The dining table stretched long and polished beneath a low crystal chandelier, its surface reflecting soft golden light.
Every place setting was perfectly aligned—white porcelain plates, silverware placed with ruler precision, linen napkins folded into quiet triangles.
A vase of fresh flowers sat in the center, chosen more for symmetry than scent.
This was not a table meant for arguments.
Mr. Jung sat at the head, jacket draped neatly over the back of his chair, sleeves rolled with deliberate care.
His posture was straight, protective by habit rather than intention. The weight of the household rested comfortably on his shoulders.
Mrs. Jung sat opposite him, silk lounge dress flowing effortlessly as she adjusted her napkin. Her movements were graceful, practiced—nothing accidental. Even seated, she radiated authority.
Mi-Sook sat between them.
Her rich pajamas caught the light softly—smooth, expensive fabric in a deep shade that contrasted against the white tableware.
The top fit neatly at her wrists, the pants draped perfectly over her legs. Her hair was loose, untouched, a quiet rebellion she never named. She ate slowly, as if the pace itself were a shield.
For a while, only cutlery spoke.
Then Mr. Jung said, "There was talk today. About Ji-Woo."
Mrs. Jung's fork paused mid-air. "The accident?" she asked softly. "The memory loss?"
Mi-Sook kept her eyes on her plate.
"It's tragic," Mrs. Jung continued, voice warm. "Imagine losing yourself overnight."
Mi-Sook stopped eating.
"That isn't Ji-Woo."
The chandelier hummed faintly above them.
Mrs. Jung frowned. "Mi-Sook, don't be inappropriate."
"I'm not," Mi-Sook said quietly. Her fingers tightened around her fork. "That is not Ji-Woo."
Mr. Jung looked up. "Explain."
Mi-Sook felt her mother's gaze sharpen—the familiar weight pressing down on her chest. She didn't look back. She stared at the reflection of her own hands in the polished table.
"The real Ji-Woo is dead," she said. "That girl is her twin."
Mrs. Jung's chair scraped slightly. "That's a horrible thing to say."
Mr. Jung lifted a hand. "Let her speak."
Mi-Sook swallowed. "She doesn't react the same. She doesn't remember people the way Ji-Woo did." A pause. "I was going to expose her."
Mrs. Jung rose halfway from her seat. "After everything you did? You almost killed her."
Mi-Sook flinched, shoulders tightening.
Mr. Jung stood immediately, stepping closer to her side. "Enough," he said firmly. "Sit down."
Mrs. Jung's eyes flashed. "She survives, and now you want to create more trouble?"
Mi-Sook resumed eating, hands trembling just slightly. "I'm not creating trouble," she said. "I'm ending a lie."
Mrs. Jung scoffed. "You're afraid."
Mi-Sook looked up at last, voice low. "I'm afraid of you. Not her."
Silence pressed against the table, heavy as the chandelier above.
Mr. Jung placed a hand lightly on Mi-Sook's shoulder. "Finish your dinner," he said calmly.
She nodded.
Mrs. Jung pushed her chair back, napkin falling onto the polished surface. "I can't sit here and listen to this."
''I can get proof Dad...I can.''
''I know.''
Her footsteps echoed down the hall.
The flowers stood untouched.The plates remained full.
Mi-Sook kept eating—slow, precise, protected—already waiting for the moment when the table would no longer be a safe place.
--
Ji-Woo felt it before she saw it.
That familiar pressure at the back of her neck—the sense of being studied, not watched. She kept her hands tucked inside the sleeves of her cardigan, fingers curled, shoulders slightly hunched as she walked down the corridor.
Mi-Sook stood near the lockers, immaculate as always.
Her uniform was perfectly pressed, skirt sitting exactly at regulation length, hair sleek and controlled like nothing about her life was ever out of order. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, didn't move to Ji-Woo's face.
They went to her hands.
Ji-Woo noticed.
She always noticed.
Mi-Sook smiled almost polite, ''Ji-Woo can I see your book?'' she asked.
Ji-Woo stared at her, really stared at her then nodded.
She handed her the book, But Mi-Sook didn't want it she reached out for her hand instead.
''What?'' Ji-Woo stood up slowly but abruptly ''What are you planning?'' she asked voice low.
''Planning? I just needed your book.''
Eun-Woo from his desk stood, up Ji-Bok, noticed his gaze followed him.
He stepped closer, instinctive, protective, his presence calm but solid—like a wall that didn't announce itself. When Mi-Sook took a step forward, Eun-Woo shifted with her, blocking the path without raising his voice.
"Don't," he said simply.
Mi-Sook stopped.
"I just need a moment," she replied, her tone smooth but strained beneath the polish.
"No," Eun-Woo said again. "You don't."
Ji-Woo didn't look at her again.
She didn't need to. She already knew Mi-Sook was up to something—and knowing that was enough to leave.
The teacher gulped at the tense moment ''Hey, Both of you go out...Now''
Ji-Woo nodded, Mi-Sook sighed, and Eun-Woo returned to his seat.
They walked out together.
But Ji-Woo walked away.
Mi-Sook stood there, nails pressing lightly into her palm, breath measured. For once, control felt slippery.
"Alright," a voice said.
Ji-Bok stepped in front of her.
He leaned casually against the locker, tall, broad-shouldered, posture loose in a way that suggested confidence rather than carelessness. His eyes, however, were sharp with suspicion.
"Why are you following her?" he asked. "And don't lie. You're bad at it when you're stressed."
Mi-Sook looked at him.
''Why are you interested?'' She asked arms crossed.
For a moment Ji-Bok's smile faltered before he replaced it with a sigh.
''I'm just curious.''
Mi-Sook turned to look at the empty hall Ji-Woo had left.
"I need her thumbprint." she said deadpan.
Ji-Bok blinked. "Wow. Straight to creepy."
"She's not Ji-Woo," Mi-Sook said quietly. "And I can prove it."
He laughed once, loud and dismissive. "You're obsessed. You're insane"
Mi-Sook reached into her bag and pulled out a thin, clear plastic sleeve. Inside, faint but unmistakable, was a thumbprint.
Ji-Bok's laughter died.
"I got it years ago," she said. "Registration day. She didn't notice."
"That doesn't mean anything," he said quickly.
"It will," Mi-Sook replied. "If you get the new one."
Ji-Bok stared at the sleeve, then at her. "You're wrong. One hundred percent."
"Good," Mi-Sook said. "Then help me prove it."
He hesitated—but pride won.
"Fine," he said. "I'll do it. And when it matches, you leave her alone."
--
At the same time—
The teachers' office was warm, smelling faintly of coffee and old paper.
Ji-Ho sat across from Mr. Yoo Joon's desk, shoulders tense, notebook open. He held his pen between his index and middle finger, resting too low—his habit.
Mr. Yoo Joon leaned back in his chair, sleeves rolled neatly, expression kind.
"You still hold your pen like that," he said casually, pointing. "You've done it for years."
Ji-Ho froze.
"…How do you know?" he asked, pushing his glasses up instinctively.
Mr. Yoo Joon smiled faintly. "Some habits don't change."
''And teachers notice''
''Sir but you have only been in this school for three years.'' Ji-Ho said quietly.
''You're correct''
He leaned forward. "You sleep in class too. Is it because you're tired?"
Ji-Ho swallowed. "Yes."
Across the room, Mrs. Posh paused mid-step, papers in her arms.
She noticed the way Ji-Ho stiffened.The way Mr. Yoo Joon's familiarity ran just a little too deep.
She said nothing.
But she watched.
And sometimes, silence is the loudest thing in the room.