The cafeteria was loud in that familiar, careless way—metal trays clattering, chairs scraping, laughter bouncing off tiled walls.
The smell of fried food and soup hung thick in the air, warm and heavy.
Ji-Woo stepped inside, scanning the room out of habit.
Students were packed together in clusters, uniforms wrinkled, ties loosened.
She grabbed her tray and moved toward a table near the windows, where Eun-Woo was already sitting with a few other students.
She slid into the seat beside him without a word, setting her tray down carefully.
Eun-Woo glanced at her, surprised, then relaxed, shifting slightly to make room.
Around them, conversations continued—ordinary, harmless.
Ji-Woo was just lifting her chopsticks when something changed.
The air tightened.
She looked up.
Mi-Sook had entered the cafeteria.
Her steps were unhurried, deliberate.
Her eyes didn't wander aimlessly like everyone else's—they searched. Table by table. Face by face. Checking. Measuring.
Ji-Woo's fingers stilled.
Mi-Sook's gaze passed over her table once… then again.
Ji-Woo lowered her eyes, pretending not to notice, but her stomach sank. She followed Mi-Sook's line of sight.
An empty seat.
Across the room.
Ji-Bok sat alone there, tray untouched, posture lazy, attention half on his food, half on nothing at all.
Mi-Sook's lips curled.
She turned and walked straight toward him.
Ji-Bok noticed her shadow before her face. He paused mid-movement, chopsticks hovering.
Slowly, he looked up.
Their eyes met.
Mi-Sook pulled out the chair in front of him and sat down.
Then he clicked his tongue, licked his chopsticks lazily, and stood up with his tray.
"Annoying," he muttered.
"Sit," Mi-Sook said.
Not loud. Not sharp.
He stopped anyway.
Slowly, he sat back down, eyes flat. "What do you want?"
Mi-Sook leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin resting on her hand. Her eyes glittered—bright, curious, cruel.
"I know everything," she said again, softer this time. Like a secret meant only for him.
Ji-Bok scoffed. "You always think you do."
"No," she replied pleasantly. "This time, I'm sure."
Her gaze flicked briefly—briefly—toward another table.
Ji-Bok followed it.
Ji-Woo.
Mi-Sook smiled wider. "The real Ji-Woo."
His expression hardened. "Say what you want. She's suffered enough."
Mi-Sook laughed. Not loud. Just a breathy sound, like she'd heard something adorable.
"Oh, don't worry. I'm very aware."
She straightened, tapping her phone lightly against the table. Once. Twice.
"Everything is in here," she continued. "Photos. Messages. Proof. Timelines. Faces."
Ji-Bok's jaw clenched. "And you think that scares me?"
"It should," Mi-Sook said calmly. "Because if I can't win here…"She tilted her head.
"Winning in Jeonju was far too easy."
Ji-Bok's eyes narrowed. "What does Jeonju have to do with this?"
Mi-Sook sighed, like he was slow. "That wretch ran there. Hid. Thought distance would protect her."
She smiled again—gentle, polite. "I might have to go find her. And bring her back."
Ji-Bok slammed his tray down. "Enough."
She didn't flinch.
"She's been hunted, lied about, torn apart," he snapped. "You don't get to touch her again."
Mi-Sook's eyes softened.
That was worse.
"Oh, Ji-Bok," she said sweetly. "You're not protecting her. You're just making this more entertaining."
Around them, whispers spread.
Are they fighting?
Why is Mi-Sook sitting with him?
Since when—
Mi-Sook leaned in closer, voice dropping just enough that only he could hear.
"You're attached to Ji-Soo. That's your mistake. And mistakes…"She tapped her phone again."…always have consequences."
Ji-Bok smirked, a sharp, humorless thing. "So this is blackmail."
She laughed with him, matching his expression perfectly. "Call it… inevitability."
Across the cafeteria, Ji-Woo watched.
She saw the smile on Mi-Sook's face—the kind that didn't reach her eyes.
She felt the weight of attention shifting, curiosity turning sharp, dangerous.
But she didn't move.
Didn't speak.
She stayed perfectly still—because sometimes, the worst thing you can do to someone like Mi-Sook…
is let them think they've already won.
-
Mi-Sook cornered Ji-Woo near the stairwell.
Of course she did.
The bell had just rung. Footsteps echoed faintly from far down the hall—too far to help, close enough to make everything feel exposed.
Mi-Sook smiled first. She always did.
"You look tired," she said sweetly. "Still carrying other people's guilt?"
Ji-Woo didn't answer. She stepped closer instead.
That alone made Mi-Sook's smile hesitate.
"Ha-Rin used to be my friend," Ji-Woo said quietly.
Mi-Sook scoffed. "Don't say her name like that."
"Before you," Ji-Woo continued. Another step. "Before you framed her."
Mi-Sook's eyes flicked—just briefly—to the stairs behind Ji-Woo.
Ji-Woo noticed.
"You remember," Ji-Woo said. "The jewelry. Her mother's. The way you held it like it already belonged to you."
"That was an accident," Mi-Sook snapped. "You don't know anything."
"I know you tried to push me," Ji-Woo said.
Silence slammed into the space between them.
Mi-Sook laughed—too loud, too sharp. "Careful. Accusations like that—"
"You grabbed my arm," Ji-Woo said, voice steady. "Right there."She lifted her sleeve slightly, exposing nothing—because she didn't need proof.
Mi-Sook's breath stuttered.
"And when I didn't fall," Ji-Woo went on, "you blamed Ha-Rin."
Mi-Sook's perfect composure began to slip.
A strand of her hair loosened from its neat hold, clinging to her cheek. She brushed it back hard, fingers trembling just enough to give her away.
"She was already a problem," Mi-Sook hissed. "People believed me because it made sense."
Ji-Woo stepped closer.
Too close.
"So she dropped out," Ji-Woo said. "Lost everything. While you stayed."
Mi-Sook's smile came back—but crooked now. Cracked.
"You should thank me," she whispered. "If she stayed, you would've been next."
That did it.
Ji-Woo leaned in, eyes cold, voice almost gentle.
"You didn't destroy her," she said. "You exposed yourself."
Mi-Sook's pupils dilated. Her breathing turned shallow. Her shoulders pulled tight, like she was bracing for a hit that never came.
"You think anyone will believe you?" Mi-Sook snapped. "Everything is in my phone. Evidence. Messages. If I lose here—Jeonju was easy. Too easy."
Ji-Woo didn't flinch.
"Then why are you shaking?" she asked.
Mi-Sook froze.
Her hair had fully slipped loose now, falling messily over one eye. She shoved it back, harder this time, nails scraping her scalp.
"You don't scare me," she said.
Ji-Woo took one final step forward.
"You already told the truth," she replied. "You just didn't realize it."
Mi-Sook backed up instinctively.
One step.
Just one.
Her heel hit the edge of the stair.
Her breath caught.
Ji-Woo stopped.
Watched.
Didn't touch her.
Didn't need to.
For the first time, Mi-Sook looked afraid.
"You're sick," Mi-Sook spat, retreating quickly. "Both of you."
She turned and fled down the hall, footsteps uneven, hair completely undone—control gone, image fractured.
Ji-Woo stayed where she was.
Heart pounding.
Hands steady.
She looked at the stairs once—then away.
This time, the truth didn't fall.
It stood.
Ha-Rin didn't like closed curtains.
They made rooms feel like secrets.
But tonight, she hadn't opened them.
She sat on the edge of Ji-Woo's bed, hands folded in her lap, eyes fixed on the floor as if it might crack open and swallow everything she didn't say.
Ji-Woo paced.
Slow. Measured. Like she was counting steps in her head.
"There's a party," Ji-Woo said at last.
Ha-Rin looked up. "A party."
"Mr. Jung is hosting it," Ji-Woo continued. "Big. Loud. Too many people to keep track of. My mother got an invitation."
Ha-Rin's fingers tightened.
"And Mi-Sook?" she asked quietly.
Ji-Woo stopped pacing. "She'll be there."
That was enough.
The room shifted—not louder, not brighter—but sharper. Focused.
Ha-Rin leaned back, eyes narrowing just slightly. "You wouldn't bring this up unless—"
"I wouldn't," Ji-Woo said, cutting in. "Unless it mattered."
Silence stretched between them, heavy but not uncomfortable. They were past comfort now.
Ha-Rin exhaled slowly. "She never leaves it behind," she murmured. "The jewelry. She treats it like a trophy."
Ji-Woo's jaw tightened. "Then she'll guard it. Which means she'll also notice if she's being watched."
Ha-Rin tilted her head. "So she won't be watching me."
Ji-Woo met her eyes.
A look passed between them—old, unspoken, built from shared damage and stubborn survival.
"I can keep her busy," Ji-Woo said. "Long enough."
Ha-Rin stood.
She crossed the room and stopped in front of Ji-Woo, close enough that Ji-Woo could see the resolve settling into her expression like armor.
"You don't have to," Ha-Rin said.
"I know."
A beat.
"I want to."
Ha-Rin nodded once.
"Then we do it clean," she said. "No mistakes. No rushing."
Ji-Woo smiled faintly. "You think I'd rush?"
Ha-Rin almost smiled back.
Almost.
Outside, a car passed. Somewhere else, someone laughed. The world kept moving, unaware that something had already been set in motion.
Ji-Woo reached for her phone, screen lighting the room briefly.
"Mr. Jung's parties," she said softly, "are known for distractions."
Ha-Rin's gaze followed the glow.
"And Mi-Sook," she replied, calm and certain, "has never noticed the right things."
The light went dark.
The plan stayed between them.
And somewhere ahead, a door would be left unlocked—just long enough.