It started with a murmur.
A question half-whispered in the back of a lecture hall. A flyer tucked inside a dormitory laundry room. A poem—anonymous, searing—left in the women's bathroom of the main library.
Then came the names.
They weren't shouted. They didn't need to be. They traveled like wildfire carried on the backs of whispers. Jiyeon. Hyejin. Mira. Seoyoon. One by one, stories began to surface. Not as direct accusations, but as confessions shared among friends. As warning signs between roommates. As hesitant admissions from students who had long believed they were alone.
Hana walked past the main hallway of Yonsei's central building, her hoodie pulled low, headphones in with no music playing. Her eyes scanned the bulletin board. Someone had posted a handwritten note there:
"It wasn't just me. He made me feel seen. Then he made me feel invisible. I didn't say no. I couldn't."
Hana reached into her bag and slid a folded page between the flyers. A poem. Printed in soft, quiet type. Its final line read:
You called it opportunity. I called it survival.
By Thursday, murmurs had turned into conversation.
Two students passed each other outside the economics building.
"Did you see the poem in the locker hall?" "Yeah. And the story on the student blog? I think it was about Kang."
Meanwhile, the faculty meeting in Room 208 of the Administrative Building had shifted from routine updates to tense, loaded stares.
"There's been a rise in anonymous complaints," the Dean of Students said, shuffling a stack of printed screenshots. "Emails. Locker notes. Posts on the student board. Nothing formal yet. But if this keeps spreading—"
"It's already spreading," said Professor Hye-rin from Sociology. Her tone was clipped. "We've all seen the guest lecture. Heard the hallway talk. We can't pretend this is contained."
"Rumors," muttered a younger professor from Media Studies. "It's all just rumors."
"Rumors don't make students afraid to speak in class," Hye-rin shot back. "They don't get scared of eye contact. This is more than discomfort. It's fear."
Another professor, Head of Ethics, cleared his throat. "We're on the edge of something real. This feels like the early days of the Nam case."
That name hung in the air like poison.
"Unless someone steps forward officially," the Dean said again, quieter now, "our hands are tied."
"You want to wait until it's another scandal? Another exposé? Until a victim puts her name on a headline?" Hye-rin's voice cracked with restrained fury. "Because by then, we're complicit."
Silence.
Then one hand rose. A literature professor. Quiet, nervous. "I... I've heard students mention the club. Not just Kang. Other faculty, too. It might go deeper."
More silence. But no longer from ignorance. Now it was fear.
Professor Kang stood before his Thursday seminar, tie tight around his collar, palms resting flat on the podium. His tone was calm. Collected.
His eyes, however, flicked.
Students avoided eye contact.
Some whispered when he entered. Others exchanged looks, their pens still but their minds racing.
He cleared his throat.
"Before we begin today's discussion on the neurological impacts of trauma, I want to... address something."
Chairs shifted.
"There have been... rumors. Circulating. About faculty behavior. About abuses of power."
A pause.
"Let me be clear. This department stands for academic integrity, mentorship, and safety. Any violation of those values is an affront to what we teach."
He waited. No one interrupted. But no one nodded either.
"I have always valued your growth, your ideas, your trust."
Stillness. One student in the third row stared at him with narrowed eyes. Another scribbled something in her notebook—not notes. Something else.
"If there is confusion or concern, my office is open."
A single cough echoed through the hall.
Kang clenched his jaw behind a thin smile. "Now, let us begin."
At the safehouse, the team gathered around the projection wall. News forums flickered to life with heated comments.
"Anonymous post says Kang invited her for tea. She felt unsafe." "Another one says she lost memory after an invite to the club by Professor X. What the hell is going on in that department?" "Anyone else thinking this is tied to Club Zero?"
Hana tossed her phone onto the table. "It's working."
"Too well," Audrey said quietly. "He's starting to spin. You saw him today. He's trying to manage the narrative."
Damian stretched, cracking his knuckles. "Sooner or later, he'll try to bait someone into slipping. Or silencing the next post."
Kenzo, tapping at his laptop, spoke without looking up. "The more pressure he feels, the more mistakes he'll make."
Hana leaned back, arms crossed. "Let him crack. Let them both crack. But we're not done. Not until every girl who thought she had to stay quiet gets to scream."
Audrey met her eyes.
"Then we give them the mic."
Damian leaned forward, pulling a fresh map toward him. "So what's next? We let this burn and hope Kang implodes on his own?"
Audrey shook her head. "We strike before they bury the truth. Kang is rattled. But Seong Jae... he still thinks he's untouchable."
Kenzo looked up from the screen. "So we pull the rug from under him. Hard."
Audrey's gaze hardened. "We need to expose him in a place where he feels invincible."
Hana nodded slowly, understanding dawning in her voice. "His sanctuary."
"Club Zero," Audrey said. "If we're going to take down Seong Jae, it needs to be in his kingdom. In front of the people who protect him."Damian grinned, stretching his shoulders. "Can't wait to dance."
Kenzo sighed, dry as ever. "Let's just hope we don't have to wear sequins."
Hana smirked. "Speak for yourself. I'm bringing the boots."
Audrey cracked a rare smile. "Let's give them a night they'll never forget."
The invitation arrived on cream cardstock, embossed with gold lettering. An elegant flourish at the bottom read: The Artemis Foundation for Global Youth Empowerment.
It was addressed directly to Seong Jae.
"A special evening of cultural exchange, philanthropy, and future-building with Seoul's brightest innovators."
A donation offer followed—substantial, discreetly vague in its language, and promising. The catch: an exclusive networking night inside Club Zero, the host site chosen for its "influence and outreach to high-potential youth."
Seong Jae stood at the top floor of the club, his gaze roaming across the dark skyline. His cigarette burned low between his fingers.
"You think this is real?" one of his lieutenants asked.
"It's too elaborate to be fake," Seong Jae muttered. "And the timing... it's perfect."
In truth, he needed this.
Kang's situation was spiraling. The whispers had turned into murmurs—then accusations. It wasn't public yet, but it was close. Kang's grip was slipping, and with it, their immunity.
But this? A gala. Press. University faces. Foreign donors. All hosted in Club Zero? It would reframe the narrative. No one could suspect a place that flaunted legitimacy under flashing lights and charity speeches.
"What do we know about this Artemis group?" he asked.
His assistant clicked through the foundation's sleek website. Everything checked out. There were photos of smiling students in workshops, rows of headlines in The Guardian and Forbes Asia, ambiguous quotes from directors with no last names. It had the polished gleam of something important.
"The founder's name is Evelyn Drake," the assistant added. "Ex-diplomat. Ties to Southeast Asia development initiatives."
Seong Jae looked down at the name. Evelyn Drake.
Elegant. Safe. Almost too perfect.
But paranoia was for the weak. This was the kind of event powerful men hosted to prove they had nothing to hide.
And he would remind Seoul that he still owned the night.
She stared at herself in the mirror. Her hair was swept into an elegant twist, the earrings gleamed just enough to catch attention but not hold it. The blouse was sharp, sleek—more ambassador than heiress.
She didn't adjust anything. She didn't need to.
Behind her, someone whispered, "ID passes are live. No matches in any known scans."
She nodded once.
The woman in the mirror felt like a stranger. But she stood with the weight of something long-planned.
There was no need for introductions. Not yet.
Only the calm before the fire.
And whoever this Evelyn Drake really was, she had arrived.
Seong Jae had never looked more polished.
He wore his finest black-on-black suit. His hair slicked perfectly into place. The club gleamed below him—velvet ropes in place, VIP booths cleaned and reset, lights warmed to a golden hue that made even the darkest corners seem welcoming.
He checked the guest list again.
University officials. Editors. A member of the National Culture Committee. A trio of European donors. And, of course, Evelyn Drake.
The door buzzed. He turned.
She entered like she owned time.
Evelyn Drake walked through the entryway with an easy smile, her heels clicking like punctuation. She was flanked by two silent women in sleek dresses and a towering man in a tuxedo, tucked into bodyguard disguise.
Seong Jae extended his hand. "Miss Drake. Welcome to Club Zero."
Evelyn's handshake was firm but graceful. "Mr. Seong. What a pleasure. I've heard this club sets the standard."
He chuckled. "It tends to raise expectations. I hope we meet them."
"I expect you will," she replied with a subtle nod, already surveying the room.
She passed by the host table with a glance, uninterested in the drink menu. Every step was deliberate. Composed. A woman used to power, and more importantly, used to watching how others responded to it.
Seong Jae watched her with rising intrigue. She wasn't playing the wide-eyed donor. She wasn't here to be dazzled.
She was here to measure the room—and him.
He liked that.
But something about her timing, her precision, sparked a quiet itch at the base of his spine.
For now, though, he smiled wider. "Shall I give you the grand tour?"
Evelyn's lips curved. "I'd expect nothing less."
By the time the guests had arrived, the club was a glimmering dream. Laughter floated on the air. Glasses clinked. Music pulsed in the background.
Evelyn navigated the floor like water around stone. She made polite conversation, exchanged card stock, flattered egos. Seong Jae followed her with interest.
He offered her a drink. She accepted. They sat.
"You have quite the operation here," she said, sipping champagne. "Your reach into university circles alone is impressive."
"Youth are the future," he said smoothly. "They need leaders."
"And guidance, I'm sure."
"Of course."
"Do you consider yourself a mentor, Mr. Seong?"
He smirked. "Among other things."
Above them, the screens on the VIP wall flickered.
Evelyn smiled wider. "That's what I hoped to hear."
Back at the safehouse, Kenzo's fingers flew across the keyboard, the glow of the monitors casting quick shadows over his focused eyes. Hana leaned in, voice low but razor-sharp.
"All feeds are live. No interference. We're in."
Damian's voice came through the comm, almost too casual: "Showtime in three... two..."
In the club, Evelyn raised her glass with a glint in her eye, toasting lightly against Seong Jae's.
The moment the crystal rang, the VIP screens behind them stuttered—once, then twice. A flicker. An image. Another. Then the wall bloomed into life.
Not the gala slideshow.
Footage.
Real. Raw. Damning.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. The music faltered. Faces paled.
Girls—barely conscious. Men in shadows. Dates, timestamps. Proof.
Evelyn didn't turn to look. She sipped her drink calmly, her gaze fixed on Seong Jae as his hand froze around the stem of his glass.
At the safehouse, Hana whispered, almost smiling. "Let the storm begin."