It started with a note in my locker. No envelope. Just folded paper. Tucked between the ventilation slots like it had crawled in on its own. I read it once, twice, three times. No name. Just one line: "He's not the only one they're using." That was it. No date. No time. But I already knew who it was about. Yeonjun. The student who never spoke unless provoked. Who submitted perfect work in someone else's name. Who didn't blink when I implied he was being erased.
I shoved the note into my jacket and walked straight to Yuri between classes. She was crouched near the vending machine, counting coins like she was preparing for a heist.
– I need your help.
– That's not how you say hello.
– Someone's leaving notes. Anonymous. About the system.
– Welcome to the fan club.
– It's not admiration. It's a warning.
– Same thing, in this place.
I crouched next to her.
– Can you pull project submission data? Historical logs. Even deleted ones.
– That's not a small ask.
– I'm not asking small anymore.
She looked at me. Then sighed.
– Fine. But if I get caught, I'm blaming your tragic redhead aura.
– That's fair.
I found Rayan near the library's side wing. Headphones in. Eyes on a book he wasn't reading. I didn't sit next to him. I stood just long enough for him to feel it.
– You're following patterns again, he said, without looking up.
– That's how people hide. In patterns.
– Some of us just like structure.
– You've been quiet lately.
– You've been loud. That tends to make people quiet.
I finally sat.
– Someone's targeting me again. Not Haeun. Not Bora. Someone smarter.
– Is this your way of asking for help?
– This is my way of saying you're already in it.
He closed the book.
– If you're accusing me of something, at least make it interesting.
– You had a record. Clean. Then last semester, it vanished.
– That's not public knowledge.
– Exactly.
We stared at each other. The silence didn't stretch—it compressed.
– I don't owe you my history, he said.
– No. But if someone's wiping traces, I need to know if they're building a pattern.
– Be careful, Nina. The more you dig, the more things start digging back.
I stood.
– Then I hope they choke on what they find.
Yuri sent me the files by lunch. Airdropped, encrypted, and labeled "for your paranoia." I opened them behind my notebook in the cafeteria, pretending to read through a poetry analysis. There it was. Yeonjun's name on several projects—none officially submitted under his ID. Three belonged to students ranked in the Top 30. One of them? A committee leader. Another? Connected to a scholarship. They were laundering credit like it was currency. Using him as the quiet workhorse behind polished reputations.
– You found something, Yuri said between bites of gimbap.
– I found a pattern. They're trading silence for status.
– That's not news.
– But this is traceable. Real. If I bring this to light, I burn three people.
– Or make them useful.
I looked at her.
– You mean blackmail.
– I mean leverage. Don't get shy now.
Across the cafeteria, Bora stood suddenly. Her tray untouched. Her eyes locked on me for half a second—too direct, too clean.
– What was that?
– She knows, Yuri murmured.
– Knows what?
– That you're shifting from reaction to action.
She was right. I'd stopped just surviving. And they could feel it.
I waited until the last class ended before moving. I found one of the Top 30 students—Min Daehyun—on the roof access corridor, talking on the phone, pacing like someone owed him an apology. I leaned against the wall and waited for him to notice.
– You lost? he said after hanging up.
– No. You are.
– Cute.
– I know about the submissions. You used Yeonjun's work. Twice.
His face didn't change. But his hand twitched slightly.
– That's a bold accusation.
– Not really. I have files. Timestamps. Comparison logs.
– What do you want?
– Nothing. Not yet.
– Then why bring it up?
– Because I want you to know I see it. And you should start thinking about who else might.
I walked slowly toward the stairs, the hallway nearly empty around me, but my head still full of what had just happened. I hadn't just confronted someone—I'd moved a real piece on the board. And in this school, that kind of movement always had a cost. Min Daehyun wasn't going to forget me. Not because I threatened him. But because I didn't. I walked in, said what I knew, and left without asking for anything. That was worse. It left everything open. A decision hanging in the air. A debt waiting to be named. At the bottom of the stairs, my phone buzzed. A new message. Unknown number. Just one line: "You've pulled one thread. Now watch what unravels." I stared at the screen for a few seconds. Then I turned the phone off and stored the files in a box under my bed. They weren't just names anymore. They were structures. Layers of protection. Games of allegiance stacked on top of one another. I was still at the edge of the circle. But this time, I was choosing where to step in.