It started with an empty chair. My chair. Back row, third from the window. I walked into class and someone else was sitting in it. Not a mistake. Not a coincidence. A girl I didn't recognize—Class 2-B, maybe—head down, textbook open, acting like she'd been born there. No eye contact. No apology. Just silent assertion. I didn't say anything. I walked past, sat two rows over, and watched. Bora watched me watching. The teacher came in. Roll call began. No one corrected anything. Not even me. That was the point. After class, Yuri met me by the lockers, her expression unreadable.
– Don't react.
– That's what they want?
– No. That's what they expect.
– Who's the girl?
– Haeun's new assistant. She's not here for the classes. She's here for you.
I closed my locker gently.
– It's not even subtle.
– That's the point.
We walked to the next class in silence. Every hallway felt longer than it should have. I passed groups of students who shifted just slightly as I approached. Not enough to block. Not enough to move. Just enough to make me aware that I was moving through them. Like air bending around a flame.
By lunchtime, I'd seen the pattern. The same girl in my seat again. The same glances from Bora. And now—an envelope waiting in my locker. Pale blue. No name. No seal. Inside: a printed screenshot of my midterm file. The top half was blacked out. The bottom had one note circled in red. "Transfer with incomplete record. Status pending." No context. No explanation. Just the kind of information that, in this school, might as well be a gun. I folded the paper slowly and walked to the cafeteria with Yuri at my side.
– Did you read it? she asked.
– It read me.
– Haeun's escalating.
– So she wants me to know she knows.
– She wants you unstable.
I sat down at our usual spot. Two seconds later, a tray landed across from me. Rayan. No words. Just a look.
– You've seen it too? I asked.
– Everyone's seen it. She made sure of it.
– And the teachers?
– Silent. As usual.
– Then I'll answer it myself.
Yuri looked at me.
– How?
– I'll write my own file.
Rayan didn't laugh. But his eyes did.
– You better start with a headline.
– Don't worry. I already have one.
After school, I didn't go home. I went to the student archives. Not the official records. The private ones—club reports, activity reviews, faculty feedback sheets. It wasn't hard to get in. All it took was one keycard Yuri borrowed from the IT office, and ten minutes of pretending I was invisible. I scanned pages. Dozens. Hundreds. My name was barely there. A footnote. A transferred record with no academic attachments. But Haeun's name—hers was everywhere. Debate tournaments. Cultural committees. Volunteering at elite events that never actually happened. Her résumé was padded to perfection. Her power wasn't just social—it was written in ink and filed in triplicate. I pulled out my notebook and made a list. Not names. Not threats. Just cracks. Inconsistencies. Projects that didn't match dates. Participation logs with signatures too perfect. Her empire was clean. Too clean.
– What are you hoping to find?
The voice startled me. Min Daehyun, standing at the end of the row.
– You followed me?
– I was already here. You're not the only one digging.
– Looking for anything in particular?
– Just evidence.
– Of what?
– That she's not untouchable.
We stared at each other.
– Then we're on the same side.
– For now.
That night, I wrote an email. Anonymous. No threats. Just attachments. Screenshots. Notes. Cross-referenced details. I sent it to one person: the vice principal. No signature. No IP trace. Just facts. Clean. Cold. Enough to ask questions. Enough to start a fire. Then I waited. Not for a reply. For the fallout.
The next morning, Haeun wasn't at her desk. Her seat was empty. The classroom quieter. I sat in my new spot without complaint. No one spoke. No one looked. But something in the air had changed. Not fear. Not relief. Just tension. Wound tight.
Yuri slid into the seat beside me and whispered,
– You did something.
– I just returned the favor.
But the moment those words left my mouth, I knew this wasn't over. It wasn't even the middle. What I'd sent last night wasn't enough to bring her down—it was enough to make her look. To adjust. To pivot. Haeun didn't need to be the first to strike. She made people think they were winning while she changed the rules underneath them. And this morning, she looked like someone who had already redrafted the board. She didn't look rattled. She looked focused. When she entered the classroom fifteen minutes late, no one breathed wrong. She took her seat with the posture of someone who had been briefed, polished, and cleared for combat. Her gaze found me without delay. And she held it. Not to intimidate. To read. To measure. I didn't flinch. But I felt something coil in my stomach. Because that wasn't the look of someone caught off guard. That was the look of someone confirming a suspicion. She knew it was me. And worse—she'd already decided what to do with that knowledge. The teacher called her name during roll call. She didn't answer right away. She let the silence stretch, just long enough to remind the room that even time bent around her. Then she looked down at her screen, answered crisply, and went back to typing. Calm. Controlled. Deadly. I didn't need to see the message she was writing. I already knew. She wasn't planning to erase me. She was planning to name me. Frame me. Use me. Because in her world, enemies weren't obstacles. They were tools. And I'd just made myself useful.