Mi-Sook's room was quiet, the kind of quiet that weighed on her like it was listening. She moved slowly, deliberately, rifling through her wardrobe.
Nothing seemed out of place. The jewelry box sat on the shelf—polished, gleaming, untouchable.
She lifted it, and the diamonds and emeralds caught the sunlight, scattering green and white sparks across the walls.
Gold gleamed like a warning.
"Still here," she murmured, a calm whisper that carried just a hint of menace.
The door opened.
Mr. and Mrs. Jung stepped in together.
Mr. Jung's presence was composed, commanding; Mrs. Jung's was sharp, immediately slicing through the air like a blade.
Mi-Sook's hand tightened around the box. She slid it behind her, a protective instinct sharper than any weapon.
"Mi-Sook," he said smoothly, "why did you ask me to host a party?"
She didn't flinch. Her gaze lingered on the jewelry, then shifted deliberately to him. "I have work that requires… attention," she said, voice quiet but precise. "And if I attend, Ji-Woo will disrupt everything."
Mr. Jung frowned slightly. "So the party… is meaningless unless I make it useful?"
She met his eyes steadily. "Exactly. You should come up with something… something that makes this event mean something, rather than just another gathering."
Mrs. Jung stepped forward, pressing her hand to Mi-Sook's shoulder. Her voice was cold, unwavering. "You're a monster. You know that."
Mi-Sook's calm didn't falter, but her pulse ticked under the surface, audible only to herself.
"You—what you did to Ji-Woo," Mrs. Jung continued, voice tight, "the pushing, the framing, the jewelry, the… everything—do you even realize what you put her through? The physical, the mental, the pressure… the accident you tried to cause—"
Mi-Sook's lips pressed into a thin line, jaw tightening.
"Don't blame her," Mr. Jung interrupted, stepping forward, his voice low but firm. "She's stressed. Give her a break."
Mrs. Jung's glare cut the room in two. She turned on her heel, storming out, leaving a trace of tension hanging behind her.
Mr. Jung exhaled slowly and turned back to Mi-Sook. "Sigh. Just… cover up for me, okay?"
Mi-Sook's hands were steady now. She opened the jewelry box fully, gazing at the treasure inside.
Her eyes lingered on the emeralds first—cold, sharp, almost accusatory—then the diamonds, glinting with a cruel clarity.
"This," she said softly, almost to herself, "this baby… is going back to where it came from."
And in that moment, she felt the weight of her plans, the stakes, the anticipation—all reflected in the sparkle of stolen power she'd been keeping so carefully hidden.
---
Mi-Sook emerged from the staircase like she owned the night.
The music softened for half a second—not because anyone ordered it to, but because eyes turned.
Her dress caught the light effortlessly: deep, rich fabric hugging her frame, cut sharp and deliberate, expensive without needing to scream it.
Jewelry glittered at her throat and wrists, each piece chosen to be noticed.
But behind her back—
Something was hidden.
Her fingers curled subtly, as if guarding a secret that pressed warm against her palm.
A small smirk tugged at her lips as she stepped into view, chin lifted, confidence immaculate.
She waved at the guests with practiced grace.
Soft laughter.
Murmurs of admiration.
Mi-Sook descended the last step and moved toward the entrance, heels clicking like punctuation marks.
Outside, just beyond the tall doors, Ji-Woo stood beneath the warm glow of the exterior lights.
She looked nothing like the girl Mi-Sook remembered.
Her long hair fell smoothly down her back, catching light with every slight movement.
Her dress was elegant, effortless—no excess, no desperation.
A small clutch rested in her hand, posture calm, eyes sharp. She looked like she belonged here.
Beside her stood a maid.
Or—something trying very hard to be one.
The uniform was correct.
The posture was almost convincing. But the oversized face mask and the ridiculously large, fake mole stuck to her cheek made her look… unforgettable in the worst way.
Ha-Rin nodded once, subtly.
Ji-Woo leaned in just enough to murmur, voice low and steady."Once you're inside, don't hesitate. If anything feels wrong—leave."
Ha-Rin's eyes flicked up beneath the mask. Another nod.
Ji-Woo's lips curved faintly. "I'll keep her busy."
The doors opened from the inside.
Mi-Sook reached them at the same moment Ha-Rin stepped forward with the other staff.
For a heartbeat, time tightened.
The doors were tall, heavy, polished—two long handles gleaming under the lights.
Ji-Woo reached for the right handle from outside.
At the exact same moment, Mi-Sook's hand closed around the left handle from inside.
They pulled.
The doors parted smoothly, silently.
They passed each other.
So close that Ji-Woo felt a rush of air, a faint trace of perfume—cold, sharp, unmistakably Mi-Sook's. Mi-Sook felt the brush of movement, a presence slipping past her shoulder.
Hair flew.
Fabric whispered.
Neither turned.
Mi-Sook stepped out into the night, smile ready, eyes scanning the crowd for her next audience.
Ji-Woo stepped inside, already moving, already focused.
Behind them, Ha-Rin disappeared into the house.
The doors closed softly.
And the game had begun
--
The hallway beyond the ballroom was dimmer, quieter—sound softened by thick walls and expensive carpeting.
Ji-Ho walked alone.
His glasses sat slightly crooked on his nose, like he'd pushed them up one too many times without thinking. His hair was a mess, curls refusing to obey no matter how many times he ran a hand through them. His expression was blank—not sad, not angry—just… absent. Like he was somewhere else entirely.
He turned a corner.
Voices drifted toward him.
He slowed without meaning to.
"…I'm telling you, this can't continue," Mrs. Park's voice said, sharp and clipped, every word polished with irritation. "Having him here is a mistake."
Ji-Ho stopped.
He didn't hide. He didn't lean closer. He simply stood where he was, half-shadowed by a tall pillar, listening as if the words were meant for him.
His father sighed. A tired sound. "Lower your voice."
"I won't," she snapped. "This house, this family—he doesn't belong in it. Send him back."
A pause.
"Back where?" his father asked quietly.
Mrs. Park scoffed. "To his mother. Where he came from."
Another pause—longer this time.
"I don't know where she is," his father said. "She disappeared years ago. No address. No contact."
"So that's my problem now?" Mrs. Park shot back. "Because I hate living under the same roof as him. I hate the way he looks at things like he's judging us. I hate that he exists here, reminding me—"
Hate.
The word landed cleanly.
Not shouted. Not softened.
Just said.
Ji-Ho didn't flinch.
His face didn't change.
But something inside him did.
It wasn't shock—he'd always known she disliked him. That wasn't new. This wasn't even anger. It was curiosity, sharp and sudden, like touching broken glass and wondering how deep it would cut.
Hate, he repeated silently.
So that was the word.
So that was what it was.
Behind his ribs, something cracked—not loudly, not dramatically—but enough to leave a hollow ache spreading outward, slow and cold.
Not pain exactly. More like understanding settling into place.
He adjusted his glasses once, habit steadying his hands.
Then he turned around.
His footsteps were quiet as he walked away down the hall, back toward the noise and light and lies of the party. His shoulders stayed straight.
His head stayed level.
But with every step, something precious and fragile inside him broke a little more—and this time, he didn't try to pick up the pieces.