping, and caught Seung-Ho's expression from across the room. He looked like he'd bitten into something sour.
Yeah. That's what I thought.
"Now," Professor Kwon continued, pacing slowly in front of the board, "the proportionality test isn't just an academic exercise. It's the framework courts use to balance competing constitutional values. Ms. Han correctly identified the four prongs, but let's dig deeper. When we talk about 'balance of interests,' what are we really asking?"
A hand shot up in the front row. One of the gunners, a guy named Min-Soo who always had an opinion.
"Yes, Mr. Choi."
"We're asking whether the government's interest in regulation outweighs the individual's constitutional right," Min-Soo said confidently.
"That's circular reasoning," Professor Kwon said flatly. "You've simply restated the question. Anyone else?"
Silence. Nobody wanted to get skewered after Min-Soo.
I raised my hand.
"Ms. Han, twice in one day. You're either very brave or very foolish."
"We're asking how to measure incommensurable values," I said. "Fetal life versus bodily autonomy. Public safety versus personal freedom. These aren't things you can put on a scale and weigh objectively. So the Court has to make a normative judgment about which right deserves greater protection in this specific context."
Professor Kwon stopped pacing. "Elaborate."
"The Court's choice reflects constitutional priorities. By striking down the abortion ban, they signaled that individual autonomy takes precedence over state paternalism in matters of personal decision-making. It's not that fetal life doesn't matter—it's that forcing someone to carry a pregnancy against their will violates something even more fundamental to constitutional democracy: the right to control your own body and future."
The room was dead silent.
Professor Kwon looked at me with something that might have been approval. Or indigestion. It was hard to tell.
"Interesting analysis, Ms. Han. You've identified the core tension in proportionality review—it's not purely technical; it's deeply ideological. The Court doesn't just apply neutral principles; it makes choices about what kind of society we want to be." She turned to the class. "This is why constitutional law matters. Every decision reflects values. Every test we apply contains assumptions about human dignity, state power, and social ordering."
She launched into a broader discussion about proportionality review in comparative constitutional law—German origins, spread to Asian jurisdictions, differences in application. I took notes frantically, my hand cramping, but my brain was buzzing.
This. This was why I wanted to be a lawyer.
Not just the intellectual challenge—though I loved that—but the stakes. The idea that law wasn't just abstract rules but actual power. The power to protect people, to challenge injustice, to force those in authority to justify themselves.
And I wanted that power. I wanted it desperately.
Which meant I needed to get into a top law school. Which meant I needed perfect grades, strong internship experience, and a LEET score that would make admissions committees ignore the fact that I didn't have a prominent family name or influential connections.
No pressure.
Professor Kwon shifted topics to discussing specific constitutional provisions—Article 10 on human dignity, Article 36 on family life. She called on other students, some who answered well, others who clearly hadn't done the reading and were now publicly suffering for it.
I took notes but let my mind wander slightly to the practical. I had approximately seven months until LEET. I needed to save at least two million won for decent prep materials and maybe a short course if I could afford it. That meant picking up extra shifts, cutting expenses even more than I already had, and studying every spare moment.
I was already exhausted thinking about it.
"Ms. Han."
I snapped back to attention. Professor Kwon was looking at me again.
"Yes, Professor?"
"You seem distracted. Should I assume you've already mastered this material and are contemplating your future legal career?"
A few snickers from the class.
"I apologize, Professor," I said, not making excuses.
She studied me for a moment, and I could swear there was something knowing in her expression. Like she understood exactly what I was thinking about. Money. Jobs. The grind.
"Pay attention," she said, but not unkindly. "All the ambition in the world won't help you if you don't have the foundation. Master the doctrine first. Everything else follows."
"Yes, Professor."
She turned back to the board, and I exhaled slowly.
The rest of class passed in a blur of case citations, constitutional theory, and occasional questions lobbed at various students. By the time Professor Kwon dismissed us at 9:45, my hand was cramping from notes and my brain was stuffed full of legal principles.
"Don't forget," Professor Kwon said as everyone started packing up, "your midterm papers are due in four weeks. I expect original analysis, not summary. Challenge yourselves."
Groans echoed through the lecture hall.
I gathered my things slowly, letting the crowd thin out. I wasn't in a rush—I had about an hour before my library shift started, and I wanted to grab food and maybe review my notes.
"Ji-Mang."
I looked up to find Professor Kwon standing at the front of the room, clearly waiting for me.
Oh no.
I made my way down the steps, wondering what I'd done wrong. Had I been too bold in my answers? Not deferential enough?
"Yes, Professor?"
She looked at me with those sharp, assessing eyes. "You're applying for law school next year."
It wasn't a question.
"Yes, Professor. After I take LEET."
"Where are you applying?"
"SNU, Korea University, Yonsei. And a few backups."
She nodded slowly. "Your class performance is strong. Top 1%, if I recall correctly."
"Yes, Professor."
"But you're working multiple jobs. I see you in the law library constantly."
I wasn't sure if that was a criticism or an observation, so I just nodded.
"LEET prep is expensive," she said bluntly. "Are you planning to take a prep course?"
The question landed like a punch. Because of course she knew. Professor Kwon knew everything.
"I'm saving up for one, Professor. I'll probably do a shorter course in the fall."
"Mmm." She pulled out a business card from her briefcase and handed it to me. "This is a colleague who runs a small LEET study group. She takes on a few students each year pro bono—talented students who can't afford the big academies. Tell her I referred you."
I stared at the card, not quite believing it.
"Professor, I—"
"Don't thank me," she said curtly. "I'm not being charitable. You're a strong student, and it would be a waste if financial limitations prevented you from reaching your potential. Law school needs more students who actually understand what justice means, not just the ones whose parents can pay their way in."
My throat felt tight. "I really appreciate—"
"And Ms. Han?"
"Yes?"
"Don't let people like Mr. Park get in your head. He's mediocre and knows it, which is why he needs to remind everyone of his pedigree." She picked up her briefcase. "You're better than that. Act like it."
And with that, she walked out of the lecture hall, leaving me standing there holding a business card that might have just changed my entire trajectory.
I looked down at it. Professor Jung Min-Hee. Contact information. A note at the bottom: LEET Prep - Merit-Based Admissions.
Holy shit.
I carefully tucked the card into my wallet, right behind my student ID, and let myself feel it for just a moment. Hope. The terrifying, fragile thing I tried not to indulge in too often because disappointment hurt less when you weren't expecting anything.
But maybe—just maybe—things were starting to line up.
I checked my phone. 9:52. I had thirty-eight minutes before my library shift.
Time to grab food and keep moving forward.
That's all I ever did. Keep moving forward.