Baekhyun Academy rarely summoned the entire student body without warning.
So when the announcement came—just after breakfast, echoing through the speaker system like a war siren—the entire school shifted. Uniforms were straightened. Lips glossed. The coliseum-style auditorium filled with whispers before the student council even took the stage.
Hae-won sat in the back row with Ji-ae and Na-ri, arms folded. "Why do I feel like we're about to be sacrificed?"
"Because we probably are," Ji-ae muttered. "Should've worn red."
The headmaster didn't appear. It was the vice director, a hawk-nosed woman with severe bangs and a reputation for never blinking. She stood center stage, clipboard in hand, flanked by faculty and a few upper-level council members.
And four boys sitting at the front.
The elites.
Haneul, slouching and texting under the desk.
Kyung-min, unreadable in his perfect posture.
Seok-min, bored.
And Jin-woon—leaning back, one leg crossed over the other, head turned slightly toward the merit rows behind him.
Like he was already looking for someone.
Hae-won straightened.
Vice Director Min's voice cut through the hum. "As a result of a recent... technical anomaly, Baekhyun will be implementing new tiers of digital accountability. Starting next week, all extracurricular spaces will require facial recognition sign-ins."
A few gasps. Murmurs.
Ji-ae leaned in, lowering her voice like they were already being watched again.
"You don't think they know… about the cake?"
Hae-won snorted. "Relax. We're not smuggling secrets in ganache."
Ji-ae gave her a sly smile. "Still. They've got eyes everywhere."
"Then let them see us enjoy something sweet for once. We chew leaves all the time, salad with cream, my foot!" she huffed.
"This is not a punishment," the director went on. "But a recalibration. Some of you may find the system unforgiving. Others may find it... clarifying."
Then she turned the page.
"And now, student commendations."
The room hushed.
Names were called. One from each class. Awards for civic contribution, performance, innovation.
And then:
"Hae-won Im. For initiative in student-led design and integration projects."
Hae-won froze.
Ji-ae blinked. "Did they just—?"
"Go," Na-ri whispered. "Before they think you're underserving of it. Go own it bish!"
She rose slowly, spine tight, shoes echoing far too loud on the wooden steps as she descended toward the front. The director handed her a sealed envelope. The applause was lukewarm. Polite.
Only one person clapped like he meant it.
Jin-woon.
Their eyes met across the aisle.
It wasn't a long look. Barely a breath.
But it held.
And it burned.
---
Later that day, Hae-won returned to her dorm to find her design tablet missing.
Not misplaced. Gone.
There was no sign of forced entry, and nothing else had been touched. Her room was locked as usual. Her projects—mostly encrypted sketches and council deck templates—weren't sensitive.
But still. It felt like a message.
A gentle one.
The kind you whisper with a smile instead of shouting with a slap.
She stared at her empty desk for a long time before pulling out her backup drive and beginning again. Slowly. Carefully.
By evening, the sky was painted lavender and the pond behind the school shimmered under the moonlight.
From across the garden path, someone was watching her window.
---