Jennie Kim.
Rain hammered the library windows at noon.
Her name had surfaced last night, right after I cracked the vandal string—U3HH83 I8J—from the posters Minji had pinned up.
Chaniel's cipher had nudged me in the right direction: shift everything down one row on a QWERTY keyboard.
U to J. 3 to E. H to N. Another H to N. 8 to I. 3 to E.
One pass, and the name appeared.
Once you saw it, it was obvious. What wasn't obvious was why her name had been scrawled across every poster like a threat or a warning.
I didn't know who she was. Not yet.
While the rest of elite section crammed under nonstop pressure, I slipped out and grabbed a computer in the library.
The screen flickered as I typed her name.
Nothing substantial came up. Just a bare alumni listing from an old cached page.
No graduation photo. No achievements. No bio.
It felt intentional, like someone had erased her.
I tried again: "Mystery Club New Oak High."
Same story. The old club's records were gone. The only hit was Minji's recent application, clean and official.
The gaps didn't make sense, and it stuck in my mind.
I dug deeper—alumni forums, archived newsletters. Most links were dead. Pages wiped as if they'd never existed.
Then I found one thread that hadn't fully rotted away.
A defunct student blog. A half-corrupted post titled Math Olympiad Send-Off Party. The text was hard to read, but a picture slowly appeared on the screen, piece by piece.
I saved the file, then opened it on my phone.
I zoomed in close, piecing the details together until the full picture sharpened.
There she was.
Jennie Kim. Sharp-eyed. Calm. Holding a trophy like it belonged there.
Beside her stood a younger girl—middle school at most—grinning wide, flashing a peace sign straight at the camera.
Same eyes. Same stubborn mouth.
Kim Minji.
I held my breath.
Once you saw it, the resemblance was impossible to miss.
The post offered nothing else. No dates. No details. Everything cut short.
Minji had revived the Mystery Club just as the purple envelopes started appearing.
The haikus.
Was she the sender?
Was this her way of reaching out? Talking in puzzles instead of words? Testing whether I could uncover Jennie before she said anything outright?
I closed the tab. The answers were still out of reach, but the image stayed with me.
The rain hadn't let up.
I drifted into the stacks, and that's when I saw her.
Hanni stood at the end of the reference aisle, balanced on her toes, reaching for a thick blue volume on the top shelf. Her blazer hung loose, sleeves shoved up.
The pigtail braid she'd started wearing swung forward as she stretched.
The book tilted. Then slipped.
I moved without thinking. Two quick steps, and my hands closed around the falling volume, my other arm wrapping around her waist to steady her.
Time froze. Her back pressed against my arm, warm and gentle.
I felt her ragged breathing, the flutter of her heartbeat, and the softness of her skin. The shadows under her eyes seemed to darken, like bruises.
She startled, then relaxed when she realized it was me.
"Eiji…"
I let go too quickly, my hands feeling empty and useless.
"Sorry," I muttered, handing her the book. "You okay?"
"Yeah. Thanks." Her voice sounded rough, like she'd been talking nonstop.
She rubbed her wrist. "Didn't see you there."
"Which one were you aiming for?"
She pointed at a thinner red spine. I pulled it down and passed it over.
Our fingers brushed—brief and awkward.
"Ms. Song nominated me for the Math Olympiad team," she said, eyes fixed on the cover. "Extra sessions every day now." She cleared her throat and tried again. "We're doing group practice with Mr. Goh."
A tired smile flickered. "I should get back."
"Right."
She hesitated just long enough for the silence to stretch.
"Thanks again."
Then she turned and hurried out of the library, disappearing through the main doors into the rainy hallway beyond.
I watched her go, her figure shrinking down the empty corridor until the fogged glass swallowed her whole.
The distance between us felt wider than any hallway should allow.
---
The rain followed me to the humanities wing as I approached room 722.
I went in ready to probe Minji, slip in casual questions with careful timing.
She cut me off the moment I stepped inside.
"Eiji, finally." She snapped her notebook shut. "Hanni texted me earlier. Said she couldn't make it."
My chest tightened.
"And," Minji went on, lowering her voice, "someone else contacted the club this morning. They're on their way."
I nodded and dropped onto the sofa.
She proudly showed me the client form she'd just made, full of club terms people usually never bother to read.
Two names were already signed at the bottom: Kenta Rikudo and Aria Saki.
Third-years. The school's favorite power couple. Kenta had the easy confidence of someone who was used to winning. Aria matched him stride for stride, eyes sharp and measuring.
The door opened again.
Kenta and Aria stepped in together.
They didn't hesitate.
"We're here to consult on a case," Kenta said.
Minji leaned forward. "What's it about?"
Aria answered right away. "It's about Hanni Pham."
Minji blinked. "Hanni?"
I focused.
"So... We were right outside the elite study lounge last night," Aria said. "The Olympiad team had a late group study session, so we stepped out for a quick break. Rain was pouring down. That's when we saw Hanni rushing across the courtyard toward the annex—no umbrella, just running through the downpour. We followed her, curious."
She crossed the room as she spoke, pacing out the memory.
"She went straight into Mr. Goh's office—"
Minji cut in quietly, almost to herself. "Still the Olympiad coach, then. Same guy who picks the final team."
Aria glanced at her, then nodded. "Exactly. Through the window we watched her hunch over his desk, snapping photos of the selection answers with her phone. I had to wipe the fog and rain off the glass just to see her clearly."
Minji's expression tightened—not with shock, but with calculation—before she spoke. "That's a serious accusation."
Kenta pulled out his phone. "I figured you'd say that—she's your clubmate, after all. But look."
He turned the screen toward us.
"She was rushing out. I only got her back. Braided pigtails. Same build. And these footprints inside—size and tread match her shoes. She'd just come from Ms. Goh's office block. That's where the questionnaires are."
The image was grainy, shot through glass and glare.
The figure's face was a blur, but the braided pigtail was clear.
As were the shoes—each step stamped cleanly on the damp floor just inside the doorway, footprints close together and evenly spaced.
Near the edge of the frame, a canvas tote hung from the figure's shoulder, its corner creased the same way Hanni's always was, worn from being overstuffed with books.
"Going straight to the faculty would get messy," Aria said. "They protect us—Olympiad candidates. We wanted this handled cleanly first."
She folded her arms. "Help us expose this, even if she's one of yours. If your club really stands for truth."
Minji took the phone and zoomed in. Her lips pressed together.
I stayed quiet. My fingers curled around the cube in my pocket.
Hanni wouldn't do this.
I'd known her since we were kids. She was the type who leapt into challenges headfirst, fists clenched, heart louder than her doubts.
Honest to a fault.
The kind of person who read the room before anyone spoke, who noticed when something hurt and tried to fix it without being asked.
Cheating didn't fit her. Not then, not now.
But the photo was there. Clear enough.
Minji handed the phone back. "Hmm... The photo isn't edited," she said. "And she did say she was training yesterday."
Kenta shrugged. "We all were, and there was a break. That's when she did it."
My hand clenched.
Minji noticed. Her fingers brushed my wrist. "Eiji…"
I stood. The chair scraped against the floor as I crossed to the window.
Rain hammered the glass.
Think.
Except my thoughts kept circling back to her. Hanni laughing when she solved something on her first try. Hanni apologizing when she didn't need to. Hanni trusting people even when it cost her.
What if I was wrong?
What if exhaustion had finally pushed her past a line I never thought she'd cross?
The question lodged deep enough to hurt. For a second, logic felt slippery, bending around what I wanted to be true.
I forced myself to breathe.
To stop protecting her in my head.
To start looking at what was actually in front of me.