The classroom was still quiet when the bell rang for the next period, but it wasn't the kind of silence that meant peace. It was a silence that came from restraint. No one wanted to speak first. Not because they didn't have something to say, but because they didn't know where the new line had been drawn. The video had shifted things, not with a scandal, but with a weight they hadn't expected. I could feel it every time I moved—even just turning a page. No one wanted to say the wrong thing to the wrong person. And right now, I had become the person they couldn't predict anymore.
The teacher walked in and the tension dipped slightly, enough for everyone to fake normalcy. I focused on the board, copied the notes, answered one question when asked, and didn't look at anyone else. But that didn't stop me from noticing what was happening around me. Jiyeon spent the entire class chewing the inside of her cheek, and the boy next to her, the one who usually whispered jokes during breaks, hadn't spoken once. Even Yuri's posture had changed. She kept her eyes on her notebook, but she wasn't writing. Her pen was just sitting there, perfectly still in her hand.
I waited until the bell rang again. I didn't rush. I stood, packed my things, and walked toward the door. And right as I passed the back row, a voice stopped me.
–That wasn't even your role.
It was Jiyeon. She said it too quickly, too flatly, like she had rehearsed it silently and lost control just before I left.
I turned my head slightly.
–You're right. It wasn't.
She stared at me, her mouth still half open, like she had expected me to argue or deny it. But I didn't give her the energy she wanted. I didn't owe her that.
I stepped into the hallway and let the wave of noise wash over me. Different floor, different students—but the energy was the same. There were eyes, subtle pauses in conversation, heads turning just slightly as I passed. But there was no mocking. No laughter.
I found Hyeri near the vending machines, exactly where she said she'd be. She had already gotten my drink—apple juice, like always—but she was holding it awkwardly, like she wasn't sure if I still wanted it.
–They're still talking about it, she said before I reached her.
–Let them.
She handed me the bottle and glanced around us, lowering her voice even though no one was close enough to hear.
–Someone said Yuri asked the theater teacher to cut her scenes this week.
–She'll say it's because of exam prep.
–But she's never cared about that before.
I unscrewed the cap and took a sip. The juice was warm, slightly metallic. The machine must have been malfunctioning again, but I didn't mention it.
–She's not stupid. She knows if she acts too confident right now, it'll backfire. The moment she tries to pretend nothing happened, someone will pull up the video again. She needs time to rebuild whatever version of herself she thinks still works.
Hyeri leaned against the wall, her expression thoughtful.
–Do you think she'll try something else?
–Eventually. Not directly. But yes.
–And you're just going to wait?
–No. I'm going to move first.
That got her attention.
I finished the juice and dropped the bottle in the bin beside her.
–I want you to help me with something.
–What kind of something?
–Something public.
She didn't ask more. She just nodded, slow and careful, like she already knew whatever I was planning, it wasn't small.
The media lab was half-lit when we arrived. Daejin was already inside, scrolling through a file list with the focus of someone working under pressure. He barely looked up when we walked in.
–We're getting requests, he said. –Clubs, electives, even the school newsletter. People want to know if they can share the video. Comment on it. Use clips.
–And?
–I've said no. It's not theirs to use.
I nodded. –Good. It wasn't made for them. But I want to use it again.
He finally turned toward me, eyebrows raised.
–A follow-up?
–A live discussion.
Hyeri stiffened slightly beside me, but she didn't speak.
I stepped further into the room and leaned over the back of a chair.
–A recorded roundtable. Just a few people. Students only. Unscripted. We talk about the experience. Not just the performance, but everything around it. Why it matters. What it says about us. We frame it as a discussion about pressure in academic spaces, performance expectations, social dynamics. Keep it clean, thoughtful, open. But I want it to be real.
Daejin stared at me for a few seconds, then laughed softly under his breath.
–You're not just flipping the story. You're building a platform.
–If you keep giving people the truth, eventually they'll stop clinging to the lie.
–You're going to need the right voices for this.
–I already have a list.
Hyeri stepped forward. –You're going to talk in it too?
–Yes. Not as the center. Just as part of the group.
Daejin nodded slowly. –We'll prep the space. Keep it low profile until it's done. No leaks.
–Thank you.
I needed them to start listening to something bigger than me.
And I knew exactly how to lead them there.
By the end of the week, the invitations had been sent. Not to the loudest voices or the most popular names, but to the ones who had been watching carefully. The students who didn't speak often, but who paid attention. The ones who sat in the middle rows, who never started rumors but always heard them first. The ones who carried weight, not volume.
The roundtable was scheduled for the following Wednesday.
Until then, everything slowed down. There were no new clips. No new comments. Yuri didn't speak to me once, not even in passing. Jiyeon avoided eye contact. Even the theater group's group chat had gone quiet. It felt like everyone was holding their breath, waiting to see where this new version of the story would land.
But I wasn't waiting.
I spent my free periods helping Daejin with logistics, writing questions, reviewing the sound setup. We didn't overproduce anything. We kept it simple. One camera, one microphone per person, one room.
The day before the shoot, I stayed in the media lab after hours, cleaning up the cables myself. The windows were already dark. The building was silent. But I liked it that way.
It felt honest.
Hyeri sat nearby, legs crossed on one of the desks, watching me.
–You really think they'll talk?
–If they don't, that'll say something too.
–And if someone tries to twist it again?
I looked at her and smiled, tired but steady.
–Then they'll have to twist it in front of a full room, with the camera running, and their name attached to every word. That's a lot harder than hiding behind a screen.
She nodded once, quietly.
I unplugged the last wire and coiled it neatly.
This was my revenge.