It didn't matter that I'd walked out the day before. It didn't matter that I'd vanished for an hour and spent it pretending I wasn't being watched. Because the moment I stepped back onto campus the next morning, I knew something had changed. Not in the hallways. Not in the uniforms or the faces. In the rhythm. Something about the way people moved around me felt too orchestrated. Like I'd been factored into their timing. Like I wasn't just being observed anymore—I was being studied. I passed three students I didn't recognize. They weren't talking, but they turned at the same time. Eyes sharp. Expressions neutral. The kind of look that didn't come from curiosity—it came from instruction. Yuri was waiting near the lockers with a coffee and a grimace.
– You went off-map yesterday.
– I needed air.
– You don't get fresh air in this city, you get surveillance with wind chill.
– I had a moment.
– You're getting too many moments lately.
She handed me the coffee.
– You're in the bulletin today.
– Why?
– Club showcase. You're up for an art piece feature.
I blinked.
– I didn't submit anything.
– You didn't have to. Someone nominated you. Anonymously.
She pulled out her phone and showed me the screen. A list of names. Mine at the top.
– Congratulations. You're the mysterious creative now.
– That's not suspicious at all.
– You're welcome.
– It wasn't you.
– No, but I admire the chaos.
I stared at the screen, trying to figure out who had decided to put me on display and why. Because nothing in this school was ever random.
The showcase was held in the west annex, in a room with more natural light than furniture. Long glass walls, white floors, easels and digital displays positioned like they were auditioning for a museum exhibit. Students flowed in like perfume ads—graceful, filtered, measured. I stood near the entrance, watching them browse the installations. Rayan arrived three minutes after I did, notebook in hand, eyes unreadable.
– I heard you're a surprise submission.
– Is that what they're calling it?
– That, or sabotage with good lighting.
– Depends how the critics react.
– There are no critics here. Just witnesses.
He glanced at the corner wall, where a digital frame displayed one of my old sketches. Not the careful ones. Not the ones I kept for myself. It was from my first month here—rushed, unfinished, too raw.
– You didn't choose that, did you?
– No.
– Then someone wanted that version of you seen.
He was right. This wasn't admiration. It was exposure. I looked around the room. Bora was near the drinks table, laughing with two seniors I'd never seen her talk to before. Haeun wasn't there. That meant something. I didn't know what yet, but it meant something. I moved through the crowd slowly. People glanced, smiled, nodded politely. One girl complimented the contrast in my line work. Another asked what program I used. None of them were real questions. They were just rehearsed entries into conversations they weren't sure they wanted to finish. I spotted Min Daehyun near the back wall, alone, arms crossed. He caught my eye and didn't look away.
– Subtle isn't your style anymore.
– I didn't pick the piece.
– I didn't say you did.
He stepped closer.
– But whoever did wants people to start asking who you are.
– That's the problem.
– Or the opportunity.
I looked at him, really looked.
– You worried they'll start asking about you too?
– They already do. That's why I don't answer.
He walked away before I could say anything else.
After the showcase, I walked straight to the music room. Not to play. Not to think. Just to be somewhere I could hear myself breathe. The lights were off. The windows were dim. I sat in the far corner and opened my notebook, flipping past the list of names I'd started two weeks ago. I didn't cross any out. I didn't add any either. I just stared at the empty spaces between them. I thought about the sketch they'd shown. I hadn't even remembered submitting it. It must've been something I left in the supply room. Careless. Vulnerable. A version of me I wasn't trying to hide but wasn't ready to share either. A soft knock broke the silence. The door opened. Hyunwoo.
– I figured I'd find you here.
– Lucky guess?
– I know your patterns.
– I should change them.
– Probably.
He stepped inside and sat near the piano bench.
– They're testing how you react to exposure.
– It's not a test if I didn't sign up.
– Everything's a test here.
He pulled something from his bag and held it out. A photo. Black and white.
– This is what they showed about me two years ago. At an event like this.
– Why?
– Because someone needed to remind me I was replaceable.
I looked at the photo. He was younger. More open. Still trying.
– Did it work?
– I adapted.
– And now?
– Now I help people survive it. If they're smart enough to listen.
I handed the photo back.
– I'm not here to survive.
– Then make sure you don't disappear.
That night, I didn't go home right away. I stopped at a small park two blocks from the campus. Empty benches. Low lights. A vending machine with drinks no one ever bought. I sat there for over an hour, watching the street. Thinking. Not planning. Just letting the day settle into the corners of my mind. The exposure had worked. Not because I'd gained anything, but because people were looking again. Not with suspicion. With interest. And that was worse. Curiosity gave people permission. To dig. To guess. To project. My phone buzzed once. A message from Yuri.
– "Your sketch is trending on the internal board. Comments are mostly confused. One says you draw like you're trying to apologize for something."
I smiled. Barely.
– "Tell them I'm not."
– "Too late. They already think you are."
I leaned back on the bench, closed my eyes, and listened to the sound of nothing. I didn't feel afraid. I felt measured. Like someone had weighed me against the image they'd broadcasted and hadn't made up their mind yet.