Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The sun climbed lazily across the sky, spilling warm light through the half-closed blinds. Stripes of gold stretched across the room, and somewhere outside, birds stitched their songs through the quiet morning air.

“Yoonchae! Time for school!” her sister’s voice called from the hallway.

A low groan escaped Yoonchae’s lips as she stirred beneath the covers, squinting against the sunlight that slanted into the room. For a moment, she just lay there, staring at the ceiling, letting the warmth settle on her skin — the only warmth she ever seemed to feel in that house.

She couldn’t remember the last time her father had actually been home. Her mother’s voice was the one that filled the house now — sharp, commanding, relentless. If she were honest, Yoonchae had nearly forgotten what it felt like to be loved.

Eunchae, her sister, was the golden child — spoiled, adored, the family’s pride. A flicker of envy stirred in Yoonchae, but Eunchae had always been gentle. In a house that felt cold and unfeeling, she was the only warmth Yoonchae could count on.

Yoonchae inhaled sharply and stepped into the bathroom, a towel draped loosely over her shoulders. From the corner of her eye, she caught her parents talking in hushed tones in the living room. They stopped the moment they saw her. A shiver of unease ran down her spine, but she didn’t ask. She had learned long ago that questions only earned her silence.

St. Celestine Academy towered ahead of them later that morning — an elegant sprawl of brick and marble built for the city’s brightest and wealthiest. Both Yoonchae and Eunchae attended on scholarship, though only one of them ever seemed to feel the weight of that fact.

Most of their classmates kept to themselves, too busy maintaining their own images to care about others.

Except...

Megan.

Yoonchae couldn’t explain it, but Megan rarely spoke and hardly ever looked at anyone. Her silence said enough. Her friends, though, were always ready to find a target — laughing, whispering, tearing others down just to see them flinch.

And somehow, Yoonchae had ended up at the top of that list.

She was always the one they picked on. Always the one at the receiving end of quiet insults and cruel jokes. Megan never joined in — and that was the worst part.

She never said a word.

Not to Yoonchae, not even to her friends. Her gaze stayed impassive, bored, as if nothing and no one at St. Celestine could possibly interest her. Sometimes, she’d glance at Yoonchae with that same detached look — unimpressed, unreadable.

But Yoonchae had noticed something: when Megan was around, her friends’ cruelty seemed to dull. The laughter wasn’t as loud, the comments not as sharp. It was as if Megan’s silence carried a weight that kept them in check — though never enough to save Yoonchae completely.

After showering and slipping into her uniform, Yoonchae left home with Eunchae.

“What were they talking about earlier?” she asked, unable to keep the curiosity — or the unease — from her voice.

Eunchae adjusted the strap of her bag. “Something about M&T Corp’s CEO reaching out with a solution to our bankruptcy. They didn’t say what it was, but... they looked pretty shaken.”

“M&T?” Yoonchae frowned. “I’ve never even heard of that company before.”

“Same,” Eunchae said with a careless shrug, “but they seemed to be considering it.”

The rest of the walk to school passed in silence. Eunchae hummed softly beside her, and for a brief moment, it almost felt peaceful. But Yoonchae’s thoughts refused to rest.

Inevitably, they drifted back to Megan and her friends.

Megan had never said anything cruel to her — not once — and yet Yoonchae couldn’t stand her. Maybe it was the way her friends acted, or maybe it was because Megan seemed untouchable. Cold. Perfect. Unreachable.

What made it worse was that Eunchae adored her.

Yoonchae didn’t understand the appeal — what everyone else saw in Megan’s impassive stares and sharp-edged beauty. Sure, she was objectively attractive, but to Yoonchae, Megan was a blank canvas: pretty, but empty.

Still, she hoped Eunchae would eventually move on. Their parents would never understand. Even the smallest hint of difference was enough to earn their scorn.

She had tried to warn her sister once — and it had ended in tears, accusations, and their mother’s fury echoing through the house.

Yoonchae had been beaten for daring to suggest that their parents might hurt Eunchae if they found out. But the moment Eunchae cried, everything shifted. Their mother’s “motherly instincts” flickered to life — and somehow, Yoonchae became the villain.

She loved Eunchae with everything she had. But her sister was naive. She truly believed their parents would understand — that they would see her for who she was.

Yoonchae knew better. Her parents didn’t know how to love unconditionally. They judged. They demanded. They wanted perfection — nothing less.

And Yoonchae was envious. Not because Eunchae was loved more, but because she was allowed to be loved.

She had done everything right — obedient, quiet, perfect. More servant than daughter. She fulfilled every duty asked of her, yet most of her rights had been quietly taken away. While Eunchae was free to play and laugh, Yoonchae was sent to study. Even the toys their grandparents had given them ended up in Eunchae’s hands — though she already had plenty of her own.

By the time they reached St. Celestine’s gates, the sun had climbed high. The air buzzed with chatter and the sharp click of polished shoes against the pavement. Yoonchae’s stomach tightened. She prayed she wouldn’t run into any of her bullies.

Especially Megan.

The mere thought of Megan Skiendiel made her grimace. Even her name tasted bitter on Yoonchae’s tongue — funny how, for Eunchae, it tasted like sugar.

Their walk to class passed without a single sight of Megan or her sidekicks. Outwardly, Yoonchae looked calm, but inside she was almost giddy with relief. Maybe, just maybe, today wouldn’t start with whispered insults and mocking laughter.

But peace never lasted long — not in the Jeung household.

Her father had once trusted one of his company’s directors completely — a man who knew every corner of the business. That trust became his downfall. The director had fallen deep into gambling, and when he ran out of his own money, he turned to Yoonchae’s father, promising to repay him with interest. He never did.

What her father didn’t realize was that the man had already been siphoning company funds to feed his addiction. By the time the truth came out, it was too late. The losses were catastrophic.

Desperate to repair the damage, her father spent countless nights at the office, sleeping under the harsh glare of fluorescent lights, trying to salvage what little was left. But no matter how many reports he pored over or meetings he called, the numbers refused to make sense. The company slipped quietly into bankruptcy — and for now, the public had no idea.

But for how long?

One thing about Yoonchae’s parents: they could endure living in rags, but never being seen that way. Their reputation was everything. The idea of being looked down upon — of losing their place among the city’s elite — was unthinkable.

Her father had poured his blood, sweat, and years into that company. It was his pride, his proof of worth. To see it collapse before him was unbearable. He would rather die than live in disgrace — or worse, live poor.

The first few periods before lunch passed in a blur. Teachers came and went, lectures repeated themselves, and Yoonchae listened dutifully. It was boring, predictable, but she absorbed it all. She had always been the top student—a product of years of pressure, high expectations, and constant comparisons. Her parents didn't care about her achievements, but she had learned early on to perform anyway, to seek approval where none would come. 

The lunch bell rang, and Yoonchae made her way to the quiet corner of the gym, her usual refuge from the chatter and chaos. Eunchae, despite being kind, was always surrounded by her own set of friends, and Yoonchae didn't feel like interrupting that bubble. Besides, with her pitiful social life and lack of social skills, it was easier to stay invisible. In her own eyes, she was the antisocial final boss.

Settling into a quiet corner of the gym, far from anyone who might notice her, Yoonchae unwrapped the sandwich she'd picked up on her way to school and reached for the packet of juice. She was just taking a bite when a familiar, sharp voice echoed across the space—one of Megan's friends.

"Dude. Where is she? She doesn't even text us if she is coming to school or not..." one spoke.

"I don't know, maybe something came up? It sucks, anyway, though."

"Yeah... It's weird. Megan never just disappears like this," another said, frowning. "She's usually on time, sitting there like she owns the place, ignoring everyone."

"She seems off nowadays," the first girl added, a note of concern creeping into her voice. "I don’t know… It’s like she’s not herself."

"Yeah," the other agreed, shrugging. "I’ve been noticing it too. Maybe something’s going on at home or… whatever."

There was a pause, the faint clatter of trays and shoes filling the quiet space between them. None of them spoke Megan’s name again, but the worry lingered, subtle and unspoken.

Yoonchae drew a sharp breath, sinking lower into her corner of the gym. They sat in a circle, still completely unaware of her presence. How am I going to get out of this mess? Quick, Yoonchae, think quick! Panic surged through her brain, short-circuiting every rational thought.

"Funny how we didn't see that nerd anywhere either!" one of them barked a laugh.

Shit.

"Weird," another said, smirking. "We'd run into her at least three to five times a day. Guess the girl's having a lucky day."

Yoonchae's heart pounded. She pressed herself against the wall, silently willing herself to disappear entirely.

Until the bell rang and they all filed out of the gym, Yoonchae stayed pressed into her corner, neither sipping nor eating to avoid making a sound. Once the coast was clear, she finally allowed herself to take the rest of her sandwich and juice, eating quickly before tossing the wrappers into the nearest bin.

The remaining hours passed in a quiet blur. Yoonchae felt as if the day were a fever dream—she hadn't been insulted once, hadn't run into Megan, and hadn't even crossed paths with her friends. For once, it had been... a good day.

However, a good day can't really last forever, can it?

After school, Yoonchae met Eunchae at the gates, as they did most days.

"Mom and Dad told us to come to the company," Eunchae said, her voice light, though a hint of confusion lingered beneath it.

"Did they tell you why?" Yoonchae asked, her brows furrowing. 

"No, but they said we had to get there as soon as possible," Eunchae replied, a hint of unease in her tone.

The walk to the company felt like pure hell for both Eunchae and Yoonchae. With their father unable to pay the employees, there were no chauffeurs to drive them—just two girls trudging along the streets. Yoonchae was secretly glad for all the sports she'd done over the years; it at least made the effort bearable.

By the time they neared the company, Yoonchae was practically dragging Eunchae along. Her sister complained constantly, whining about how her legs were giving out, but Yoonchae ignored it. She had learned long ago that whining never got anyone anywhere—especially not in their family. Somehow, though, Eunchae always did.

They rode the lift up to their father's office floor, where his assistant informed them that everyone was waiting in the boardroom.

As they approached, Eunchae reached for the door handle, ready to barge in, but Yoonchae held her back and knocked lightly first.

At the muffled "come in," they stepped inside.

A tall, slender man sat opposite their parents, his expression calm and unreadable, as if nothing in the room could rattle him.

"Girls! Meet Mr. William, the CEO of M&T Corp," their father announced. 

Yoonchae froze, struck by how polite and composed her father sounded—almost... pleasant. It was a tone she rarely heard, and it made her uneasy.

Mr. William stood and extended his hand toward Yoonchae, who was standing closest to his seat, and then to Eunchae, who was beside her.

"Nice to meet you, girls!" he said, his tone even and composed.

"Nice to meet you, too, sir," Yoonchae replied politely, while Eunchae simply nodded, still a little overwhelmed.

"Take a seat," their father said after William sat down. Both girls obeyed without a word.

"Why we wanted you both here," their father continued, his voice wavering slightly under William's intense, unreadable gaze, "is because Mr. William has suggested a solution for our company's situation..."

"A bind," William said, his tone calm but firm, letting the weight of his words hang in the room.

Their father's brows furrowed. "A bind...? What exactly do you mean by that, William?"

William leaned back slightly, fingers steepled. "Your company is in a precarious position. The solution I suggest... involved a union between families. A contractual marriage, if you will. It would stabilize finances, consolidate influence, and preserve your family's reputation."

Yoonchae's stomach dropped. She felt as if the floor had tilted beneath her. A marriage contract?

Her father's jaw tightened. "A marriage? Are you saying... between my daughters and...?"

William nodded smoothly. "Precisely. It's the most efficient way to secure the company's future. Time is critical."

Eunchae's mouth fell open slightly, but Yoonchae barely registered her sister. Her mind was racing—fear, disbelief, and a stubborn flicker of anger all at once.

William's fingers tapped lightly on the table. "I should clarify—my son is out of the question. He's already in a relationship and, well, he's... committed." He paused, as if gauging their reactions. "But my daughter... she is single, and of comparable age to your daughters. A future engagement could be arranged."

Their father's brows knitted tightly, jaw tightening as he struggled to reconcile his pride with the suggestion. "A same-sex arrangement?" His voice was clipped, low, tinged with disapproval.

"Yes," William said evenly. "It may not be traditional, but in terms of protecting both families' interests—finances, influence, reputation—it is the most practical solution. The arrangement would be formalized when the girls are older, but planning can begin now."

Yoonchae's chest tightened. Her parents' rigid faces, the weight of their social expectations, made her stomach knot. 

Her father's hand flexed into a fist on the table. "I... It's not ideal. It's... improper, but... if it secures the company and preserves our standing... then it must be considered."

Her mother's gaze flicked to Yoonchae and Eunchae, as if measuring which daughter would better preserve the family image.

William's tone remained calm. "The final decision must come from you. Speak with your daughters, and ensure they understand the gravity of the situation. This is about family, reputation, and legacy."

There was a long pause. Yoonchae could feel every look in the room burning into her. 

Finally, her father exhaled, jaw still tight. "Eunchae... she is the picture of virtue, flawless in the public eye. Such an arrangement with her... would invite scrutiny we cannot afford. Yoonchae, however... obedient, quiet... You are the safer choice. The family's image remains intact."

Yoonchae's stomach sank. She had always known obedience had its uses, but to be chosen like this—as if her life were a business asset—made her blood run cold. 

William nodded once, decisive. "Then it is settled in principle. Speak with your daughters. Ensure they grasp the seriousness of what is being discussed. Time is of the essence."

Yoonchae's hands curled into fists in her lap, her heart hammering. She could barely breathe. The room felt impossibly small, and the weight of inevitability pressed down on her chest.

Soon, William took his leave, his composed aura lingering like a shadow even after he stepped out of the room.

"The arrangement... between the same sex is unacceptable!" her father roared, slamming a fist on the table. His face was flushed, brows furrowed, jaw tight—every inch of him radiated outrage.

Her mother sat stiffly beside him, lips pressed into a thin line, trying to mask her own unease. "I... I understand your frustration," she said carefully, her voice quieter, but there was a tremor of worry underneath.

Yoonchae stayed silent, heart hammering, hands clenched tightly in her lap. She knew better than to speak—her parents' anger was directed at the idea, not her. Yet every word cut like a knife, a reminder that her life was being bartered as if she were property.

Yoonchae spared a glance at Eunchae, who also had her hands balled into fists in her lap. She felt a deep, aching sorrow for her sister—her closeted pansexuality a secret only Yoonchae had known, and one she had quietly tried to protect.

She had warned her before, pleaded with her to be cautious. And yet... Eunchae still clung to the hope that their parents would choose their child over their irrational hatred for what was less common. Yoonchae knew better. She had seen firsthand that love and acceptance rarely factored into her parents' calculations. 

By nightfall, Yoonchae was summoned to the living room.

"We want you to pack your things. You won't be going to school tomorrow," her father said, his voice detached, each word slipping out as if it tasted bitter in his own mouth.

"William mentioned that his daughter and you should live under the same roof, to... bond before the contract is signed," he continued, letting out a sigh. "I expect you to behave properly," he added, his tone sharp, leaving no room for argument.

Yoonchae felt her chest tighten, a cold knot of panic twisting in her stomach. Live under the same roof... with her... The words echoed in her mind, each repetition making the reality sink deeper.

Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. Anger bubbled under the fear—anger at her parents for treating her like a commodity, anger at William for orchestrating this, anger at the unfairness of it all.

She glanced toward the door, imagining the path ahead: the meetings, the forced smiles, the carefully measured words she'd have to speak around strangers. And then... the stranger she was supposed to live under the same roof with.

The thought made her stomach churn. Great. Just Great. My life just went from unbearable to impossible.

Yoonchae drew in a shaky breath, forcing herself to stand straighter. There was no arguing. No pleading. Obedience had always been her armor. She would survive this—she always did.

But deep down, a stubborn flame of resentment ignited. This wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

Chapter Text

The first light of dawn crept through the blinds, painting the room in muted gold. Yoonchae sat up, stiff and restless, her mind buzzing with the events of the previous night.  

Today... it begins, she thought, heart hammering. Her bags were already packed, but that didn't make the reality any less terrifying.

She had no idea what the house—or the family—would be like. All she knew was that she was being sent to live under the same roof as a stranger. Someone she already disliked before even meeting.

As she got up and freshened herself, a strange, bittersweet feeling tugged at her chest. Growing up, her home had never been a place of warmth or memories worth smiling at—but leaving behind everything familiar, everything she had known since she could remember, still felt like heartbreak.

Once she was ready, Yoonchae threw on a black tee and a worn pair of trousers. Simple, unassuming—but somehow still charming. By 7:25, she was in the living room, greeted by a man waiting with rigid professionalism next to a sleek, black car.

"I'll send the car at 7:30 sharp," William said last night, his tone crisp, professional. Clearly, his punctuality leaves no room for discussion.

Yoonchae mentally took notes. These people run on time. Good to know.

"Yoonchae—right on time! This is Oliver, Mr. William's assistant!" her father said, forced enthusiasm slipping through. Yoonchae sensed Oliver noticed it too, his polite smile almost apologetic as he stepped forward. 

"Let me take that," he said, lifting her bags with ease after calling for Michael, the driver. He loaded them into the car, muttering under his breath that William would blame him if he allowed her to carry even a single bag.

The ride took about half an hour, the car gliding through the quiet streets before pulling up in front of a newly built house. It was sleek and modern, all clean lines and glass—too perfect, too untouched. 

Oliver cleared his throat. "The young master will be arriving later tonight. If you need anything, this is my number. I'll take my leave now, Miss Yoonchae."

And just like that, the house was silent. The faint hum of the air conditioner was the only sound. Yoonchae stepped forward, shoes clicking softly against the polished floors. Every surface gleamed; every corner smelled of fresh paint. 

The kitchen was immaculate—marble counters, black cabinets, and not a speck of dust. She wandered down the hallway: an empty study, a guest room with just a desk and chair, and finally, the master bedroom.

A single bed stood at its center, crisp and intimidating. Her heart sank. This was where she'd be staying. 

With her.

Yoonchae sat down carefully at the edge of the bed, glancing around. Everything looked expensive, but cold. The kind of place that made her feel like she didn't belong. She sighed, lying back against the mattress.

This was going to take a while to get used to.

~

An hour passed. Then another. 

Yoonchae found herself sitting cross-legged on the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the felt. The silence in the house was unbearable—no footsteps, no chatter, not even the faint hum of a television. Just her, the hum of the air conditioner, and the low buzz of her thoughts refusing to quiet down.

Unable to keep her thoughts at bay, Yoonchae let herself spiral a little.

Who was this girl she was supposed to marry?
 

Would they get along?
 

Would she be kind, or cruel, or just indifferent?
 

Was she even okay with this whole thing—or was she trapped too, tangled in the same cold contract?

Her fingers fidgeted with the bedsheets as she exhaled shakily. The questions were endless, and the quiet didn't help.

Somewhere deep inside, she hoped—foolishly—that whoever she was wouldn't be like her parents.

A soft notification beep snapped her out of her spiraling thoughts.

Eunchae: Hey, sorry... I couldn't say goodbye to you. I miss you.

Yoonchae's lips twitched into a faint smile. Her sister's messages were always like this—warm, a little clumsy, and full of feelings Yoonchae could never express out loud.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard for a few seconds before she typed back.

Yoonchae: It's fine. I miss you too. Study hard.
 

A reply came almost instantly. 

Eunchae: You sound like Mom, lol. Be safe, okay? Oh—and let me know if my sister-in-law is a hottie~

Yoonchae exhaled through her nose.

Yoonchae: I am not gay, unnie.

Eunchae: Didn't say you were~

Eunchae: Also, Megan came to school today! She looked so out of it... But she's still so hot. It's unfair.

Yoonchae stared at the screen, her sister's messages lighting up one after another. A small, reluctant smirk tugged at her lips before quickly fading.

Yoonchae: You have questionable taste.

She hit send before she could think twice, tossing her phone aside on the bed. Megan again. Even when she wasn't at school, that name somehow followed her around. 

Her chest tightened slightly—an involuntary reaction she didn't care to name. Megan Skiendiel was the last person she wanted to think about.

She leaned back, eyes tracing the white ceiling above. "Of all people," she muttered under her breath, "why her?"

And as if the universe had decided to mock her, the quiet hum of an engine pulled up outside. Tires rolled over gravel, steady and deliberate. 

Someone was here.

Yoonchae's heart picked up its pace as she made her way downstairs. 

The front door opened, and a woman stepped in—graceful, poised, her smile warm enough to soften the edges of the quiet house.

“Hello, Yoonchae,” she said, voice smooth and kind. “I’m Sylvia—William’s wife. I just wanted to check if there’s anything you might need while you settle in.”

Before Yoonchae could respond, Sylvia closed the distance between them and pulled her into a brief, gentle hug. It caught Yoonchae off guard—the scent of soft perfume, the warmth of genuine affection—so different from the cold, distant embrace she was used to at home.

When Sylvia pulled back, her eyes sparkled with a teasing glint.
“Oh, Mei will absolutely love you,” she said with a grin. “You are definitely her type.”

Yoonchae blinked, caught between confusion and embarrassment. “I—uh—her type?”

Sylvia laughed lightly, waving off the question. “You’ll see soon enough,” she said, tone playful but knowing. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. Just be yourself. She’ll come around faster than you think.”

Yoonchae nodded again. Everything about this woman's warmth felt foreign—almost dizzying. She was so used to her own mother, who barked orders from room to room, a mother who could be triggered by the smallest mistake and wasn't afraid to punish her daughter for it.

This... this was different. Too different.

It felt... safe.

But even as that unfamiliar comfort settled in, Yoonchae's thoughts twisted quietly in the back of her mind. She didn't want Meiyok to "come around." If anything, she'd settle for civility—maybe friendship, if things didn't turn out awful. That would be enough. Romance, though? No. She wasn't built for that—especially not with a girl.
 

“There’s only one bed, I believe,” Sylvia explained, glancing toward the master bedroom. “Meiyok’s father had it built for her eighteenth birthday. He thought it might be nice to give it to her a little early.”

Something about the phrasing made Yoonchae’s stomach tighten—not because of the bed itself, but because of what it might imply. She quickly brushed the thought away before it could root too deep.

Sylvia moved into the kitchen, hands resting on her hips as she surveyed the bare counters.

“Oh my,” she said with a soft gasp. “There’s really nothing in here—we’ll have to stock it up properly.”

Yoonchae followed a few steps behind, quiet and cautious. The way Sylvia moved through the house—so comfortably, like it was already lived in—made the space feel less intimidating, even if only a little.

“So… her name is Meiyok?” Yoonchae asked carefully, her voice tentative.

“Yes! My baby,” Sylvia said, her tone immediately brightening. “She can be a bit aloof around strangers and… well, a little weird at times. But don’t mind that. Once she’s comfortable, she’s the sweetest girl you’ll ever meet.”

Yoonchae nodded, unsure how to respond. Sylvia’s warmth was genuine, but it only added to the strange weight settling in her chest.

After a hesitant pause, Yoonchae blurted, “Uh—I hope you don’t mind me asking—but is she… uhm… homosexual?”

Sylvia’s smile softened, though a flicker of surprise crossed her face. “Darling… would it bother you in any way if she were?” Her tone stayed gentle, but there was something sharper underneath it—a quiet disappointment, maybe.

The question made Yoonchae’s pulse spike. She shook her head quickly, words stumbling out before she could think. “No—no! Not like that. I just—Mr. William said his daughter was single and… would be a choice. I just wondered if she… knew. If she agreed to it. I—I'm sorry, Miss Sylvia, I shouldn’t have asked."

She kept her eyes on the floor, cheeks burning. The air felt thick around her, though she couldn’t quite explain why. It wasn’t disgust—it was discomfort she didn’t know how to name, something she’d carried for so long it felt natural to her.

“She said it wouldn’t necessarily matter to her,” Sylvia replied softly, eyes kind but searching. “But she wanted to make sure you aren’t being forced into this arrangement.” She paused, her tone lightening again. “She’s bisexual, Yoonchae. But I promise you, she’s not someone to be afraid of. Treat her normally, and she’ll do the same.”

Yoonchae nodded, the words slow to sink in. Sylvia’s calm was reassuring, but the thought still made something coil tight inside her. She didn’t understand why the idea unsettled her—only that it did.

“Mei will be back after school,” Sylvia said after a moment, clapping her hands lightly. “Would you accompany me to find food to stock this place properly, Yoonchae?”

“Yes, Mrs. Sylvia,” Yoonchae replied, perhaps a little too stiffly.

Sylvia turned, feigning offense. “What did I tell you to call me, Yoonchae?”

“Oh—sorry! Mom,” Yoonchae corrected quickly, her face warming.

Sylvia smiled, satisfied.

Their shopping trip wrapped up around noon. The car was filled with laughter—mostly Sylvia’s—and grocery bags that clinked softly in the back seat.

When they returned, Sylvia helped Yoonchae carry everything into the kitchen, her energy unbothered and warm.

“Alright, darling,” she said as she opened the car door to leave. “I have some work to attend to. Settle in, make yourself comfortable—and don’t hesitate to call if you need anything.”

Yoonchae nodded, watching the car disappear down the street. The house fell silent again.

Only now, it didn’t feel as empty.
 

Should I make a meal for when Meiyok arrives? she wondered.
 

Either way, she had to eat, so she might as well make something for both of them.

With that in mind, Yoonchae moved toward the kitchen, unpacking a few groceries as she went, trying to settle into the strange, quiet rhythm of the house.

Yoonchae remembered the telephone number Oliver had given her. After a moment of hesitation, she dialed it. The phone rang once. Twice. Then a calm, melodic voice answered. 
 

"Hello?" 

"Hi!" she blurted. "I wanted to ask if she'll eat before coming, or head straight here... I'm making food."

"Oh! She won't. She's coming straight home after school," Oliver replied kindly.

Yoonchae nodded, words failing her as she hung up, then immediately realized she'd nodded as if Oliver could see her.
 

Did I just… nod? Oh god—what’s wrong with me?!

Her gaze drifted over the groceries spread across the counter, the sheer ordinariness of it mocking her indecision. What on earth am I going to make?

After another pause, she picked up her phone. Calling again felt too awkward, too forward. Texting seemed safer. 

Hi, Mom! I'm planning to make something for her when she gets home. Could you let me know what her favorite food is?

She hesitated for a moment, then pressed send. Her heart fluttered stupidly while she waited.

Almost immediately, a reply came.

Hi, Yoonchae! Mei loves Hainanese chicken rice—it's simple, but she adores it. Don't worry too much, darling, she's easy to please. 🙂

Relief trickled through her. Hainanese chicken rice. Okay. That's doable.

She rolled up her sleeves and got to work. The steady rhythm of chopping garlic and ginger calmed her nerves. The scent of simmering broth and steaming rice slowly filled the kitchen, softening the sharp edges of her anxiety.

Still, her mind wandered. What's she like? Aloof? Polite? Or... strange? Sylvia said she's weird. What if she hates what I am making?

She stirred the pot, tasting carefully, adjusting the seasoning by instinct. Each deliberate movement—slice, stir, taste—helped her reclaim a small sense of control in a situation that otherwise felt completely foreign.

By the time the dish was ready, it looked almost professional. The rice glistened under the light, the chicken pale and tender, and the small bowl of aromatic sauce shimmered beside it.

Yoonchae stepped back, breathing in deeply. There. Not bad.

Then the sound of the front door unlocking froze her in place.

Footsteps. Light but steady.

A figure appeared in the doorway—tall, slender. A white T-shirt hung loosely on her frame, paired with faded blue trousers that looked well-worn, lived-in. But it was the mask that drew all of Yoonchae's attention—black, sleek, concealing half her face, revealing only the curve of her mouth and the cool, unreadable eyes above it.

Those eyes flicked around the room once, cool and assessing, before landing on her.

Yoonchae's fingers tightened around the edge of the counter. Okay. Just act normal. Treat her normally.

"Hi," she said softly, her voice barely more than a whisper. "I... made this for you."

Meiyok tilted her head slightly. The mask hid most of her expression, but her eyes betrayed a flicker—something like curiosity and surprise.

"I... um... Hope you like it," Yoonchae added quickly. 

The air between them seemed to hold its breath.

Meiyok took a slow step closer, gaze dropping to the plate. The silence stretched, just long enough to make Yoonchae question every decision she'd made that day.

Finally, Meiyok spoke, her voice calm and low—smooth like glass.

"It smells... good."

Yoonchae let out the breath she didn't realize she'd been holding.

Okay. Survived the greeting.

Chapter Text

Yoonchae sat across from Meiyok at the dining table, the two of them eating Hainanese chicken rice in heavy, shared silence. The clink of chopsticks against porcelain echoed in the otherwise quiet house, each tap loud enough to make Yoonchae flinch. Every small sound—the scrape of a bowl on the table, the faint rustle of Meiyok’s movements—felt like a signal, like the calm before a storm she couldn’t see.

Sylvia had been right so far—the girl was aloof. And weird. Aloof in a way that didn’t feel unkind, just deliberate, like she’d built a wall and expected everyone else to adjust their height accordingly.

Yoonchae tried not to stare, but she couldn’t help it. The mask fascinated her. Sleek, black, covering the upper half of Meiyok’s face. Not bulky, not decorative—just precise, clean, intimate in its control. Every time Meiyok spoke, the mask shifted slightly, catching the light, drawing attention to her mouth. The lips beneath were calm, unhurried when they moved, sharper when silent.

“You’re staring,” Meiyok said, not even glancing up from her plate.

Heat crawled up Yoonchae’s neck. She set her chopsticks down too quickly, the sharp clatter echoing like a mistake in judgment. “I’m not,” she said flatly, then added under her breath, “You’re just… hard to read.”

“Good,” Meiyok replied dryly. Her voice wasn’t sharp, but it had weight, filling the silence like smoke curling around a candle flame.

A few beats passed. Then, without looking up, Meiyok said quietly, “Thanks for the meal.” She pushed her empty bowl forward—spotless. The small, meaningless detail stirred something odd in Yoonchae’s chest. Pride? Satisfaction? She shoved it down before it could take root.

“Uh—my name is Y—”

“Yoonchae,” Meiyok interrupted smoothly, finally lifting her gaze. “I know.”

The way her name rolled off Meiyok’s tongue made Yoonchae freeze. It sounded too natural. Too familiar. It shouldn’t have felt… good. But it did.

She blinked rapidly, forcing composure back into her voice. “What should I call you then?”

“Meiyok. Mei. Whatever fits your liking.”

She stood, walked a few paces toward the hall, then paused.

“—or baby.”

The word hit like a jolt to Yoonchae’s chest.

She blinked, certain she’d misheard. “Excuse me?”

But Meiyok was already gone—turning a corner, footsteps light, casual, unhurried.

Yoonchae sat there, staring at the doorway, pulse hammering. Sylvia had said that if she treated Meiyok normally, Meiyok would do the same.

But this?

This wasn’t normal.

This was a trap wrapped in silk.

Cleaning up gave her something to do, but her mind wouldn’t stop replaying it—baby. The word looped in her head like a curse, the way Meiyok said it, confident, deliberate, already knowing how it would hit her.

By the time she reached the bedroom, exhaustion threatened to collapse her. But when she opened the door, her fatigue vanished instantly.

There was only one bed. She forgot about that part.

Large, perfectly made, sheets—smooth and untouched, centered like a spotlight. Yoonchae’s eyes darted around, searching for any alternative—a couch, a spare futon, anything. Nothing. Not even a blanket on the floor. 

Her stomach sank. “No. Nope. Not happening.”

She was still staring at the mattress like it had personally offended her when a low voice came from behind.

“Something wrong?”

Yoonchae spun around.

Meiyok leaned lazily against the doorframe, mask still on, arms folded loosely. The faintest smirk touched her lips, but her eyes—sharp, glinting under the dim light—betrayed amusement.

“There’s only one bed,” Yoonchae blurted, sharper than she meant.

Meiyok tilted her head, feigning confusion. “You noticed.”

“You mean—you knew?”

“Of course,” Meiyok said smoothly. “It’s my room, technically. Unless you plan to sleep standing up, I guess we’ll have to share.”

Her words were casual, almost too casual. Like a statement that expected no argument.

“Share? Absolutely not. I’ll… figure something out,” Yoonchae said quickly, voice tightening.

“Suit yourself.” Meiyok walked past her, brushing close enough that Yoonchae caught a faint trace of perfume—clean, faintly floral, dizzying. She sat on the edge of the bed, graceful and unbothered. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you. The floor gets cold.”

“I’ll live,” Yoonchae muttered, pretending her heart wasn’t racing.

“Relax, Yoonchae,” Meiyok said, reclining back on the pillows, her voice lower now—lazy and deliberate. “I don’t bite. Unless you ask nicely.”

Yoonchae stiffened. The air between them thickened, charged.

She grabbed a blanket and pillow from the closet, clutching them like armor. “I’ll sleep in the living area,” she said, not trusting her voice to stay even.

Behind her, Meiyok’s soft laugh followed—low, curling like smoke.
“Sweet dreams, baby.”

The living room was cold. The floor bit through her socks. The couch—small, decorative, almost hostile—barely supported her weight. She wrapped herself in the blanket, staring at the ceiling. The silence felt alive, humming with leftover tension.

Even with walls between them, she could feel Meiyok’s presence—somewhere upstairs, still awake, probably smiling.

How could someone be so calm? So self-assured?

“Stop overthinking,” she whispered.

But she couldn’t. The mask. The voice. The teasing confidence.
They clung to her thoughts like static electricity.

Tomorrow would be different.
Tomorrow she’d keep her distance.

Because if Meiyok kept talking like that, Yoonchae was sure she’d lose her mind.

Morning arrived reluctantly—pale, heavy, too soon.

Yoonchae barely felt like she’d slept. Every creak of the house kept her half-awake. Every faint sound upstairs dragged her back from the edge of rest.

Dragging herself upright, she ran a hand through her tangled hair and shivered. The blanket had fallen to the floor sometime during the night, leaving her chilled and aching.

As she folded it, a faint noise upstairs made her pause. Footsteps. Meiyok. Awake.

Yoonchae told herself she didn’t care. She’d make breakfast. Simple. Quick. Minimal interaction.

In the kitchen, she focused on rhythm. The click of the toaster, the soft hiss of the kettle, butter melting slowly. Ordinary, safe sounds. The smell of toast and coffee filled the room, warm and grounding.

For a moment, she almost believed last night hadn’t happened—that she wasn’t living in a stranger’s house, sharing air with someone who seemed designed to throw her off balance.

Then the air shifted.

She didn’t hear footsteps, but she felt her. Subtle, like static before lightning.

“Good morning, gorgeous. Slept well?”

Yoonchae froze mid-motion, butter knife hovering above the toast.

Meiyok leaned casually against the doorframe, mask still in place. Morning light cut across her face, highlighting gold and shadow. She looked entirely too comfortable for someone about to deliver chaos before breakfast.

“I—uh…” Yoonchae fumbled. “I didn’t sleep well.”

“Mm,” Meiyok hummed, stepping closer. “Sorry to hear that… maybe I can help you feel better?”

Yoonchae’s pulse thudded painfully. Did she just—? No. She wasn’t going there.

“No,” she said sharply. “Just—breakfast.”

Meiyok’s laugh was soft, lingering. “You look better when you’re flustered.”

“Shut up.”

“Oh, come on,” Meiyok teased, tilting her head. “Did you just fall for me already? I haven’t even taken this thing off, and here you are—enchanted.”

The word enchanted twisted something inside Yoonchae.

“I said shut up,” she snapped, voice trembling slightly.

“Feisty,” Meiyok murmured, smirk audible. “I like it.”

Yoonchae gripped the counter until her knuckles went white. “I’m not gay,” she muttered under her breath, more to herself than anyone else. “Just go sit down.”

Meiyok chuckled. “If you say so.”

Yoonchae turned away, hands moving mechanically—spread, cut, pour. Normal actions. Controlled motions.

But her mind refused to quiet.

When she looked back, Meiyok was still there, watching. Mask catching light again, eyes impossible to read.

“Tell me something,” Meiyok said softly. “You really not into girls?”

Yoonchae froze. No teasing this time. Only curiosity, edged with unreadable weight.

She swallowed hard. “I’m not.”

Meiyok tilted her head. “Pity.”

The corner of her mouth curved—smile?

“What?” Yoonchae managed.

Meiyok stepped forward, air thinning. Eyes flicked to the toast. “Should I eat that—”

A beat.

“—or you?”

The knife nearly slipped from Yoonchae’s fingers.

Her breath caught—too fast, too sharp.

“Excuse me?”

Meiyok’s smile deepened beneath the mask. “You heard me.”

Yoonchae’s pulse roared. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe,” Meiyok said simply. “But you’re blushing.”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” Meiyok said, amusement threading through every word. “Adorable when you try to pretend otherwise.”

Yoonchae exhaled sharply, slamming the plate down. “You think this is funny?”

“I think you’re interesting,” Meiyok replied, unbothered. “And maybe a little cute when you’re angry.”

“Stop talking,” Yoonchae said—weakly.

“Make me.”

Two words. Light. Daring. Dangerous.

Yoonchae didn’t move. Couldn’t. The kitchen felt small, air thick, every nerve screaming at her to leave, but her feet wouldn’t obey.

It wasn’t an attraction. Couldn’t be. Just pressure. Psychological warfare.

Finally, she turned away, clutching her mug. “Eat your damn breakfast,” she muttered. “Before I throw it out the window.”

Meiyok laughed softly, low and satisfied. “See? Feisty and threatening. I like you already.”

“Good for you,” Yoonchae shot back, refusing to look.

Silence followed—but it wasn’t empty. It pulsed.

Yoonchae could feel her watching, could practically hear the smirk in the air.

The smell of coffee hung thick, bitter, grounding.

She realized, sinking with certainty: this was only the beginning.

Meiyok wasn’t going to stop until she completely unraveled her.

And worse—some small, traitorous part of her wasn’t sure she wanted to give Meiyok that satisfaction.

Chapter Text

Being young was about taking risks—or at least, that was what Megan told herself every time she did something her father wouldn't approve of.

Sneaking out.

Kissing girls she'd never see again.

Acting like consequences were optional.

She told herself it was freedom. But lately, even rebellion felt choreographed.

But in their household, risk was a word wrapped in caution tape. Her brother and she had grown up under constant watch, taught to move gracefully through a world that saw everything but them.

Megan had always been the brighter one—or at least, the more visible one. She was passionate, quick-witted, and just unlucky enough in English to make her teachers sigh dramatically. Her brother, quieter, sharper with numbers, had been homeschooled his whole life. Megan, though, had been thrown into the polished chaos of an elite academy—her father's idea of "social education."

Her father, William Skiendiel, was an enigma. Everyone in town knew the brand, but no one knew the man. The company's logo was etched on every billboard, every product, yet his face was a ghost in every room he entered.

Megan's purpose had always been clear: to live without her father's shadow becoming her identity. To exist as Megan Skiendiel, not Mr. Skiendiel's daughter.

At least until she looked around and saw who surrounded her.

The people she spent her time at school with were the offspring of her father's allies—the children of tycoons and investors who treated reputation like oxygen. Every one of them was glossy, loud, and a little bit broken. "Assholes," she often thought...

She was tired of the act, though. Tired of being a walking portrait of composure, of smiling when she wanted to scream. Tired of feigning nonchalance, of pretending not to notice when the same people who flirted with her in the night called her cold in the daylight.

It is a Monday morning, and she sat outside Manon Bannerman's house—Manon, whose family owned half the properties in the district. The girls had been best friends for more than a decade, which meant Megan had spent just as long watching her friend try to burn the world down for fun. 

Manon led them to the backyard, barefoot, reckless, beautiful in that defiant way that money couldn't quite polish. Beside her was Sophia Laforteza—her girlfriend, the golden student who could out-argue any teacher in her school. Opposite them sat Lara Rajagopalan, lounging with her usual quiet amusement, and next to her was Daniela Avanzini, curls haloing her face like firelight.

Here, surrounded by them, Megan could almost breathe.

To her dismay, all of them attended different schools: Manon and Sophia went to one school, while Daniela and Lara attended another. “God knew we’d be too powerful if we all attended the same school,” Lara once said.

"So... what should we do today?" Manon asked, twirling a glass of soda like it was champagne.

"Sleep," Sophia said flatly.

"Drink," Lara suggested.

"Cry," Daniela added.

Megan laughed, for real, after a long time. "All of the above, maybe."

The ease shattered when her phone buzzed, the ringtone slicing through the chatter. Every girl turned toward it like it had insulted them.

"Work call?" Manon teased.

Megan glanced at the screen. "Dad," she murmured.

"Yikes."

"Yeah."

She stepped away, picking up. "Hey, Dad," she said, trying to sound casual.

A pause. His voice was low, controlled.

"Come home. We need to talk."

No greeting, no reason. Just that.

"Okay," she said softly.

When she hung up, the laughter from the backyard suddenly felt distant. "I've gotta go,"

Manon frowned. "Again?"

"Yeah," Megan sighed. "He probably found out I failed that calculus quiz."

Manon rolled her eyes but didn't argue. "Want me to drop you off?"

Megan nodded, grateful. Within minutes, she was sliding into Manon's car; the drive home was quiet, except for the hum of traffic and Sophia's Broadway playlist playing from the Bluetooth.

By the time the car stopped in front of the towering gates of her family estate, Megan's stomach had tied itself into neat, nervous knots.

The mansion loomed ahead, sleek and symmetrical. It looked less like a home and more like an exhibit—expensive, cold, untouchable.

Inside, the air was still, and silence filled the room. Her mother sat in the living area, reading by the window in a soft cardigan, framed by sunlight.

"Sweetie!" Sylvia called, looking up with a bright smile, her eyes disappearing into crescents. "Your father's waiting for you in the study."

Of course, he was.

Megan smiled back faintly. "Thanks, Mom."

She made her way down the corridor, her steps silent on the marble floor. The house smelled faintly of jasmine tea and paper—a scent that always clung to her father's workspace.

She stopped at the study room, exhaled once, then knocked twice.

"Come in," came the familiar voice.

She pushed the door open.

Her father sat behind his desk, posture straight, eyes cool and focused. His presence filled the room like gravity.

"Megan," he said. "Sit."

She dropped into the chair opposite him, feigning ease. "So... what did I do this time?"

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he set down his pen and looked at her—really looked. His expression didn't soften, but something in his gaze did.

"You've been going out a lot lately."

"Yeah, well, I'm seventeen, not seventy," she said, crossing her legs.

"And kissing girls in alleys?" he asked casually, flipping through a folder.

Megan blinked. "You've been spying on me again?"

"Spying is a strong word," he said mildly. "Let's call it... concerned parenting."

She groaned, slouching. "So this is about that?"

He ignored the question entirely. "You're reckless, Megan. Brilliant, but reckless. You think youth excuses everything."

"Doesn't it?" she shot back, half-smiling.

His lips twitched, almost amused. "Not when you carry our name."

There it was—the family reminder. The invisible leash.

Megan exhaled. "Fine. You win. What's this really about?"

He leaned back slightly, eyes unreadable. "A proposal."

Her head snapped up. "What kind of proposal?"

"A partnership," he said, tone neutral. "With the M&T Corp. and another firm in Korea. They're going through financial restructuring, but the patriarch—Mr. Han has potential."

Megan frowned. "So, business stuff. Okay. Still not sure why I'm here."

"You'll be staying in the house I had built for you," he said. "The other party's daughter will be staying there as well. You'll live together for a while. I want you to move there tomorrow itself."

She blinked. "Wait—live together?"

"It's not permanent," he said calmly. "It's... an arrangement. I want you to get to know her, understand her. See if a partnership—personal or professional—could benefit both families."

"Dad." Her voice dropped. "That sounds like an arranged marriage."

He didn't deny it.

"You're unbelievable," she muttered, rubbing her temple. "You're trying to make me play house with some random stranger because it'll 'benefit the family?'"

"You'll still be in control," he said quietly. "If you don't get along, you leave. No one's forcing anything. But I expect you to try."

Megan huffed out a laugh. "You expect a lot of things, though."

He met her gaze evenly. "I expect you to grow."

Her jaw clenched. "And what if she doesn't want this?"

His tone softened—barely. "That's her choice."

"Good," Megan said. "Because I'm not doing this unless she's free to walk away."

He nodded once. 

Then Megan sighed, sinking back in her chair. "So, what's her name?"

Her father hesitated. "... I don't remember."

She blinked. "You don't remember?"

"I didn't write it down." He looked thoughtful, almost detached. "It was something soft. Korean. I'll have your mother check the papers."

Megan stared at him in disbelief. "You want me to live with a stranger and you can't even remember her name?"

"She's near your age," he said evenly. "Quiet, from what I gathered. You'll find out soon enough."

Megan let out a humorless laugh, shaking her head. "You're unreal."

"I'd like to think that I'm practical," he corrected.

"You're insane," she countered.

He gave a faint smile. "And you're my daughter. Which means you'll handle it."

She rolled her eyes but couldn't hide the small, reluctant smile tugging at her lips. "You really think this will work?"

"I think," he said, voice calm but warm underneath, "you'll surprise yourself."

She studied him for a beat, then sighed. "Fine. I'll do it. But if she's miserable, I'm walking out,"

"Fair," he said simply.

She stood, half-turning toward the door. "Guess I should start packing."

He nodded once. "And Megan?"

She looked back.

"I'm proud of you," he said quietly. "Even if you're reckless."

The words hung there, unexpected and heavy.

For a moment, she didn't know what to say. So she just smiled faintly. "Don't get sappy, old man."

"I'll try not to," he murmured, returning to his papers.

Megan shut the study door behind her, pressing her back to the cool wood for a moment. 

The muffled hum of her father's voice on another call slipped through the wall—steady, composed, untouchable.

She hated that tone. 

The one that made people say yes before they even realized they had a choice.

She made her way upstairs, the quiet grandeur of the Skiendiel mansion swallowing her footsteps. The place always felt too clean, too large—like a museum built to prove a point. 

In her room, the late afternoon light cut through the curtains, painting the floor gold. She kicked off her shoes and fell back on her bed, staring at the ceiling. 

An arranged cohabitation. 

With some girl her father couldn't even remember the name of. 

Fantastic.

She grabbed a pillow and groaned into it. "What the hell, Dad?"

~

It wasn't that she was against helping him. She understood the game. Connections, loyalty, alliances—they all built the empire she'd been born into. But living with a stranger? Playing nice to please the shareholders?

That wasn't really her.

She rolled onto her side, picking absently at a thread on her comforter. The girl—whoever she was—was someone probably just as unwilling as Megan.

Still, Megan wasn't about to make it easy for her.

'If she wanted to leave,' Megan thought, she'd make sure she wanted to.

All she had to do was be herself. Not the carefully edited daughter her parents paraded at fundraisers, but the real her—the unpredictable one. The one who skipped etiquette lessons and broke hearts out of boredom.

Her father wanted this to fail quietly if it had to. So that's what she'd give him—a quiet failure. Controlled chaos.

A slow smile crept onto her lips. "If she's smart, she'll pack up within a week."

But something about the idea didn't sit right.

She wasn't cruel. 

Not really.

Megan pressed a hand to her forehead, sighing. She didn't even know what this girl looked like. Didn't know what kind of person she was. For all she knew, she might as well be a daughter trying to survive her father's decisions.

The thought dimmed the humor from her grin.

Fine. 

She'd meet her.

She'd be civil—at first.

But if the girl got clingy or awkward or started talking about "future plans," Megan would find a way to make her walk away.

A week. Maybe two. 

No hard feelings.

Her mind spun through the possibilities like a chessboard she hadn't asked to play on. 

Maybe she'd start by being impossible to read—quiet, cold, uninterested. That always scared people off faster than insults. If that didn't work, she could ramp it up—be unbearable, sarcastic, detached.

Not cruel. Just... intolerably rude.

Yes. That would work. That should do the work.

Her gaze drifted to the dance medals lined up on her shelf. She’d worked for years for them, her father calling it “discipline.”
But what was discipline without choice?

She sat up slowly, rubbing at her temples.

Somewhere downstairs, her mother’s laughter floated faintly through the halls. For a second, Megan wanted to run down there, tell her that her husband had officially lost his mind—but what would that change?

Nothing ever did.

So instead, she stood, crossed to her window, and stared out at the garden below. The koi pond glimmered under the fading light, calm and oblivious.

“How do you make someone leave,” she murmured to herself, “without becoming the villain?”

No answer came.

But she’d figure it out. She always did.

By nightfall, her room was dark except for the glow of her phone screen. Manon had texted three times—

Manon: so what'd he want?

Manon: ur silence is suspicious

Manon: Don't tell me he found out about the girl from the club

Megan snorted, typing back,

Megan: worse. I'm getting a roommate.

Seconds later, her phone lit up again. 

Manon: u mean like a hostage situation??

Megan: Basically.

Manon: Is she cute tho?

Megan paused. Then typed:

Megan: No clue. Dad forgot her name.

Manon: lmao he's gonna die with secrets. Keep me posted. Also. If she's annoying. I'll kidnap u.

Megan smiled faintly, thumbs hesitating above the screen before replying:

Megan: If she lasts more than a week, I'll be impressed.

She set the phone down and stared at the ceiling again.

It wasn't fear that kept her awake that night. It was curiosity—unfamiliar, and unwelcome.

Whoever the girl was, she had no idea what she was walking into.

And Megan Skiendiel, reckless and restless, wasn't sure if she was more interested in making her leave...

Or seeing how long she could stand her ground.

Chapter Text

The next day rolled in like a punishment. 

Her alarm went off at 6:00 a.m. sharp, the shrill beeping echoing off the walls of her room. Megan groaned, rolling over and dragging a pillow over her face. The sound kept stabbing through the silence until she smacked the side table hard enough to make it stop.

She stared at the ceiling for a long moment, breathing through the dull ache in her chest.

Today was moving day.

She was supposed to leave this house—the one that smelled like polished wood and mother's perfume, the one that had always felt like a gilded cage—and move into that house. The one her father had built for her. The one she'd share with someone else she didn't know.

Someone who, technically, was supposed to be her future.

"Oh, I'm going to miss my freedom," she muttered, dragging herself upright. Her voice came out hoarse, soaked in sarcasm.

Being seventeen wasn't supposed to feel this heavy. She hadn't even graduated high school yet, and here she was—living inside her father's idea of stability. Marriage before meaning. Partnership before choice.

Megan hated the whole concept. Arranged marriage. What an archaic joke. It was nothing more than a business deal, prettied up with vows and fine china. 

Love? She almost laughed at the thought.

Love was a word people used to justify foolishness. The ultimate excuse to lose yourself in someone else and call it growth. She didn't want that. She didn't want to belong to anyone.

No—love wasn't enough. Love didn't hold people together when the cracks appeared. She'd seen that firsthand. Her parents had screamed at each other for days—cold silences, closed doors, whispered threats that echoed down the hall. But somehow, they always circled back.

It wasn't love that fixed them. It was a choice. Commitment.

The mutual understanding that even when times were tough, they wouldn't leave.

That was what Megan respected. Not love—loyalty.

So yeah, Megan Meiyok Skiendiel didn't believe in fairy tales. 

And she wasn't about to chain herself to one girl for the sake of saving face. 

Her solution had always been simple—be the heartbreaker before someone breaks you.

Not that she'd actually broken any hearts. Her flings were brief, shallow things. Exchanges of attention, not affection. A few late-night calls, stolen glances at parties, the kind of kisses that meant nothing and ended easily.

It was easier that way. Cleaner.

She stretched, finally swinging her legs off the bed. Her uniform hung neatly on the chair, pressed and perfect—Sylvia's doing, probably. Everything in her life was pressed and perfect. Except her.

The bathroom tiles were cold under her feet as she stepped in. She turned on the shower, waiting for the steam to fill the space before stepping under the hot spray. The water beat down against her skin, tracing a path down her spine.

For a few seconds, she just stood there—eyes closed, breathing in the smell of soap and steam. Trying not to think about the girl she'd be meeting soon.

Her father hadn't even remembered the girl's name. That alone told her how little it mattered who the other person was. She was a placeholder. A convenient link between two families. 

Megan ran a hand through her wet hair and sighed.

"Thanks, Dad," she muttered under her breath, voice lost in the noise of the water.

She finished quickly—shower, brush, uniform. Every movement was mechanical, efficient. No time to think. No space for panic.

By the time she walked down the stairs, Holly was already waiting for her at the door, standing neat and proper beside her luggage. Holly had worked under Oliver—her father's right-hand man—for years. Loyal, quiet, dependable.

"Have a good day at school, Miss Megan," Holly said with a polite smile.

Megan nodded, slinging her bag over one shoulder. "I'll try."

She slid into the backseat of the black sedan, the door closing with a soft, expensive click. The house loomed behind her, massive and silent, its white walls gleaming in the early light.

As the driver started the car, Megan leaned her forehead against the cool window and watched her home blur into the distance. 

The city passed in muted color. Trees. Buildings. Faces she didn't know. The world felt like it was moving on without her, and she was stuck in slow motion, waiting for something to change.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Lara.

Lara: Girl, did you die or something? 

Lara: Daniela thinks you're eloping.

Megan scoffed softly.

Megan: Not eloping. Being sold off like a corporate share.

The reply came instantly. 

Lara: So... same thing?

She smiled faintly despite herself. Lara always knew how to make her laugh, even in the middle of a breakdown.

Still, the smile faded just as fast.

The car turned into the school gates, and her stomach felt tight with unease. She had classes to sit through, friends to lie to, and a secret future waiting for her that she wanted no part of.

And later—after the bell rang, after she pretended everything was fine—she'd be moving into that house.

Her father's gift to her.

Her cage.

~

School was unbearable.

The kind of unbearable that made every clock tick sound like mockery.

Every voice grated against her nerves.

Every fake laugh from her classmates felt like static in her head.

Megan wasn't even trying to listen. She'd tuned out the teacher halfway through first period, her chin resting on her hand as she stared out the window. The morning sunlight did nothing to warm the heavy knot in her chest.

She'd always been the type of girl people gravitated toward—bright, composed, intimidatingly untouchable. But today, every gaze on her felt heavier, sharper. Word traveled fast in their circle; one rumor, one whisper, and suddenly everyone thought they were entitled to know everything about her life.

"Megan, you've been weird lately," Emily said during lunch, her brows furrowing as she nudged Megan's tray with her fork. "You barely text anymore. What's going on?"

"Nothing," Megan said flatly, stabbing at her food without interest.

Adéla snorted. "Nothing, my ass. You disappeared, and your head isn't anywhere here when you are here."

Megan's jaw tightened. She didn't look up.

Lexie raised a brow, leaning in with the kind of curiosity that could slice. "Now you are avoiding, what are you hiding?"

The table buzzed with knowing laughter, but Megan didn't join in. She could feel their eyes on her, expectant and pressing.

Then Emily's voice cut through—careless, biting. 

"Speaking of... where's that weird girl? Yoonchae? Haven't seen her since yesterday. Maybe she finally realized she doesn't belong here."

Megan froze mid-bite.

"She probably dropped out," Lexie added with a shrug. "Not like she ever talked to anyone anyway. Always acting like she's above us—"

"Lay it off," Megan said quietly.

It wasn't loud. 

It wasn't sharp.

But the tone—cold, deliberate—made the whole table still.

Emily blinked, thrown. "What?"

"I said, lay it off," Megan repeated, finally lifting her gaze. Her expression didn't waver, but her voice carried an edge that cut through the chatter. "She didn't do anything to you. Just drop it."

The silence that followed was thick and uncomfortable.

Adéla frowned. "Since when do you care? Megan, she's literally—"

"I don't," Megan interrupted, voice calm but taut. "But you're all acting like she kicked your dog or something. Just... enough."

It was too much honesty, too quickly.

And the backlash came just as fast.

Lexie leaned back, arms crossed. "What the hell happened to you? You used to be fun. Now you're—what? Defending nobodies?"

Adéla scoffed. "Yeah, what's with this sudden moral compass? Since when do you go soft?"

"I didn't," Megan said, standing up. Her chair scraped the floor, the sound sharp enough to make a few heads turn from nearby tables. "I just grew tired of watching you tear people down for sport."

Emily laughed under her breath. "Wow. You really changed, huh?"

Maybe she had. Maybe she hadn't. Megan wasn't sure anymore.

But as she turned and walked away, she realized she didn't care what they thought.

By the time the final bell rang, the weight of their words had already faded into background noise. She had bigger things to worry about. 

Like moving into her house, where a stranger will be staying.

The car ride home was quiet. Too quiet. The city blurred by in streaks of gold and gray, and Megan caught her reflection in the tinted window. Composed. Collected. Perfect.
All a performance.

By the time the car slowed to a stop in front of the new house, she felt something inside her twist—half anxiety, half curiosity, and a small, reckless spark of excitement she didn’t want to name.

Nervous. Excited.
Cruel.

That’s how she felt.

She stepped out of the car, her shoes crunching against the gravel driveway. The house stood tall and modern, built with the kind of quiet luxury that screamed Skiendiel money—her father’s brand of affection.

The front door loomed.
Megan inhaled once, steadying herself, then turned the knob.

The air inside was warm.
And then it hit her—

A smell.

Soft. Familiar. Hainanese chicken rice.
Her favorite.

Her stomach twisted in confusion. Who the hell—

She followed the scent through the corridor, each step slower than the last, until she reached the kitchen.

And froze.

There she was. 

The girl standing in her kitchen, moving around like she belonged there—soft movements, hair tied loosely, sleeves rolled up—

Yoonchae.

Megan's breath caught for a fraction of a second. Just one.

Enough to make her chest tighten before she pulled it all back in.

Of course, it's her.

The one girl she'd never expected to see again—the one her friends used to talk about like a punchline, like a toy to mock when boredom hit.

And now, here she was, standing in her kitchen, carefully plating her favorite dish.

The irony wasn’t lost on Megan.
She almost laughed. Almost.

Instead, she leaned against the doorway, letting the silence stretch. The faint hum of the refrigerator filled the space — too quiet, too still.
She needed a moment to gather herself, to decide what version of Meiyok to wear.

Calm. Controlled. Unreadable.

The black mask helped. It was more than just anonymity — it was armor.

Yoonchae turned, startled by the sound of her footsteps.
When their eyes met, Megan felt something odd — a flicker, a shift.

She’d spent years learning how to read people, how to dismantle them with precision. But with Yoonchae, all she could do was stare back, quietly aware that her chest felt too tight for no reason she wanted to name.

The girl looked like she’d seen a ghost — or maybe a stranger she wanted to run from.

“Hi,” Yoonchae said softly. “I… made this for you.”

Her voice was small, careful.
The kind of voice that didn’t expect kindness in return.

Megan tilted her head slightly, buying time to breathe.
She could feel the weight of Yoonchae’s stare, waiting for judgment.

Her eyes dropped to the dish — Hainanese chicken rice, the same kind Sylvia used to make when she was younger.
It looked good. Better than she’d expected. Too familiar for comfort.

Something fluttered, unwanted, deep in her chest.
She ignored it.

“I… um… Hope you like it,” Yoonchae added quickly, voice trembling at the edges.

Megan said nothing at first. Just let the quiet thicken, her gaze steady but unreadable.
Her mind, however, was anything but calm.

Why her? Out of everyone, why did it have to be her?

The smell, the memory, the years of teenage cruelty echoing faintly in her ears — it all clashed with the way Yoonchae was standing there now, nervous but still trying to hold herself together.

Finally, Megan spoke.
“It smells… good.”

The words were simple, almost dismissive, but her tone betrayed the smallest slip — something too soft, too sincere.

Yoonchae exhaled, visibly relieved.
And Megan had to look away, before that relief made her feel something she didn’t want to.

Although inside, her thoughts wouldn't quiet. 

She'd spent years avoiding things that made her feel. Feelings complicated control. And now she was standing here, pretending this wasn't the same girl whose eyes she'd watched dull with humiliation years ago when Emily and the others whispered in the hallways.

Yoonchae hadn't deserved that.

She'd known it then, and she knew it now.

But knowing didn't stop her from staying silent.

And now, life had forced them under one roof.

Her father's voice echoed faintly in her head.

"But I expect you to try."

She had agreed. Out of duty. Out of pride.
And maybe, deep down, because she wanted to see what kind of person would be desperate enough — strong enough — to survive the weight of their name.

And apparently, it was her.

Megan’s lips curved under the mask — not into a smile, but something close.

“This should be interesting,” she murmured to herself.

From the doorway, she watched Yoonchae move again — setting the table, adjusting the plates like it mattered if they were perfectly straight.
The simplicity of it all — the effort, the normalcy — it grated and intrigued her in equal measure.

Yoonchae was careful, deliberate, every action polished by the need to not be too much.
And Megan, who had spent her whole life being too much, found that quietly infuriating.

Still, she said nothing.

Not yet.

Instead, she took a step forward, the faint creak of the floor making Yoonchae glance up again.
Megan met her gaze head-on, her voice smooth, low, and practiced.

“It smells good,” she repeated, this time letting her tone drop just slightly —
not enough to be kind, but enough to be noticed.

Then she crossed the kitchen, brushed past Yoonchae just close enough for the faintest hint of her perfume to linger, and reached for a glass of water.

And just like that—the walls were built, the game began, and no one knew whether Megan's next move would be mercy or cruelty.

Chapter Text

Yoonchae tried.

She really did.

She tried not to combust, not to dissolve into atoms under Meiyok's relentless presence. But the girl was unbearable.

She couldn't, for the life of her, understand why Meiyok was flirting this much— or at all

"I'm not gay," Yoonchae had told her, a little too firmly, voice cracking somewhere in the middle.

It didn't make the slightest difference.

Meiyok had just tilted her head, that infuriating little smirk partly hidden behind the mask, but obvious in her tone when she said,

"Pity."

But somehow, it almost felt like that single word flipped a switch—one labeled I’ll be gay enough for the both of us.

Yoonchae swore her brain short-circuited on the spot.

So she spent the rest of the morning trying to act normal. Whatever that meant.

When she came downstairs, dressed neatly in her school uniform, the scent of toasted bread from before faintly filled the kitchen. Meiyok was already there—leaning against the counter, mask still on, hoodie hanging loosely over her frame, and oversized sweatpants pooling around her ankles.

No uniform, Yoonchae noticed. Of course.

Meiyok turned slightly, eyes flicking over Yoonchae from head to toe in a single, lazy sweep.

“Cute,” she said simply, reaching for a slice of toast.

Yoonchae blinked. “You’re not going to school?”

“I am,” Meiyok replied around a bite, “just not the same kind of school.”

The response made no sense, and Yoonchae knew better than to ask. So she just grabbed her bag, muttered something that could’ve been have a good day, and headed toward the car waiting outside.

The drive was quiet. Not awkward—just charged. Every so often, Yoonchae could feel Meiyok’s gaze shift her way, like she was being studied.

When the car stopped at the school gates, Yoonchae hurried to get out.

“See you,” she said quickly.

“Count on it,” Meiyok answered, tone unreadable behind the mask.

The car rolled away, disappearing into traffic.

Yoonchae let out a slow breath, adjusting her bag before stepping onto school grounds.

For a few blissful moments, it almost felt normal again.

Until it didn’t.

She rounded the corner of the hallway and froze.

Her bullies.

They were standing near her locker—laughing, leaning against the wall like they owned the place. She tried to turn around, but one of them stepped right into her path.

“Watch where you’re going next time, loser,” one sneered before brushing past her shoulder.

Yoonchae stumbled, catching herself against the wall.

Weird.

That was… weird.

They never let her off that easy.

It doesn’t end so easily for me, she thought.

It never does.

The rest of the day passed like static. Her classmates whispered, teachers lectured, the clock ticked—and through it all, something in the air felt off.

Because Megan Skiendiel—the girl who always had a crowd orbiting her—was sitting alone.

Her so-called friends weren’t with her.

No laughter, no chaos. Just silence.

And somehow, that silence felt louder than anything else in the room.

Yoonchae didn’t know what to make of it.

Didn’t want to know.

Anything involving Megan was… complicated. Too tangled. Too dangerous.

So she minded her business—like she always did.

She made her way to the gym during lunch, clutching her tray and searching for the quietest spot possible. The gym was usually empty at this hour. An escape. A place where she could breathe and maybe pretend she wasn’t constantly watched.

But luck had an expiration date.

And hers ran out the second she heard footsteps behind her.

Not heavy—deliberate.

Yoonchae didn’t see them at first.

She had taken her usual path—down the hallway past the trophy case, past the faded banners, past the gym doors with the squeaky hinge everyone avoided.

Her safe spot.

Her invisible hour.

Except today—

Nothing was safe.

A hand shoved her shoulder before she could even step inside.

Yoonchae stumbled, her bag slipping off her arm.

Lexie stood in front of her, arms crossed.

Adéla leaned against the wall, chewing gum lazily.

Emily twirled her hair like they were in some stupid movie scene.

Three against one.

As always.

But today—Something was different.

Their smiles were too sharp.

Like they were… pissed.

Not bored.

Not casually cruel.

Purposefully cruel.

Lexie cocked her head. “So. Did you sleep with Megan? Or something like that? She's been acting weird.”

Yoonchae blinked. 'As if?' she thought.

“I… don’t know what you're talking about.”

“You don’t?” Emily laughed, stepping closer.
“You’re seriously going to pretend you didn’t do something?”

Adéla pushed off the wall and straightened, eyes narrowing.

“She didn’t come to school the day before yesterday. And she didn’t answer our calls. And today she isn’t sitting with us. Guess who she defended yesterday?" 

Her hand shot out, gripping Yoonchae’s chin—not gently.

“You.”

Yoonchae’s breath hitched.

She wanted to tell them the truth. That she didn’t even know Megan like that. Yoonchae doesn't even know Megan's voice. Megan hasn't talked to her at all. That there was no world where someone like Megan would choose her.

But explaining to people like them never helped.

So she stayed quiet.

Which, apparently, was the wrong answer.

Lexie sneered, leaning forward, lips curling into something vicious. “You think she likes you?”

Yoonchae froze.

And that was it.

That was the button they wanted.

Emily laughed like it was funny. Adéla rolled her shoulders like she was warming up. Lexie's fingers tightened in the fabric of Yoonchae’s collar.

“Let me make this real clear,” Lexie whispered, voice almost gentle—which somehow made it worse.

“You don’t get to ruin our group. You don’t get to take her from us. You’re nothing. You hear me?”

Something cracked—not physically, not visibly—but it felt like it did.

Yoonchae didn’t push them back.

Didn’t fight.

Didn’t scream.

She just… existed.

Quiet.

Still.

And somehow that irritated Lexie more.

She shoved Yoonchae back against the gym storage door.

Hard.

Yoonchae’s breath left her chest in a small, silent sound.

No one else was around. No one would know.

And Megan—who was undoubtedly the reason behind her misery—wasn’t here to see any of it.

No one.

Just Yoonchae.

Small.

Soft.

Cornered.

Again.

Lexie’s eyes flicked down to the tray in Yoonchae’s hands—her lunch, her tiny moment of peace.

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.

Her fingers closed over the tray and yanked. Yoonchae held on instinctively—too tight, too desperate. But Lexie was stronger.

The tray tilted. Rice and chicken slid. The plate hit the floor with a sharp, echoing crack that rang through the empty gym hallway. Her lunch scattered across the tiles like it wasn’t even meant for a person.

But Lexie didn’t stop there.

She plucked the juice box from Yoonchae’s hand—slow, deliberate—and pressed her thumb into the cardboard until it burst. The cold liquid poured over Yoonchae’s hair, her face, dripping down her collar, soaking through the fabric.

Emily laughed. Adéla didn’t. She just watched—arms crossed, boredom hiding something harder in her stare.

Then Lexie stepped forward.

She placed her shoe on the spilled food.
And pressed.

Once.

Light. Just enough to make the rice smear into something unrecognizable.

“Oops.”

Her voice was sweet.

Mocking. Gentle.

The kind of tone people use with pets.

“You really thought you’d get to sit and eat today?” Lexie asked, leaning close enough that Yoonchae could smell her perfume—vanilla, expensive, suffocating.

Yoonchae didn’t answer. Her throat had closed too tightly for that.

Emily leaned in from the other side. “So. You’re just going to pretend? Like you don’t know why she’s acting weird?”

“I told you,” Yoonchae forced out, voice thin. “I don’t know anything.”

The hallway hummed with fluorescent lights.

Adéla clicked her tongue. “Stop lying.”

Lexie’s hand lifted.

For a moment, Yoonchae flinched, bracing for a slap.

But Lexie didn’t hit her.

No.

What she did was somehow worse.

She reached up and straightened Yoonchae’s collar—like they were friends, like this was casual, like this was normal.

Her voice dropped to a whisper, warm against Yoonchae’s ear.

“You don’t get to take things you don’t deserve.”

The sentence didn’t need volume to carve deep.

Lexie stepped back. Emily smirked. Adéla’s jaw tightened—for reasons Yoonchae couldn’t understand.

Then they simply…walked away.

Just like that.

No dramatic exit.

No need.

The hallway felt enormous when they were gone.

Yoonchae stayed where she stood.

Juice dripping.

Food crushed at her feet.

Chest tight. Breath thin.

She didn’t cry.

She never cried.

Just silence.

Just breathing.

Just existing.

Chapter Text

Yoonchae walked toward the infirmary with slow, deliberate steps, each one feeling heavier than the last. The hallway seemed to stretch endlessly in front of her, buzzing faintly with distant chatter she couldn’t quite make sense of. She kept her head down, eyes fixed on the dull tiles beneath her feet. The last thing she wanted was to be seen like this—disheveled, shaken, barely holding herself upright.

Her uniform clung to her skin in damp, sticky patches where juice had soaked through the fabric. The cold wetness crawled down her spine, making her shiver. Every shift of the fabric reminded her of what had happened—of hands grabbing, voices jeering, laughter that didn’t sound like laughter at all. A sour, dizzy feeling twisted in her stomach, and she tried to swallow it down, trying to just keep walking.

She had thought she understood how to handle them. The petty comments. The snide jokes. The whispered slurs that were meant to sound like humor. They had always been obnoxious and smug—yes—but never truly threatening. They mocked her for being Korean as if it were some shared joke among them, some clever bit of comedy that only they found funny. And the irony of it all—Megan being half-Chinese, if the rumors were true—hung in the background like a line no one bothered to acknowledge.

It was always just words.

And Yoonchae had learned how to survive words.

Eyes forward. Shoulders tucked small. Walk faster. Pretend not to hear. Pretend not to feel. Pretend not to exist.

But today, something had shifted. Something in their eyes. Something in the air. Something sharp.

Today, it wasn’t just mockery.

Today, they shoved her. Pushed her back against the gym storage door hard enough to make a dull thud echo in her bones. The impact bloomed across her shoulder blade, hot and deep and throbbing. The pain hadn’t faded—it clung to her, stubborn and pulsing like her body was forcing her to remember every second.

A warning.

A promise.

… A beginning.

She didn’t want to think about what it meant.

The nurse looked up the moment Yoonchae stepped inside, and her expression shifted immediately—from routine politeness to something tight and concerned. Her eyes swept over her: the stained collar, the damp hair, the faint tremor in her fingers.

“Oh dear,” the nurse murmured, quiet but full of understanding. Without another word, she slipped into the small storage room at the back of the infirmary—a place most students didn’t realize existed.

She returned with a fresh uniform folded neatly over her arm and a soft towel draped across her wrist.

“Here,” she said gently, laying the clothing on the infirmary cot. “Change into this, dear.”

There was no judgment. No prying. Just gentle compassion.

Yoonchae nodded, though her throat felt too tight to speak. She slipped behind the curtains and peeled the soaked fabric from her skin. The cold hit her like a wave, and she sucked in a sharp breath, pressing her lips together to keep them from trembling.

When she stepped back out—clean uniform on, hair towel-dried—the nurse was waiting.

“Dear,” she repeated, even softer now. “What happened to you?”

The question landed heavily. Too directly. Too real.

Yoonchae opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Her thoughts tangled, her tongue felt heavy, and the silence stretched.

The nurse didn’t push. She only sighed—a quiet, knowing sound.

“You don’t need to tell me who,” she said gently. “But you do need to tell me if you’re hurt.”

That, somehow, was easier.

“My shoulder,” Yoonchae murmured. “I hit it. Hard.”

The nurse’s touch was gentle as she exclaimed the forming bruise—dark, deep, already blooming beneath her skin.

“You’ll be sore for a while,” she said softly. “I’ll get you something for the pain.”

She left briefly, then returned with pain medication and a cold compress. She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t make calls. She simply let Yoonchae rest—offering silence in place of pressure.

The day passed around her. Lunch. Classes. Laughter. The ordinary rhythm of school continued without her.

And still, she remained in that room, watching sunlight soften through the blinds as afternoon inched toward evening. The ache in her shoulder thrummed, but it was distant compared to the hollow weight in her chest.

She didn’t cry.

She never cried.

When the final bell rang, she waited until the halls had emptied before slipping on her shoes and stepping outside.

The air was cool, sharp against her still-damp hair. Students scattered across the courtyard, carefree in ways she had never been able to afford.

She kept her head down.

And that was when she saw her. Just a glimpse. But enough to be sure.

Leaning against a sleek black car just beyond the gates, hood drawn up, black mask covering half her face, hands tucked casually into the pocket of her hoodie—as though she had simply been waiting, for a while.

Meiyok.

She straightened slightly when she noticed Yoonchae approaching—but she didn’t wave. Didn’t call out. Didn’t force familiarity where none existed.

Just stood there.

Unmoving.

Unbothered.

Unmistakably, her.

Yoonchae approached slowly, almost reluctantly. The closer she got, the more exposed she felt under Meiyok’s gaze—like the wind itself was peeling back the careful quiet she had wrapped around herself.

Meiyok’s eyes flickered once, sweeping over her—not dramatically, but with sharp, unerring precision.

The uniform wasn’t the same.

The ends of her hair were frizzy, dried unevenly.

Her shoulder dipped just slightly.

Meiyok noticed everything.

She did.

“... That’s not the uniform you left with this morning.”

Her words were calm, almost lazy in tone—but there was nothing casual in them.

Yoonchae swallowed. She didn’t answer.

Meiyok didn’t say anything again. She simply reached out and opened the door.

Yoonchae slid in. The moment her shoulder touched the seat, pain flared sharply. She hissed—barely, a small sound forced through clenched teeth.

But Meiyok heard it.

The door clicked shut after Meiyok got in, settling beside Yoonchae.

Silence settled inside the car—thick, almost suffocating.

Meiyok didn’t look at her. Didn’t reach for her. Didn’t raise her voice.

She simply said, in a tone so calm it felt dangerous, “Tell me who did it.”

There was no anger. No softness. Just certainty.

Yoonchae didn’t answer right away. Couldn’t.

Her eyes stayed forward, fixed on the windshield. The glass was slightly fogged at the edges from the temperature difference—warm car, cold air. A thin haze. It made the outside world look distant. Blurred. Like she was watching her own life from a step away.

She could feel Meiyok beside her without looking.

Not physically—there was enough space between them—but the presence was unmistakable. Like sitting beside something sharp. Something that didn’t need to move to be dangerous. Like a knife held against your throat that stayed unmoving.

Her throat tightened.

“I don’t know—” she tried, but the words came out thin, cracked. Barely even whole.

Meiyok didn’t scoff. Didn’t sigh. Didn’t laugh.

She simply tilted her head—not much, just enough that her gaze settled fully on Yoonchae. Not invasive. Not demanding. But, seeing.

“You don’t have to play dumb with me, Yoonchae,” she said, voice smooth, leveled.

“You can tell me anything. Anything.”

The care felt too quiet. The air was suddenly too still.

Something about the way she said her name—soft, but certain—made Yoonchae’s chest tighten in a way she didn’t know how to handle.

They barely knew each other.

They were not friends.

Not confidants.

Not anything close.

Just two people bound by a decision neither of them had made.

A contract.

A future neither of them had chosen.

Strangers tied together by signatures and expectations.

What did you tell a person like that?

What could you tell them?

Yoonchae’s fingers curled against her skirt. Her nails pressed into her palm, forming crescent moons—grounding her. Reminding her she still existed. Still breathing.

She could lie.

She wanted to.

She wanted to say something dismissive—like it didn’t matter. That she was fine. That everything was normal.

But her shoulder throbbed.

Her scalp still tingled where fingers had pulled.

And the faint smell of juice still clung to her skin.

And...

Meiyok’s voice didn’t sound like someone fishing for information.

No, it sounded like a promise.

Not warm. Not kind. Not gentle.

It sounded controlled and extremely dangerous.

Yoonchae’s voice, when it came, was barely audible.

“...Lexie.”

Meiyok didn’t react at first.

Not with a sound. Not with a shift. Not with surprise.

Just a slow, measured exhale.

Like she was memorizing the name.

And in that moment, Yoonchae understood something:

Meiyok was not just an annoying flirt.

She was cold, composed, and intentional.

The kind of intentionality that came from learning, very early, that emotion was a weakness you showed only when you chose to—not when it overwhelmed you.

Meiyok hummed, almost thoughtful. “I’ll deal with it.”

There was no drama.

No emphasis.

Just an acknowledgement.

Like she had already known she would.

The silence that settled afterward was different.

Not empty. But less suffocating.

The driver started the car. The engine hummed low, steady.

Meiyok kept her gaze forward, but her jaw was set. Her posture had shifted—shoulders straighter, back taut. Barely perceptible.

But if someone looked closely—really looked—

It said everything.

Yoonchae swallowed.

“You don’t have to do anything,” she said quietly, though her voice trembled. “I just… I just want to go home.”

Meiyok didn’t look at her.

But her hands slid deeper into her pockets.

“I know.”

Her tone didn’t change entirely, but something in it did.

Not softness. Not sympathy. Something else—something unreadable.

“We’re going home,” she said.

The word we hung in the air like a thread pulled taut—thin, fragile, binding.

And then, after a beat, “I won’t ask again,” Meiyok murmured. “But I won’t forget.”

It wasn’t a threat.

It was a statement.

A quiet promise with very sharp edges.

They soon reached the house—a place that was still unfamiliar in its comfort, too quiet to feel real—the kind of quiet meant for people who never had to look over their shoulders.

The car pulled to a stop. The engine went silent. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Meiyok stepped out first, walking around to open Yoonchae’s door like it was the most natural thing in the world. No impatience. No comment. Just silent insistence.

Yoonchae hesitated before stepping out, her shoulder throbbing with the weight shift. The ground felt steadier than her legs did. She could still feel how her uniform clung to her skin, dried juice leaving a sticky, sickly-sweet film she could feel more than smell.

Meiyok took her school bag from her, without asking, and slung it over her own shoulder. She opened the front door and guided her inside, steps slow enough that Yoonchae didn’t have to keep up so much as simply follow.

The house air was warm. Still. Too still. It made the buzzing in Yoonchae’s head feel louder.

Meiyok set the bag on the single armchair in the living room—a small, simple action that somehow felt deliberate, like she was placing something fragile somewhere safe.

Then her gaze flicked back to Yoonchae.

“Come,” she said quietly.

She led her to the bedroom—not touching, but close enough that if Yoonchae swayed, she wouldn’t fall.

Meiyok stopped near the dresser, opening it with the precision that hinted she knew exactly where she was going.

She pulled out a sweatshirt. Soft. Worn at the sleeves. Comfortable in a way clothes only got after being lived in.

And a pair of loose cotton shorts.

She placed them on the bed. Turned back to her.

“Shower,” she said. “You’re uncomfortable.”

It wasn’t criticism, not even kindness. She simply stated the truth.

Yoonchae’s fingers curled in the hem of her uniform. She swallowed.

“... I can just wear something from my bag,” she murmured.

Meiyok didn’t look away.

“Your things can wait,” she said. Then, quiet—but entirely certain: “Wear these.”

The tone made it sound like there had never been another option.

Heat prickled at the back of Yoonchae’s neck. “You don’t have to—”

Meiyok raised an eyebrow.

Not exaggerated. Not teasing in a loud way.

Just questioning why she was still speaking.

“Yoonchae,” she said, voice dipping like the faintest smile.

“I wouldn’t have offered it if I didn’t intend it.”

The words hit deeper than they should have.

Her breath stumbled.

She nodded.

Meiyok gestured toward the bathroom with a tilt of her head—not dismissive, but something like permission.

“The shower here stays warm,” she added, quieter.

Yoonchae retreated before her chest could tighten any more.

The door clicked shut.

The water ran.

Steam fogged the mirror. Soap, heat, breath, trembling.

Yoonchae stepped out of the bathroom, towel-dried hair clinging to her cheeks, Meiyok’s oversized sweatshirt hanging a little too loosely on her frame. The faint smell of citrus lingered around her.

Meiyok looked up from the bed, where she’d laid out the first kit. “Come here.”

Yoonchae blinked. “I already—”

“You showered,” Meiyok cut in, tone even. “You didn’t get treated properly.”

Reluctantly, Yoonchae crossed the room and sat on the chair Meiyok motioned to. She watched as Meiyok opened the antiseptic again, movements deliberate. Then Meiyok’s gaze flicked toward her shoulder.

“Take it off.”

Yoonchae froze, fingers curling around the hem of the sweatshirt. “What?”

“The sweatshirt,” Meiyok said simply, as if it were obvious. “I can’t treat what I can’t see.”

“I can just—”

“Yoonchae.”

Her name came out soft but firm. But it left no room to argue.

Yoonchae sighed, hesitated another heartbeat, then tugged the fabric over her head. Her damp hair fell forward, framing the dark bruise spreading over her shoulder blade. Meiyok’s eyes lingered on it—quiet, assessing—but her face stayed unreadable.

“This’ll sting,” she murmured.

Her fingers were cool, steady, careful as they brushed the antiseptic over bruised skin. Yoonchae hissed softly, her shoulder twitching.

“Breathe,” Meiyok said. “You make it worse when you tense up.”

“I’m trying,” Yoonchae muttered.

“Try harder.”

The corner of Meiyok’s mouth twitched—barely there, but enough. When she finished taping the bandage, she sat back slightly, eyes flicking up.

“You clean up nice,” she said. “Didn’t think my clothes would look better on you than on me.”

Yoonchae blinked, caught off guard. “That’s not—I mean—”

“Relax,” Meiyok said, lips curving into something between amusement and warmth. “It’s just an observation. Learn to take a compliment.”

Her gaze lingered for a second longer before she turned away, packing up the kit. “You sleep on the bed tonight,” she said simply.

Yoonchae looked up. “What about you?”

Meiyok didn’t miss a beat. “Just so you know, I’m not crashing on that couch.” Her tone dipped—teasing again, smooth like before. “Hopefully, me being next to you doesn’t make you uncomfortable.”

Yoonchae’s face went crimson. “I—That’s not—!”

“Good,” Meiyok said lightly, standing to her full height. She tucked the first aid kit neatly into the dresser’s lower compartment before turning back to face her. "Then we’ll get along just fine.”

Her tone was airy—too casual to be serious, too deliberate not to be—but her gaze lingered a beat longer than necessary.

Then, as if nothing had been said, Meiyok’s eyes flicked over Yoonchae, assessing again. “Have you eaten?”

Yoonchae blinked. “I—no… I couldn’t.”

Meiyok hummed, the sound low and thoughtful. “Of course you couldn’t,” she murmured, half to herself, then straightened. “Hopefully, my tragically limited culinary repertoire will impress you anyway.”

Yoonchae frowned, uncertain whether to laugh. “You can cook?”

“Define ‘cook,’” Meiyok replied, already halfway to the door. “If heating things without setting them on fire counts, then yes—expertly.”

Her tone made it sound like a joke, but the way she said ‘expertly’—the faint smirk curving her mouth as she disappeared down the hall—felt like a challenge.

Yoonchae stayed where she was for a moment, staring after her, the warmth of the bandage still seeping through her shoulder.

The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and citrus.

And something else—something quieter.

Safety, maybe.

Whatever it was, she wasn’t used to it.

When she finally followed the sound clinking from the kitchen, she found Meiyok leaning against the counter, sleeves pushed up, staring at the back of a ramen packet like it contained state secrets. Her brows were drawn together, lips moving soundlessly as if she were sounding out the instructions.

After a moment, she huffed—a small, quiet exhale—and flipped the packet over to look at the pictures instead.

Without glancing up, Meiyok said, “If you’re going to hover, at least make yourself useful. Bowls are in the top cabinet.”

The corner of Yoonchae’s mouth twitched. “So this is your idea of impressing me?”

Meiyok finally looked up, eyes catching the kitchen light—warm, sharp, a little too aware. “I never said I’d succeed,” she said, voice laced with mock solemnity. “Only that I’d try.”

Then, as she tore the packet open—somewhat too forcefully—she added under her breath, “The instructions are overrated anyway.”

Yoonchae bit back a laugh. “You mean you didn’t read them?”

Meiyok shot her a sidelong glance. “I prefer to improvise.”

The way she said—carefree but edged with a hint of practiced deflection—made Yoonchae pause, just long enough to wonder what else Meiyok preferred not to read too closely.

~

Yoonchae stared down at the steaming bowl of ramen placed in front of her. The noodles were a little pale, the broth suspiciously clear, and the egg floating on top looked like it had given up halfway through existing.

Was it good?

… She’d rather not comment.

But she was still questioning how someone could get instant ramen wrong. The packet had literal pictures and text-based instructions.

Still, she lifted her chopsticks without complaint. It wasn’t as if she had the energy to nitpick, and—truthfully—Meiyok didn’t have to do any of this. She could’ve just left Yoonchae alone to sulk in the shower and pretended not to notice anything. Instead, she’d gone through the effort of cooking, if this could be called that.

So Yoonchae said nothing. She just ate quietly.

Meiyok, leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watched her for a moment. Then, curiosity—or suspicion—got the better of her.

She pulled a clean fork from the drawer, twisting a few noodles around it, and took a bite.

The wince that followed was instant.

“... You ate this?” she muttered, almost to herself, swallowing like it hurt her pride more than her tongue.

Yoonchae blinked up at her, caught between amusement and guilt. “I—well—you made it.”

Meiyok set the fork down, the faintest frown making its way ghostly behind the mask. For the first time that day, she looked mildly embarrassed.

“I must’ve… misread something.”

Yoonchae tilted her head, “You think?”

Meiyok shot her a look—half a glare, half an admission. “Eat slower. I’ll fix it next time.”

Next time.

The words slipped out so casually that it made Yoonchae pause, chopsticks hovering over the bowl.

She nodded, quietly. “Okay.”

And though the ramen was still bland, something in the silence that followed wasn’t.

Chapter Text

Yoonchae finished the last of the ramen Meiyok had so effortlessly prepared and moved to help with the dishes, which meant standing at the counter, silently watching Meiyok rinse each plate before sliding it into the dishwasher. 

“We should head back and get some sleep—you’ve had a long day,” Meiyok said, brushing imaginary beads of sweat from her forehead, her voice calm but carrying the tiniest speck of concern.

With a nod, Yoonchae followed Meiyok to the bedroom.

She wasn’t sure if it was just her imagination, or if the bed—which had always seemed spacious enough for two adults—suddenly looked smaller, or if it was simply the weight of the day pressing down on her shoulders, making everything feel more cramped and heavier than usual.

Yoonchae settled onto the bed while Meiyok rifled through her closet, searching for a tank top and pajama shorts. Towel draped over her shoulders, she stepped into the bathroom, the door clicking softly shut behind her.

Inside, she shed her clothes and carefully set her mask by the sink before stepping into the shower. Warm water cascaded over her back, and she let out a long, quiet sigh. Her mind replayed the day’s events, stirring a dull ache of frustration and unease she couldn’t shake. 

She had grown to despise every routine, every obligation tied to their lineage. The Skiendiels—their legacy—was about control, about power. She knew she had life made easier than most, and tried to be grateful. Tried.

She had originally intended to scare away the girl she was forced to live with, to tolerate. She had planned to push buttons, to see just how far she could go. She didn’t like being cast as the villain—that hadn’t changed. But Yoonchae had softened her resolve. The girl had it rough at school, Megan knew. God, she hated herself for doing nothing back then. Discovering it was Yoonchae had stirred something unexpected: a protective impulse she hadn’t anticipated. Deep down, she knew it was partly guilt for standing by when things were “light.” Lexie and the others had stooped so low over something petty, something that could’ve been handled with maturity. 

The spray hissed as water poured over her bare skin. She exhaled, letting the exhaustion of the day flow down the drain.

When she turned off the shower, Megan wrapped a towel around her body and stared at her reflection. Her gaze was sharp, almost predatory, yet the mask waiting at the corner of the sink offered a fragile shield. Slipping it on brought an immediate, hollow calm—a confidence born of concealment. With most of her face hidden, she was unreadable, just slightly less exposed to the world’s scrutiny. 

Once dressed, towel draped over her shoulders again, Megan exited the bathroom, the door clicking softly behind her. The first thing that caught her eye was the book Yoonchae was reading—the title in Korean, the cover modest but inviting. Yoonchae’s hands turned the pages with precise, mechanical calm. Megan’s chest tightened. The girl looked fragile in her clothes, delicate against the bed she now occupied. 

Megan hung the towel on the rack and moved closer, inching toward the bed. Yoonchae glanced up, a faint smile tugging at her lips. 

“Not going to sleep?” Meiyok’s voice cut through the quiet that had settled over the room.

“Just a chapter before I sleep; it helps quiet the noise,” Yoonchae replied. Her tone was even, light—but Megan knew better. 

“Turn off the lights when you’re done,” Megan said, tugging the sheets closer around herself.

The room sank into quiet again: the soft rustle of pages, the rhythm of Megan’s breathing, Yoonchae's. From downstairs came the faint tick-tock of the wall clock, the hum of the refrigerator. Eventually, the page-turning ceased. Meiyok’s brows furrowed, not that anyone could’ve seen. But it did. She opened her eyes only to regret it—the lights still glared, harshly illuminating the space they shared. With a resigned sigh, she got out of bed to switch them off. 

But when she returned, she did the unexpected. She took her pillow and blanket and made her way downstairs to the couch, which seemed as unforgiving as it was elegant. Megan couldn’t risk the mask falling in the night; her carefully constructed persona couldn’t afford to crack.

“Meiyok has to survive for a while,” she whispered to the shadows, or maybe to no one at all.

She closed her eyes, the couch digging into her ribs with every breath. The image of Yoonchae’s bruise refused to leave her mind—purple, angry, a raw reminder of how far things had spiraled. Megan had hoped Lexie and the others might listen, that it wouldn’t come to this. Guilt gnawed at her like fire.

Her father. 

She snatched her phone from the coffee table. 10:23 PM. Not too late. She dialed with steady hands, her pulse quickening with each ring.

“Megan? It’s late,” her father’s deep voice rumbled through the line.

“Yes… I know,” she said, keeping her tone calm, though her chest tightened.

“What’s wrong?”

“There’s a situation,” she began, her voice measured. “I’ll handle it, but if it escalates… I want you prepared.”

“I’m listening. What kind of situation?”

“It involves Yoonchae. I’ll explain later, Dad. Just… be ready, okay?”

“Is she in danger?”

“Something like that,” Megan admitted, letting the words hang.

“Alright. Just say the word if anything happens,” he said, steady, unshaken.

“I will. Thank you.”

“Goodnight, Megan.”

“Goodnight,” she whispered, hanging up.

The couch felt harder now, the night heavier. She pressed the phone against her chest for a moment, drawing a shallow breath. Whatever came next, she had to be ready.

Morning slipped through the blinds, golden stripes spilling across the floor. Megan’s alarm buzzed, and she blinked awake. 5:30 AM.

She realized she was facing the back of the couch—and her mask had fallen off. A flicker of panic surged through her, and she quickly slipped it back on. Gathering her blanket and pillow, she made her way back to the bedroom.

Yoonchae was still there, sleeping exactly as she had when Megan left the night before—every muscle still, undisturbed by the hours. A relieved sigh escaped Megan. She smoothed out her side of the bed, arranging the pillow and blankets as if she had slept there but woken earlier. 

After collecting some clothes, Megan headed to the shower. When she was done, she made a quick call to Oliver, asking him to send breakfast.

About fifteen minutes later, Megan’s phone rang—Holly letting her know she had brought breakfast. Megan headed downstairs to open the door. Holly quickly set the table before leaving, her movements brisk and efficient.

Michael was already waiting in the car, ready to drop them off at school.

Megan lingered in the kitchen for a few moments, glancing at the clock. When it hit 6:15 AM, she finally went to wake Yoonchae. 

She walked back to the bedroom, hesitating just outside the door. The girl was still under the covers, eyes closed, peaceful in a way that made Megan’s chest tighten. 

Clearing her throat awkwardly, Meiyok crouched slightly and said, “Uh… Yoonchae? It’s time to wake up.”

Yoonchae stirred but didn’t move immediately, groaning softly. Meiyok shifted from foot to foot, unsure what to do with her hands, feeling the strange, silent gap between them—the distance of two people who barely knew each other but were forced to share a life. 

Finally, Yoonchae cracked one eye open. “Mmm… five more minutes,” she mumbled. 

Meiyok gave a small, awkward smile. “Breakfast’s here. We should probably get up.”

Yoonchae blinked softly, then reluctantly began to stretch, and Meiyok exhaled quietly, a mix of relief and lingering unease. The day had started awkwardly, but at least it had started. 

Chapter Text

Megan shoved the locker room door shut with her shoulder, breath caught somewhere between her lungs and her throat.

Before the echo had even faded, her fingers were yanking open her duffel. Every morning felt harder—slipping into a school 'Meiyok' technically didn't attend, moving straight to the locker rooms like a ghost. She had almost been caught this time. One wrong turn and she could've been written up for trespassing—or something equally humiliating. (and it was still the second day.)

Casual clothes off.

Uniform on.

Mask off.

The moment the mask left her face, she felt naked.

Confidence evaporated faster than steam.

Without it, she had no armor.

No persona.

Just Megan—plain, visible, readable. Boring.

She hated it.

Meiyok could handle anything.

Megan? Not so much.

The uniform clung to her still-warm skin as she dressed at the speed of someone trained to erase every trace of transition. Hoodie and mask shoved back into the bag. Zipper tugged shut. One long exhale. 

Then she eased her expression into the version of Megan everyone expected:

A slow inhale.

Chin up.

Face smooth, polite, borderline intimidating.

Indifference—her secret weapon.

She walked out as if she hadn't just sprinted through the school, heart hammering, trying to get past the gates unnoticed.

Nonchalance.

She wore it like a second skin.

Her heartbeat hadn't even settled when she rounded the corner—and froze, just a fraction.

Them.

The three.

Lexie. Emily. Adéla.

They stared as if she'd spat in their morning matcha.

Lexie's glare was volcanic.

Emily's expression—a tragic soap opera in motion.

Adéla... unreadable. Calm. Watching, like someone deciding whether a burning house was worth saving.

Megan walked past them without flinching.

She owed them no explanation.

She owed them nothing.

And yet—the weight in her chest didn't fully lift. She could feel her anger gnawing at her.

She had let them be awful for years. Not because she agreed—God, no—but because calling them out meant losing them.

Being alone scared her more than being disliked.

Being Megan Skiendiel meant smiling while your world quietly rotted behind you.

And now?

It felt too late.

Too late to apologize.

Too late to say she should've stopped them.

Too late to admit she'd been cowardly. Complicit. Selfish.

Too late, too late, too late.

She pressed her nails into her palms, letting the sting ground her.

At least I said something.

The bar was slow, but she had finally—finally—crossed it.

The day crawled like wet sand stuck to her shoes. For the first time in years, she walked alone. No forced laughter. No Lexie clinging to her arm. No Emily whining about teachers. No Adéla correcting her posture.

Silence. 

Real silence.

And—not that she'd admit it—it felt lighter.

But loneliness was heavy too, settling along her spine like a familiar ache.

By lunchtime, rumors had already spread throughout the school.

Megan Skiendiel had a secret lover.

She cheated.

They cheated.

Someone was betrayed.

Someone was replaced.

Someone slept with someone.

Someone exposed someone.

A telenovela written by toddlers.

She grabbed her tray and slipped to a corner table she'd never used. The cafeteria buzzed around her—whispers, giggles, theories muttered behind hands, someone hissing, "I heard—" 

Parasocial.

The word flashed across her mind like a neon sign.

Half the school acted as if they knew her, when she didn't even know half of them.

She forced herself to eat. Chew. Swallow. Keep her face neutral.

Anger was unbecoming.

Emotion was undisciplined.

Skiendiel's did not make scenes. 

Her father's rules echoed with every motion.

She looked down at the nutritional label on her juice carton—and the letters twisted. Words blurred. Her eyes stuttered across the print.

Of course.

Of course, today would be the day dyslexia decided to kick her in the shins.

She blinked twice, slowed her reading, and pretended nothing was wrong. Pretending, after all, was what she did best. 

"Hi," someone murmured behind her.

Megan turned to see a girl from her class shifting nervously on her heels, fingers fidgeting with the edge of her tray.

"Hey," Megan replied, voice steady, expression composed, though the moments felt strangely delicate.

“I was wondering if… maybe I could sit with you?” the girl blurted. “You looked a little alone, and if not, that’s totally fine—I can go.”

Megan shook her head lightly. “I don’t mind. You can sit.”

The cafeteria whispers dipped as if everyone had paused to watch her—then slowly drifted back to their own conversations. Only then did Megan notice Lexie, Emily, and Adéla were gone.

Not that she had much time to dwell on it. Her classmate hadn’t stopped talking since she sat down. Megan didn’t mind—the nonstop chatter, mostly about some band the girl adored, was oddly grounding. It filled the silence she had been dreading.

By the time the lunch bell rang, Megan realized she had spent the entire break nodding along to excited rambling.

As they stood to leave, the girl hesitated, then asked if Megan wanted to hang out after school.

And, of course, Megan said yes.

How could she possibly turn down a chance to be around anyone who wasn’t Lexie, Emily, or Adéla?

After school, they ended up in a small café tucked away on a quiet street near campus. Warm, softly lit—the kind of place people pretended to study just for the aesthetic.

“So—what about you, Megan? What are your interests?” Eunchae asked, leaning forward, full of enthusiasm.

Megan blinked, half-amazed at how freely this girl spoke. Eunchae was nothing like Yoonchae—no pauses, no hesitation, no brakes. Almost impressive.

“There’s not much,” Megan said with a shrug. Eunchae’s frown made it clear she wasn’t buying it.

“Impossible,” Eunchae countered. “Everyone has something.”

Megan exhaled. “Fine… I like to dance.”

“That’s so cool!” Eunchae enthused, animated, pretending she hadn’t already memorized Megan’s schedule down to the minute.

They spent a bit more time together before Eunchae murmured something about studying and left. Megan watched her go, then rose herself, deciding it was the perfect moment to visit Manon’s.

Chapter Text

"Mmm—" Sophia whined before dissolving into unrestrained laughter. Manon was still trying—badly—to pry the remote from her hand. Sophia had insisted on watching some painfully generic rom-com, the kind that misplaced the "com" entirely and relied on a laugh track to pretend something—anything—was funny.

But the movie wasn't the issue anymore.

Somewhere in the chaos of their play-fight, they'd ended up tangled together on the couch, Manon practically hovering over Sophia, fingers still teasing at her sides in a last-ditch attempt to reclaim the remote. Maybe it was late-teen hormones, perhaps it was the way moments like this always seemed suspended in the air, but suddenly Manon became hyperaware of their proximity—the warmth, the tension, the shift in Sophia's breath.

How did I even get this close? She wondered, even as she felt herself leaning in a little more, drawn toward Sophia without thinking.

Sophia's laughter faded, leaving a quiet that felt heavy in the best way. She stared up at Manon—open, waiting. Her eyes did what they always did. Every. Single. Time. They flicked from Manon's eyes to her lips, then back again, slow and deliberate, as if she didn't care how obvious she was being.

It was all the invitation Manon needed.

She closed the last sliver of distance between them and pressed her lips to Sophia's.

Her body settled against Sophia's as the kiss deepened—warm, certain, consuming. For a moment, everything felt suspended. The world was soft again, the air gentle, the universe finally aligning instead of tearing at the seams. Nothing could go wrong. Nothing dared to.

Except—

"Uhm—" a voice intruded, slicing through the quiet that had formed between their breaths, between the soft sighs and barely-there hums filling the space.

Manon and Sophia jolted apart as if caught doing something forbidden—as if they were two closeted teenagers sneaking around (which, for the record, they absolutely were not). The culprit stood in the doorway, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, looking every shade of awkward.

"How long were you standing there, you creep?!" Manon snapped, heat rushing up her neck. She poured every ounce of embarrassment into irritation, aiming it squarely at Megan.

"Hello to you too!" Megan chirped, unfazed. "And maybe—just maybe—save that for your room next time," she added, punctuating the suggestion with a pair of dramatic jazz hands.

Sophia sat there flushed scarlet, still tucked close beside her girlfriend. She adored Manon—would probably break at least three known laws of physics to prove it, if given the chance. But kissing her like that?

That was not something she ever wanted an audience for.

Not that kind of kiss, at least.

With a perfectly synchronized sigh, the couple watched Megan saunter over and drop into the single armchair, sprawling like she owned the place. Her legs swung up and landed on the coffee table with the kind of casual confidence only Megan could get away with.

"What are you even watching?" Megan asked, nodding toward the TV—where the same painfully bland rom-com droned on, forgotten entirely by the two girls who'd suffered through it.

"Garbage. I'm changing it," Manon declared, snatching the remote and flipping the screen over to Mean Girls—because of course she did.

Sophia, still pink-cheeked from earlier, rose from the couch and smoothed out her outfit with meticulous little pats. "I'll... make tea," she murmured, barely above a whisper, before retreating toward the kitchen as gracefully as someone fleeing the scene of a crime.

"What's up?" Manon asked once Sophia had retreated to a safe distance—Megan didn't visit often, and never exactly by invitation.

Megan said nothing, only shot Manon a look. Manon caught it instantly. With a knowing nod, they both turned their attention back to the movie.

Soon enough, Sophia returned carrying a tray. She placed teacups in front of both Megan and Manon before settling herself with her own.

"What's up?" she asked, her cheeks back to their natural, unflustered shade.

"I just... missed Manon," Megan admitted, pausing briefly. "—And you too," she added quickly, noticing Sophia's raised eyebrow. "I didn't expect you'd actually be here."

The three of them exchanged a few words, with Manon and Sophia filling Megan in on the latest drama at their school. Manon recounted the disastrous business dinner with her parents, where one of the partners' sons had tried—and failed spectacularly—to flirt with her.

The low rumble of a car engine drew their attention, and Sophia stood. Manon rose as well, and the two shared a brief, gentle kiss before Manon escorted Sophia out to the car, holding the door open for her. Megan lingered at the front door, a soft smile tugging at her lips as she watched them go.

After waving a moment longer, even after the car had disappeared from view, Manon turned back, her brows knitting ever so slightly.

Megan reached into her pocket and produced a cigar and a lighter. With a flick, the flame kissed the tip of the cigar, making it glow a deep, inviting amber. She brought it to her lips, inhaling just enough to taste the smoke before holding it for a heartbeat. Then she exhaled slowly, a thin ribbon of smoke curling upward and dissipating into the evening air. The sharp, earthy scent hung faintly around her as she leaned back against the doorway, letting the quiet weight of the moment sink in.

"Okay... what's wrong?" Manon asked the moment she reached her side.

Megan said nothing, simply extending the pack of cigarettes toward her. Within their friend group, the habitual smokers were only herself and Manon.

"I can't—I promised Sophia," Manon said, glancing down at the pack. "But I guess I'm basically passive-smoking by keeping you company." She declined the offer, and Megan slid the pack back into her pocket without a word.

"I just wish you guys went to Celestine..." Megan murmured, letting the words linger between them.

"Where's this coming from?" Manon asked, her tone edged with confusion, her brow furrowing as she tried to read Megan's expression.

"The girl I'm supposed to live with..." Megan began, taking another slow draw from the cigar before letting the smoke drift out. "It's Yoonchae—the one they've been bullying for as long as I can remember."

"My father told me to wear the mask and go by 'Meiyok.' So she doesn't know it's me. I tried to tell them to stop bullying her—it only made them escalate, push things further... even get physical."

"I just don't get why they don't understand the word 'stop,'" Megan huffed, the cigar balanced lazily between two fingers.

"Maybe it's because you stayed silent all these years, and now finally stood up against them, no less. They probably saw it as betrayal," Manon replied.

This was one of the things Megan liked about Manon. She listened. She let Megan finish her thoughts before offering a word in return. And when she did speak, it was sincere. Real. Logical. It made sense—and somehow, that made the weight Megan carried feel just a little lighter.

"So...what should I do?" Megan asked, exhaling a thin stream of smoke.

"I'd say—you wait. Watch. See how things unfold. And then, act."

The two of them stood side by side until Megan's cigarette neared its end. She dropped it to the ground, pressing it out with her heel, and together they turned back toward the house, stepping inside in silence. 

Earlier that same day, Yoonchae had spent hours tiptoeing through the school halls, doing her utmost to stay out of trouble. Every step was an effort to remain unseen, to stay just out of reach of her bullies. She had even considered not leaving her classroom—but what if they followed her inside, shattering the fragile sense of calm her mind desperately clung to?

The restroom seemed like a safe haven. If she could slip in unnoticed, she could spend the rest of the lunch break tucked away in a cramped cubicle, out of sight and out of reach. 

She hurried toward the restrooms, eyes darting around as she approached, making sure the coast was clear. Reaching them without incident felt like a small blessing—her shoulder still throbbed with every movement, and the thought of being shoved or jostled was more than she could bear. 

But, of course, life had a cruel sense of humor.

The moment Yoonchae pushed the restroom door open, her eyes landed on Lexie, meticulously washing her hands, and Emily, fussing with her hair—Adéla was nowhere in sight. 

“Well, well—look who decided to show up,” Emily sneered, a cruel smirk tugging at her lips.

“You better have thought about what I told you earlier, babe,” Lexie added, striding toward Yoonchae. Each step made Yoonchae instinctively back up until her shoulder hit the wall, sending a sharp sting of pain up her arm.

A cubicle door creaked open, briefly pausing the confrontation. Yoonchae’s gaze flicked to Adéla, who lingered just long enough to finish washing her hands. Her look… almost apologetic. But for what? Yoonchae didn’t let herself entertain the thought that maybe, just maybe, one of her bullies could feel empathy.

Lexie’s eyes narrowed. “Better not come in between us, little girl.” With a flick of her wrist, a splash of water hit Yoonchae, followed immediately by Emily’s imitation. Adéla lingered a heartbeat longer before slipping away, leaving Yoonchae to stare at her soaked sleeve and the lingering sting of humiliation. 

Chapter Text

Yoonchae was only half certain Lexie, Emily, and Adéla were actually gone by the time her awareness snapped back into place.

Yes—she had zoned out.

Blame the fight-or-flight response slamming through her chest like a badly tuned drum.

The moment her senses fully returned, panic swallowed her whole.

Oh god—what if they locked me in?

She lurched toward the door in a frantic hurry and grabbed the handle. 

And—

She might’ve overestimated them for once. 

The door clicked open easily. Relief poured into her shoulders, loosening the tight coil of dread there.

Feeling ridiculous, she shut the door again and ducked into one of the cubicles, because shame—familiar and suffocating—had crawled its way up her throat. 

How could she just stand there and let them walk all over her like that?

She knew she was capable of so much more than what they made her feel like—...okay, maybe not more than them collectively. 

Megan was at the top of their grade. Adéla was right behind her. Even Emily and Lexie weren’t mediocre. 

Yoonchae was the best in her grade, but that didn’t matter much when she was a year younger—an easy target with no buffer.

She leaned her forehead against the cool metal divider, trying to cling to the fragile idea that things might eventually get better.

She hadn’t expected kindness from anyone—why would she?

But at least Meiyok had been willing to offer her some. That alone had been enough to shake her a little.

Her parents hadn’t contacted her all day. Maybe the school hadn’t informed them yet. Or maybe they just didn’t care.

The thought gnawed at her, hollow and familiar.

Unwanted.

Unseen. 

Like she’d been watching her own life rot away from the sidelines—just an audience member in a tragedy she never auditioned for.

She knew she needed to change something.

She just didn’t know if she had the strength to do it.

When the bell finally rang, marking the end of lunch, she waited another minute or two before slipping out of the cubicle. She made her way to the sink, washing her hands and splashing cool water on her face, hoping it would make her feel even the slightest bit human again.

The restroom door swung open, and her head snapped up on instinct.

A girl walked in—pale skin, glassy-clear complexion, feline eyes. Beautiful in a serene, almost storybook kind of way.

Yoonchae had seen her only a handful of times, but she knew enough: same grade as her older sister, one of the only other asian girls in that section.

The girl offered her a small, gentle smile before heading into a stall.

A second girl followed—pigtails, bangs, soft eyes, soft smile. She took up the waiting position near the sink, leaning lightly against it with her arms crossed, clearly used to keeping her friend company.

When their eyes met, Yoonchae returned a timid smile.

It felt strange—being smiled at without malice.

Oddly disorienting.

With her heart still skittering unevenly, she quickly left the bathroom, head ducked low as she walked past the nearly empty halls.

The rest of the school day drifted by in soft blurs of daydreams—wishing her life had been different. 

Wishing she hadn’t been so easily shaped by fear.

Wishing she didn’t fold every time someone pressed too hard.

Wishing she wasn’t so painfully, terribly malleable. 

~~

As soon as the final bell rang, the whole school erupted into chaos—frantic footsteps pounding against the floors, shouts and yelps echoing through the hallways, and the clatter of desks as students hurriedly shoved their belongings into their bags before bolting for the door. 

Yoonchae lingered behind as usual, taking her time to neatly tuck her things into her bag before leaving the classroom. She offered a silent prayer that life wouldn’t surprise her with another plot twist and ruin what was left of her day. 

With slow, steady steps, she made her way toward the exit—immediately spotting their driver, Michael, waiting beside the sleek black car. Yoonchae walked over, her movements quiet and composed. Michael opened the door for her, and she slipped inside. 

Meiyok…

She wasn’t there.

Once Michael climbed in and fastened his seatbelt, the engine hummed to life, and the car began to roll forward. 

“Young master said she’d be going out with one of her classmates—Miss Jeung,” he explained, catching Yoonchae’s eyes in the rearview mirror. Her confusion must have been obvious from the way her brows had knit together the moment she saw the empty seat beside her. 

“Ah—” she started, suddenly unsure how she was supposed to respond to that. “I… see. Thank you,” she managed instead. Safe. Simple. Easier than letting anything else slip out. 

The rest of the ride was silent—Yoonchae stared out the window, watching the scenery shift into something increasingly familiar. The city’s sharp edges slowly softened as they drove farther from the school. Glass buildings and crowded sidewalks gave way to quieter streets lined with evenly trimmed hedges, tall trees casting long shadows in the late afternoon sun. 

The sky had begun its descent into a warmer palette, streaks of gold and muted pink painting the horizon. Cars passed by in lazy intervals now, not in the frantic rush she’d grown used to outside the school gates. Small cafés and boutiques blurred past—places she had seen a thousand times yet never stepped into, each one a reminder of a normalcy she’d never really been part of. 

As the road curves, the houses grew larger, more spaced apart, each one framed by carefully maintained gardens. Even the air looked calmer. This neighborhood, with its quiet order and steady rhythm, was familiar enough to untie some of the knots in her chest… but only some. 

Once the car rolled to a gentle stop, Michael immediately unfastened his seatbelt and stepped out. He circled to the back door and opened it for Yoonchae, who murmured a quiet thanks before slipping out. She straightened her bag strap and made her way toward the house, her steps light but cautious.

The moment she stepped inside, a familiar scent wrapped around her—warm, savory, nostalgic. Something like slow-simmered broth or freshly sautéed garlic. Something that felt like home, even if she wasn’t sure why.

After locking the door behind her, she followed the comforting aroma to the kitchen… only to halt at the sight that greeted her.

A woman—mid to late twenties, maybe—stood by the stove, stirring something in a pot. She wore a soft, welcoming smile and an apron dusted lightly with flour. And yet, Yoonchae had never seen her before in her life.

The unexpected presence made her blink, uncertainty catching in her throat.

The woman was setting the dining table when she seemed to sense another presence in the room. She looked up—and the moment her eyes landed on Yoonchae, her entire face brightened, blooming into a warm, genuine smile that softened the lines of her features.

“Good evening, Miss Jeung! I’m Holly—I take care of the young masters,” she said with a bright, practiced warmth. “Please, have a seat! I picked up some Tteokbokki from a well-known Korean restaurant.”

Yoonchae’s gaze drifted over the spread on the table. Holly had definitely gone all out. Beside the Tteokbokki sat a steaming container of Kimchi Jjigae, and next to that, a neatly arranged Bibimbap—delicious dishes, yes, but not ones that were usually eaten together in a single meal.

A tiny, amused thought flickered through her mind: She definitely doesn’t know how Korean meals are supposed to go together… but she’s really trying.

And somehow, that effort alone made Yoonchae’s chest soften just a bit. 

Once Yoonchae sat down and took her first bite of Tteokbooki, Holly seamlessly shifted into cleanup mode—packing the containers with quick, practiced movements and storing the leftovers in the fridge with almost mechanical precision.

“Well then, Miss Jeung, I’ll be heading out now. If you need anything, this is my number.”

“Thank you, Holly,” Yoonchae replied.

With that, Holly slipped out the door, and the house fell into immediate, almost overwhelming quiet—the kind that settled in the moment the door clicked shut, leaving Yoonchae alone with her thoughts and the soft hum of the refrigerator. 

Once she finished eating, Yoonchae carried her bag to the dining table and carefully unpacked her notebooks, spreading them out in neat, familiar rows. The moment she uncapped her pen, a wave of guilt washed over her—guilt for drifting off during class, for letting her fear outweigh her focus, for letting their voices echo louder than her own thoughts.

She flipped open her science notes first, scanning the neatly written headings and diagrams she barely remembered copying. Her eyes moved over each sentence slowly, almost stubbornly, as if rereading them enough times would force the anxiety out of her mind. But every few lines, her concentration wavered; she found herself circling the same phrase again and again until she finally forced herself to rewrite it in the margins—cleaner, clearer, as though that would somehow fix the day as well.

Next came her literature notes. She reread the entire paragraph, mouthing the words under her breath to make sure they stuck. Her fingers tapped lightly against the table, trying to anchor herself in the rhythm of studying—highlight, underline, summarize, repeat. It was mechanical, almost ritualistic. And yet, despite the dull ache in her chest, it comforted her. Reviewing her notes made her feel like she was reclaiming something—control, maybe. Or purpose. Or just the simple reassurance that she still had a future beyond the hallways that suffocated her. 

Halfway through rewriting a passage, her phone buzzed against the wooden table, the vibration breaking through her fragile concentration. 

She froze. 

A message at this hour rarely meant something simple.

With a slow breath, she unlocked her phone and pulled down her notifications.

For half a second—just half—she’d allowed herself to hope it might be her parents. But of course not. That hope evaporated immediately, leaving behind the familiar sting of disappointment. They didn’t care. Not enough to check on her. Not enough to notice she’d been slipping.

Instead, it was her sister, Eunchae.

A picture.

A caption.

And the unmistakable tone of someone flexing.

She was hanging out with Megan.

Eunchae: CHAE LOOK AT HER 😭🔥

Photo attachment: Megan looking outside the window, hair tied up, sun hitting her face just right.

Yoonchae: …okay??

Eunchae: OKAY???

Eunchae: That’s all you have to say???

Eunchae: LOOK AT THE JAWLINE. THE SMILE. THE—THE EVERYTHING!!!

Yoonchae: I saw her in the hallway once. She looks normal.

Yoonchae: Like a person. With… a face.

Eunchae: BLOCKED. CANCELED. THROWN OUT OF THE FAMILY.

Yoonchae: Wow, dramatic.

Yoonchae: Did she text YOU or smth??

Eunchae: WE HUNG OUT AFTER SCHOOL

Eunchae: SHE ASKED ME TO HELP HER PICK A BOOK

Eunchae: DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT THAT MEANS?!?

Yoonchae: yeah

Yoonchae: it means she needed a book

Eunchae: I HOPE YOUR PILLOW IS WET TONIGHT

Yoonchae: Too late

Yoonchae: My whole life’s been wet

Yoonchae: from tears

Eunchae: Stop making me laugh, im in an Uber

Eunchae: He probably thinks I’m normal

Yoonchae: You are literally simping in all caps

Yoonchae: No one thinks you’re normal

Eunchae: You’re just jealous 😏

Yoonchae: Yes, obviously

Yoonchae: I’m so jealous ur hanging out with someone whose friends like to murder me for sport  👍

Eunchae: Chae…

Yoonchae: Don’t “Chae…” me

Yoonchae: Tell your girl crush her entourage sucks 

Eunchae: She’s not my girl crush.

Eunchae: (Yes. Yes, she is.)

Yoonchae: ok, I’m blocking u on everything until u stop embarrassing our bloodline

Eunchae: You love me  😘

Yoonchae: Unfortunately…

With a long, tired sigh, Yoonchae exited the messages app and tapped into her gallery. The photo Eunchae had sent stared back at her—bright, clear, and completely unnecessary.

Her thumb hovered over the delete icon for a solid few seconds. It would’ve been easy. One tap and poof—gone, along with the reminder of her sister’s dramatic fangirling and the complicated mess attached to the person in the photo.

But… if she deleted it, Eunchae would probably panic later and demand it back. Or ask for it again with seventeen emojis and a rant about how Yoonchae “never supports her romantic endeavors.”

And Yoonchae was too tired for all that.

So instead of deleting it, she tapped Archive.

Out of sight, out of mind—while still technically existing for future sibling emergencies.

Once the photo slid quietly into the archive folder, she locked her phone and leaned back, letting out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. Just one less thing to deal with—for now.

She forced herself back into studying—her usual routine of survival disguised as productivity. Rewriting the same sentences again and again until they finally clicked. Whispering definitions under her breath. Pacing the length of the dining room with her book open, repeating each line until the words felt steady on her tongue instead of slipping right through her mind.

When she finally finished, she gathered her notes in neat, painfully precise stacks and headed to the bathroom. A hot shower washed away the sting of the day—at least from her skin, if not her chest. She changed into her hoodie and sweat shorts, comfort clothes she’d worn thin over time.

By 7 PM, the restlessness started creeping in.

Her eyes flickered toward the front door more times than she cared to admit. Michael had mentioned Meiyok was hanging out with a friend, which didn’t rule out a sleepover, not entirely—but still.

Yoonchae… Yoonchae, who had never even been allowed to think about sleepovers, couldn’t help the jitter in her fingers or the way her stomach kept tightening. She was expecting, irrationally so, to see that tall, masked girl walk through the door at any moment.

But guess what?

Meiyok never came home. Not that night.

And Yoonchae, feeling guilty at the thought of claiming the bed without asking, made a quiet decision. She curled up on the couch instead—cold leather pressing sharply into her shoulder blade. The chill seeped in like needles, but she didn’t shift or complain. She just wrapped her arms around herself and took it.

Like she always did.

Chapter Text

The next day crept in quietly, and Yoonchae woke with a shiver running through her—her whole body cold, stiff, and aching from the night spent curled on the couch. For a moment, she lay still, blinking up at the ceiling, trying to piece together whether Meiyok had ever come home. The apartment felt untouched, undisturbed… silent in a way that suggested she hadn’t. 

Curiosity tugged at her—where had Meiyok gone, and why hadn’t she returned? But without a phone number or any real way to reach her, the questions dissolved into a resigned sigh. 

Slowly, Yoonchae pushed herself up from the couch, each movement complaining, and made her way toward the bathroom. Maybe a warm shower could ease the chill lodged in her bones—perhaps it could wash off the heaviness from the day before. 

The shower hissed to life, and Yoonchae stepped beneath the stream, letting the hot water run in steady ribbons down her skin. It should’ve been comforting—should’ve loosened the ache clinging to her muscles—but instead, her thoughts tightened everything further.

A quiet envy threaded through her chest. 

Meiyok could go out. She could have friends. She could spend time with people without her life being dictated step-by-step. Yoonchae had never been granted that kind of freedom. She’d never been allowed the illusion of it. And the more she thought about it, the heavier the envy sat.

Then there was Eunchae—her sister finally getting the chance to hang out with Megan. Yoonchae could already predict the endless bragging that would follow. The thought alone made her jaw clench. 

By the time she stepped out of the shower, steam curling around her, she didn’t feel any better. The stiffness hadn’t eased; the stress hadn’t washed off. If anything, she felt even more wound tight than before.

The house felt even larger—every quiet hallway and echoing corner reminding Yoonchae how alone she’d woken up. Once she slipped into her uniform, she headed downstairs and settled into the rhythm of her morning routine. 

In the kitchen, she cracked an egg into a pan and slid bread into the toaster. The simple routine grounded her, even if only a little. When the food was ready, she carried her neatly stacked notebooks to her bag, tucking them inside with a faint sense of accomplishment. At least she’d reviewed yesterday’s lessons. At least she’d tried to make up for all the drifting off, for all the daydreaming she couldn’t stop.

She returned to the kitchen and dug into her breakfast, taking small, steady bites. Ten minutes later, she was rinsing her dish and setting it carefully on the rack.

Then she waited—wondering whether Meiyok would show up with the car.

A few minutes passed.

Then a car rolled into the driveway, engine humming softly before dying into silence. Yoonchae grabbed her bag and made her way to the door, anticipation kicking in.

But when she stepped outside, it was just Michael again. He sat in the driver’s seat, adjusting the volume knob with his usual calm patience. No masked girl. No tall, quiet presence. 

Just the familiar routine repeating itself once more. Just without the masked girl this time. 

The ride to school passed in a blur, but not the empty kind—more like a watercolor morning smeared across the windows. 

The streets were only beginning to wake. Pale sunlight stretched over the quiet neighborhood, tinting the pavement gold. A few early-rising students walked in loose clusters along the sidewalk, backpacks bouncing slightly against the spines. Some chatted sheepishly; others trudged forward with the hollow determination of people who wished they were still in bed.

Cyclists zipped past, their wheels whispering against the asphalt. Office workers hurried toward bus stops, clutching paper cups of hot coffee that sent thin curls of steam into the cold morning air. Birds perched along telephone wires, shaking dew from their feathers before swooping low across the road in sudden bursts of movement. 

Inside the car, the atmosphere was warm and muted. The soft hum of the engine blended with the occasional rustle of Michael adjusting his grip on the steering wheel. The leather seat pressed cool against Yoonchae’s back. Every turn of the car made her sway gently, an almost rocking motion that lulled her thoughts into silence.

She watched the scenery slide by in slow motion—trees nodding in the breeze, the gleam of shop windows opening for the day, a bakery owner pulling up shutters, the birds resting on tree branches and flying above them.

It wasn’t peace, exactly.

But it was something close enough to pretend. 

Before she had to face the same crowd she despised, the same hallways that felt too loud and too sharp against her nerves.

Once Michael parked outside the school and stepped out to open her door, Yoonchae murmured a soft “thank you” and slipped out, fingers tightening around the straps of her bag as if they could anchor her.

She entered the building with cautious, measured steps. Her gaze remained pinned to the floor—rows of shoes, moving legs, a blur of motion—anything but the faces above them. She hated the sensation of being observed, the prickling awareness that followed her like a shadow. Since she couldn’t make herself invisible, she chose the next best thing: she stopped meeting anyone’s eyes. If she didn’t look, she didn’t have to know.

Let them think she was strange. Let them call her a loser. It wouldn’t be new.

She slipped toward her classroom, weaving around clusters of students, still watching the ground. Once inside, she made a beeline toward her usual refuge—the quiet corner seat by the window. She slid into her chair without lifting her head, refusing to check if anyone was staring, whispering, or sneering. 

She didn’t need to see their faces to imagine it. The judgment always felt louder in her mind anyway.

She folded her arms on the desk and let her head sink into them, blocking out as much of the world as she could. Her thoughts—persistent, unwelcome—circulated like a storm she couldn’t quiet. The same questions that had taken up permanent residence in her mind kept echoing. 

Did her parents really not care at all?

Was Eunchae only interested in her when it involved Megan—just to gush, brag, or show off?

And what if her bullies tried something again? What if they said something, did something, anything that would make her want to crawl into the ground and disappear entirely?

Every possibility pressed on her chest heavy and familiar, like a weight she’d grown too used to carrying.

The school day dragged on in its usual monotony—predictable, colorless, and painfully routine. By mid-morning, Yoonchae was convinced she had mentally checked out, her body moving through the halls and lessons on autopilot. Even lunch passed without interruption, which she was quietly grateful for. 

It wasn’t until the last period that everything shifted. Their teacher had rushed out due to a family emergency, leaving the class with a free period—an opportunity most students welcomed, but one that only made the room louder, rowdier, and more exhausting for Yoonchae.

About thirty minutes before dismissal, she noticed a pair of legs come to a stop in front of her desk. She had her head resting on her folded arms—hence why all she saw at first were shoes. Someone had approached and stood close enough that the presence became impossible to ignore. 

“Uhm—” a voice said. A girl’s voice.

From her low vantage point, Yoonchae’s eyes trailed up the pale, smooth skin of the girl’s legs. Hairless, neat—clearly shaved or waxed with care. The detail stuck in her mind for no real reason other than how carefully maintained it looked.

She finally lifted her head, slowly, reluctantly, until her gaze met the girl who had approached her. 

A girl she had never seen before.

Yoonchae was certain she wasn’t in her year, nor a senior. She’d seen most of the faces at school, even with her habit of staring at the floor. That left only one possibility: a junior. 

“Mrs. Harrison asked for you in Music Room A,” the girl announced. She offered an awkward, almost apologetic smile before rushing off.

Odd, maybe, to anyone else. But not to Yoonchae.

She was good—very good—at piano, violin, and gayageum. It wasn’t unusual for Mrs. Harrison to summon her to play newly composed pieces.

With a quiet sigh, she rose from her seat and headed toward the music wing. The hallways were much quieter here, which made her wonder how her class hadn’t already been reprimanded for being loud enough to break glass.

She knocked three times before entering.

The room was dark.

Not dim—dark.

The shutters were down. The lights were off. The air was heavy.

A chill crawled up Yoonchae’s spine the moment the door clicked shut behind her. 

She couldn’t make out the faces in the shadows, but she didn’t need to.

She recognized the lilt of their laughter—the kind that always curled around her like smoke.

It was them.

Arms wrapped around her torso from behind, pinning her in place before she could even gasp. She could sense their smirks even in the dark. Their enjoyment. Their cruelty.

“You’re so annoying,” Lexie said as she stepped forward. She hooked a hand under Yoonchae’s chin, lifting it with practiced intimidation. “We tell you every day not to piss us off, and somehow you still manage.”

Emily was the one holding her still—small, but deceptively strong. 

“Maybe say it in Korean,” Emily added with a cold laugh. “Then she might actually understand.”

Yoonchae’s stomach twisted. 

She wasn’t sure if the words or the tone hurt more.

Her English was good. She had worked relentlessly to make it good.

But they didn’t care.

The grip around her torso tightened. Lexie’s hand on her chin shifted, fingers digging in, squeezing her cheeks until a burn began to spread across her face—dull at first, then sharper. Hotter. Humiliating.

Adéla stayed quiet, hovering near the door—watching, maybe guarding, maybe pretending she wasn’t part of this. 

With a sudden jerk, Lexie released her face, and pain shot down Yoonchae’s neck.

She barely had a second to breathe before something cold hit her skin.

Water.

Again.

Lexie had actually gone to fetch water just to pour it over her.

How pathetic.

How desperate.

Once Yoonchae was fully drenched, Emily shoved her away, muttering something about her uniform getting wet from touching her. 

“Just so you know, nerd,” Lexie said, leaning down with a twisted smile, “until Megan talks, expect us to ruin your life bit by bit. No one crosses us and walks away unharmed.”

She turned, grabbed something from a desk, and came back toward Yoonchae—intent written in her stance.

But Adéla spoke up, voice sharp with anxious urgency.

“Guys—we’ve been gone too long. Someone’s going to notice. Let’s go before we get caught.”

Lexie scoffed. Emily sighed. But both left.

Adéla lingered at the doorway.

The light from the hall illuminated just enough of her face for Yoonchae to see the guilt tightening her features.

She mouthed a soft I’m sorry— and disappeared.

Yoonchae’s legs felt like jelly—hollow, trembling, useless. It felt as though strength had been siphoned right out of her bones. 

Megan.

Megan.

Megan.

It was always her.

She didn’t even know what happened between Megan and her bullies—what sparked this sudden obsession with punishing her of all people. 

But she was their punching bag now.

And the resentment—toward them, toward Megan—rose like a tide she couldn’t push down.

With no friends, a sister who was more interested in gushing about her crush than caring about her, and classmates who adored the spectacle, Yoonchae found herself trapped in the worst possible place.

Yet…

Adéla’s hesitation.

Her whispered apology.

Her lingering gaze.

It meant something.

Whether Adéla was a villain or a bystander—or something else entirely—Yoonchae couldn’t tell. Not yet.

But she would. Eventually.

She just didn’t know whether the change that was coming would be for better… or for worse. 

~~

Unbeknownst to Yoonchae—and even to Lexie and the others—someone had been watching. 

Not from the inside of the darkened Music Room A. 

But from the room next door.

Music Room B.

The two practice rooms weren’t soundproof; everyone knew that. The school's attempt at “renovation” had left a narrow gap between the adjoining walls—a sliver where plaster never fully connected. If someone pressed close enough, they could hear everything.

If someone angled themselves just right, they could see almost everything, too.

And today, someone did.

Hidden behind a stack of unused music stands, the observer watched through the thin fracture in the wall, gaze sharpening as the scene unfolded—Lexie’s hand on Yoonchae’s chin, Emily pinning her arms, water hitting the floor in cold splashes. 

Not a single sound from the observer. 

Not even a breath too loud.

Just steady recording.

Steady watching.

When the three girls finally left the room, the watcher exhaled slowly, the sound barely audible under the hum of the old ventilation system.

“...She’s at it again,” they whispered, voice low, flat—like this was confirmation of something they already expected.

Their phone vibrated—one silent buzz.

A call.

No caller ID.

“You saw it?” the voice on the other end asked. Smooth. Controlled. Dangerous in its calmness.

“Yes.”

A long pause followed—not hesitation, but calculation.

“Good. Continue observing,” the caller murmured. “From a distance. No one must know I reached out to you—not her, not the attackers. Not anyone.”

The watcher’s eyes flicked back to the crack in the wall, where the last echo of Yoonchae’s trembling breaths had faded.

“As you wish… B.”

The class ended with a soft click.

Music Room B fell silent again.

But it wasn’t the peaceful kind of silence—it was the silence right before thunder splits open the sky.

They stayed hidden in Music Room B, watching through the narrow gap as Yoonchae’s small, trembling form remained curled on the floor long after the others had gone. Only when the final bell echoed through the empty hallway did she push herself upright—slowly, unsteadily, like each movement required more strength than she had.

She gathered herself in silence, shoulders shaking, and slipped out of the room with hesitant, uneven steps—so quiet it was as if she hoped the world wouldn’t notice her leaving. 

After lingering just long enough to make sure the hallways were empty, they slipped out of Music Room B and moved after Yoonchae—silent, measured, leaving just enough distance to stay unnoticed.

They watched her from the corner of the corridor as she returned to her classroom, shoulders rounded inward like she was trying to fold herself out of sight. She packed her things slowly, mechanically, then drifted toward the exit. Outside, she walked straight to a waiting car—where a tall, masked figure stood leaning against the door, posture relaxed yet unmistakably watchful.

A detail worth reporting.

They stepped into an alcove, thumb already dialing the number that had become far too familiar.

“She’s leaving,” they murmured, voice barely above breath. “There’s… someone with her. Masked. Should I follow?”

The response came after a beat of static—calm, low, controlled.

“No. Stay within the school. That is your perimeter. You watch her here, and you watch the ones who touched her. Nothing beyond that.”

“Understood.”

The line went dead.

A strange heaviness in the silence afterward—an eerie sense that whatever was unfolding, whatever storm was gathering, this was only the first tremor. 

Chapter Text

It started subtly—so subtly that Yoonchae didn’t notice. No one did. But something had shifted.

Each morning, she braced herself for the day the way someone might prepare for their own funeral: mournful, resigned. Dread clung to her like a second skin. At seventeen, no one should already view the world through such a darkened lens, yet she did. She didn’t live so much as endure, moving through her days with the muted detachment of someone drifting rather than walking.

Life remained uneventful in the worst way—repetitive, hollow.
Meiyok, meanwhile, was an unpredictable presence. Since their strange first interaction, she had changed—softer around the edges, warmer even. But there was still a distance Yoonchae couldn’t name. Most afternoons, Michael waited alone in the sleek car, opening the door with a nod.

“Young master went out with a friend,” had become the script, repeated enough to be its own kind of silence.

Eunchae texted every other day. No greetings. No questions like How are you? Just:

GUESS WHO

OH MY GOD

YOU WON’T BELIEVE THIS

Followed by photos of Megan—candid shots, profiles, and the occasional selfie where Megan wore a polite, perfectly manufactured smile. Yoonchae saved them automatically, depositing them into her archives without allowing herself a second glance. She refused to give attention to the girl whose world seemed to orbit Megan’s effortless existence.

But reality never let her rest.

Her bullies didn’t, either.

Every day, Yoonchae rehearsed how to endure them, replaying their voices, the shadow of their hands on her arms, the phantom burn of their grip. She had stopped defending herself; she understood now that speaking to people like them was a waste of breath—a loss of dignity in exchange for nothing but more cruelty.

Then came this morning.

She woke curled on the couch, stiff and cold, blinking blearily at a notification on her phone. A sender she hadn’t expected—not anymore. She sat up instantly.

Her mother.

Yoonchae reread the preview three times to believe it.

Finally, she thought.

Finally, they reached out. They didn’t abandon me.

Hope—rare and reckless—stirred in her chest.

Hands trembling, she opened the message thread.

The last thing she had ever sent her mother was a single heart.

And for a fleeting second, she let herself feel something warm.

Until she read the new messages.

“Do whatever they tell you to do, but you are NOT a dyke.”

“Don’t let us down.”

“❤️.”

The heart at the end felt like a slap.

Yoonchae’s own heart plummeted—crushed under the familiar weight of disappointment.

Of course.

Of course, her parents would only contact her to remind her not to embarrass them.

As if she hadn’t spent her entire life molding herself into whatever they wanted.

As if she hadn’t tried—again and again—to be someone they could be proud of.

And still, it was never enough.

The disappointment didn’t stay quiet for long. It shifted—slowly, dangerously—into something hot and sharp.

Anger.

She had spent years chasing affection like a starving dog chasing scraps. But a child shouldn’t have to chase affection. A child should receive it without conditions, without quotas, without having to prove their worth. 

Instead, she’d been met with rules instead of reassurance. Restrictions instead of warmth. She wasn’t allowed to make friends. She wasn’t allowed to go out with her sister. She wasn’t even allowed to spend Christmas with her grandparents, while Eunchae went every single year. Yoonchae had been envious, yes, but she loved her sister. And she was sure Eunchae didn’t know how their parents treated her. Their parents were good at lying with soft voices and gentle smiles—truth twisted through their teeth like smoke.

Her fingers trembled as she typed, “Yes, mother,”

Short. Obedient. Exactly what they wanted. 

She set the phone face-down on the coffee table and forced herself to move, to get ready, to function. She stripped out of her clothes and stepped into theshower. The cold water struck her skin like needles, and she let out a hollow, humorless laugh. Pathetic. Everything was pathetic. 

She felt like a machine programmed only to feel envy, jealousy, resentment—never relief. Never joy. A ghost haunting her own life. She didn’t wake up hoping for a better day; she just hoped it wouldn’t be worse.

The rest of the morning blurred—breakfast, the quiet house, the ride to school. Routine swallowed her whole. No Meiyok. No teasing remarks. No sly smiles meant to get a rise out of her.

And as if fate had a sense of comedy, today happened to be the monthly evaluation. Papers were handed out, and Yoonchae stared at some questions as if reading a language she had never learned. She did what she could. Filled in what she remembered. Handed it knowing it wasn’t her best. Not even close. 

She was known for her grades. But today, she couldn’t bring herself to care.

Her life had been beating her down piece by piece, and somewhere without noticing—somewhere between the bruises and the exhaustion—she had lost her grip on the one thing she always held steady.

Control. Control over her grades.

And she didn’t even realize the moment it slipped. 

It was lunch break, and Yoonchae couldn’t ignore the hollow ache in her stomach. The exam had drained whatever energy she had left; using every remaining brain cell tended to do that. She stood in line, bought herself a sandwich and a juice box, and slipped out before the cafeteria crowd swallowed her whole. From the corner of her eye, she caught Eunchae animatedly talking to Megan—her hands moving everywhere—while Megan listened with half-lidded patience. 

The gym had been safe these past few days. No ambushes. No theatrics. So she headed there, clutching her lunch like a lifeline.

“Alright, let’s go,” two voices whispered behind her, low and eager. 

They followed. 

Yoonchae had barely settled into the quiet corner of the gym when she heard it—footsteps. Light but purposeful. Coming closer. Closer. Until—

“Well, well, well…”

Lexie. Honeyed voice, rotten core. Yoonchae stiffened. She hadn’t even finished unwrapping her sandwich. 

“Has anyone ever told you that you have such pretty hair?” Lexie cooed as her fingers slid through Yoonchae’s hair—twirling, tugging ever so slightly. The gesture itself was soft, almost gentle, and that contradiction made Yoonchae’s brain stall in confusion.

“It’ll be a shame if we just…”

A soft swish cut the air. 

The weight vanished from Yoonchae’s shoulder—real, physical weight. Her heart plummeted. Emily snickered behind her. 

“Oops… I slipped,” Emily said, grinning as she slapped Lexie’s palm in a sharp high-five. 

The strands of her hair on the floor confirmed everything.

Lexie leaned in, smiling like a blade. 

“Say a word about this, and you won’t see the end of it, Yoonchae.”

The way she dragged out her name—acidic, deliberate—sent a violent shiver down her spine. 

Once the two of them left, Yoonchae heard hurried footsteps approaching. She could feel her lips tremble. Her hair—her hair had been cut. Not trimmed. Not snipped. But butchered. Mangled. She didn’t need a mirror to know she probably looked like someone had taken gardening shears to her head.

“Oh my god—are you okay?” a voice burst out, breathless.

A girl dropped to a crouch in front of Yoonchae, lowering herself until they were eye level. From the corner of her vision, Yoonchae could see the fallen strands scattered across the gym floor—thick, long clumps that once belonged to her. The reality made her stomach twist. 

She finally looked up at the girl. And recognition flickered. 

It was the same one she had seen in the restroom days ago—the one with pigtails and soft bangs, the girl who had smiled at her without a trace of cruelty. 

“Oh no…” the girl murmured, her expression pinched with genuine worry. Without hesitation, she shrugged off the oversized hoodie she was wearing and gently pushed it toward Yoonchae. “Here. Put it on. Keep the hood up. You don’t need anyone staring.”

Yoonchae numbly slipped the hoodie over her head and tugged the hood down as far as it could go.

“What is wrong with her?” the girl continued, more to herself than to Yoonchae. “She does this kind of crap all the time. I swear, if her dad didn’t spend money as he breathes, she wouldn’t even be allowed in schools.”

Yoonchae blinked, startled. Her voice came out faint, nearly swallowed by the emptiness in her chest. 

“What… what do you mean?”

The girl sighed, sitting back on her heels. “Let’s just say Lexie’s got a few screws loose. And a track record to match. She got into trouble at her old school too—but her daddy paid it all away.” She softened her tone, shaking her head. “Don’t give her what she wants. She feeds off reaction. Don’t let her into your head.”

She offered a small, warm smile—gentle in a way Yoonchae wasn’t used to.

“Oh! I forgot—my name’s Shimada Ua,” she added, brightening. 

Ua had asked Yoonchae a few gentle questions about herself, shared a couple of things in return, and then hurried off to her next class. Yoonchae waited until the hallway cleared before heading toward her own classroom—only to feel someone firmly catch her wrist and steer her into an empty room.

.

.

.

It was Adéla.

“Take the hood off,” she said quietly. Too quietly. Her voice held a pleading edge that made Yoonchae’s stomach twist.

Yoonchae didn’t move, though. She couldn’t. If she removed it, what if the damage was worse than she thought? What if she looked… practically bald?

Adéla’s tone sharpened. “Yoonchae. Take. It. Off.”

With trembling fingers, Yoonchae pushed the hood back. 

Adéla’s reaction was immediate—her eyes flew wide, her breath catching as if someone had punched the air from her lungs. 

“After school, you’re coming with me,” Adéla said, already storming toward the door. She didn’t wait for Yoonchae’s response, just slipped out and disappeared down the hallway with brisk, anxious steps.

Yoonchae stood staring at the door long after it clicked shut, stunned into silence. 

~ ~ ~

“Babe, you’d better start paying me. I’m a student, not your personal stalker,” the observer muttered into the phone, keeping their voice barely above a whisper as they monitored the hallway.

“Mm-hm. Complain later—just keep your eyes on Adéla.”

The line cut off with a crisp click.

The observer huffed, pocketing their phone. “These girls better get their shit together. This is unpaid labor,” they grumbled under their breath before slipping back into motion—waiting until Yoonchae disappeared safely into her classroom before moving on.

Somewhere far removed from the chaos of high school, someone lounged comfortably on a plush couch, a glass of wine swirling lazily in one hand. A cat curled on their lap, purring as fingers idly stroked its fur. 

“I’m doing what I can,” they said into their phone, voice smooth but edged with irritation. “Tell him to be prepared, just in case. Our star player is still far too oblivious for her own good.”

“I’ll pass along the message,” the man on the other end replied, exhaling as though he already knew how complicated things were about to become. 

Chapter Text

Yoonchae kept her hood pulled low, her head bowed, wishing the minutes would pass faster—or better yet, that she could vanish entirely. She longed for the days when life hadn’t been so relentlessly cruel. Adéla’s words echoed in her mind. It hadn’t even been a request—more like a command. Yoonchae didn’t know what awaited her, but she couldn’t stop herself from bracing for the worst. Fear wasn’t exactly what she felt; it was more a quiet, taut readiness, a mental armor for whatever might come. 

After stepping into the classroom, Yoonchae quickly sent a text to Michael, letting him know she wouldn’t be heading home—something had come up at school.

No one whispered directly about her hair or the hood pulled low over her head, but suddenly, it felt like every conversation around her revolved around hair. Every laugh, every hushed comment seemed to echo the unspoken scrutiny she was trying to avoid. 

Oh, how the mind worked.

Every passing second seemed designed to remind her of her own insignificance—how small, how incapable, how painfully irrelevant she was. She didn’t matter, not to her parents who only reached out to admonish her, nor to her sister, whose world revolved around the very girl who made Yoonchae’s life a quiet hell. Even Meiyok, with her rare softness and unpredictable warmth, had an entire life that existed before Yoonchae. And if forced to choose… Yoonchae wasn’t sure she would choose her at all.

When the final bell rang, the day slipped toward its end, and the dread she had been swallowing all afternoon rose like a tide. Yoonchae lingered by the school gate, nails digging crescents into her palm as if anchoring herself. Her other hand gripped the strap of her bag so tightly her knuckles paled.

She waited—heart thudding, breath uneven—as if preparing to be judged. Or saved. Or something in between. 

Yoonchae spotted Emily and Lexie with Adéla, and she could have sworn the color drained from her face. Lexie and Emily wore their usual smug smirks, while Adéla remained unreadable, her expression stoic as ever. It wasn’t unusual for her to be calm, but she rarely looked as if she had anywhere to be other than with Lexie and Emily.

Yoonchae watched as Adéla walked them out of the school, waiting until both Lexie and Emily had disappeared from the school grounds. Even after they were gone, Adéla lingered for a moment, waving long after the others had vanished into the dust and bustle of the street.

She turned then, her expression unreadable, though a faint glint of determination flickered in her eyes. She approached Yoonchae with a calm precision that made Yoonchae instinctively take a half-step back, her mind racing through every possible outcome of the encounter. 

By now, the school grounds were mostly empty. Students had dispersed outside in clusters, leaving only a few lingering in quiet corners, whispering among themselves. 

Adéla reached Yoonchae and, with surprising gentleness, took her wrist and guided her toward a matte black car waiting just outside.

The driver greeted Adéla, and she acknowledged the driver with a nod and gave the location.

Yoonchae’s senses were on high alert. 

For one, this was one of her bullies being… gentle.

She was used to grips that burned into her skin, leaving marks long after they were released. She was used to grips that stole circulation and made her gasp.

Not this. Not grips that were careful, measured, and kind.

And then there was the sheer unfamiliarity of it all—being escorted by someone, let alone one of her bullies, on what was effectively an outing. 

“Relax, Yoonchae. I’m not going to hurt you,” Adéla said, her voice calm, steady—almost matter-of-fact.

The words pulled her back from spiraling thoughts in her head. Reluctantly, she felt herself loosen just a fraction. That tiny shift, though small, felt significant. 

The ride was disorienting. Every road outside the school felt foreign, twisting and turning in ways she didn’t recognize. The streets were quieter than in the morning, but the sidewalks still teemed with scattered groups of students heading home, the occasional parent pushing a stroller, and cars slipping through intersections with lazy precision. 

Buildings loomed taller and closer together, some bathed in the warm, golden light of the afternoon sun, others casting long, unfamiliar shadows across the narrow roads. Trees were sparse, their leaves rustling softly in the breeze, and the occasional dogs darting in the park.

Yoonchae’s eyes darted from one corner to another, trying to map her surroundings, but nothing looked familiar. Every turn seemed arbitrary, every street a labyrinth of shapes and angles she had no memory of. She realized just how little she had seen beyond school hallways or her father’s carefully curated spaces. 

The city felt larger, more complex, and far more intimidating than she had imagined. Her questions multiplied with each unfamiliar street, each strange storefront, each passing stranger. Where were they taking her? Why here? And most of all—why had this world always felt so distant, until now?

The car eased into an underground parking lot, the dim lighting casting long shadows across the concrete floor. Once parked, Adéla stepped out, and Yoonchae hesitantly followed, only when Adéla shot her a questioning look. Again, Adéla took Yoonchae’s wrist, her touch firm but strangely protective—almost intimate. 

“Keep up,” Adéla said, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. “We don’t want to get lost now, do we?”

Her tone was casual, yet unreadable. Yoonchae couldn’t tell what she was thinking—or why she had brought her here.

Panic bubbled just beneath the surface, a tight knot coiling in her stomach. What if this is a trap? What if she’s taking me somewhere I can’t get out of?

Externally, she forced her steps to match Adéla’s, maintaining a calm she didn’t feel. Inside, her mind raced, spinning through worst-case scenarios as they moved deeper into the shadows of the underground lot. 

They reached the elevator, and Adéla stepped inside first, guiding Yoonchae just behind her. With a quick tap of her finger on a button—one Yoonchae didn’t bother to check—Adéla leaned against the cool metal wall, humming a low, almost absent-minded melody under her breath.

Yoonchae felt herself stiffen, every muscle taut. The enclosed space pressed in on her, and for the first time, the elevator felt suffocating. She kept her eyes fixed on the doors, willing them to open, counting the seconds in her head until she could breathe freely again. 

With a soft ting, the elevator doors slid open, spilling them into a sea of people. Yoonchae had never been anywhere with this many moving bodies—everyone rushing in different directions yet somehow avoiding collisions. It felt like a world apart from the quiet, isolated life she knew. 

They kept walking. Minutes—or was it hours?—slipped by. Glancing at her watch, she realized it had been nearly two hours since leaving school. A knot of unease churned in her stomach, yet strangely, Adéla didn’t feel threatened. Yoonchae found herself relaxing, just a fraction, though her mind continued to spiral with questions and “what-ifs.”

After a few more minutes, Adéla came to a stop in front of a small shop. Lost in her thoughts, Yoonchae didn’t notice and nearly collided with her, flinching sharply.

“Hey—easy, it’s okay,” Adéla said, her voice calm, a faint smile tugging at her lips as she steadied Yoonchae. “Breathe… we’re fine. Come on.” With that, she stepped inside.

From the outside, the store looked modest—almost shabby, unremarkable—but the moment they entered, Yoonchae’s breath caught. The interior was a different world: sleek, understated, perfectly maintained. A hair salon, but one that felt almost poetic in its elegance. 

“Adéla! It’s so good to see you! It’s been ages!” A woman, likely in her late fifties, approached and wrapped Adéla in a warm hug.

“You’ve grown into such a remarkable young woman!” she said, lifting Adéla slightly as if to twirl her, but then stopped abruptly. “Ah… these old bones aren’t what they used to be.”

She chuckled and looked between them. “Anyway—what brings my little rockstar to visit her favorite aunt?” Her gaze lingered on Yoonchae, who immediately wished she could shrink further into her hood. 

“Is she—” the older woman began, a teasing glint in her eyes that Adéla caught instantly. 

“No, Aunty. I missed you more! And this is Yoonchae,” Adéla interjected, her tone firm yet casual. “She got into a bit of trouble, and I was hoping you could help her out.” She sent the older woman an almost imperceptible glare, half-warning, half-flustered.

Adéla then turned to Yoonchae, expectant. When Yoonchae hesitated, she let out a quiet sigh. 

“Come on, Yoonchae. She needs to see how to fix this… make you look less like Rapunzel after Flynn butchered her hair.”

With trembling hands, Yoonchae slowly lowered the hood. The older woman’s eyes widened, and a soft gasp escaped her lips. 

“Oh my…” 

So it really was that bad.

Heat rushed to Yoonchae’s face, and an overwhelming urge to disappear clawed its way up her spine. She half-considered digging a hole and vanishing into it—hibernating there until the memory dulled. Or maybe bolting straight out of the shop, letting the door swing shut behind her, and pretending this moment never happened. 

The older woman approached her slowly, carefully, as if Yoonchae might spook. She examined the uneven strands with practiced eyes, fingers lifting sections, tilting her head as she hummed thoughtfully and nodded to herself. 

“We can work with this,” she said at last, her voice warm and reassuring. “We can fix it. Don’t worry, darling.”

Yoonchae felt a hesitant sense of reassurance settle somewhere in her chest—but it didn’t erase her doubt. She didn’t know this woman. She didn’t know what Adéla’s intentions truly were. And most of all, she didn’t know what would happen if things somehow got worse. Worse felt very possible when it came to her life.

The older woman gently guided her toward the chair, hands light, movements practiced. Yoonchae sat stiffly, fingers curling into the fabric of the hoodie pooled in her lap as the cape was draped over her shoulders.

“I’m Stephanie,” the woman said warmly, meeting Yoonchae’s gaze through the mirror. “And before you panic—no, I’m not going to make you look ridiculous.”

That earned the faintest flicker of surprise from Yoonchae.

Stephanie’s fingers moved through her hair carefully, lifting sections, assessing the uneven cuts, the blunt brutality of what had been done. She hummed softly, a sound more thoughtful than concerned, nodding to herself as if piecing together a puzzle.

“Hm,” she murmured. “It’s choppy. Uneven. A mess.” She glanced at Yoonchae’s reflection again, eyes kind. “But not hopeless. Not even close.”

Adéla had taken a seat nearby, arms folded loosely, one leg crossed over the other. She watched in silence, expression unreadable—but she hadn’t looked away once.

Stephanie reached for a spray bottle and lightly misted Yoonchae’s hair. The cool droplets startled her at first, but Stephanie’s touch remained steady, grounding.

“We’ll go with a wolf cut,” Stephanie said, almost casually. “Layers. Movement. Something that looks intentional—even wild, if you want it to.”

Yoonchae swallowed. “I don’t… I don’t want it to be too obvious.”

Stephanie smiled at her reflection. “Darling, confidence is often just well-disguised intention. Trust me.”

The scissors began to move.

Snip by snip, the weight shifted. Uneven ends were reshaped into purpose. Shorter layers framed her face, softening the harshness, giving structure where there had been chaos. Stephanie worked with precision, stepping back often, tilting her head, adjusting just enough to make it feel right.

Loose strands fell to the floor like discarded memories.

Yoonchae watched it happen through the mirror, unsure of what she was allowed to feel. Relief, maybe. Or disbelief. Her shoulders slowly relaxed without her noticing. 

Adéla leaned forward slightly at one point. “You’re good,” she said quietly. 

Stephanie smirked. “I know.”

When it was done, Stephanie styled it lightly, letting the layers fall naturally, messy in a way that felt deliberate—soft around the edges, sharp where it mattered.

She turned the chair just slightly so Yoonchae could see herself better.

“Well?” Stephanie asked.

Yoonchae stared.

She didn’t look broken. She didn’t look butchered. She looked… different. Stronger. Like something had been taken from her, yes—but something else had been given back in return.

“I—” her voice caught, then steadied. “It’s… nice.”

Stephanie squeezed her shoulder gently. “It’s yours.”

From the corner of her eye, Yoonchae caught Adéla watching her in the mirror, something unreadable—but unmistakably resolute—in her gaze.

And for the first time that day, Yoonchae thought—maybe this wasn’t just damage control.

Maybe this was the beginning of something shifting.

~ ~ ~

Adéla made her way to the counter while Stephanie was tidying up her tools and quietly slid her card across the surface.

Stephanie paused mid-motion. Slowly, she looked at the card, then at Adéla—her expression shifting into something between offense and mockery, as if Adéla had just sprouted horns and a devil’s tail.

“Oh, absolutely not,” she said, pushing the card back with a single finger. “Keep it, dear. Consider this a gift—for your… friend.”

The deliberate pause, the slight tilt of her head, and the smirk that followed made the word friend sound far heavier than it should have.

Heat rushed up Adéla’s neck, creeping into her cheeks. She stiffened, clearly flustered, and Stephanie immediately burst into laughter—rich, knowing, and entirely unapologetic.

“Oh, don’t look so scandalized,” Stephanie waved a hand dismissively. “Go on, darling. Update me later. I’ve been surviving on crumbs for far too long—feels like it’s finally time to feast.”

With a flick of her wrist, she dismissed Adéla before she could gather a single coherent response, let alone form a sentence.

Stephanie then turned her attention to Yoonchae, her expression softening into something genuinely warm.

“Bye, Yoonchae!” she called cheerfully. “I hope I get to see you again—sometime soon.”

Her smile stretched wide, open, and sincere in a way Yoonchae wasn’t used to seeing from adults. It lingered, comforting rather than overwhelming, and for the first time that day, Yoonchae felt something unfamiliar bloom quietly in her chest—relief.

A few storefronts behind them, the observer blended into the evening crowd with practiced ease—close enough to keep them in sight, far enough to remain forgettable. Her phone was tucked against her ear, her pace unhurried, steps timed to match the pair ahead whenever they slowed.

“Hey—I’m—no. Let me finish,” she muttered under her breath.

A pause. Then, a playful remark that wasn’t exactly appreciated, considering the given circumstances.

She pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling through her teeth. “You’re impossible.”

Her eyes flicked up just in time to see Adéla glance at a shop window, Yoonchae hovering half a step behind her like a shadow that hadn’t learned how to detach yet. The observer adjusted course smoothly, pretending to check her phone as she followed.

“Anyway,” she continued, lowering her voice, “I stayed on them. Didn’t break cover. Adéla doesn’t look like a threat.”

“And the girl?” the voice on the other end asked, calmer now. Assessing.

“She took her to a salon,” the observer replied. “Not a front. Not a detour. Legit place. Older woman—knew Adéla personally.”

Silence stretched for a moment, punctuated only by the sounds of the city: footsteps, distant laughter, a car horn somewhere too close.

“A salon,” the voice repeated. “That’s… unexpected.”

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “But intentional. The cut’s done. Looks fine. Better, even.”

Another pause. The observer slowed when they slowed, stopped when they stopped—eyes never leaving their backs.

“So?” the voice finally said. “You think she’s harmless?”

“I think,” the observer replied, watching Adéla tilt her head toward Yoonchae, “that if she wanted to hurt her, she wouldn’t be fixing what someone else broke.”

A soft hum of consideration came through the line.

“Keep following,” the voice decided. “From a distance.”

“Already am,” she murmured, gaze sharp, steps silent. “And don’t worry—I won’t be seen.”

The call ended, but she didn’t stop walking.

Adéla slowed, then stopped altogether. 

The feeling came unannounced—sharp and unwelcome—like a hand brushing the back of her neck. She glanced over her shoulder once. Nothing. Just the city doing what it always did: people weaving past each other with practiced ease, tourists pausing mid-sidewalk to argue over maps, shop lights blinking on as evening settled in.

She looked again. Still nothing.

Yet the unease refused to leave.

Her fingers tightened around Yoonchae’s wrist, subtle but intentional, and she picked up her pace—not enough to draw attention, just enough to feel like momentum. Yoonchae stumbled half a step, then matched her stride without protest. 

The instinct hit immediately. Too sharp to ignore.

Adéla had changed pace.

The observer slowed, heart ticking faster, recalculating distance.

“Shit”, they muttered under their breath.

Adéla looked away again, tugging Yoonchae a little closer as they merged into a denser stream of pedestrians. 

The observer exhaled shakily and rose, wiping their hands on their jacket like that would somehow erase the moment. 

“Do not lose them,” they muttered, weaving around a group of tourists who abruptly stopped to take pictures.

Ahead, Adéla didn’t look back again—but the grip on Yoonchae’s wrist never loosened.

.

.

.

Adéla was certain they were being watched—and the sensation didn’t dissipate, not for a second. It clung to the back of her mind, a low hum of unease she couldn’t shake. A subtle sense of impending trouble seemed to drift behind them, invisible yet insistent. 

“Let’s move quickly,” she murmured, her grip firm yet measured on Yoonchae’s wrist, guiding her through the brisk evening crowd. Yoonchae barely resisted, letting herself be pulled along, the hoodie shielding her from the world—and perhaps, unknowingly, from prying eyes. 

The city around them was shifting into the evening. The sun had begun its slow descent, painting the horizon in streaks of molten gold and bruised purple. A delicate crescent of the moon hung lazily in the far corner of the sky, already pale against the dimming blue, as if silently observing their path. Streetlights flickered on one by one, casting soft halos onto the pavements where pedestrians hurried past, oblivious to the two girls weaving through them.

At last, they reached the underground parking lot, dimly lit and quiet except for the occasional hum of cars settling in. Adéla’s chauffeur waited patiently by a sleek black vehicle, the driver’s posture taut with professionalism. Adéla released Yoonchae’s wrist, letting the girl step inside first, though the tension in her shoulders didn’t ease. 

“You shouldn’t be walking home alone,” Adéla said quietly as the car started rolling. “I can drop you off. It’s safer.” Her tone was firm, yet edged with an unfamiliar softness—a subtle attempt to comfort. 

Yoonchae shook her head, shrugging beneath the hoodie. “I’ll be fine. Really. I like walking sometimes.” Her hands sank deeper into her pockets, the chill of the evening air lingering against her skin. The quiet streets stretched ahead, emptying gradually as night settled in.

Adéla studied her for a moment, the faint crescent moon reflected in Yoonchae’s eyes beneath the hood. She wanted to insist, to push her to safety, but something in the girl’s posture—steady, despite the world’s chaos—made her pause. Instead, she gave a curt nod.

“Alright. Be careful.”

Yoonchae gave a small, almost imperceptible smile in return, the streetlights glinting softly off the damp pavement as she began walking. Each step echoed faintly, her breath forming small clouds in the cool night air. She felt the hoodie cocooning her, her hands tucked tightly, the world around her simultaneously vast and intimate. Alone, but not entirely vulnerable—at least, not yet.

Adéla’s car disappeared around a corner, leaving Yoonchae to the quiet rhythm of her own steps, the city unfolding before her as the night slowly deepened, and the crescent moon lingered above like a silent witness.

A few minutes passed, and Yoonchae had almost begun to settle into the quiet rhythm of the streets. The crisp night air, the soft hum of distant traffic, even the occasional rustle of leaves—it all felt strangely comforting.

“Miss Jeung? Why are you walking alone?”

Yoonchae froze, her heart skipping a beat. She blinked at the figure stepping out of the car, moving toward her with familiar, purposeful steps. Of course—it was Holly.

“I… I felt like taking a walk,” Yoonchae mumbled, one hand nervously fiddling with the drawstrings of her hoodie, tugging at them without realizing it.

“This late, Miss Jeung??” Holly’s voice was firm but edged with concern. “Come on, Michael, and I will drop you home.”

Yoonchae hesitated for only a moment before nodding, sliding the hoodie over her head, and letting herself fall in step beside Holly. It wasn’t as if she needed to give directions; Michael knew the route by heart, and Holly had driven it countless times before. The offer to walk alone had been more about her own semblance of independence than practicality—and she realized, with a quiet sense of relief, that the adults around her had it all figured out.

As they walked toward the car, Yoonchae’s shoulders relaxed slightly, the tension in her chest easing. Maybe she didn’t need to face the streets alone tonight.

But of course—in the quiet, seemingly deserted neighborhood, the observer lingered in the shadows, eyes fixed on their every move. Every step, every turn was reported in hushed whispers to the other side, all before the car finally roared to life and disappeared into the distance, leaving them alone on the otherwise empty street. 

Chapter Text

The car ride back home passed in a blink—unsurprising considering Yoonchae had already walked part of the way after Adéla dropped her off closer to the neighborhood. By the time she stepped inside, the evening had settled quietly around the house.

The soft hum of the refrigerator greeted her first, followed by the muted sound of running water from the bathroom.

Meiyok?

The thought sparked instantly, anticipation fluttering through her veins.

“Miss Jeung,” Holly’s voice called from the kitchen, bright yet carefully composed. “I’ve prepared dinner for you and the young master. I hope you’ll enjoy it.”

“Thank you, Holly,” Yoonchae replied softly, the sincerity unmistakable.

“Oh—and Miss Jeung?” Holly added, just as Yoonchae was about to move away.

Yoonchae paused, turning back slightly.

“I love the haircut,” Holly said with a warm smile. “It suits you.”

Heat crept up Yoonchae’s neck—not from embarrassment this time, but from unfamiliarity. Compliments were rarely given to her without a but, an if only, or an expectation trailing behind them. This one stood alone, uncomplicated and genuine.

And somehow, that made it feel heavier—in the best way. 

“Thank you, Holly,” Yoonchae managed, her voice tinged with awkward sincerity.

Holly responded with a gentle smile, her eyes soft and kind, before turning toward the door. Moments later, the quiet click of it shutting echoed through the house—leaving Yoonchae alone once more.

The sound of running water continued for a few minutes longer before finally cutting off. Yoonchae, who had been sitting stiffly at the dining table with her hoodie still pulled up—shoulders hunched as though she could physically shrink herself out of existence—tensed when footsteps echoed down the hall.

They drew closer. Closer. And then—

“Oh—Yoonchae, you’re back?” Meiyok said. 

Yoonchae’s gaze dropped before she could stop herself, instinctively tracing the silhouette in front of her. Meiyok stood there in a fitted black dress, the fabric hugging her frame effortlessly, a clean slit running up her thigh with deliberate elegance. The familiar sleek black mask concealed the upper half of her face, only making the rest of her presence sharper—more intentional. Her hair was swept into a neat bun, though a few loose strands framed her face, rebellious in a way that felt carefully curated rather than careless. Her perfume reached Yoonchae a second later, a soft blend of florals layered with something faintly sweet, almost fruity.

If only there weren’t a mask, Yoonchae thought—just as Meiyok cleared her throat.

There it was. That smirk, tugging at the corner of her lips, as she knew exactly what effect she had.

“Like what you see?” Meiyok asked, her voice low, smooth—needlessly seductive, as if she were doing it on purpose. Well—maybe it was.

“You look good,” Yoonchae replied instead, steady and unimpressed, refusing to give her the satisfaction of visible fluster.

Meiyok hummed, clearly amused. “Good timing. We have a dinner party to attend.” Her eyes flicked briefly to the neatly arranged food Holly had left on the dining table, steam still faintly rising. “Guess Oliver didn’t mention that to Holly.”

She adjusted the strap of her purse with practiced ease before continuing, businesslike now. “My mom had a dress sent for you—it’s on the bed. You can shower upstairs. I’ll wait down here.” A brief pause, then, “We’re expected at eight.”

And just like that, Meiyok turned away, elegance trailing behind her, leaving Yoonchae standing there with the echo of her presence—and the quiet realization that the night was far from over. 

Meiyok returned to the kitchen moments later, this time without her purse slung over her shoulder.

“What are you still doing here?” she asked, her tone dry, though the faint lilt of teasing remained. “Go get dressed, babe.”

That was all it took. Yoonchae jolted upright and hurried toward the stairs, nearly tripping over herself in her haste, leaving Meiyok alone in the quiet kitchen.

With a soft sigh, Meiyok turned her attention to the food Holly had prepared. She packed the containers away one by one, careful and deliberate, sliding them neatly into the refrigerator. It felt wasteful to leave something so thoughtfully made untouched. 

Just as she shut the fridge door, her phone vibrated against the counter.

Meiyok paused, then picked it up and answered with a smooth swipe. 

“Yes, Mom,” she said calmly. 

A brief pause.

“Yes, I gave it to her. The dress is on the bed.”

She leaned her hip against the counter, listening.

“No—I haven’t seen her try it on yet.”

Another pause followed—longer this time. Meiyok’s jaw tightened, just barely perceptible. 

“Yes, I know,” she said evenly. “We’ll be there on time.”

She kept the phone pressed to her ear, half-listening now, humming absentmindedly in response to whatever her mother was saying on the other end. The rhythm broke when soft footsteps reached the bottom of the stairs. 

“Megan?”

Then again, quieter—hesitant.

“Megan?”

Her mother’s voice sharpened through the speaker, cutting cleanly through the air. Meiyok blinked, attention snapping back.

“Sorry, Mom. I’ll see you there. Bye.”

She ended the call with a quick tap and looked up.

Yoonchae stood there.

She was wearing an ankle-length dress in a deep shade of blue—sharp enough to feel formal, soft enough to feel gentle. The fabric draped fluidly along her frame, skimming rather than clinging, moving slightly every time she shifted her weight. The sleeves were simple, the neckline modest, but the way it fell on her made it feel deliberate, elegant in a quiet, unassuming way. It was the kind of dress that didn’t demand attention—yet somehow earned it anyway.

And then there was her hair.

The cut framed her face differently now, lighter, freer. The layers softened her features, giving her an edge she hadn’t carried before—something unguarded, almost wild, but still unmistakably her. It changed the way she held herself, too, even if she didn’t realize it yet. 

Meiyok froze—then stiffened, as if she’d caught herself in the middle of something unprofessional.

Ridiculous, she thought, already forcing her expression back into place.

“...That suits you,” Meiyok said at last, voice steadier than she felt. 

She didn’t bother hiding it this time—her gaze traced Yoonchae from head to toe, slow and deliberate, as if she needed to confirm what she was seeing.

“Where are your shoes?” Meiyok asked at last, her tone casual, though her eyes lingered on Yoonchae’s bare feet.

“Um—” Yoonchae hesitated, shifting her weight. “I don’t really have any… shoes that fit something like this,” she admitted softly, her voice barely above a whisper. 

Meiyok tilted her head, a thoughtful hum slipping past her lips. “Come with me,” she said simply, already turning toward the stairs. 

Yoonchae followed a step behind, quiet and obedient. Meiyok stopped by a small, unassuming box resting on the side table and picked it up before turning back to her. 

“Here,” she said, handing it over.

“I forgot to mention—my mom picked out shoes too. To match,” Meiyok added, nodding toward the bed. “Sit.”

Yoonchae perched on the edge of the mattress, carefully opening the box. She slipped the shoes on, fingers fumbling with the delicate straps, uncertainty written into every small movement.

Meiyok watched for a moment, then sighed softly. “You’re going to twist them like that,” she said, more fond than critical.

Before Yoonchae could protest, Meiyok crouched in front of her. Her hands were warm as they guided the straps around Yoonchae’s ankles, fingers deft and practiced as she fastened the clasps. 

“Hold still,” she murmured, focused. 

Once she finished, Meiyok straightened and took a step back, assessing her work. “Walk around,” she said. “See how they feel. If they’re too tight, tell me.”

Yoonchae nodded, standing carefully—every step tentative, every breath held—while Meiyok watched, eyes sharp, unreadable, and far more attentive than she let on.

Yoonchae’s ankles wobbled as she shifted her weight, the unfamiliar heels making her feel fragile, unsteady. Meiyok didn’t hesitate; her hands found Yoonchae’s forearms, steadying her with gentle firmness.

“First time wearing heels?” Meiyok murmured, almost to herself, though her eyes stayed locked on Yoonchae’s careful steps.

Yoonchae only managed a slight nod, almost imperceptible, her cheeks tinged with heat.

“Alright,” Meiyok said, rising slightly to her full height, “walk a little more, see if they’re comfortable. If they pinch anywhere, tell me immediately.” Her voice was calm, but there was an edge of command in it, a quiet insistence that Yoonchae obey.

Yoonchae took a tentative step, then another. Each movement made her sway just a little, but Meiyok’s hands never left her, lightly grazing her arms, guiding her without pressure.

“Good,” Meiyok encouraged, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Not too bad. You’re doing better than I expected.”

Yoonchae’s confidence grew, just enough for her to take a few steps across the carpeted bedroom, testing her balance.

“Perfect,” Meiyok said, releasing her arms but letting her hands hover close, almost hovering protectively. “I think you’re ready to head downstairs. Hold on to me just in case, alright?”

Yoonchae nodded, letting Meiyok guide her towards the staircase. The heels clicked softly against the floor, and Meiyok kept one hand lightly over Yoonchae’s back, steadying her as they approached the steps.

“Take it slow,” Meiyok instructed softly, keeping her voice low, almost intimate. Her other hand hovered just above Yoonchae’s elbow, ready to steady her at any misstep.

Step by step, Yoonchae descended, her body stiff but growing more confident with every careful movement. Meiyok’s presence was reassuring, her touch a subtle anchor in the unfamiliar rhythm of the heels.

At the bottom, Yoonchae paused, letting out a quiet breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “I—I think I’m good,” she said softly.

“See? Nothing to worry about,” Meiyok replied, her tone gentle, yet carrying the faintest trace of satisfaction. She finally stepped back, but only just enough to allow Yoonchae a sense of independence while still remaining within reach.

Together, they moved toward the door, Meiyok’s hand brushing lightly against Yoonchae’s back once more, as if silently saying, I’ve got you.

“Would it bother you if I touched you occasionally?” Meiyok asked, lowering her voice as her hand hovered near the small of Yoonchae's back once more. “We might have to pretend a little. For appearances.”

Touch.

Pretend.

Her mind latched onto the words and refused to let go. She wasn't used to being asked. Touch, in her world, usually came without warning, without permission—hands that hurt, grips that lingered too long. This was different. Meiyok paused, asked, and waited

“I—” Yoonchae swallowed, fingers tightening around the fabric of her dress. “I think… that's fine.” 

The answer came out softer than she intended, but it was honest.

Meiyok glanced at her then, just briefly, her expression unreadable—but something in her shoulders eased, like she'd been holding her breath without realizing it.

“If you're uncomfortable at any point,” Meiyok added quietly, “tell me. I'll stop.” 

That, more than anything, made Yoonchae's chest feel tight.

She nodded, unable to trust her voice this time.

Meiyok opened the door, and cool evening air swept in around them—but as they stepped outside, Meiyok's hand found Yoonchae's again, steady and unhurried, as if to anchor her before the world could swallow her whole.

And Yoonchae let it stay.

~ ~ ~

Michael was already waiting when they stepped outside, posture straight, expression neutral—his usual professional calm untouched by the evening air. The car idled quietly at the curb, dark and polished, as if it had been there all along, waiting patiently for them to arrive.

Meiyok moved first, opening the door for Yoonchae with an almost practiced ease. “Careful,” she murmured, one hand hovering near Yoonchae’s waist as she helped her in, mindful of the fall of her dress. The gesture was subtle, efficient—nothing about it suggested hesitation.

Yoonchae slid into the seat, smoothing the fabric over her legs, acutely aware of how unfamiliar all of this felt. Before she could fully gather herself, Meiyok climbed in beside her and shut the door, the sound sealing them into the quiet hum of the car.

Michael pulled away from the curb without a word.

Only then did Yoonchae realize that Meiyok hadn’t let go.

Their hands were still intertwined—Meiyok’s grip loose, natural, as though this was the most ordinary thing in the world. As though holding hands in the backseat of a car on the way to a dinner party was routine.

For Yoonchae, it was anything but.

She stared ahead at the tinted window, watching the city lights blur past, every nerve in her body suddenly aware of that single point of contact. She had held hands before—Eunchae’s, when they were younger, fingers laced tight as they ran through hallways or crossed busy streets. That had been easy. Familiar.

This was different.

Meiyok’s hand was warm, steady. Protective, even. Not gripping, not demanding—just there. And somehow, that made it worse. Or better. Yoonchae couldn’t tell which.

Her thoughts spiraled despite herself. This is just pretending. She said so.

Yet her pulse betrayed her, thrumming louder with every passing second.

She wondered if Meiyok could feel it. If she noticed the way Yoonchae’s fingers tensed, then she slowly, unconsciously, relaxed. The way her shoulders eased back into the seat, as though her body had decided—without consulting her—that this was safe.

Outside, the evening deepened. Streetlights flickered on one by one, casting fleeting gold across the interior of the car. The world moved forward, indifferent, while Yoonchae felt suspended in this strange, quiet moment.

Meiyok didn’t look at her. She didn’t say anything. She simply kept holding her hand, thumb brushing lightly against Yoonchae’s knuckles now and then, absentminded and unassuming.

And that—somehow—made Yoonchae feel more seen than words ever could.

~

The car slowed as it turned onto a private road, gravel crunching softly beneath the tires before coming to a halt before towering metallic gates. They loomed high and imposing, their dark surface gleaming faintly under the evening light—ornate yet severe, as if even the metal itself carried authority. Yoonchae stared, momentarily forgetting to breathe.

The gates parted soundlessly, revealing the estate beyond.

A house—no, a mansion—rose from manicured grounds, expansive and immaculate. It carried the unmistakable air of old money: restrained luxury, deliberate symmetry, wealth that didn’t need to announce itself to be understood. Yet the architecture was modern, clean lines blending seamlessly with tradition, as though generations had quietly agreed to evolve without ever relinquishing control.

At the front stood Sylvia and William, already waiting. 

Meiyok glanced at her watch.

“Seven fifty,” she murmured, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “We’re ten minutes early.”

She stepped out first, smooth and unhurried, then turned back to open the door for Yoonchae, mindful of her dress as she offered a steady hand. Once Yoonchae was safely on the ground, the door shut behind them. The car pulled away, its presence dissolving beyond the gates as if it had never been there at all.

Meiyok’s fingers found Yoonchae’s again—firm, grounding—and together they walked forward.

Toward her parents.

“Yoonchae! You look absolutely gorgeous,” Sylvia exclaimed, meeting them halfway. She pulled Yoonchae into a warm, effortless hug—one that felt practiced in affection, sincere rather than performative.

William followed a step behind, his gaze sweeping over them both before he gave a small nod of approval. “You both look remarkable this evening,” he said, his voice calm, steady—yet noticeably softer than the authority he usually carried.

Under their attention, Yoonchae felt something unfamiliar flutter in her chest. Giddiness, perhaps. Or the strange, dizzy relief of being seen kindly without conditions attached.

“I’m glad you could make it,” William continued. “Zacharius and the others have been looking forward to meeting you, Yoonchae.” His tone lightened just enough to feel intentional.

“They’re all in the garden for now,” Sylvia added smoothly. “You can join them after you’ve greeted the adults.”

Throughout the exchange, Meiyok remained quiet—observant. Then, as Sylvia and William turned toward the entrance, she cleared her throat softly, leaning just close enough for Yoonchae to hear.

“This is the Bannerman estate,” she said in a low voice. “Zacharius is one of my father’s old friends—business partners, too. There are a few others like him tonight.” A brief pause, then a faint, knowing tilt of her lips. “You’ll be fine if you smile and nod. They’re pleasant enough… for the most part.”

Yoonchae nodded, taking the information in, her grip tightening just slightly around Meiyok’s hand.

Together, they followed the older couple into the house.

Inside, the atmosphere shifted immediately.

The space was filled with couples in their late forties to mid-fifties, wine glasses held with practiced ease, laughter measured, conversations flowing like well-rehearsed performances. Everything about them carried weight—tailored suits, understated jewelry, confident posture. Old money, unmistakably so. Even their accents and gestures felt curated by generations of privilege. They were diverse in appearance, yet united by the same polished air of wealth and influence.

“Everyone,” Sylvia announced brightly, her voice cutting through the hum of conversation, “Meiyok and our future daughter-in-law have arrived!”

The room’s attention snapped toward them.

Yoonchae felt it instantly—the way eyes swept over her, slow and deliberate. The women assessed her with the precision of connoisseurs examining something rare, as though measuring her worth in unspoken categories. The men, more restrained, offered polite nods—professional, distant, but not unkind.

A tall man of color rose from his seat and approached first, his presence calm yet commanding.

“Nice to finally meet you, Yoonchae,” he said warmly, extending his hand. “You look absolutely stunning this evening,”

Yoonchae accepted the handshake, then instinctively brought her other hand over his—a gesture of respect ingrained deep within her upbringing. The man paused, then let out a rich, genuine laugh.

“Well now,” he said, amused, glancing toward William. There was approval in his eyes—clear and unmissable.

“This is Zacharius,” William said, pride threading his voice.

Zacharius stepped aside, allowing his wife to approach. Daniela greeted Yoonchae with a gentle smile and a brief, affectionate hug, murmuring kind words that felt sincere rather than obligatory.

Next came Sri and Kavita, who both praised Yoonchae’s dress, the elegance of the cut, the softness of the color against her complexion. Kavita lingered a moment longer, commenting on her hair—how striking it looked, how it framed her face so well.

Finally, Godfrey and Carla offered their greetings, their smiles polite, their words warm enough to feel welcoming without crossing into intimacy. 

Through it all, Meiyok stayed close—present but quiet, her hand occasionally brushing Yoonchae’s as if reminding her she wasn’t alone in this room full of scrutiny. 

The younger pair lingered with the adults just long enough to be polite before excusing themselves and making their way toward the garden—where Meiyok’s friends were gathered.

The moment they came into view, Lara’s face lit up.

“Meg—” she started, excitement bursting out far too soon.

She didn’t get to finish, though.

Manon’s elbow met her ribs, followed immediately by Sophia’s sharp nudge, both of them wide-eyed in silent panic. Meiyok felt her heart stutter, a brief flash of alarm sparking through her chest.

“MEI-BOO!” Sophia blurted out instead, far too loudly, throwing her arms up in exaggerated enthusiasm. “We missed you!”

Lara winced, rubbing her side, while Manon shot Sophia a look that said You’re not helping, even as she forced a smile.

Meiyok exhaled slowly, schooling her expression into something calm, amused—even fond. Crisis narrowly averted. 

“Guys—this is Yoonchae,” Meiyok said quickly, not wasting a second. Then, with a vague flick of her wrist, she added, “And Yoonchae… these are my father’s business partners’ kids.”

The wording earned her immediate reactions.

“You did not just say it like that,” Lara shot back, eyes wide with disbelief. 

Manon rolled her eyes. Sophia sighed. “You made us sound like a tax deduction.”

Manon stepped forward anyway, expression warm despite the jab. “Ignore her. It’s really nice to finally meet you, Yoonchae.” She leaned in for a brief, polite hug.

Sophia followed, gentler but just as friendly. “We’ve heard a lot about you,” she said with an easy smile.

Then came Lara, who was vibrating with unchecked enthusiasm.

“Oh my god,” she blurted, before scooping Yoonchae just enough for her heels to betray her balance.

Yoonchae stumbled slightly on the way down, breath catching as the unfamiliar height and shoes worked against her.

Before she could tip forward, Meiyok’s hand was already there—firm against the small of Yoonchae’s back, steadying her without a word.

Yoonchae regained her footing, cheeks warm, while Lara apologized in a rush of words and laughter. 

Meiyok didn’t comment. She simply kept her hand where it was a moment longer than necessary, ignoring the knowing looks her friends exchanged.

.

.

.

.

“Where’s Dani?” 

Chapter Text

“Where’s Dani?” Megan finally asked, pointedly ignoring the messy, accusatory looks Lara kept throwing her way.

Manon and Sophia exchanged a knowing glance.

“Good things take time,” Manon said sweetly—her tone laced with unmistakable sarcasm.

Lara let out a surprised snort, while Sophia burst into a laugh that was far louder than necessary, clearly more performative than genuine. 

Meiyok rolled her eyes. “Guess she never learns,” she muttered, shaking her head as if already exhausted by the idea of Daniela’s eventual arrival.

Manon turned her attention back to Yoonchae, her expression softening instantly. “Go on, Yoonchae—have a seat. Make yourself comfortable.”

Yoonchae hesitated, lingering at the edge of the seating area, acutely aware of her own awkwardness. Meiyok’s hand hovered just behind her back—not quite touching, but close enough to feel like an anchor. Not one she had asked for… yet not one she found herself pulling away from either. 

Manon noticed, smirking faintly, and gestured again. “Seriously. You’re safe here.”

Yoonchae nodded and moved to sit, the tension in her shoulders easing just a fraction.

As the evening stretched on, Meiyok and Manon drifted into an easy, familiar rhythm of conversation, their voices low and animated. Nearby, Sophia and Lara naturally filled the space around Yoonchae, drawing her in without pressure. 

Despite her initial shyness, Yoonchae found herself responding—soft at first, then a little more confidently. Words came easier than she expected, her quiet humor and unintentional warmth slipping through. Without trying, she held their attention, and by the time she noticed, both girls were already smiling at her, clearly charmed. 

“You know what? I love you for our meg—” Lara started, already halfway into disaster. 

Sophia’s foot shot out from under the table, connecting sharply with Lara’s shin.

“—atron - obsessed loser,” Lara finished instead, voice wobbling as she fought back a pained whine, eyes glassy. She forced a grin, trying to sell it as enthusiasm rather than near betrayal.

Across from her, Sophia smiled sweetly—too sweet. Teeth clenched, eyes bright and innocent, as if she hadn’t just committed an act of silent violence to preserve a secret. 

It didn’t help that Lara couldn’t lie even if her life depended on it. She had never been good at it—never would be. When it came to deception, she folded instantly, transparently, spectacularly. Everyone knew it. Their mothers probably knew it, too.

“HEYYY, BESTIES!!”

The sharp, sing-song voice cut through the air without warning, startling all of them. 

Heads turned just in time to see the source striding toward them.

Daniela looked stunning—effortlessly so. Her confidence radiated outward, bold without being abrasive, the kind that filled a space simply by existing in it. Her outfit was sharp and intentional, her makeup precise, her presence impossible to ignore.

She was shorter than Meiyok, fiercer in a different way—sharp eyes, unapologetic posture, energy that crackled just beneath the surface. Her gaze landed on Yoonchae almost immediately, curious rather than unkind.

Yoonchae found herself staring. 

It was the second time that day she’d caught herself openly gaping at a woman. First Meiyok—now this.

Daniela’s curls framed her face in a way that felt natural, full of movement and life. The kind of beauty that didn’t feel curated so much as owned. It wasn’t envy that stirred in Yoonchae’s chest—just awe, simple and unguarded, the recognition of confidence she hadn’t yet learned how to wear herself. 

“Oh,” Daniela said, slowing to a stop. “And who might this be?” 

Manon stepped in smoothly before Daniela could say anything reckless.

“Daniela, this is Yoonchae,” she said, her tone bright and deliberate. “Our dear Meiyok’s fiancée-to-be.” 

The way Meiyok’s name rolled off her tongue—careful, weighted—did exactly what Manon intended. Daniela’s eyes widened, her mouth forming a perfect O of realization before she snapped her attention back to Yoonchae. 

“Oh,” she breathed, then broke into a grin as she stepped forward and extended her hand. “Well—hi. It’s really nice to finally meet you.”

Yoonchae was stunned—no, that still wasn’t quite enough to describe it. She stood rooted in place, an awkward, polite smile lingering on her lips as her body lagged a beat behind her thoughts. The others watched quietly as she extended both hands and shook Daniela’s, the gesture careful and respectful, muscle memory drilled into her since childhood. 

As her gaze drifted to the others, Yoonchae felt something tighten softly inside her. Each of them was beautiful in a different way—sharp, warm, bold, subtle—and together they fit like an abstract painting, mismatched pieces forming something undeniably whole. Being among them made Yoonchae acutely aware of her own smallness, not in a cruel way, but in the quiet sense of standing at the edge of a world she had never imagined herself belonging to.

Her eyes flicked briefly toward Meiyok. The mask hid half of her face, but even so, her presence was undeniable—composed, magnetic, impossible to ignore. Yoonchae found herself wondering, fleetingly, what Meiyok would look like without it, and just as quickly chastised herself for the thought. It was more a distant curiosity.

“Earth to Yoonchae?” It was Sophia. 

Yoonchae blinked, realizing she had drifted off mid-conversation—at a social event, of all places. Heat rushed up her neck and settled at her ears, making her acutely aware of herself again. She straightened slightly, fingers curling into the fabric of her dress as if to anchor herself back in the moment. 

Manon was already gesturing toward the spread of food laid out nearby, suggesting they grab something before it disappeared entirely. The others followed easily, conversation resuming as though nothing had happened. Yoonchae moved with them, grateful for the small shift in focus. Walking, reaching for plates, the simple act of choosing food—it all gave her something to do with her hands, something solid to focus on besides the way her thoughts kept slipping sideways. 

By the time they circled back with plates in hand, the initial embarrassment had dulled into a quiet hum beneath her ribs. She exhaled, settling back into her seat, reminding herself that zoning out didn’t mean she didn’t belong—it just meant she was human.

A chair scraped lightly against the stone tiles—close enough to be felt, but careful not to crowd her space.

Meiyok.

She sat down with an easy grace, smoothing her dress before finally speaking.

“Hey.”

“Hi,” Yoonchae echoed, her voice quieter than she meant it to be, as if the word hadn’t fully decided to leave her throat.

Meiyok turned slightly toward her, posture relaxed, attention fully hers.

“So,” she asked gently, “how are you finding it here so far?”

The question wasn’t probing—just open enough to feel safe.

Yoonchae hesitated before answering.

“It’s… new,” she said at last, her gaze drifting past Meiyok to where the others were animatedly arguing over something trivial. Their laughter carried easily through the air. “But they seem nice.”

“They are,” Meiyok replied. This time, her smile was gentle—unguarded in a way Yoonchae hadn’t seen before, softer than the sharp, practiced smirk she usually wore.

Plates began to appear between them soon after—picked up from the long table near the garden doors. The spread consisted of sliders stacked in neat rows, a bowl of pasta salad glistening under the lights, grilled chicken skewers, deviled eggs dusted with paprika, and a tray of brownies cut into indulgent squares. Nothing delicate or ceremonial—just food meant to be shared without thinking too hard about it.

Yoonchae hovered for a moment before taking a small plate, choosing carefully. A slider, half of a corn cob, a spoonful of pasta salad. Simple. Manageable. She sat back down, balancing the plate on her lap, and took a tentative bite. The warmth of it grounded her more than she expected—the familiar comfort of eating, something normal in a setting that felt anything but.

Meiyok watched her from the corner of her eye, then reached for a plate of her own. She picked with far less hesitation, piling on food with usual confidence before leaning back into her chair. 

“Try the chicken," she said quietly, nudging the skewer closer with the edge of her plate. “My dad insists it’s the highlight of every gathering.”

Yoonchae hesitated, then nodded, murmuring a soft, “Okay,” before taking a bite. Her shoulders loosened almost imperceptibly.

“It’s good,” she said after a second, surprised. “Really good.”

Meiyok smiled—not wide, not teasing. Just pleased.

“Told you.”

Around them, conversation swelled and overlapped—laughter from Lara, Manon arguing about music with Sophia, Daniela gesturing animatedly with a fork in hand. Yoonchae listened more than she spoke, chewing slowly, letting the noise wash over her. For once, she didn’t feel the need to disappear into it. 

She was just… there. Eating. Existing. And somehow, that felt like enough.

While the younger crowd lounged across the garden—sprawled over chairs and stone benches, laughing freely, voices overlapping in careless bursts—the adults existed in a different rhythm entirely.

They gathered a little apart from the noise, glasses of wine cradled loosely in their hands. Their conversation was quieter, deliberate, weighted with things unsaid. The kind of discussion that didn’t need raised voices to carry significance. 

“So,” Zacharius finally spoke, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, “how did Jeung agree to this?”

The question settled into the circle. Sri gave a slow nod. Rafael hummed thoughtfully in agreement. Godfrey, as ever, observed in silence, his gaze sharp and unreadable. 

William exhaled through his nose, almost amused. He rotated his glass once more before answering. 

“He doesn’t have the luxury to refuse,” he said calmly. “He’s desperate.”

A pause.

“He’ll do anything to get back on his feet,” William continued, voice steady, factual. “Even if it means swallowing his pride.”

Another brief silence settled over the circle, heavier than the last.

“By binding Megan to his daughter,” Godfrey continued at last, his voice measured, careful, “what exactly are you hoping to achieve?” He took a slow sip of his drink before adding, “I trust your judgment, Will. You know that. But the girls are still young.”

William didn’t answer immediately. He rolled the stem of his glass between his fingers, watching the wine catch the light. 

“It isn’t about forcing anything,” he said finally. “It’s about alignment. Stability. Jeung needs leverage—credibility. We need reassurance.”

“Insurance,” Zacharius corrected mildly, lifting his glass.

William inclined his head. “If you prefer.”

Sri frowned slightly. “And if it doesn’t work?”

William’s jaw tightened, just a fraction. “Then it doesn’t. But until then, appearances matter. The partnership matters.”

Godfrey exhaled through his nose, unconvinced. “Just be careful,” he said quietly. “Deals made through children have a way of unraveling.”

William’s gaze drifted, briefly, toward the garden—toward the laughter, the movement, the girls unaware.

“I’m aware,” he replied. “That’s why this has to be done right.”

Chapter Text

William swirled the wine in his glass, watching the deep red cling briefly to the crystal before sliding back down. Around him, the conversation continued—lighter now, carefully skirting the edge of disagreement, as if no one wanted to press further once his decision had been laid bare.

But Godfrey's words lingered.

They had struck something uncomfortably close to the truth.

William would never openly disagree with what had been said. He knew it as well as anyone: the quickest way for alliances to rot was when children were pulled into the machinery of adult ambition. Deals involving heirs and daughters rarely ended cleanly. They left fractures—quiet at first, then impossible to ignore.

He took a slow sip, expression composed, even as unease settled in his chest like a weight he refused to acknowledge aloud.

William had watched Jeung's ascent with measured interest. The speed at which the man rose through the ranks was not luck—it was instinct. Jeung had a mind built for business: sharp, opportunistic, relentless. William had wanted him close, not as a rival, but as an asset. A partnership, perhaps. Someone worth cultivating.

When word reached him of Jeung's financial collapse, William had considered intervening immediately. But the corporate did not operate on goodwill alone. Assistance was never offered without leverage. Before extending a hand, William needed to know exactly what kind of man Jeung was when stripped of stability and pride.

So he devised a contingency.

A bind.

Not a plan he intended to execute—but one he was prepared to, should it become necessary. A test disguised as an opportunity.

William had expected resistance. Negotiation. Hesitance. He had expected Jeung to ask questions, to involve his daughters, to treat them as people rather than collateral. Any of those responses would have revealed a limit—a line Jeung would not cross.

Instead, Jeung crossed it without pause.

He offered his daughter without bargaining, without protest, without a moment's consideration. Yoonchae became currency the instant it benefited him. That, more than any balance sheet or quarterly report, told William everything he needed to know.

At that point, the test ceased to matter.

William decided to control the outcome.

If a daughter were to be placed at the center of this arrangement, it would not be one left defenseless. It would be Megan—his daughter, raised within his walls, protected by proximity, watched over by him. Someone closer in age. Someone he could shield, guide, and pull back if the situation turned volatile.

Jeung had proven what he was willing to sacrifice.

William refused to sacrifice blindly.

Or so he told himself.

That evening—after the meeting concluded and Jeung's family disappeared behind polished glass doors—William left the building with his shoulders heavy, the weight unfamiliar yet deserved.

He was no better.

He had made the decision without consulting Megan, without asking for her consent, without offering her the dignity he expected from others. In the corporate world, preemptive moves were praised—decisiveness equated to competence. But this wasn't a merger or an acquisition. This was his daughter's life, placed on a negotiating table he had built himself.

He knew Megan would loathe it. She would resent the implication, the expectation, the quiet coercion disguised as opportunity.

And yet—

Yoonchae's presence lingered with him in a way numbers never did. The girl's restraint, her silence, the way she carried herself like someone already accustomed to being overlooked. It unsettled him. Not because she was weak—but because she wasn't. She endured. She adapted. She survived in an environment that seemed determined to erode her.

William had seen that kind of endurance before. He had lived it.

And somewhere, uncomfortably deep, he wondered if proximity to that quiet resilience might anchor Megan—might temper her recklessness, her tendency to burn too bright, too fast. Not to save her in a dramatic sense, but to steady her. To remind her that strength didn't always announce itself.

It was a rationalization. He knew that.

But in the corporate world, rationalizations were often how decisions were justified—especially the ones that came at a cost.

William exhaled slowly as he stepped into the night, knowing that whatever this arrangement became, there would be no clean hands at the end of it.

~ ~ ~

William hadn't planned on calling Megan home while she was out. Not after the last time—when resentment had lingered longer than the argument itself. But plans, he had learned, rarely survived necessity. So he reached for his phone anyway.

When she answered, his voice was cool, measured—the same tone he used in boardrooms when deals edged toward collapse.

He hadn't intended to have this conversation that night, but circumstances had a way of forcing hands, and once Megan returned home, the opportunity presented itself whether he was ready or not.

"It's not permanent," he began, holding his hands together as if that alone could keep the situation contained. "It's an arrangement. I want you to get to know her—understand her. See whether a partnership, personal or professional, could be mutually beneficial."

Her expression shifted instantly. Guarded. Sharp.

"Dad," she said slowly, her voice dropping. "That sounds like an arranged marriage."

The word landed heavier than he expected.

William inhaled through his nose. He didn't deny it—because he couldn't.

"You would still be in control," he said instead, quieter now. "If it doesn't work, you walk away. No one's forcing anything. But I expect you to try."

She let out a short, humorless laugh. "You expect a lot of things."

"I expect you to grow."

"What if she doesn't want this?" Megan asked, eyes narrowing.

"That's her choice," William replied.

The lie slipped out cleanly—too cleanly. He hated himself for how easy it was.

Megan studied him for a moment, as if weighing not just words but the gaps between them.

"Good," she said finally. "Because I'm not doing this unless she's free to walk away."

William nodded once.

It was the only thing he could offer—agreement without assurance, control without honesty.

~ ~ ~

William had never intended to force Megan into marriage with the Jeung girl. That was the lie he clung to most tightly. Which was why he framed it the way he did— after eighteen, when they were older, when it would look like choice instead of coercion. A delay disguised as mercy.

By then, he told himself, circumstances would change. Deals would stabilize. Leverage would soften. He would find a way to dismantle the arrangement quietly, cleanly—before it ever reached that point.

At least, that was the plan.

In truth, every party involved had been fed a different version of the story, each tailored to keep them compliant. Jeung believed this was an opportunity. Megan believed she retained autonomy. And Yoonchae—William suspected—had never been given the courtesy of believing anything at all.

William reassured himself with the idea that he was capable of control. That he could steer this carefully, intervene when necessary, pull the plug before real damage was done. It was a comforting thought, one he repeated often enough to almost believe.

Almost.

Because beneath it all, he knew better. He knew how easily intentions curdled into outcomes. How often power disguised itself as protection.

And yet—he let the lie stand.

And that was why—above all—this had to be done right.

Chapter Text

The evening wound down more gently than Yoonchae had expected—voices lowering, laughter softening, goodbyes exchanged beneath the warm glow of garden lights. Everyone had been kind. Disarmingly so. By the time she left, she realized she hadn’t spent the night bracing herself at all. 

At home, Meiyok kicked off her heels and set them aside without ceremony. Yoonchae took her time with hers, movements careful, deliberate. Meiyok didn’t rush her. There was nowhere they needed to be—nothing urgent—except the quiet pull of rest waiting upstairs, far more persuasive in Meiyok’s thoughts than she cared to acknowledge.

“Yoonchae—you can change first,” Meiyok said easily.

Yoonchae nodded, fingers curling briefly around the towel draped over her shoulder before heading for the bathroom.

Once the door clicked shut, Megan finally released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

The entire evening had felt like walking on eggshells—Lara and Daniela hovering dangerously close to saying the wrong thing, Manon and Sophia constantly stepping in to smooth the edges. It had been exhausting in a way she wouldn’t admit out loud. 

Still, beneath it all, gratitude lingered. For friends who tried. For friends who, despite the tension, made existing feel easier—lighter—even when everything else felt precarious.

And yet, she couldn’t quite ignore the irritation threading through her chest—the way her friends had already begun warming to Yoonchae, openly endorsing an entanglement neither girl had asked for.

To Megan, Yoonchae felt like someone who didn’t know how to exist at full volume. Someone who dimmed herself instinctively, choosing to take up less space rather than risk disruption. Megan didn’t understand why she didn’t resist this arrangement—this bind—why she accepted it so quietly, as though protest had never been an option.

‘Funny,’ she thought.

She had entered this house with one goal: to make the other person lose interest and leave. It was always easier that way—easier to push someone away than to be the one left behind. Megan didn’t like losing. It wasn’t ideal, but it was familiar. Controlled.

And then she had seen Yoonchae standing behind the counter. 

Something in her had softened instantly—an instinctive, unwelcome tenderness rising before she could stop it. Old memories followed without permission: Yoonchae tucked into corners, quiet and enduring, while Megan’s friends laughed too loudly at her expense. Megan had stayed silent then.

She remembered that silence now.

Spending time with Yoonchae only complicated things further. Despite having no real headspace to remain in the house consistently, Megan found that she didn’t mind another presence occupying the space with her. Didn’t resent it. Didn’t resist it.

Which was saying something. 

Especially considering she’d been splitting her time between Manon’s place and the house she shared with Yoonchae—for reasons she knew were ridiculous. Guilt, mostly. Guilt over a few careless words that had spiraled into something uglier with Lexie.

Still, guilt or not, Megan couldn’t deny it anymore: she hadn’t planned to go soft. 

But she had. 

And now, leaving didn’t feel nearly as simple as it once had.

Morning crept into the living room in soft, golden stripes. Yoonchae let out a small groan as she shifted on the couch. The firm edge pressing against her ribs no longer startled her the way it once had—it was familiar now, dulled by repetition.

‘School,’ she thought.

The word brought more dread than excitement. Nothing new.

She kicked off the blanket that had done little to keep her warm and headed for the bathroom. After pulling on her uniform and brushing through her sleep-tangled hair, she returned to the kitchen and reheated the food Holly had prepared the night before. The low hum of the microwave filled the quiet.

A moment later, Meiyok appeared at the foot of the stairs—clearly less awake, shoulders heavy with sleep, looking thoroughly unimpressed by the morning.

“Good morning,” she said, voice low as her gaze landed on Yoonchae.

“Morning.”

Yoonchae’s eyes lingered—on the mask, on the loose strands of hair escaping around it. They stuck out at odd angles, but instead of messy, it felt almost intentional. 

Like art.

‘Weird,’ Yoonchae thought.

“You’re going to school?” Meiyok asked, the question slipping out rough with sleep, as if she hadn’t fully decided whether she cared.

“Yeah.” Yoonchae lifted a brow on instinct. “Why?”

Meiyok hesitated, then exhaled softly. “No reason.” The words were lighter than the sigh that followed, like she’d already lost an argument she hadn’t voiced.

After breakfast, she disappeared without another word. Yoonchae barely registered the quiet before Meiyok returned—hoodie pulled on, sweatpants sitting low on her hips, hair still betraying sleep in every direction.

She paused by the door, keys resting loosely in her hand.

“Michael’s here,” Meiyok said, glancing back over her shoulder. “Come on.”

Yoonchae followed without question. Her gaze flicked briefly to the duffel slung over Meiyok’s shoulder—too deliberate to be casual—, but she looked away just as quickly. Whatever it was, it wasn’t hers to ask about. She had learned, a long time ago, that survival often meant knowing when not to look too closely.

~ ~ ~

The ride to school passed in near silence, the scenery outside the window blurring into muted streaks of color and motion. Somewhere along the way, Meiyok shifted beside her—subtle at first, then unmistakable—until her weight settled gently against Yoonchae’s shoulder.

Yoonchae froze.

Meiyok had fallen asleep mid-ride, her breathing slow and even, entirely unaware of the closeness she’d drifted into. Yoonchae sat rigid, afraid that the slightest movement might wake her. Her hands hovered uselessly in her lap, unsure where to rest, uncertain what to do with the warmth pressed against her side. 

It was nothing, she told herself. Accidental. Temporary.

Still, she didn’t pull away.

She kept her gaze fixed forward, heart beating far louder than the quiet warranted, wondering when—if ever—something so small had begun to feel this complicated.

Meiyok—who so often carried herself like someone untouchable, distant by choice—looked different like this. Softer. Smaller. Sleep had stripped away the sharp edges of her presence, leaving her vulnerable in a way Yoonchae had never expected to witness. Her head rested lightly against Yoonchae’s shoulder, breath steady, unguarded.

Yoonchae barely dared to breathe.

In the rearview mirror, Michael’s eyes flicked toward them. Surprise crossed his face—brief and unfiltered—before professionalism smoothed it away. Without a word, he redirected his attention to the road, the car settling once more into its quiet rhythm. 

Yoonchae remained perfectly still for the rest of the ride. 

Yoonchae hadn’t anticipated one thing—how easily someone as sleep-deprived as Meiyok could use her as a pillow. 

Meiyok hadn’t moved an inch, even after the car slowed and came to a stop outside the school. Her weight was still there, warm and unyielding, her head comfortably settled against Yoonchae’s shoulder as if it belonged there.

Carefully, Yoonchae lifted her free hand and tapped Meiyok’s shoulder, light and hesitant. 

Nothing.

She tried again—this time softly calling her name. 

That earned a reaction, at least. Meiyok scrunched her face slightly, a faint stir before her jaw loosened right back into sleep.

“So… not really,” Yoonchae murmured to herself. 

She let out a quiet sigh, gathering what little resolve she had, and gave Meiyok a firmer shake—still mindful, but unmistakably more insistent. 

“Meiyok.” 

This time, it worked. 

Meiyok stirred, blinking softly as she pulled back, disoriented and groggy, clearly torn from whatever rare rest she’d managed to find. 

“Hm?” Meiyok hummed, blinking slowly, her voice thick with sleep—as if she’d woken up somewhere far removed from reality. 

“School,” Yoonchae said gently, nodding toward the unmistakably tall gates looming just beyond the windshield. 

Understanding came a second too late. Meiyok’s mouth parted in a small, rounded "oh" just as Yoonchae slipped out of the car, the door closing softly behind her, before she headed toward the school entrance without so much as a glance back.

“Seriously?” Megan groaned, reaching up to peel the mask from her face the moment Yoonchae was out of sight. She scrubbed a hand down her features, fatigue written plainly now that nothing hid it, before shooting a look toward the front seat. “You shouldn’t have let me sleep, Michael.”

Michael met her gaze in the rearview mirror, the corner of his mouth lifting with quiet amusement. “You looked comfortable, young master,” he said evenly. “And Miss Jeung didn’t seem particularly eager to wake you—though she did, eventually.”

Megan scoffed under her breath. Her eyes lingered for a brief moment on the spot where Yoonchae had retreated before she exhaled, readjusted the mask, and fully became Meiyok once more. Only then did she push the car door open and step out, with her duffel in hand.

“Great,” she muttered under her breath, already moving. “Trespassing. Love that for me.” 

She adjusted the mask as she broke into a jog, cutting across the courtyard toward the locker rooms—hood up, steps quick, disappearing just before the bell could betray her. 

At the other end of the school, Yoonchae made her way toward her classroom, her head angled slightly downward out of habit rather than intention. It was a posture she had grown into over the years—subtle, automatic, like muscle memory. 

The hallways were thinning as the final bell drew closer. A few students lingered in clusters, voices low, footsteps echoing faintly against the floors. Yoonchae slipped between them with practiced ease, unnoticed—or so she thought. 

She reached her classroom and pushed the door open, the hinges protesting with a soft creak. 

She didn’t register it right away. 

The room fell into a strange kind of quiet—not silence, but hesitation. Conversations stalled. Heads turned. 

They were staring at her. 

Not the usual sideways glances or thinly veiled smirks she’d learned to expect. This was different. Open. Assessing. As if they were trying to reconcile what they thought they knew with what stood in front of them now. 

Yoonchae paused just inside the doorway, confusion flickering briefly across her face before she lowered her gaze and stepped inside, unaware of what—or how much—had changed. 

She slipped into her seat and angled herself toward the window, shoulders settling, gaze drifting outward. The glass reflected the pale light of morning, trees swaying faintly beyond the school grounds—ordinary, harmless things. 

And yet.

The sensation lingered. 

It clung to her skin like an itch she couldn’t scratch, subtle but persistent. Being watched. Not openly, not unkindly—but noticed. Observed. As if something about her had shifted just enough to draw attention she hadn’t asked for. 

Yoonchae kept her eyes trained outside, willing the feeling to fade. It didn’t. 

Soon, the first bell rang, and teachers began trickling into the classrooms. Mrs. Sherwyn, their homeroom teacher, known for her habit of weaving between desks, paused abruptly next to Yoonchae’s table. 

“Yoonchae, I like the haircut,” she said quietly, low enough that it seemed meant only for Yoonchae’s ears. She leaned slightly closer, her tone sharp but controlled. “I’ll keep it brief—you’ll need to see me after school.”

Yoonchae nodded, and Mrs. Sherwyn moved on, her heels clicking lightly across the floor.

Hours passed, and soon it was lunch. Yoonchae hung back, waiting for the crowd of students to leave, hoping to grab something to eat without the usual stares. She started toward the cafeteria, carefully picking her steps… when someone stepped in front of her. 

.

.

.

.

.

“Ua?” Yoonchae asked, genuine surprise coloring her tone. 

“You look amazing! This haircut—seriously, it saved you!” Ua said, practically bouncing with excitement. 

“Thanks,” Yoonchae replied softly, her voice measured, almost cautious. 

“Come sit with us,” Ua insisted, her smile wide and warm. “Don’t eat lunch all alone in some corner.”

“I… would that be okay?” Yoonchae asked, a small uncertainty in her voice. But inwardly, she wondered—who exactly was ‘us’?

Yoonchae stood in line beside Ua, mostly listening as Ua chatted animatedly about her interests—music, classes, little things that tumbled out effortlessly. Yoonchae nodded along when needed, letting the noise of the cafeteria blur into the background as she picked out something edible and a small juice box. 

Ua guided her toward a table tucked into a corner of the cafeteria. Someone was already sitting there.

It was the same girl from the restroom—the other Asian girl from her sister’s year.

“Hi!” the girl greeted, her voice soft but resonant, carrying an easy warmth. It was strangely soothing. Her name hovered at the edge of Yoonchae’s mind, familiar yet frustratingly out of reach.

“Yoonchae, this is Nayoung,” Ua said brightly.

‘Right. Nayoung,’ Yoonchae thought.

Conversation flowed easily between Ua and Nayoung, their back-and-forth natural and unforced. Yoonchae smiled when it felt expected, and responded when she was drawn in. It didn’t come instinctively—but she didn’t resent the attention either. It was… different. Not unpleasant. 

At one point, her gaze drifted to the surrounding tables. 

Several pairs of eyes were on her.

They weren’t mocking. Weren’t cruel. Just sharp. Evaluating. Curious. 

That unsettled her more than outright hostility ever had.

She quickly turned back to Ua and Nayoung, nodding along as if nothing had changed, though she could feel the faint prickle of awareness crawling up the back of her neck. The sensation of being watched lingered—quiet and persistent.

Then Ua fell silent. 

Yoonchae noticed too late that both Ua and Nayoung were looking past her, their attention caught by something over her shoulder. 

Something flickered across their expressions—brief, unreadable—but it vanished before Yoonchae could make sense of it. Almost on cue, the bell rang, sharp and final, signaling the end of lunch.

“Well then—Yoonchae,” Nayoung said, rising easily to her feet. Her tone was light, natural, as if the idea had already been decided. “How about we walk you to your class?”

“Yeah!” Ua chimed in, already gathering her things. “We can bond on the way.”

Yoonchae felt a small, unexpected warmth bloom in her chest. She nodded, a soft smile tugging at her lips as she stood to follow them—letting herself, just this once, be guided rather than overlooked. 

Unbeknownst to Yoonchae, Ua and Nayoung shared a look—a brief, wordless exchange heavy with meaning—before smoothing their expressions and turning back to her as if nothing had passed between them at all.

~ ~ ~

What Yoonchae felt was… strange. 

It wasn’t companionship, not exactly. It felt more like walking between two quiet sentinels—people who spoke easily with each other but stayed instinctively aware of everything around them. Their presence didn’t feel intrusive. If anything, it felt protective. Safer than she was used to.

“This is your class?” Ua asked, slowing to a stop outside the door. “We should walk to the main gate together from now on.”

Nayoung nodded in agreement, already acting as though the idea had been settled. 

Yoonchae hesitated for half a second before offering a polite smile. “Yeah… maybe,” she said softly, noncommittal, before slipping into the classroom. 

The moment she crossed the threshold, she felt it again.

The shift.

Conversations dulled, voices lowering into murmurs. Someone paused mid-sentence. A few heads turned—not openly, not dramatically—but enough for the attention to register all at once. 

Yoonchae kept her gaze forward, shoulders tightening as she made her way to her seat. 

She didn’t like this kind of attention. It felt invasive, like being studied too closely—every movement observed, every change catalogued. As though her life had been placed under a microscope, reduced to variables and outcomes. 

She sat down quietly, willing herself to disappear into the familiar rhythm of the room.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a quiet blur. Yoonchae tried—she really did—to follow along as teachers spoke, their voices rising and falling in steady rhythms meant to anchor attention. But her focus kept slipping through the cracks. One moment she’d be staring at the board, the next she’d realize her pen had wandered, tracing vague shapes along the margins of her notebook. 

She caught herself drifting more than once, blinking as if that alone might pull her back into the room. It never quite worked. 

By the time the final bell rang, her notes were half-finished and uneven, sentences trailing off where her thoughts had gone elsewhere. She closed her notebook slowly, heart beating a little too hard against her ribs, as though the day had taken more out of her than she knew how to name. 

Students poured out of the classroom in loose clusters, their voices overlapping—easy conversations, careless laughter spilling into the halls as the final bell’s echo faded. Chairs scraped, bags slung over shoulders, the room emptying faster than Yoonchae could register. 

She stayed where she was. 

Only when the last student disappeared through the doorway did she rise, the silence settling thick around her. Gathering her things, she stepped into the hallway and turned toward the staff room, her pulse quickening just enough to remind her that Mrs. Sherwyn would already be waiting.

And that whatever this was about, it wasn’t something she could avoid. 

With a final breath to steady herself, Yoonchae raised her hand and knocked—firm enough to be confident, soft enough to remain polite. 

A faint, distracted “Come in,” drifted through the door. 

She pushed it open and stepped inside, movements careful, almost reverent. The staff room smelled faintly of coffee and printer ink, the afternoon light slanting in through half-drawn blinds. 

Mrs. Sherwyn looked up immediately.

“Yoonchae,” she said, her expression easing as recognition set in. “I’m glad you came.” She gestured toward the chair across from her desk. “Go on—have a seat.”

Yoonchae obeyed, smoothing her skirt as she sat, fingers curling together in her lap.

Mrs. Sherwyn folded her hands, her tone gentle but purposeful. “I won’t take too much of your time,” she began, then paused—just long enough to make Yoonchae’s stomach tighten. 

“We need to talk,” she continued, 

.

.

.

.

.

A beat passed between them,

“About your grades.”

Chapter Text

"We need to talk about—"

A beat passed. 

"Your grades."

Yoonchae felt her heart stutter. She nodded anyway, the motion small and automatic, as a quiet sense of defeat settled heavy in her chest. 

"Do you have any idea why?" Mrs. Sherwyn asked. Her expression remained neutral, her tone even—professional to the core. 

Yoonchae's gaze dropped to the floor. She couldn't bring herself to meet the teacher's eyes—couldn't find the words to untangle everything that had been weighing on her for weeks. 

So she chose the only response that felt manageable. 

She shook her head. 

"Well, Yoonchae, you've been a remarkable student throughout your time in high school," Mrs. Sherwyn said. "A model student."

She folded Yoonchae's answer sheets neatly on the desk. "While marking your papers, I noticed you left several questions untouched. And some of the ones you did attempt..." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "They weren't answered correctly. That's not like you."

She let the silence stretch—long enough for the weight of it to settle—before continuing. 

"I care about the well-being and progress of my students," she said evenly. "And I've noticed you've been distracted in class. You've been spacing out. Other teachers have mentioned it to me as well—more than once."

Yoonchae's chest tightened as the words kept coming. She pressed her teeth into the inside of her cheek, the familiar sting grounding her when everything else felt like it was slipping. 

"Yoonchae, I need you to understand that I'm speaking from a place of concern." Mrs. Sherwyn went on. "If something is troubling you, you can always come to me." Her gaze sharpened slightly. "But as for your grades—I did take matters into my own hands. Fluctuations happen. That's normal. However, you're not a student who suddenly slacks off. And this drop isn't something I can simply overlook." 

Took matters into her own hands? 

Yoonchae's thoughts spiraled. Did she call my parents? Are they already involved? What would they say—what would they do—

"Yoonchae?"

No response.

"...Yoonchae?"

Still nothing.

"Yoonchae."

The sharper edge in her name cut through the fog. 

Yoonchae startled, blinking as she came back to herself, only to find Mrs. Sherwyn watching her with open concern—and a hint of confusion.

"Were you listening to what I was saying just now?" she asked. Her voice was firm—stern, even—but the kindness beneath it hadn't faded.

"I'm sorry, ma'am." Yoonchae lowered her head, embarrassment knotting tightly with the quiet panic already pressing in her chest. 

"I want you to know that I'll be making some arrangements to help you get back on your feet by next semester," Mrs. Sherwyn continued gently. "And if something is bothering you, you can always come to me, dear."

Yoonchae wanted to say something. Anything. To ask what those arrangements meant—to stop this from happening without her understanding how. But the words never came. Instead, she nodded, murmured a soft thank you, and turned to leave.

.

.

.

Who knew that walking out of a room could be such a costly mistake?

Just a few meters down the hall stood Lexie.

Alone.

No entourage. No shadows trailing behind her. Just Lexie—waiting.

A slow, knowing smile curved across her face as she began to walk forward, each step deliberate, unhurried. Yoonchae's feet felt rooted to the floor, her body refusing to obey her thoughts. She couldn't move. Couldn't look away. 

All she could do was stand there and hope—irrationally, desperately—that Lexie didn't have something sharp hidden behind her back. Again.

Lexie continued forward, her steps slow and deliberate, the distance between them shrinking with every second. 

"Yoonchae!" 

The voice cut through the tension like a lifeline.

"We've been looking everywhere for you—come on, let's walk to the gates!" 

Ua.

Thank God. It was Ua.

The spell broke just enough for Yoonchae's lungs to finally draw in a proper breath. She moved only because Ua did—nearly stumbling as Ua tugged her along toward the exit, her feet slow to catch up with the sudden momentum. 

Nayoung was waiting for them near the wall, one shoulder resting against it, phone in hand, attention clearly elsewhere. At the sound of their approaching footsteps, she glanced up. 

"Oh! Hey, Yoonchae!" she said, her face brightening instantly. In a single practiced motion, she slipped her phone into the pocket of her blazer. 

"Hi," Yoonchae replied, the word soft and steady—nothing like the storm that had been tearing through her chest only moments earlier, before Ua appeared. 

They headed toward the school gates in near silence. Yoonchae lagged a step behind, her pace uneven, while Ua and Nayoung moved easily ahead of her, their strides unhurried, familiar. 

Yoonchae didn't know it then—but somewhere else, emails were already being exchanged. 

Hector, the principal of St. Celestine, had been having a rather pleasant day—signing off documents, sitting through a handful of meetings, settling comfortably into routine. He was putting his signature to the final set of papers when a soft ping broke the calm, signaling a new email. 

Out of habit—out of reputation he had cultivated over the years—he checked it immediately. Punctual. Within seconds. 

The ease in his posture vanished the moment his eyes landed on the subject line. A frown crept onto Hector's face, slow and unmistakable. 

From: [email protected] 

To: [email protected]

Subject: Regarding Repeated Incidents Involving a Student 

 

Hector,

I am writing this with considerable disappointment. 

My involvement with St. Celestine has always been rooted in the belief that this institution stands for academic rigor, personal growth, and—most importantly—the safety and well-being of its students. I have supported the school under the assumption that these values were not merely stated, but actively upheld. 

It is, therefore, deeply troubling to be made aware of an incident that occurred on school grounds without timely intervention or acknowledgement from faculty. That such a situation went unnoticed raises questions I did not expect to be asking.

A student brought this matter to my attention, who did not feel safe or confident enough to approach the administration directly. While I am relieved they reached out to someone, it is concerning that they felt unable to come to you—or to any member of staff—regarding an issue of this nature.

I trust you will review the attached materials carefully and take the appropriate steps to address the situation. I would prefer to believe this was an isolated lapse rather than a recurring failure, and that further reports of this kind will be unnecessary.

I look forward to knowing how this will be handled. 

 

Sincerely,
xxxxxxxxxxx.

Hector’s gaze drifted to the attachments. Two video files. The kind of weight that sat heavily in the chest before anything was even opened.

“What on earth happened…” he murmured, clicking on the first file.

The screen was filled with darkness. Wherever the footage had been taken, it was poorly lit—nearly pitch black. A few barely used music stands came into view, and with them, realization settled uncomfortably in Hector’s gut.

The room was silent. Deafeningly so.

Which made the rise and fall of Lexie’s voice all the more distinct—sweet in tone, cruel in intent—as she issued her threats. From the narrow gap between the two rooms, the recording offered a clear enough view: Lexie in full frame, and beside her, Emily’s back as she held Yoonchae firmly in place. 

The first video alone was enough to leave Hector parched, his throat dry as if he’d forgotten how to swallow. The recording ended abruptly—cut off by a rush of breath finally released, sharp and involuntary. 

He shut his eyes, holding the darkness there for a few seconds longer than necessary before forcing himself to open the second attachment. 

From the moment it began, one thought settled uncomfortably in his mind: whoever had filmed this knew exactly what they were doing. The camera moved with care—too careful. It slipped through the hallways with practiced ease, pausing just long enough to avoid drawing attention when Lexie and Emily glanced around, then resuming its quiet pursuit. 

Step by step, the footage followed them.

They stopped near the storage room by the gym. From what Hector could make out, Yoonchae had settled there, alone, quietly eating her lunch—unaware of how closely she was being watched.

Just outside Yoonchae’s line of sight, the camera shifted—just enough to catch the silhouettes of Lexie and Emil as they emerged. 

What followed was a disaster.

Hector felt it settle into him all at once: the unmistakable knowledge that he had failed—not just as a principal, but as an adult entrusted with the safety of his students. And worse, he felt responsible. The guilt came slow and deep, a hollow ache gnawing at him from the inside, tangled with a shock he couldn’t quite shake. 

Watching Yoonchae’s hair being butchered was painful enough. Watching her remain there—cornered, helpless, unable to fight back—was unbearable. She didn’t scream. She didn’t run. She just stayed. 

Yoonchae had been one of St. Celestine’s model students. That much Hector knew with certainty. And as the footage continued, he realized with a sinking certainty of his own: he would never understand what could drive two students to do something so cruel.

He exhaled slowly before reaching for his phone, dialing a number that had been waiting far longer than he would’ve liked.

The son of the school’s biggest investor. 

The line rang a few times before it connected. 

“Hello?”

“Tyler,” Hector said evenly. “Do you have a moment to speak?”