The classroom emptied slowly, students whispering and glancing back at Mi-Sook as if afraid to breathe too loudly.
Ji-Bok stayed behind, skateboard tucked under one arm. His eyes never left her.
Mi-Sook leaned casually against her desk, hair falling perfectly over one shoulder, lips curved in that faint, unreadable smirk.
Calm. Untouchable.
"You're good," Ji-Bok said quietly, stepping closer. "Too good."
Mi-Sook tilted her head, letting the words hang in the air.
"Is that a compliment?" she asked, voice smooth, teasing.
"Don't start." His jaw tightened. "I know what you did. Don't think I don't."
She let a beat pass.
Smirk unchanged. "Oh? And what exactly am I supposed to have done, Mr. Skateboard Detective?"
Ji-Bok's eyes narrowed.
"Don't play dumb with me. You know exactly what you did with the jewelry. And the way you handled it in class… ruthless. Too many people panicking. Too many whispers."
Mi-Sook's lips curved slightly, faint amusement in her eyes. "And you? Are you worried about them—or about her?"
Her words struck sharper than any accusation. Ji-Bok's grip on the skateboard tightened.
He swallowed, voice low. "About Ji-Woo."
Mi-Sook's smirk didn't falter. "She'll manage. Always does."
Ji-Bok's hand moved to his phone.
He dialed Ji-Woo, waiting for the call to connect.
No answer.
He tried again. Nothing.
He let out a dry laugh, leaning back slightly.
"Hm… did she block my number Again?" he muttered, half-joking, half-frustrated.
But even as he spoke, his heart thumped with worry.
Ji-Woo's voice, even if distant, echoed in his mind tense, tired, still fragile.
He shoved the phone into his pocket, eyes returning to Mi-Sook.
Smirk still there. Calm. Untouchable.
Ji-Bok's jaw tightened again. "You're not done," he said quietly.
Mi-Sook tilted her head, eyes glinting. "Neither are you, I think."
And with that, the room felt smaller, the air heavier. Words left unsaid pressed against both of them.
Outside, Ji-Woo remained unaware, leaning on Eun-Woo, still trembling, still fragile.
Ji-Bok's fingers twitched.
He wanted to go to her. But not yet. Not while Mi-Sook was still in the room.
--
The balcony doors swung open with a sharp push.
Ji-Bok stepped out, the city sprawled below like a scattering of glittering lights, indifferent to his mood.
His camera hung from his neck, heavy, familiar.
He lifted it, fingers gripping it tightly.
Click. A shot. Flip. Nothing satisfied him.
The wind tugged at his hair, tangling curls across his forehead.
He squinted through the lens again, adjusting, tilting, framing—but every shot felt hollow.
Frustration built, coiling in his chest like a living thing. He gritted his teeth.
"Damn it," he muttered.
He raised the camera higher, almost violently, considering smashing it against the railing.
The metal beneath his fingertips felt cold, solid.
The thought of breaking it—a weightless thrill—made his chest pound.
Then, a voice slid into his mind.
"Don't ever let this become your excuse."
Ji-Woo's words.
Quiet, steady. The memory stopped him mid-motion. His grip loosened slightly.
He exhaled sharply, fingers loosening around the camera.
The idea of destroying it seemed suddenly childish, pointless.
Still, anger hummed under his skin.
He leaned on the railing, camera dangling.
He stared at the city below, lights blurred in his wet eyes, a reflection of the storm inside.
Click. Another shot. Not perfect. Not yet. Not enough.
He dropped the camera into his lap, teeth gritted. His fingers traced the edges, the smooth metal and glass.
Precious. Dangerous. His own.
Ji-Bok muttered under his breath, half to himself "Why does it always feel like everyone's out to ruin it… ruin me…"
He closed his eyes. The memory of Ji-Woo's smile, caught in that photograph on his bed, filled him.
Soft, real, steady.
"…but she's right," he admitted quietly. "Not an excuse. Not today."
He lifted the camera again. Slowly. Carefully. Click. Flip.
Another shot, and the city seemed to hold its breath, waiting for him to get it right.
Ji-Bok slung his camera over his shoulder, fingers brushing the worn leather strap as he walked toward Ji-Woo's usual spot outside the school gates.
The day was fading, soft golden light spilling over the pavement, shadows stretching long and quiet.
He tightened his grip on the camera, hesitated, then muttered under his breath,
"Maybe… maybe a few shots will cheer her up."
He rounded the corner and stopped short.
Ji-Woo.
Standing in front of the low wall, hair falling in gentle waves over her shoulders, bangs shading her eyes.
She looked… tired, but calm. Leaning slightly into someone beside her.
Eun-Woo. His hand rested gently on her head, ruffling her hair in a quiet, protective gesture.
She laughed softly at something he said, the sound light, delicate, steadying.
Ji-Bok's chest tightened.
The instinct to step forward, to show her the photos, to make her smile, fought against the sight in front of him.
He lifted the camera slowly, framed the moment carefully.
Click.
The shutter sounded sharp in the quiet evening.
Ji-Woo turned her head, catching a glimpse of movement.
He froze.
Her eyes met his for a heartbeat.
Then she turned back to Eun-Woo, smiling softly, small and genuine, the kind of smile that reached her eyes and softened her whole face.
Ji-Bok exhaled slowly, shoulders relaxing just slightly.
She was okay.
Not perfect.
Not like she didn't feel the weight of the day.
But safe. Calm. Smiling.
With someone who cared for her.
He lowered the camera, let his fingers trail along the strap.
A soft, humorless laugh escaped him. "Guess she doesn't need me right now."
He turned on his heel, walking away quietly.
The city lights flickered along the pavement.
Click.
Another photo slipped into his memory—Ji-Woo smiling, hair tousled by Eun-Woo's gentle pat, soft evening light catching her cheek.
Ji-Bok kept walking.
Camera swinging at his side.
Safe. That was enough, for now.
-
Ha-Rin didn't knock.
The door was already open, like Mi-Sook had been expecting her.
Mi-Sook stood by the window, back turned, city lights threading through her hair.
She was taking off her earrings, slow, unbothered, metal clicking softly as she placed them down.
Ha-Rin's voice broke first. Not loud. Not steady.
"What did you do."
Mi-Sook glanced at her reflection in the glass. Smiled faintly.
"You'll have to be more specific."
"You accused Ji-Woo," Ha-Rin said, stepping forward. "You let everyone tear her apart over my jewelry. You stood there and watched."
Mi-Sook finally turned.
Her eyes were calm. Her lips soft. Dangerous in how gentle she looked.
"You have it back," she said. "Checked twice, I assume."
"That doesn't erase what you did."
Mi-Sook tilted her head, studying Ha-Rin the way someone studies a problem already solved.
"It does," she replied. "For you."
Ha-Rin swallowed. "She almost collapsed. She couldn't even speak."
Mi-Sook's smile deepened—not cruel, not kind. Intent.
"Yes," she said. "I noticed."
Silence pressed in.
Ha-Rin's hands shook. "Why her."
Mi-Sook walked closer. Each step measured. Controlled.
"Because she survives," she said softly. "And I don't like that."
Ha-Rin stiffened.
Mi-Sook leaned in just enough for the words to land where they couldn't be ignored.
"I almost broke Ji-Woo," she continued, voice low. "That was a mistake."
Ha-Rin's breath caught.
"This time," Mi-Sook said, straightening, "I'll break the real one."
She smiled.
"And no one," she added calmly, "is going to stop me."
The room felt colder.
Ha-Rin stared at her, realization settling heavy and sick in her chest.
"You're sick," she whispered.
Mi-Sook didn't argue.
She picked up the jewelry box, held it out without looking at it.
"You got what you came for," she said. "Now leave this city. Go live quietly. Peacefully."
Ha-Rin didn't take it at first.
"You think walking away makes me clean," she said.
Mi-Sook's eyes flicked to hers. Sharp now.
"I think walking away makes you irrelevant."
That did it.
Ha-Rin took the box.
Her fingers tightened around it like it might burn.
At the door, she stopped.
"I won't forget this," she said.
Mi-Sook turned back to the window.
"I'm counting on that."
The door closed.
Mi-Sook stood alone, city reflected in her eyes—bright, endless, watching.
Her smile didn't fade.
It settled.