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“Which way did she go? I’m going to shoot her.”

“For god’s sake, Yoonji. Don’t shoot her.”

“What did you want me to do then?”

Min Yoonji frowns at the sight of her swollen-eyed twin, still pathetically hunched over the marble sink.

Yoongi lifts his bleached head, groaning slightly as he reveals his bloody, bashed nose. “Did you bring the ice like I asked for?”

With an inward hiss, Yoonji stomps off to the Students’ Common Hall.

“Yah! I called you here to get me some ic—!”

Yoonji can hear her brother calling after her, of course. As usual, it is conveniently effortless to pretend he doesn’t exist at all.

For an elder notoriously adherent to the values and virtues of traditional Korean society, Court Justice Ryeo Junpei’s residence surprises you with its Victorian façade the moment you emerge from your hiding spot amongst the overgrown garden bushes. Climbing over the wrought iron gates proved to be a difficult affair, and in general practicality you would have executed your infiltration better if not for the torrent of emotions still running through you since the minute you’d left university – fresh from an altercation with a certain stereotypical schoolboy and the tricky presence of house staff leaving their stationed shifts at sunset.

Sneaking through dimly lit corridors, it takes you less than an hour to find Hana’s room. With the tip of your shoe, you nudge the silver tray of untouched food outside her door.

Taking in a deep breath, you swing the door open.

“I’m here!” you declare obnoxiously. “Sorry I took so long!”

Hana rattles upright on her canopy bed as you flick the bedroom light switches on. Frazzled, it takes a while for her to shake off her sleep spell, and you struggle to keep your expression levelled.

The hair on the back of her head is unwashed and matted, her complexion ghostly pale and sickly. There are dark circles under her swollen eyes, and Hana’s lips are cracked, unmoistened.

“Who let you— How did you—” she sputters, and then her eyes widen when they get past your skirt. “Your legs are bleeding!”

“It was the gates. I hate art noveau now,” you announce with a haughty sniff. “But I might have an undiscovered talent for wall climbing?”

When it finally sinks in, Hana hisses in hysterical disbelief, “You scaled the front gates?!”

You sniff again and faintly rub at the fresh scratches along your forearms. There’s also some mild stinging over your knees, but you don’t dwell on the feeling. “If you’d just let me in, I wouldn’t have these, but it’s fine. I guess you’re allowed to play hard-to-get sometimes. Or whatever. I’ll get used to it.”

You’re aware the hem of your skirt is in tatters, too, but you confidently swing your backpack to your front as you head to Hana’s study table. Stack by stack, you pile the notes you had taken for her for each subject she missed during her weeks-long absence. Colored, detailed notes, complete with tabbed pages and practice questionnaires. You’re nothing if not thorough.

Hana might not care about scores, but she you know she loves studying just as much as you.

“You’ll need this when you go back to school next week,” you tell her. “You’re lucky you didn’t miss much because of the intramurals. You’re on your own with Calculus, though.”

Hana’s face contorts the more you go on. Her lip wobbles dangerously, and her nose begins to do the thing it does whenever she’s about to cry. Her gaze drops to her shaking fists. They’re white-knuckled, clutching at the sheets as she asks you, “Do you know?”

You give her a wry smile, pretty much a confirmation. “So? How does waffle dust taste?”

In spite of her precarious condition, Hana snorts. “You’re dumb. It’s not the taste that gets you.”

Tears are streaming down her cheeks. You don’t look away.

“Ah.”

“Aren’t you disappointed in me?” she asks after a long period of quiet. “Disgusted?”

You continue to stare her down.

“And why should I go back?” she demands low. She meets your eyes, all fire and contempt. “Why do I have to keep going?”

Leveling her with a solemn look, you round the bed and take the bedside chair. “Mistakes are important, Hana. It’s how you learn who you want to be.”

“I don’t want to fight about this.”

“We’re not fighting.”

“Be serious!” she snaps. “I did one idiotic thing after another. I wanted to be – a cool girl. So I chased a boy, I chased his sister, and when that wasn’t enough, I chased the thought of becoming a fucking groupie. I wanted to feel good. I wasn’t even thinking, I just thought – I thought I’d feel better. Like I belong.”

Hana sobs out, “And it’s not like I hated us. I love us. I love the simple life, and studying well, and the simple friendship, and being good. But I just wanted to know what it was like. To not care. To do party drugs and make out with trash. To get black-out drunk and post topless photos and still be wanted either way.”

She presses the heels of her palms to her eyes. She choked out in repeat, desperately, “And still be wanted, either way.”

You can’t help it. You sigh.

“I’ve learned my fucking lesson, okay?” Hana snarls at you. “I have to be palatable and obedient like a goddamn fawn. People can’t stomach me as anything else.”

You sigh again. “Hana.”

“Why aren’t you fucking angry at me?” Hana shouts, grabbing a pillow to throw at you. She’s outraged and the force behind it hurts. “Why aren’t you—…”

She collapses onto the mattress face-down, sobbing still. Her cries are loud and muffled. For the long minutes that follow, she doesn’t stop.

Until you thread your hand through her hair, comforting, and then yank her head back.

“Get up.”

“Let go—ow!”  You yank on her matted hair harder as her hands try to slap and pry yours away. “Ow! Ow! C’mon, stop it!”

When she’s finally sitting upright to see you glaring, you tell her, “I think you learned the wrong lesson.”

Hana scowls at you. You almost laugh, she’s just like a kid.

“So you’re going to get up and try again.” You glower. “And again. Until how many times it takes. Until you learn the right lesson.”

Hana narrows her eyes at you, a thousand questions lurking. You’re stern and unrelenting and finally she finds a semblance of herself.

She throws her hands up. “Fine!”

Min Yoonji manages to catch Park Jimin leaving the student’s lounge. He doesn’t ask her why she needs the keys to the security room, but he drops it into her demanding palm anyway.

Intrigued, Jimin follows Yoonji into the surveillance deck. He watches as she tinkers with the settings of multiple digital screens, scouring controls until she finds the one assigned to the CCTV camera stationed at the gym locker room for male athletes. She pulls the keyboard toward her and starts rewinding the time.

While they both wait, an awed look of realization settles over Jimin’s face. “Is this how you get off, Yoonji?”

Yoonji whirls back and curls her lip in disgust. She doesn’t even deign him with a response.

The scene-of-interest has passed in reverse at the big screen and Yoonji’s hand shoots out to hit the space bar.

Jimin walks closer to the surveillance deck. “Is that… L/N F/N?”

They’re both stunned as they watch you knock over a grade-A athlete to the floor with your fist.

Jimin whistles, proud. “Yup. It is.”

Yoonji glances at him. “You know her?”

Jimin actually guffaws. “She’s only my trusty deputy.”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“I wouldn’t take her on for that if I were you. Bet your brother had it coming.” Jimin sing-songs, tossing his bag behind his shoulder. “Yoonji-ah. There’s a reason why Namjoon refuses to get within ten feet of that girl, and even he’s a fucking psychopath.”

“Namjoon? Kim Namjoon?”

Yoonji hadn’t even expected Jimin to know you. You’re low profile in class, close to a nobody in this school. But having your name and the student council in the same sentence is something else. Jarring.

You don’t seem like the type, but…

Yoonji knows a few things. She knows Namjoon is a quiet but obsessive man.

No one makes it out of his fixations alive.

She’s also known Park Jimin since childhood, up to the manipulative, lust-ridden Student Council Secretary he is now. And given his reaction, Yoonji thinks Jimin might even consider you a friend. She knows he’s the last person anyone should trust in this school, but he can be fiercely loyal when he wants to be.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.” Jimin waves off dismissively as he opens the door to a long-haired girl waiting for him, slinging his arm over her shoulder. The girl giggles with the way he nuzzles his nose into her hair, throwing Yoonji one last wink.

Yoonji knows this girl will be ruined by the end of the month. She'll be pitiful, too. Just like all the other girls Jimin has ruined before.