I didn't upload the video.
Not that night. Not the next morning either.
I kept it saved, untouched, hidden behind layers of meaningless folders on my phone. Every time I passed a group of students whispering in the hallway, every time I felt the weight of glances that lingered too long, I thought about it. The urge to release the full recording and shut everything down was strong. But it wasn't time yet.
Revenge only works when you understand what people are really afraid of.
Right now, they weren't afraid of me. Not yet. They still thought I was cornered. Still believed I was that girl who walked off the stage because she couldn't handle a fake slap. I let them believe it. Because the more they spread that version of the story, the more powerful the truth would become when it surfaced.
I arrived at school earlier than usual. The moment I stepped onto the main staircase, I could feel the shift. Conversations quieted slightly. Not silence—just a small delay, as if people were waiting to see what I would do.
I kept walking.
In the classroom, the tension was worse. No one said anything openly, but I could feel it under the surface. Yuri sat in her usual seat, pretending not to look in my direction. Jiyeon was back, head lowered as she scrolled through her phone, probably catching up on the version of events she had missed.
I took my seat and pulled out my tablet. My fingers moved across the screen with practiced calm, but my thoughts were elsewhere. Hyeri leaned over from her desk, her voice barely above a whisper.
–Still not posting it?
–Not yet.
–Are you sure? The rumor's getting worse. Someone added captions to the video now. They're calling you "fragile."
I smiled without humor.
–Let them. It's better if they commit to the lie.
Hyeri blinked slowly, then sat back in her chair. She didn't understand the plan, not completely. But she trusted me enough not to question it out loud.
Homeroom began. We stood for the pledge. The teacher walked in. Everything proceeded as if nothing had happened. But every glance Yuri sent across the room felt more uncertain than the last.
She was waiting for something too.
Which meant the pressure was working.
And pressure, when applied properly, always breaks something.
By lunchtime, the rumors had mutated again. Someone had posted an anonymous story claiming I had cried backstage after the scene. Another said I'd been warned by a teacher for being "uncooperative." I didn't bother checking the sources. It didn't matter who started them. What mattered was that they were now desperate enough to fabricate.
I sat at my usual spot on the rooftop, away from the chaos. The wind was colder than expected, but it helped clear my head. Hyeri sat beside me, her lunch unopened in her lap.
–They're escalating, she said. –Why aren't you?
–Because they think I'm frozen. That's what makes this work.
She hesitated.
–And when are you going to do it?
I looked down at the screen again. The video file sat in its folder like a live wire.
–Soon.
She didn't press further. I knew she wanted to, but she didn't. Maybe she saw something in my expression that told her the decision wasn't up for debate.
We finished lunch in silence. When the bell rang, we returned to class. But I didn't take my seat right away.
Instead, I turned and walked directly to the teacher's desk.
She looked up, surprised. "Yes?"
"I'd like to request a club reassignment," I said calmly.
There was a pause.
"To which club?"
"The media club."
Whispers started immediately. Even before the teacher responded, I heard the wave of murmurs ripple through the room. It wasn't a casual request. Everyone knew that. Changing clubs mid-term required a reason. A strong one.
"You're currently part of the theater group," the teacher said. "Is something wrong?"
I didn't blink.
"I believe the media club will better align with my interests."
It was the most diplomatic way I could phrase it. The teacher hesitated, clearly sensing the tension, but she didn't press. "Very well. I'll forward your request to the advisor."
I nodded and returned to my seat.
Behind me, Yuri was completely still.
She understood what the move meant.
The message came after school, short and to the point.
FROM: Media Club Advisor
SUBJECT: Transfer Request Approved
You may begin attending club meetings this week. Welcome.
I read it twice before locking my phone.
Then I walked, deliberately, not toward the main exit, but down the back stairs to the media lab. The door was propped open. Inside, half a dozen students sat in a circle around computers and camera rigs. The room smelled faintly of coffee and hot electronics.
Daejin looked up as I entered.
"You're serious," he said.
"I told you I was."
He gestured toward a free seat. "Sit, then. Let's see if you're useful."
I took the chair without hesitation. One of the girls raised an eyebrow at him.
"Since when do we take walk-ins?"
"Since today," he said. "She's not a walk-in. She's here to work."
I didn't say anything. I didn't need to. They'd already heard about the scene. Maybe even seen the video. They were the ones editing it, after all.
Daejin leaned closer, voice low.
"So what's your plan?"
I opened my tablet and pulled up the unedited video file. I didn't play it yet—just let the first frame hang there on screen.
"I'm not going to post this," I said. "Not directly. That would make it about defending myself."
He tilted his head.
"So what, then?"
"I want to use it to build something else. A project. An expose on performance culture. On the difference between staged emotion and real pressure. We cut it into a documentary format. With multiple perspectives. Including mine."
He stared at me for a long second.
Then he grinned.
"You're scarier than you look."
"Good."
He turned to his crew. "Start clearing the edit queue. We've got something new to produce."
The others murmured in agreement. There was curiosity in their eyes, but no resistance. They were hungry for something fresh.
The next three days passed in silence.
Not mine—theirs.
The hallway glances lost their sharpness. The whispers lost their urgency. Even Yuri stopped posturing. She walked past me without comment, sat through class without interruption, and rehearsed with the theater group like nothing had happened.
But I saw the tension in her shoulders. I saw the way she checked her phone more often, how she looked toward the media lab door whenever we passed it. She was waiting. Dreading.
That was exactly what I needed.
On the fourth day, the media club released the project. It wasn't uploaded under my name. It was credited to the group. The title was clean, clinical.
Theater Under Pressure: A Study in Stage and Power.
Fifteen minutes of carefully edited footage. Interviews, background footage, real-time reactions. Commentary on school performance culture and the subtle lines between art and manipulation. No voiceovers. Just images, sound, and truth.
The original scene was embedded in full at the midpoint—unedited, untouched.
By lunchtime, it had already spread to every class.
I sat at my desk and watched the silence fill the room.
Phones were out. But no one was scrolling.
They weren't looking at gossip stories or new edits. They were watching the same clip, again and again. I could see it reflected in the screen of the girl sitting diagonally in front of me—the freeze-frame of me standing center stage, expression calm, eyes fixed straight ahead, with Yuri's hand frozen mid-air.
No voiceover. No drama. Just the moment itself.
Even the way they held their phones had changed. No one was laughing. No one was typing comments. There was a kind of stillness in the room that didn't feel like silence—it felt like attention.
I heard someone clear their throat. Another shifted in their seat. A third dropped her pen.
But no one said a word.
I didn't move. I didn't check my own screen. I didn't need to. I'd already seen the edit five times the night before, refining every second with Daejin until it was exactly what it needed to be—not a defense, not a retaliation, but a mirror.
And they were finally seeing themselves in it.
Hyeri leaned closer, but she didn't whisper this time.
"They're watching you differently."
She wasn't wrong. The glances weren't sharp anymore. They were slower. Measured. Like people trying to figure out what I really was now that their version had been erased.
I looked across the aisle.
Yuri hadn't touched her phone once since I arrived. Her gaze was fixed on the whiteboard, stiff and too focused, like she was trying to pretend she didn't know what everyone around her was watching.
But her hands were clenched under the desk.
And her jaw was tight.
She didn't look up, not even when I stood to turn in my assignment.
Not even when I passed by her row.
She knew better than anyone else what was coming next.
This wasn't the end of the story.
It was the start of a new one.