The simulation began on a Monday.
Gray skies, bad lighting, and an undercooked breakfast set the tone.
Our team had agreed to meet early to finalize strategy. Yuri messaged late the night before with a vague "I'll try to be there."
She wasn't.
So it was just me, Han Daejin, and Min Seo-hye. Two students with clean reputations and zero curiosity. The kind of people who joined everything, offended no one, and smiled through mediocrity like it was an extracurricular.
I opened my file, outlined our proposed alliance model, and presented the scenario we'd agreed on via chat: pressure the international council to support a South-Asian desalination fund, leveraging both NGO partnerships and multilateral aid.
Daejin nodded. Seo-hye copied everything down.
We had barely started rehearsing when Yuri walked in.
No apology. Just a breezy, "Sorry, traffic."
I raised an eyebrow.
She didn't meet my eyes.
Instead, she pulled out her laptop, scrolled through the shared doc, and said:
— "I don't think this works."
A pause.
— "Excuse me?" I asked, keeping my tone polite.
— "This whole funding strategy. It's too soft. We should be threatening sanctions, not asking for cooperation."
— "That's not the tone we agreed on. We're playing an NGO."
— "So let's act like an NGO that actually gets results."
She smiled. Innocent. Unapologetic.
Behind her, Seo-hye hesitated mid-scribble.
Daejin looked away.
And that's when I realized something:
Yuri wasn't here to work with me.
She was here to make sure I didn't lead.
We went ahead with the presentation anyway.
I introduced the core premise, Daejin handled logistics, Seo-hye covered the partnerships… and Yuri closed. With flair. With charm. With lines I hadn't seen in any of our prep documents.
Lines that shifted our stance.
Subtly, but unmistakably.
Her version painted us as more aggressive, more aligned with state pressure than with humanitarian neutrality. The council would "respond to assertiveness," she said. "And so must we."
It was a contradiction of our strategy.
And yet, when she finished, the panel smiled.
Applauded.
Took notes.
After the session, Daejin clapped me on the shoulder.
— "Nice work, Nina. You kept it tight."
Seo-hye nodded, a little unsure.
Yuri didn't say anything. She just walked off, typing on her phone.
And I stood there, smiling too.
But inside?
I wasn't angry.
I was impressed.
She had shifted the narrative without ever calling me out. She'd positioned herself as a charismatic closer—without ever challenging me directly.
Which meant she knew I was watching.
And still didn't care.
Later that day, I got a notification from the class platform.
Someone had modified our team file.
Under my name.
A key paragraph in the intro was now missing. A sentence added: "We believe pressure must be prioritized over consensus."
Not mine.
But mine—officially.
I stared at it for a long moment.
Then I opened the revision history.
Whoever did it had changed the document under a guest account.
Anonymous. Untraceable.
Classic.
I restored my version, exported it, and saved a hard copy.
They wanted to play with my credibility?
I'd document everything.
Not because I expected justice.
But because I was no longer trying to "adapt."
Now I was collecting evidence.
After the third day of simulation, the buzz around school shifted again.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't obvious. But something moved.
I saw it in the way people paused when I passed.
In the way a teacher's eyes lingered just a second longer than usual.
In the way Rayan narrowed his gaze when I dropped my notes and no one offered to help.
After class, I headed to the library.
Not to study.
To clear my head.
And that's where I ran into Professor Im.
He wasn't a teacher I'd had directly—he oversaw the philosophy department. Tall, neat, glasses that looked too expensive for their own good.
He saw me browsing near the debate archives and said, without preamble:
— "You're the new girl in Team 6."
— "Yes, sir."
He nodded.
— "You should know something, Miss Lee.
Sometimes this school watches students the way a surgeon watches a tumor. Not to cure it—just to study how it grows."
He didn't explain.
Didn't wait for a response.
He just walked away.
And I stood there, surrounded by silence and too many questions.
Had he been warning me?
Or just commenting?
Maybe it didn't matter.
Maybe I'd already become something to monitor.
That night, I ate my ramen dry because I was too tired to boil water.
I scribbled mental diagrams on my wall in pencil.
Names. Connections. Threads of motive.
There were too many.
But one thing was clear:
This wasn't about the simulation.
It was about position. About threat. About control.
I wasn't failing.
I was rising—too quickly, too visibly.
And the system?
It was starting to flinch.
By Friday, the simulation ended.
Our group placed fourth out of twenty-two.
A win, on paper.
But behind the scenes, I could feel the ice forming.
Yuri received quiet congratulations from one of the judges.
Seo-hye received an invitation to a junior strategy club.
Daejin disappeared before I could say anything.
And me?
Nothing.
Not coldness. Not cruelty.
Just emptiness.
That strange, deliberate silence that comes when people are waiting for you to fall on your own.
After school, I stayed late to pack up my things.
When I opened my locker, a single folded paper slipped out.
Typed. Anonymous.
"They're not trying to break you.
They're trying to prove you were always broken."
I read it twice.
No signature. No hint.
Just one line of perfect clarity.
Not a threat. Not even a warning.
Just truth.
I folded the paper. Slipped it into my bag. Locked my locker.
Then I walked out into the quiet hallway, shoes echoing softly behind me.
I didn't rush.
Didn't look back.