They were already outside the school gates when Ji-Bok tried again.
Late afternoon had cooled into something restless. Wind dragged dry leaves across the pavement, lifting strands of Ji-Woo's hair loose from her collar. She walked fast, bag slung over one shoulder, jaw set, breathing steady but shallow.
Ji-Bok followed two steps behind.
"Stop following me," she said without turning.
"I will," he replied, "after one thing."
She stopped abruptly.
He nearly ran into her.
Ji-Woo turned slowly. Her hair swung with the motion, dark strands cutting across her face before settling back. Her eyes were bright — not afraid, not confused.
Alert.
"What," she asked quietly, "is wrong with you?"
Ji-Bok swallowed. Up close, she felt different — coiled, like a wire pulled too tight. Not fragile. Never fragile.
"I just need your thumbprint," he said, breath a little uneven now.
The wind caught her hair again. She tucked it behind her ear with deliberate calm.
"…You've lost your mind."
He rushed on before he lost nerve. "One second. That's it. Then I disappear."
She laughed — sharp, breathy, almost amused.
"You followed me out here for that?"
She stepped closer instead of away. Ji-Bok felt it immediately — the shift in pressure, the way the air tightened.
"Touch me," she said softly, "and you'll regret it."
"I don't want to hurt you."
"I don't care what you want."
He tried anyway.
Not force — desperation. He reached for her hand, aiming for quick contact.
Ji-Woo moved faster.
She twisted her wrist out of reach, hair whipping as she turned, bag slipping off her shoulder and hitting the ground with a dull thud. Her breath hitched once — then steadied.
Ji-Bok grabbed her sleeve.
Bad choice.
She spun, elbow driving into his ribs, knocking the air out of him in a sharp gasp. He staggered, coughing, breath ragged.
"Don't," she warned, chest rising and falling now, controlled but fast.
He wheezed, laughing despite himself. "You're terrifying."
"Correct."
He lunged again — clumsy, off-balance — and this time she caught his wrist, fingers biting in hard. Their hands locked between them. Skin on skin.
Her thumb pressed against his palm.
Ji-Bok reacted on instinct.
He pulled the thin plastic strip from his pocket and jammed it against her thumb, pressing hard.
Ji-Woo froze.
For half a second, neither of them breathed.
Wind brushed past them, lifting her hair again, carrying the scent of dust and metal and something electric.
Then she ripped her hand back.
Her breathing was loud now — not panicked, just furious. She wiped her thumb against her skirt, then her palm, like she could erase the moment.
Ji-Bok stared at the strip, heart hammering, chest still aching.
"…Got it," he said hoarsely.
She looked at him.
Really looked.
"If you ever," she said, voice low and shaking with restraint, "touch me like that again—"
She didn't finish.
She didn't need to.
She bent, picked up her bag, swung it back onto her shoulder. Her hair fell forward, hiding her face for a second before she pushed it back, expression sealed shut.
She walked away without looking back.
Ji-Bok stayed where he was, breathing hard, ribs sore, fingers trembling as he closed the plastic sleeve.
"…Yeah," he muttered to the empty street. "We are definitely not okay."
And for the first time since agreeing to help—
he wasn't smiling.
Mi-Sook received the message at night.
Her room was dim, curtains half-drawn, the city lights below turning the ceiling into faint reflections. She sat at her desk, posture straight, hair loosened just enough to look effortless. Her phone buzzed once.
Ji-Bok: You're crazy. Nothing's gonna happen. I got it anyway.
A second message followed almost immediately.
Ji-Bok: Don't expect miracles.
Mi-Sook read both messages without blinking.
She didn't reply.
Ji-Bok didn't knock.
He pushed Mi-Sook's door open with his shoulder, irritation still clinging to him like sweat. The room was dim, calm—too calm for what he'd just gone through.
He tossed the small clear plastic bag onto her desk.
"You know how hard that was?" he snapped. "She nearly broke my ribs."
Mi-Sook picked up the bag carefully, two fingers only. She inspected it under the desk lamp, tilting it slightly so the faint ridges caught the light.
"I appreciate it," she said.
Ji-Bok stared at her. "That's it?"
"I said thank you."
He ran a hand through his hair, pacing. "She's not normal, Mi-Sook. I mean—she's sharp. Fast. And she knew something was off. If you're wrong—"
Mi-Sook placed the bag back down.
"Thank you," she repeated, softer this time.
That stopped him.
He scoffed. "You're unbelievable."
She turned to face him then, expression calm, voice even. "You told me nothing would happen."
He hesitated. "…Yeah. Because nothing will."
Mi-Sook nodded once, accepting his certainty the way one accepts weather.
"I won't keep you," she said.
Ji-Bok shook his head, half-laughing, half-uneasy. "I swear, if this turns into something weird—"
"It won't," she replied gently.
He left unconvinced, irritation fading into something less comfortable.
Mi-Sook closed the door behind him.
Her father's study was quiet, heavy with silence and books.
Mr. Jung looked up as she placed the plastic bag on his desk.
"I need this analyzed," she said. "Compared."
He examined it briefly. "This will take weeks."
Mi-Sook folded her hands neatly. "Take your time, Father."
He searched her face. "You're very calm."
"I've already waited years," she replied.
Mr. Jung nodded slowly. "I'll handle it."
Mi-Sook inclined her head. "Thank you."
As she left, her reflection lingered in the glass—still, composed, untouched by doubt.
Weeks were nothing.
Because certainty didn't need speed.
It only needed proof.
-
Ji-Bok walked fast, shoulders tight, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets.
"Unbelievable," he muttered to himself. "Absolutely unbelievable."
The hallway echoed with his steps as he replayed Mi-Sook's calm face in his head.
Thank you.
Just that. Not concern. Not apology.
"She treats people like errands," he scoffed quietly. "Like I didn't almost die out there."
His ribs still ached when he breathed too deeply. Ji-Woo hadn't screamed. Hadn't panicked.
She'd calculated.
"She hits like she's been doing it for years," he grumbled, wincing as he adjusted his shoulder. "And I'm the bad guy?"
He turned a corner too fast—
—and collided straight into a solid chest.
"Oof—!"
Ji-Bok staggered back, already annoyed. "Watch where you—"
He stopped.
Eun-Woo stood there, unmoving.
Tall. Grounded. Eyes cold in a way that wasn't emotional—just resolved.
They stared at each other.
"…You," Ji-Bok said, rubbing his side. "Great. Just my luck."
Eun-Woo didn't smile. "You shouldn't be near her."
Ji-Bok laughed bitterly. "Relax. I already got beat up once today. Not looking for a sequel."
"You don't get to joke," Eun-Woo replied, stepping closer. "Not after what you did before."
''what?''
''you don't even remember''
Ji-Bok bristled. "I did hurt her."
"You tried, because I was there to stop you" Eun-Woo said flatly.
Silence stretched.
''Ok. I admit it...but I didn't know she was there It was an accident I didn't meant to push her hard till she stumbled and hit her back...''
Ji-Bok exhaled sharply. "You know how much that girl hurts when she fights back?"
''She wasn't like this before....''
Eun-Woo's jaw tightened. "Good."
That snapped something.
Ji-Bok shoved him—not hard, but enough to test him.
Eun-Woo didn't move back.
Instead, he grabbed Ji-Bok's collar and slammed him lightly into the wall—controlled, precise, close enough for Ji-Bok to feel the warning in his bones.
"Listen carefully," Eun-Woo said, voice low. "You don't touch her. You don't follow her. You don't talk about her."
Ji-Bok swallowed.
"Stay away."
Eun-Woo released him and stepped back like nothing had happened.
Ji-Bok straightened slowly, pride bruised worse than his ribs.
"…You're all insane," he muttered.
Eun-Woo didn't turn around.
But his final words landed heavier than any shove.
"She doesn't need more people testing her."
Ji-Bok watched him walk away, chest tight, thoughts louder than before.
For the first time that day—
he wondered if he had crossed a line that couldn't be stepped back from.