Kiseok exhaled with the theatrical flair of a Shakespearean actor who'd missed dinner. "What do you think I'm doing here at midnight? Stalking you? Plotting a top-secret heist? Maybe I'm here to join a cult of moonlight dancers?"
My face went so pale it could have legally passed for a ghost on Halloween. I could practically feel the blood pack its belongings and file a resignation letter. Something about him was just… off-kilter.
"At a time like this, you're seriously cracking jokes?" I asked, eyes wide, voice drenched in disbelief.
He raised a solitary eyebrow and smirked, the kind of smirk you'd expect from a villain in a low-budget cartoon. "Ha! And who hit the 'play' button on the sitcom, huh?"
It took me a few seconds—maybe more because my brain was still rebooting—to realize he lived nearby. He walked me home like he was auditioning for the role of my part-time bodyguard-slash-stand-up comedian. I couldn't take my eyes off him. He strolled like a runway model who'd lost a bet, waving his arms like a flamboyant traffic officer directing invisible cars.
Honestly, it was equal parts charming and bewildering. He moved with the exaggerated flair of a stage performer mid-musical, throwing in jazz hands that had no business appearing in a regular street walk. Strange? Yes. Hilarious? Also yes.
But the comedic overture didn't last.
That morning, when the body was discovered, the entire school was consumed by shock and hushed murmurs."
The body was discovered in the school bathroom.
Her neck had been cleanly slashed, and both wrists bore fatal lacerations. Yet oddly, there were no signs of a struggle—as if the victim had surrendered to her fate, or had been caught entirely unaware.
Within hours, the school was crawling with detectives. One particularly stern-looking officer, whose voice could probably cut glass, strode in with all the subtlety of a parade. I tried not to look suspicious—though I probably failed.
"She had no defensive wounds," he announced to the gathered teachers and staff. "No visible bruises, no abrasions, no signs of forced entry. The murder weapon is missing. We suspect someone returned to clean the scene and dispose of any incriminating evidence. Possibly someone from inside the school."
Whispers traveled faster than wind. Everyone was a suspect—teachers, janitors, even students. The police weren't ruling anyone out, and frankly, no one felt safe. The scene had been polished—literally. No fingerprints. No footprints. No blood smears. It was almost... too clean. Like it had been staged by a psychopath with a mild case of OCD.
Officer Choi, whose eyes were as sharp as his voice, turned to a teacher for more information.
"Who was she?" he asked.
"She was Kim Ji-eun," the teacher replied, voice trembling. "Class 11. Brilliant student. From a poor family. Very hardworking, polite… and quiet. She didn't have enemies. At least, not that we knew of."
But every story has its untold chapters.
The rain poured like it had a personal vendetta against the roof of a half-constructed home. Water leaked from every crevice. The only light came from a single flickering candle, which looked like it, too, was considering resignation.
Ji-eun sat cross-legged on the floor, her school uniform impeccably neat despite the chaos around her. Her cheeks, soft and youthful, were flushed from the steam rising from a modest bowl of rice. She didn't smile. Her eyes glistened with a sadness too heavy for someone her age.
Her mother placed the food before her. "Don't worry," she said gently. "I finished my shift early and came straight to you. I got offered another job—better pay. I swear we'll be okay."
Ji-eun looked up, her voice cracking. "You're all I have left, Mom. Please don't leave me too. Not like Dad."
Her mother pulled her into a tight embrace. "Never. I will work double shifts, triple even, but I will never abandon you. I'll pay your tuition. I'll get you out of this place. Just give me some time."
With tears pricking the corners of their eyes, they began to eat. Ji-eun chewed slowly, as if each bite was laced with sorrow. The rice felt heavy, her throat tight. Her heart even tighter.
---
The Next Morning
Her mother left early for work. Ji-eun got ready in silence. She wore her uniform and tied her hair with a ribbon slightly frayed at the ends. She looked at herself in the mirror for a long time, then picked up a small gift box from under her bed. Inside was a folded note and a tiny bracelet.
At school, she was laughing. Smiling. Talking to her three best friends like nothing was wrong. She looked... free.
During the break, she excused herself and walked toward Class 11-B. She leaned against the wall, eyes fixated on a particular desk in the first row. Seated there was Joon Young—a boy with the jawline of a Greek sculpture, skin that shimmered like marble, and a nose so perfectly angular it could cut air.
He stood up.
She flinched, turning away instantly.
He exited the room.
Seizing her chance, Ji-eun ran in, placed the note under his desk, and fled like she'd just committed a crime. Her heart was pounding like a drum solo in a rock band.
Back in class, her friends pounced.
"Where were you, darling?" one teased.
"I just… went to get snacks," she mumbled.
"Liar! You were gone forever!" another squealed. "You better spill!"
Ji-eun blushed, head down. "I'll tell you tomorrow. It's not the right time today."
The teacher entered, saving her from further interrogation.
She waved goodbye to her friends and headed toward the terrace. Her shoes echoed through the empty halls: tap... tap... tap.
After school, she climbed the stairs to the terrace. Each footstep echoed in the silent building. The air was so still, even the whispers of insects could be heard like symphonies in a silent movie.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
She opened the heavy metal door. It creaked loudly—too loudly.
He was already there.
Joon Young stood with his back to her, straight as a statue carved from command and charm. He didn't turn. But he didn't need to. He knew she was there.
She stopped. Her hand trembled as she pulled out the gift box from her bag.
"Joon Young," she whispered—not too loud, not too soft.
Her voice hung in the air like fog.
He slowly turned around.
And then—