"Enough."
Eun-Woo's voice cut through the room.
Everyone turned.
He had stepped fully inside now, standing between the doorway and the desks, his jacket still half-open, chest rising as if he'd run straight into this moment—which he had.
Ji-Bok looked at him sharply. "Eun-Woo—"
Eun-Woo didn't look away from the front of the room.
His eyes went to the open folder. The photos. Then—slowly—to Ji-Woo.
"Yes," he said.
The room stilled.
"The photos are real." His voice was steady, even if his hands weren't. "Those girls are real."
A ripple of whispers spread, quick and nervous.
Eun-Woo took a breath and said the lie like it was a fact.
"That's her twin."
Ji-Woo's head snapped up.
"Her name is Ji-Soo," Eun-Woo continued. "That's why they look the same. Same face. Same features. Different hair. Different lives."
Silence crashed down.
Then—soft murmurs.
"A twin…?"
"No wonder…"
"That explains it…"
Ji-Ho watched without saying a word, eyes sharp, absorbing everything.
Eun-Woo turned then—slowly—and looked straight at Mi-Sook. His gaze hardened.
"So why," he asked quietly, "are you trying so hard to cover up your crimes?"
Mi-Sook's smile faltered.
The room shifted.
Accusations bloomed like sparks catching fire.
"If she has a twin—"
"Then the accident—"
"Didn't Ji-Soo die?"
"So Mi-Sook—"
"You're blaming the wrong person—"
"Were you trying to hide what you did?"
Voices overlapped, sharp and confused, all turning toward Mi-Sook now.
Ji-Bok glanced sideways.
At Ji-Woo.
Her shoulders had slumped, like something heavy had finally pressed down on her. Her eyes were glossy, unfocused.
Each breath came uneven, like she was barely holding herself upright.
Ji-Bok's expression softened—just a fraction.
But he didn't move.
Eun-Woo looked at her too.
Longer.
His gaze was more serious, heavier with things he wasn't saying. He could see the pain there—raw, unprotected.
The cost of the words he'd just spoken.
He didn't look away.
He had chosen this.
And even as the room buzzed with whispers and blame shifted across the floor, Eun-Woo knew one thing with painful clarity:
This lie might protect Ji-Woo for now.
But it would never be free.
Ji-Woo exhaled and finally left the class.
What Eun-woo said wasn't the truth but it wasn't completely a lie.
--
The hospital room felt smaller than before.
The monitors no longer hummed gently—they beeped with uneven urgency, sharp sounds cutting through the stale air.
Mrs. Han lay against the pillows, her breathing shallow, her skin paler than it had been that morning.
Min-Ju stood at her side, hands clenched together, trying—and failing—to keep his breathing steady.
"Doctor said she was stable," he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. "She was stable."
Ji-Soo stood a few steps away.
She couldn't move closer.
Tears slipped down her face silently, one after another, her hands trembling as she pressed them together.
Watching Mrs. Han like this felt unreal—like her body was here, but something vital was already slipping away.
Mrs. Han's eyes fluttered open.
"Min-Ju…" she murmured.
He leaned in immediately. "I'm here. I'm right here."
She looked at him for a long moment, then her gaze drifted to Ji-Soo. A faint, tired smile touched her lips.
"You're both here," she said softly. "That's… good."
"Please don't talk," Min-Ju said quickly, panic creeping into his voice. "Save your strength, okay?"
She shook her head, just a little.
"I don't think I have much time to save anymore."
Ji-Soo gasped quietly, covering her mouth.
Mrs. Han reached out weakly, and Min-Ju took her hand instantly, holding it like it might disappear if he didn't.
"I can feel it," Mrs. Han continued, her voice calm in a way that hurt more than fear. "My body… it's telling me."
"No," Min-Ju whispered. "Don't say that."
She squeezed his hand with what little strength she had left. "Listen to me."
He froze.
"I'm not afraid," she said. "I've lived enough to know when something is ending. What scares me is leaving things unsaid."
Ji-Soo stepped forward despite herself, tears falling freely now. "Please… don't talk like this."
Mrs. Han looked at her gently. "You're a good girl," she said. "Strong. Even when you don't want to be."
Ji-Soo broke.
She turned away, shoulders shaking, and in that moment made a decision that had been clawing at her chest all day.
She pulled out her phone.
Ji-Woo.
She pressed call.
Ring.
Nothing.
She tried again.
Voicemail.
Her breath hitched. "Pick up… please pick up," she whispered desperately.
Ji-Soo didn't know that Ji-Woo was already drowning in her own storm—eyes burning, chest tight, surrounded by whispers and accusations she couldn't escape.
All Ji-Soo knew was this:
Mrs. Han's hand was growing colder.
Min-Ju's composure was cracking.
And the truth—every truth—was running out of time.
Ji-Soo stared at the silent phone, tears blurring the screen.
"I need to tell her," she said, voice breaking. "She needs to know."
But Ji-Woo wasn't answering.
And the hospital room filled with a fear that had no words left.
--
Ji-Woo didn't notice her phone at first.
It sat on her desk, screen dark, face-down, like it didn't want to be seen.
The room was finally empty now, the noise of the day replaced by a ringing silence that wouldn't leave her ears.
Then it buzzed.
Once. Twice.
She turned it over.
Ji-Soo — 6 missed calls.
Her heart dropped.
She called back immediately, fingers unsteady.
"Ji-Woo?" Her voice came out hoarse. "What's wrong?"
On the other end, Ji-Soo inhaled sharply—and broke.
"Ji-Soo…" Her voice was wet, uneven. "I—I'm at the hospital."
Ji-Woo's breath caught. "Hospital?"
Ji-Soo's words tumbled out, messy and rushed, like she was afraid time would steal them away.
"Mrs. Han… she's really sick. It's lung cancer. Advanced. She looks—" Her voice cracked.
"She looks so tired, Ji-Woo. I've never seen her like this."
Ji-Woo slid down onto the edge of her bed.
Her fingers dug into the blanket.
"She got worse today," Ji-Soo continued, crying openly now.
"The machines… Min-Ju's trying to stay calm but I can see it—he's terrified. I think—" She swallowed hard.
"I think she knows she's going to die."
The room tilted.
Ji-Woo pressed a hand to her mouth, her chest tightening until it hurt to breathe.
Her mind flashed with too many things at once—faces, accusations, a lie spoken to save her, a classroom full of eyes.
"I should come," Ji-Woo whispered.
Ji-Soo leaned back against a chair in her room, gripping it like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
"Can you?" she asked softly. Not accusing. Just scared.
Ji-Woo closed her eyes.
"I… I'm coming," she said, forcing the words out. "Okay? Just—give me a little time."
"Ji-Soo—"
"Let me deal with something first," she said quickly, voice trembling. "Just one thing. Then I'll come. I promise. Please don't hang up."
Ji-Soo nodded even though Ji-Woo couldn't see it.
"Okay," she whispered. "I'll wait."
The call ended.
Ji-Woo stayed sitting there, phone still pressed to her ear, even after the line went dead.
Lung cancer. Hospital. Dying.
She stood slowly, legs unsteady.
Whatever was waiting for her—whatever truth, whatever fallout—she knew one thing now.
She couldn't run anymore.
And she couldn't be late.