Archive of Our Own ^beta

The air smelled like dried leaves and money.

Kim Hyein stood at the wrought iron gates of Chaehwa High with a single duffel bag in hand and her name on a clipboard she hadn’t been allowed to see. A guard in a crisp black uniform asked for her ID, didn’t say hello, and buzzed the gates open before she could respond. The heavy iron creaked open like the start of a fairy tale that didn’t end well.

She stepped inside.

The campus was too clean. Buildings stood like monuments, sharp-angled, white stone, windows so spotless they looked fake. The trees lining the path were trimmed to geometric precision, gold leaves falling one by one like stage props. Nothing here moved without permission.

The sky was gray, but not rainy. Just dull enough that you couldn’t blame the weather for how cold it felt.

On her way to the auditorium she passed a row of glass display cases. Old trophies, photos of perfect smiles, alumni in framed portraits. Below them, a digital notice board slid from event to event until a short line caught her eye:

RANKINGS WILL BE POSTED WEEKLY. FAILURE TO MAINTAIN COMPETITIVE STANDING MAY RESULT IN WITHDRAWAL.

The font was smaller for “withdrawal,” like the word was shy of its own meaning. Hyein slowed, just for a heartbeat, then kept moving. She didn’t ask what “withdrawal” meant here. She understood enough: this was not a school that waited for you to catch up.

Inside the auditorium, it buzzed with the low, electric tension of new students pretending not to size each other up. The uniform was strict: white shirts, pleated skirts, and deep green blazers buttoned to the collar. Polished shoes. Clean hair. Everything was pressed and pristine.

But here and there, certain girls stood out.

One of them moved through the aisle like she’d been born under a spotlight. Her dark green blazer was crisp, but on her left cuff, a soft blood-red stain bloomed. It wasn’t fresh, old enough that it blended almost naturally with the fabric, like it belonged there. She didn’t hide it. She didn’t even look at it.

To her right, another girl followed, quieter, more calculated. Taller than most girls, her white sleeve was marked with a single, small red stain. Not blood, it couldn’t be, but in this place, it didn’t matter what it really was. It was a challenge.

Yoo Jaeyi. Baek Jenna.

Hyein didn’t know their names yet, but she didn’t need to. Even from the back row, she could tell they weren’t just top of the class, they were top of the food chain.

Sitting near them, two seats apart, a girl with sharp eyes and no expression watched the room without looking directly at anyone. She had the same build as Jenna, tall, athletic shoulders, poised but without the heat. 

She felt… neutral. Controlled.

Woo Seulgi.

Hyein found a seat two rows behind them and said nothing.

At the front, a woman in heels and a stiff suit adjusted the microphone.

“Welcome to the Chaehwa High,” she said, voice clipped and pleasant. “We are not a school. We are a system. A stage. A selection.”

The word hung in the air a second too long.

“You were not chosen by grades. Not entirely. You are here because you are strategic. Because you can adapt. Because you understand that power is rarely given, it is taken, refined, wielded.”

A pause.

“This term’s Legacy Trials will be observed more closely. There have been…irregularities.” Her eyes swept the crowd.

For a moment, they lingered on Baek Jenna, then Yoo Jaeyi. “Remember: your performance here will determine your future. You will be ranked. You will be watched. But you will not be warned.”

There was something unsettling in the smile that followed. Like she enjoyed how still the room had become.

From the side of the room, an assistant began handing out sealed envelopes row by row.

The girl beside Hyein opened hers first. Her brow twitched.

Hye-in peeled hers open.

Inside was a white sheet of paper with three lines:

ID: 038-KHI

Behavioral Rating: 74.6%  

Ranking: #38/61 

No explanation. No context.

Just data.

Whispers fluttered nearby, barely audible but electric.

Around her, paper rustled. 

A girl two seats away whispered, “What did you get?” 

Another replied, “They say sixty to seventy is borderline.”

Borderline. Hyein folded her page and slipped it back into the envelope, fingers steady. Her pulse was not.

“Remember,” the woman at the podium said, voice smooth, “rankings will be updated weekly.”

After the orientation speech ended, students spilled into the corridor like chess pieces rearranged after the first move.

“Hyein, right?”

She turned.

Yoo Jaeyi stood there, taller than she’d seemed from behind, elegant posture, perfectly knotted tie, dark eyes that flicked down once to her duffel bag before returning to her face.

“I saw your name on the roster,” Jaeyi said, offering her hand. “Yoo Jaeyi. Legacy track. My mother graduated at the top of her year.”

Hyein shook her hand once. Firm, but not aggressive.

“Nice stain,” she said casually, nodding to Jaeyi’s cuff.

Jaeyi blinked, then smirked. “Tradition. First year, first mark. You’ll get yours eventually.”

The way she said it made it sound like a threat and a compliment at the same time.

Before Hyein could reply, another figure stepped between them.

Baek Jenna.

Even if no one had told her the name, Hyein would have known.

She moved like she owned the hallway. Chin high. Expression blank. People around her subtly shifted out of her way not because they were scared, but because they didn’t want to risk her attention.

“You’re blocking the hallway,” Jenna said to Jaeyi without looking at Hyein.

Jaeyi smiled politely. “So polite today, Baek Jenna. You lost a bet?”

“You’re still talking,” Jenna replied, smooth and flat.

They stared at each other, perfectly still.

Hyein stepped sideways, out of their silent war zone.

Behind them, Seulgi leaned against the corridor wall, arms crossed, watching the whole interaction like a court stenographer who’d seen too many trials to care anymore.

Her eyes met Hyein’s briefly.

A flicker of mutual understanding passed between them or maybe just mutual exhaustion.

On the walk to the dormitories, the campus stretched wide and silent. The sky stayed gray, not dramatic. The kind that made you feel the day would never fully start. Near a chapel courtyard, a small plaque sat low, almost hidden by a trimmed hedge.

In Loving Memory of Baek Ha-rin. Class of 2022. Gone Too Soon.

The font was delicate, the kind you used for memorial cards. No photo. No cause. Just the name.

She lingered a little too long.

“You’re not the first scholarship girl to stare at that.”

The voice behind her was neutral, unhurried.

Seulgi approached silently at her side.

“What happened to her?” Hyein asked.

Seulgi paused.

“They say illness…suicide,” she said flatly. Then added, almost bored, “They say a lot of things…”

They kept walking.

But Hyein saw her fingers tighten slightly around the binder she was holding.

Seulgi had already stepped past the hedge when Hyein glanced back at the plaque again.

Footsteps clicked against the stone path behind her.

Jenna.

Her shadow slid over the marble nameplate, perfectly centered for a moment. 

She didn’t slow, didn’t even glance down but her shoulders shifted in a way too slight for most to notice.

It wasn’t a flinch. More like a held breath.

Then she was gone, her pace unchanged, leaving only the faint scent of citrus and something colder in her wake.

Hyein caught up with Seulgi without mentioning it, but the image stayed with her longer than it should have.

The dorm hallway felt warmer than the campus but still quite carried a quiet history, like whispered secrets beneath polished surfaces. The walls gleamed too clean, and the lights buzzed faintly overhead like they weren’t used to being on this long.

Room numbers were etched into black plaques with silver ink. 

Hyein stopped at 3-07 and hesitated. She reached for the door. 

“Ah,” said a voice behind her. “So I do have to share.”

Baek Jenna was leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, one brow slightly raised like this was all somehow beneath her. Hyein straightened and opened the door without a word.

The room inside was symmetrical: two twin beds, two desks, two wardrobes. Large windows faced the east garden, where the hedges had been trimmed into geometric spirals.

“I take the bed near the window,” Jenna said automatically, already setting her monogrammed satchel on the sheets.

Hyein didn’t argue. She set her duffel on the other bed and unzipped it slowly, pretending not to notice Jenna inspecting her like a stray transfer file.

She unpacked in silence, listening to the wind outside. It had picked up, dry leaves scraping against the windowpane. From the window, she could see the South Quad, lit faintly by path lights. A few students still walked in pairs, laughing quietly, their laughter muffled by glass and distance.

“You’re quieter than I expected,” Jenna said, sitting cross-legged on her mattress.

“I don’t think you expected me at all.”

That earned the tiniest curve of a smile from her roommate, not warm, not unfriendly. 

Just… intrigued.

“Are you always this composed or is it just for your first day?”

“Are you always this nosy, or is it just for yours?”

Jenna tilted her head, letting a curtain of hair fall over one shoulder. Her gold-trimmed blazer had been folded with surgical precision beside her.

“I suppose we’ll find out.”

Ten minutes later, a knock on the door interrupted them.

“Orientation debrief,” called Jaeyi’s voice from the hall, chipper and cool. “Or a roast. I’m open either way.”

They found Jaeyi already seated in the common lounge, legs crossed, sipping from a paper cup of vending machine coffee with the kind of posture that made it look luxurious.

Seulgi sat at the far end of the same couch, one earbud in, watching something on her tablet that clearly wasn’t class-related.

“Roommates already killing each other?” Jaeyi asked as Jenna and Hyein joined them.

“Not yet,” Jenna replied. “But I appreciate the optimism.”

Seulgi didn’t look up. “Can we fast-forward to the part where one of you tries a coup?”

“I’m flattered you think I’d be the one to start it,” Jaeyi said.

“You talk the most,” Seulgi shot back dryly.

Jaeyi turned to Jenna. “Are you going to let her talk to me like that?”

Jenna didn’t even blink. “I encourage it.”

A beat passed.

Hyein, from her spot across the room, let out a quiet, involuntary snort.

Jaeyi’s eyes snapped to her. “And you, quiet girl. Do you have something to contribute?”

“You’re all exhausting,” Hyein said plainly.

“Hmm, thank you,” Seulgi muttered, finally looking up.

They all fell into a rare shared silence, suspended between truce and tension. It wasn’t friendship, not yet. But it was something close to recognition.

Later that night, her dorm was silent.

The others had gone back to their rooms and the hallway lights dimmed to a soft blue glow, Hyein sat at her desk, rereading her behavior rating.

74.6%

What it measured. Behavior? Potential? Threat level?

She didn’t know yet. But something about the number itched beneath her skin.

She checked the back of the paper. Blank.

She checked Jenna’s copy, visible on her bedside table, barely tucked in.

96.4% - Rank #3

Of course. Hyein thought. Not jealousy. Just a clear picture: some people start at the top, some start with a map.

It wasn’t surprising. What was surprising was how little reaction Jenna had shown when opening it. Like she’d known it would be high or worse, like it didn’t matter because the real score wasn’t the one on paper.

Hyein returned to her desk.

Her eyes flicked to the envelope again. Not the paper inside, the number printed on the front.

038-KHI

There were only 61 students. So why did they need ID codes?

Why did the school’s file on Baek Ha-rin, the girl on the plaque, list her as 037-BHR?

She glanced at her own envelope again.

038.

Right after Ha-rin.

She didn’t sleep easily that night.

And outside, the security lamps cast long shadows across the courtyard.

The plaque gleamed faintly in the dark outside.

A few days passed.

When the hallway had emptied and the laughter had faded down the stairs, Hyein found a small black envelope on her desk, tucked under her copy of Modern Ethics in Institutional Leadership. 

It had not been there before. Her name was printed on the front in thin gold letters: Kim Hyein.

No crest, no sender, just her name: Kim Hyein. printed in serif gold, delicate as pressed leaves. She found it on her desk after morning study hall, tucked beneath her copy of Modern Ethics in Institutional Leadership. It had not been there before.

Inside: a folded note.

“You are formally invited to participate in the Legacy Trials.

Session I begins Thursday. Room 5-E.

- A”

No signature. No instructions.

Just that single initial, and the understanding that this, whatever it was, mattered.

By breakfast, the whole school already knew.

Jenna entered the dining hall late. She always did. Students at nearby tables straightened their spines and lowered their voices at her approach, not out of fear, but reverence. Jenna was the type people adjusted themselves for.

She spotted Hyein at their usual table, cutting silently through toast with surgical precision.

Jenna slid into the seat across from her without asking. Her blazer caught the sunlight like a warning sign.

“So,” she said, voice sweet as arsenic. “You’ve been summoned.”

Hyein didn’t look up. “Apparently.”

“And here I thought the Legacy Trials were reserved for students with a… pedigree.”

“Maybe they’re diversifying.”

Jenna leaned in. “Or maybe you’re someone’s pet project.”

Hyein finally met her gaze. “Does it matter?”

Jenna studied her. Her eyes, usually so sharp, flicked down for just a moment to Hyein’s steady hands, her unbothered posture, the untouched note still lying beside her tray.

“No,” Jenna said. “Not yet.”

Without another word, she rose, leaving without touching her food.

Jaeyi found out later than she liked. That irritated her.

“So you’re telling me she got an invite to the Trials, and nobody knows why?” she asked, leaning over Seulgi’s shoulder in the library.

“Apparently the school does,” Seulgi said, not looking up from her tablet.

Jaeyi huffed. “Come on. You don’t believe it’s random.”

“I don’t believe anything here is random.”

Jaeyi straightened. “Then who backed her? Someone had to.”

Seulgi shrugged. “You tell me. You’re the one who collects secrets.”

Jaeyi narrowed her eyes. “And you’re the one who sits in the background pretending to miss everything.”

Seulgi smiled faintly. “It works for me.”

She tapped something on her screen: a list of names, half-blurred, with numbers beside them.

“You’re tracking the behavior scores?” Jaeyi asked.

“Not just that.”

She turned the tablet slightly. One name had been greyed out.

Seong Su-ji - Rank: 31.2% - Status: withdrawn

“She transferred out this morning,” Seulgi said casually.

Jaeyi blinked. “Wasn’t she here yesterday?”

“She dropped in the rankings last week. Quietly. No one said anything.”

“And now she’s gone?”

Seulgi clicked her pen. “Gone enough.”

Seulgi kept her hands busy while her mind ran. She wasn’t trying to save anyone. She didn’t do rescues. She collected patterns and, when the moment demanded it, used them.

Legacy Trial - Session I

Location: Room 5-E

The first Legacy Trial didn’t look like a trial at all.

Room 5‑E wasn’t a room. It was a white chamber hidden behind an unmarked door and a stairwell that smelled like metal. No windows. No clock. A long table and five sealed folders sat under bright lights that erased shadows and tired faces

Three other students had already arrived, girls Hyein barely recognized. Quiet, sharp-edged types. The kind who sat in the second row and never missed a question but never volunteered either.

Hyein took her seat last.

The door clicked shut behind her. A woman in a gray suit, neither teacher nor administrator, stepped into the room and placed a hand on the folders.

“No notes,” she said. “No questions. This is not a test.”

Jaeyi, directly across, posture elegantly and is already reaching for her folder.

Jenna, two seats down, arms folded, watching.

A girl Hyein didn’t know, neat braids, eyes darting from wall to wall.

Seulgi, at the far end, leaning back like she was already bored.

Hyein opened her folder. A single sheet of paper stared back.

INSTRUCTIONS:

You are being observed. The observers can see you but cannot hear you.

Write the names of any two people in this room you believe will not survive the Trials.

Do not write your own name.

Do not leave the paper blank.

Her eyes skimmed the line again. The words were clean. Unsmudged. Cold.

A soft scratch of pens began around the table. 

Jaeyi’s pen moved quickly, no hesitation. Jenna took her time, tapping the pen twice against the folder before she started. The braided girl’s hand trembled. Seulgi just stared at her paper for a long, measured beat before writing two neat names and capping the pen with a soft click.

Hyein stared at the blank page in front of her. Her fingers were steady, but her pulse wasn’t.

They can see you but not hear you. Which meant this wasn’t about the names. It was about watching how you chose them.

Her pen touched the paper.

She wrote two names without thinking too hard about whether she meant them, folded the sheet, placed it back in the folder, and slid the pen exactly where it had been.

The woman collected each folder without a glance inside, and stacked them under her arm.

“You may go,” she said.

The candidates rose.

The braided girl avoided everyone’s eyes.

Jaeyi didn’t look at her at all. 

Jenna’s expression was unreadable, which in itself was a kind of expression.

Hyein reached the door last. 

The woman in gray was holding the stack of folders in one hand, a single page in the other. The page was folded in half, but in the brief moment before the woman turned…

Hyein caught a line of handwriting she recognized, the quick, deliberate slant of Jenna’s.

Only one word was visible before the page disappeared into the stack:

Ha-rin.

The door closed, and the white room stayed behind her. But the taste of it followed her all the way back to the dorm.

The lounge smelled faintly of instant coffee and paper dust. A group of second-years lounged on the couch near the vending machine, half-watching a newsfeed on someone’s tablet.

One of them, with short hair, sharp grin, leaned forward when she saw Hyein pass. 

“New face. You’re Legacy now, yeah?”

Hyein didn’t answer, but she didn’t walk away either.

“Don’t look so stiff. I’ll give you the beginner’s rundown.” She ticked off points on her fingers. 

“Rankings update after every Trial. Even if you don’t screw up, you can still drop.”

“That’s not… logical,” Hyein said.

“Logic doesn’t keep the lights on here,” the girl replied. “Three consecutive drops equals kiss of death. One big one, if they’re in the mood.”

The other second-years laughed quietly, but it didn’t sound mean. 

Just resigned.

“Piece of advice?” the girl added, leaning back. “The Trials aren’t just about passing. They’re about who they want to see pass.”

Hyein left without replying, but the words settled somewhere under her skin.

Later that night, Hyein returned to her dorm to find Baek Jenna already inside, sitting by the open window. The lights were off. Only the blue dusk filtered through the curtains, casting long shadows on the floor.

Jenna didn’t turn when Hyein entered.

“You should be careful,” she said.

Hyein set her bag down. “Of what?”

Jenna rose, slow and deliberate. “Of thinking you’re immune just because you were invited.”

“I don’t think that.”

“Good. Because that’s how girls disappear.”

A beat.

Then Jenna crossed the room, too close, too smooth and stood barely a foot away.

Hyein didn’t flinch.

“Legacy Trials aren’t just puzzles and policy,” Jenna said. Her voice had dropped. “They’re stories we let the school tell about us. If yours doesn’t fit, they’ll rewrite it.”

“And what about yours?” Hyein asked, quieter.

Jenna smiled, sharp and tired. “I made sure mine was untouchable.”

For a long second, neither of them moved. Hyein could hear the garden sprinklers ticking faintly outside. Jenna’s perfume, light citrus and something colder hovered in the air.

Then Jenna stepped away, just enough.

“You should get some sleep,” she said. “You’ll need it.”

Elsewhere, Seulgi sat alone in the AV room, fingers tapping against the dim laptop screen.

She scrolled again through the system logs for Seong Su-ji, files deleted midweek, before the announcement. Just like Baek Ha-rin’s.

Two disappearances.

Two girls whose names stopped being mentioned.

Two drops in behavior score right before they vanished.

And now Hyein had a ranking close to Ha-rin’s. One step behind.

038-KHI

Seulgi leaned back in the chair.

Something wasn’t right.

Legacy Trial - Session II

Location: Sector B, Building 2 - Sub level

The invitation wasn’t an invitation at all. It was more of a command.

No warning, just a soft, three-note chime through the PA system that seemed to echo longer than it should.

By the second note, every Legacy candidate was already on their feet. The rest of the class kept their eyes down, pretending to keep reading, pretending not to count who was leaving.

Teachers didn’t stop them. They didn’t even mark the absence.

No one wished them luck.

The corridor to Sector B had no signs. Only the faint click of motion-sensor lights flickered on as the candidates’ footsteps approached, marking their passage like unseen sentinels.

There were six candidates now, but only five reflections followed them down the glossy, floor-to-ceiling glass walls.

Hyein noticed the missing reflection halfway down and swallowed the question lodged in her throat.

So did Seulgi.

The trial room was colder than the hall. Too bright. The kind of light that made shadows disappear and small flaws show.

Four mirrored walls enclosed them. No seams. No marks. The air smelled faintly of ozone, like a thunderstorm far away.

In the center: a box. 

Wooden, old-looking, with strange carvings along the edges. No lock, no latch. Just a seam where the lid met the base, like a secret waiting to be told.

The supervisor, a man this time, equally gray and unreadable, gave only one instruction:

“Open the box. You have twenty minutes.”

No further explanation. Then the door sealed behind them with a hiss.

Jaeyi stepped forward first, as expected.

“Let’s not waste time,” she said, circling the box once. “We’ll take one side each. Check for mechanisms. Pressure plates, trip wires, anything that would trigger.”

Jenna, across from her, raised an eyebrow. “Or maybe it’s a logic trap. You touch it, you lose.”

“Then by all means,” Jaeyi replied, gesturing, “go first.”

Neither moved.

Hyein watched them, both not out of admiration, but calculation. The box was a distraction.

The Trial was the people in the room.

Seulgi had figured that out before anyone else.

Hyein stepped closer to her, keeping her voice low. “Like in Room 5-E.”

Seulgi didn’t look at her. “Exactly like in Room 5-E.”

Meanwhile, Jaeyi, now studying the shadows rather than the structure.

Her eyes drifted, unintentionally, toward Seulgi who wasn’t looking at her.

For a second too long, Jaeyi watched her. The way Seulgi’s fingers tapped lightly against her leg. The slight arch of her brow when something didn’t add up.

It was irritating, how much she noticed.

Jaeyi looked away sharply, like she’d been caught.

By whom? She didn’t know.

Minute four. 

The box gave a faint, sharp click. All of them froze.

Jaeyi glanced around. “Did anyone…?”

A low whir started up, mechanical but muffled, like something under the table was turning. A small slit appeared on one side of the box. A single light inside glowed red.

The glow pulsed once, in time with Jenna’s footsteps as she shifted her weight.

“Movement?” Hyein murmured.

Seulgi’s eyes flicked to the mirrors. “Or proximity.”

Minute eight. 

They’d agreed to step back, give the box space. The red glow dimmed.

The silence was thick enough to hear small things, the scrape of a shoe, the hitch in the braided girl’s breath, the soft roll of Jaeyi’s pen between her fingers.

The glow flared suddenly when the braided girl glanced at the box and then at Hyein.

Noise? Eye contact?

Hyein’s stomach tightened. “It’s not just physical,” she said under her breath. “It’s tracking behaviour.”

Hyein found herself next to Seulgi, wordless at first.

Then, softly: “You noticed the hallway?”

Seulgi didn’t look at her. “The missing reflection?”

Hyein nodded.

“Baek Ha-rin’s seat was between candidates 3 and 5,” Seulgi murmured.

“You think she was supposed to be here?”

“I think she was here.”

Minute eleven. 

The glass flickered.

Not all of it. Just the panel opposite Hyein. For half a second, there were six girls in the room again. The extra figure sat in the far corner, head bent, hair falling forward, uniform perfect.

Seulgi’s voice was a thread. “Bottom left. Don’t react.”

“I see the badge,” Hyein whispered.

037-BHR

Before the breath was gone, the figure vanished. The mirrors showed only them again.

Seulgi’s gaze sharpened. “They wanted us to notice.”

Minute fourteen.

The braided girl took one slow step toward the box, hand half-extended. The red light inside flared and held. She froze. The light didn’t fade this time.

The room seemed to lean in, waiting.

Then, without warning, the mirrored wall behind her rippled, her reflection blinked out, leaving only the five others. The air felt heavier.

Nobody spoke.

Minute seventeen. 

The red light dimmed, the box rotated on its own, and the slit closed.

“They’ve got what they wanted,” Seulgi murmured.

“Which is?” Hyein asked.

“To see who flinched,” Seulgi said.

“Or who would break first,” Hyein added.

Jenna scowled. “So we passed by not touching it?”

“No,” said Seulgi, eyes on the fifth reflection that had vanished again. “We passed by surviving it.”

“At least we agree on something,” Jenna muttered.

At exactly twenty minutes, the door opened. The box stayed shut. The man in gray offered each of them a sealed envelope without a word.

Inside:

Jaeyi: 034-YJY

Jenna: 036-BJ (a drop from before)

Seulgi: 039-WSG

Hyein: 040-KHI

The braided girl, no envelope at all.

Lower numbers meant higher scores.

The walk back to the main building was silent. Motion-sensor lights trailed their progress again. This time, the reflections matched the count.

Back in the dorms, Jaeyi leaned against the window ledge, arms folded, mind racing.

She should be focused on Hyein. On her score. On who was backing her.

But instead, her thoughts kept circling around Seulgi, the way she read the room before anyone else did, the way she didn’t flinch at that mirror, the way she never reacted unless it counted.

Jaeyi ran a hand through her hair, annoyed.

She didn’t like distractions.

Especially ones that smiled like they had nothing to lose.

By evening, the rain had turned heavier. The east wing kiosk updated the rankings in slow, deliberate scrolls.

The soft kind that misted windows and blurred reflections into watercolor. Chaehwa’s courtyards were quiet except for the scuff of polished shoes and the hiss of umbrella spokes. The morning assembly had been canceled with no explanation.

When Hyein checked the digital kiosk in the east wing corridor, the one student only pretended not to glance at her ranking had dropped.

61.4%

She blinked. Yesterday, after the mirrored room trial, she’d been at 74.6%. She hadn’t broken any rules. She hadn’t even touched the box.

Across the hall, whispers started about a “withdrawal.” No name attached. No one ever named them.

It wasn’t about winning, Hyein realized with a cold clarity. It was about being watched. Judged. Weighed for some invisible scale.

She stepped back and let the rankings scroll. Baek Jenna: still above 95%. Yoo Jaeyi: 90.1%. Woo Seulgi: 88.2%, unchanged. Her own name flickered past again, that quiet shameful drop glowing under sterile light.

Her throat tightened. A familiar knot of anxiety twisted deep inside her. What had she done wrong? Or worse, what had she failed to do?

The cafeteria buzzed with the low static of whispers. Hyein sat with her tray untouched, watching names scroll on the nearest screen.

Two girls at the next table spoke just loud enough for her to hear.

“Seo Do-ah dropped eight points last month. She’s still here.”

“That’s because she started in the top ten,” the other replied. “One drop won’t kill you if they like you.”

“What about Joo Yeri?”

“She wasn't in the top ten. And she wasn’t liked.”

Their voices trailed off into the scrape of utensils.

Hyein looked down at her own score again, the digits holding steady for now. For now.

She turned and found Seulgi in the old art hallway, seated on the windowsill like she’d been there for hours. A half-drunk can of Coke rested beside her thigh.

“You noticed?” Seulgi asked without looking up. She wasn’t smiling, but her voice carried the soft amusement of someone too tired to be surprised. “Yours dropped too.”

“Yes.” Hyein didn’t ask how she knew. “I didn’t even speak during the trial.”

“Exactly,” Seulgi said, eyes fixed on the rain-wet glass, watching the distorted shapes of leaves outside.

Outside, the rain blurred the campus into colorless shapes. Inside, Hyein folded her arms, aware of how close they were, too close for two people who didn’t talk much, not enough for it to matter. Yet.

“What do you think they’re ranking?” Hyein asked.

“Performance? No,” Seulgi said. 

“Perception, then?” 

“Threat level,” Seulgi replied without hesitation. “Believability.”

“You think this is a game?”

“No. Games are fun,” Seulgi let out a humorless laugh. “This is something else.”

There was silence between them, not awkward, but heavy. Like both were quietly weighing each other, deciding how far this strange camaraderie might stretch.

“Do you think good students exist?” Hyein asked.

“No,” Seulgi answered, blinking slowly. “Only clever ones. Ones who know exactly when to look obedient.”

The hallway was so quiet Hyein could hear the faint hum of the overhead lights. Paintings long since dulled by dust and neglect hung at crooked angles, their colors bleeding into shadow.

Seulgi leaned one shoulder against the wall, eyes flicking toward the locked display case at the far end.

“Funny, ” she said, voice low. “Places like this feel more alive than the rest of the school.”

Hyein tilted her head.

“Because no one’s watching?”

A small smile tugged at Seulgi’s mouth.

“Exactly.”

They stood there a moment longer, the scent of old wood and paint mixing with the faint metallic tang in the air. Outside, rain tapped against the high windows, slow and irregular, like the building was breathing with them.

When they finally stepped away, the corridors felt heavier somehow, the silence pressing down like a weight neither could name. Every word seemed too costly to spend.

The long classes had ended and the hallways emptied.

Hyein’s curiosity pulled her toward a rarely used corridor. Dusty lockers lined one wall; the other was plastered with fading warning signs. Overhead, a single bulb flickered, stretching her shadow across the floor.

She knew this wing was off limits. Restricted. But the quiet here felt like a promise.

A shape moved in the corner of her eye.

“You know this area’s monitored, right?” Seulgi’s voice was low but steady.

Hyein’s shoulders tightened before she turned. “Then why are you here too?”

They stood there a moment, reading each other like opponents in a silent game. Seulgi’s gaze was calm, measured, the kind that didn’t blink unless it had to.

Then Seulgi tilted her chin toward a heavy metal door halfway down the hall.

“You saw nothing. I saw nothing.”

Hyein’s lips twitched. “Deal.”

They turned away in opposite directions, but as each rounded the corner, a faint smile tugged at their mouths, too small for anyone else to see.

Back in the dorm wing, the light above the corridor flickered once before steadying.

Jenna leaned against the wall like she’d been waiting. The green of her blazer caught the glow, and her hair was too perfect for someone pretending to be casual.

“You’ve been quiet,” Jenna said, clipped.

“I prefer it that way.”

“People talk when they have something to prove. Or something to hide.”

Hyein walked past at an even pace. “Is this part of your Trial strategy? Intimidate the girls with lower rankings?”

“You’re not lower,” Jenna said. “You’re new. That’s worse.”

Before Hyein could answer, Jenna stepped in close, not touching, but close enough for her perfume to reach. Sharp, floral. Calculated.

“Tell me who gave you the envelope,” she said.

“I don’t know.”

Jenna’s mouth curved, pretty but hollow. “You expect me to believe that?”

“No,” Hyein replied, steady. “That’s your problem.”

Something softened. Just slightly in Jenna’s eyes. “Clever,” she murmured.

For a heartbeat, the space between them wasn’t safe or dangerous. 

Just… taut, like a thread waiting to snap.

Then Jenna stepped back. “I’ll be watching.”

Hyein didn’t reply. She didn’t need to. Whatever that was, rivalry, curiosity, or something neither of them would name, but it wasn’t over.

The rain had started to break.

The next Trial was supposed to test teamwork, but no one had warned the organizers that putting Yoo Jaeyi and Baek Jenna on the same team was akin to tossing a lit match into a fuel leak.

It started small, tension barely audible under their breath during prep, each correcting the other’s approach without ever raising their voices. 

But once the challenge began, and they were expected to lead a team through a time-locked strategy puzzle, all gloves came off.

“You’re taking too long,” Jaeyi snapped, arms folded tightly across her chest.

“I’m not slow. You’re just impatient,” Jenna shot back, voice cool but sharp. She didn’t even glance up from the map she was marking on the table.

“Impatience gets things done. Your plan got us nowhere.”

“At least I have a plan.”

Jaeyi leaned in, jaw clenched. “You can’t control everything, Jenna.”

A pause.

Jenna’s eyes finally met hers. That smile, equal parts honey and venom.

“Then stop pretending you don’t want to.”

From the sidelines, Seulgi exhaled through her nose, folding her arms. Hyein, standing next to her, didn’t look up from the cryptic symbols etched into the glass wall.

“This is going nowhere,” Seulgi muttered.

“They’re arguing about who’s more ethical,” Hyein said absently. “That always takes a while.”

“I heard that,” Jaeyi called without turning.

“So did I,” Jenna added. “You’re both demoted.”

Seulgi was already walking toward the next station. “Can’t demote someone who never cared.”

Hyein trailed after her, hiding a small smile. The drama behind them continued to unravel.

The challenge room was a complex web of logic traps, time constraints, and decision trees.

Every wrong answer redirected them; every delay was a point lost. When the system announced a “reteam” halfway through, splitting the original groups: Hyein and Seulgi were shuffled into a pair. Neither protested.

“We’re… what, together now?” Seulgi asked, mildly.

“I’ve had worse.”

“Don’t get soft on me.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

Their part of the task was deceptively simple: identify a pattern across rotating mirrored panels and use it to unlock a code. 

But the real challenge was that the mirrors also reflected other players, confused, frustrated, panicked. Watching yourself and everyone else move in distorted time made it hard to tell which reflection was real.

“They’ll crash in five minutes,” Seulgi said, nodding at the distant silhouettes of Jenna and Jaeyi, still arguing through another wall of glass.

“They’re not meant to collaborate,” Hyein murmured.

“They’re meant to dominate.”

“Exactly.”

The two of them worked in a quiet rhythm. Seulgi traced sequences. Hyein called out rotations. The door unlocked with a soft chime. 

No grand reveal. 

No drama.

Just success.

Later that evening, the new rankings were released, projected without warning onto the grand hall’s far wall in flickering red.

Kim Hyein: +6

Woo Seulgi: +6

Yoo Jaeyi: –

Baek Jenna: –

Choi Kyung: -8

Silence rippled through the students gathered for dinner.

No one said Choi Kyung’s name.

By morning, her bed was empty. (my poor girl left…;()

A ripple moved through the room, whispers pitched just low enough to pretend they weren’t meant to be heard.

“No points?”

“The two queens at the top with no points?”

“Did they even try?”

“Maybe they’re slipping.”

Hyein felt the weight of eyes darting between the wall and the two names at the bottom. Jenna stood stock still, face perfectly neutral. 

Jaeyi’s gaze didn’t leave the projection, but her hands were clenched tight at her sides.

Before anyone could speak to them, a chime rang from the overhead speakers:

“Participants Yoo Jaeyi and Baek Jenna,” the voice of the Overseer said flatly. “Report to the South Wing, Room 17. Immediate compliance required.”

South Wing - Room 17

The room wasn’t on the official school map, a narrow space with a single desk at the far end and a strip of harsh fluorescent lighting overhead. 

The walls were painted an institutional grey that made the air feel colder.

An administrator sat behind the desk, scrolling through a datapad. He didn’t look up when they entered. “Do you know why you’re here?”

“Because we didn’t score,” Jaeyi said, her tone clipped.

The administrator’s eyes flicked up, sharp. “Because you wasted resources. Because you set a precedent that effort is optional. And because the Legacy Trials do not tolerate dead weight.”

Two envelopes slid across the desk toward them, sealed in black wax stamped with the school crest.

It contained only one line each, printed in stark black type: SERVITUDE TASK - 48 HOURS.

The Overseers didn’t care that they’d been rivals for years, pairing the two lowest scorers was just entertainment.

“Runner One,” the Overseer said without looking up, “deliver these keys to Station B.” He handed them to Jenna.

“Runner Two,” to Jaeyi, “collect the log sheets from Station B and bring them here.”

Both girls glanced at the other’s assignment and immediately understood, their tasks overlapped. 

One couldn’t finish without the other.

“I’ll go first,” Jenna said smoothly, already turning for the door.

“Not without the log sheets,” Jaeyi replied, stepping into her path.

The Overseer didn’t intervene. He was smiling faintly, as if he’d just moved two pieces into place on a board only he could see.

Hour 5

The novelty had worn off. They had carried ropes, delivered envelopes, carted water jugs across the campus, and been sent back for more. The Overseers had a knack for giving them tasks in opposite directions, ensuring their paths crossed constantly.

In the North Hall, Jenna shoved a stack of clipboards into Jaeyi’s hands. “These go to the West Wing.”

“That’s not my assignment.”

“Consider it extra credit.”

Jaeyi dropped them onto a bench. “Consider it ignored.”

Hour 12

Dinner in the mess hall was a silent affair. They weren’t allowed to sit with other students during the punishment, but passing through the mess hall for a delivery brought them into the noise and warmth for a few minutes.

Seulgi was at one of the long tables with Hyein when she spotted Jaeyi moving through the crowd, carrying a stack of boxes almost taller than her.

Without hesitation, Seulgi stood, crossed the room, and took half the load out of Jaeyi’s arms.

“You’ll drop these if you keep walking like that,” she said quietly.

“I wasn’t going to…” Jaeyi stopped, because Seulgi’s hand brushed hers in the exchange, warm and steady.

The moment was nothing, seconds, maybe, but Jaeyi’s pulse kicked hard in her ears.

Jenna, waiting by the door, watched the exchange with narrowed eyes. 

“Careful, lover girl. Wouldn’t want your heart to weigh more than your score.” she called loud enough to cut through the chatter.

Jaeyi shot her a glare but kept moving, the warmth of Seulgi’s hand lingering long after the boxes were gone.

Around them, a few students whispered. “Did you see that?”

The other student whispered, “They’ve been totally dating since the first year, remember?”

Another voice chimed in, louder. “Yeah, and every time you think it’s just a rumour, something like today happens. She took the boxes right out of Jaeyi’s hands. Like it’s nothing.”

Hour 20

The night shift was worse. 

The Overseers had them running errands for the maintenance crew, replacing dead lightbulbs, checking door locks, ferrying toolkits between buildings. 

The cold bit through their uniforms, and by the third trip across the courtyard, they fell into an unspoken rhythm just to get it over with.

Jenna passed Jaeyi a wrench without looking.

Jaeyi caught it without thanks.

Hour 36

A rainstorm turned the courtyard into slick stone and puddles. Carrying boxes of supplies became a balancing act.

At one point, Jaeyi slipped, the box tipping dangerously. 

Jenna’s hand shot out automatically to steady it. For a beat, they just stood there, wet hair plastered to their faces, breathing hard.

Then Jenna stepped back. “Don’t drop it.”

Jaeyi nodded once. “Don’t trip me.”

Hour 48 - End of Task

They returned to the control room just as the Overseer signed off the last Trial of the day. 

He glanced at the log, marked their punishment as “complete,” and waved them toward the door. 

No speech, no acknowledgment, nothing to suggest the last two days had happened at all.

In the hallway, they paused at the same time.

“I still don’t like you,” Jenna said.

“Good,” Jaeyi replied. “Makes things simpler.”

They walked off in opposite directions, their steps echoing through the empty corridor.

The only proof they’d endured those 48 hours together without breaking, or killing each other.

In the next few days, in the afternoon, the next Trial was a maze. 

Not on paper, not with walls but with people.

There were no warnings. No time to breathe. No time to recover.

Overhead lights buzzed faintly, casting a pale glow over the maze.

The walls weren’t hedges or brick, they were mirrored panels, each reflecting them back in fractured pieces, a hall of illusions.

Jenna looked over her shoulder, lips curling. “Hope you’re ready for another team-building exercise, Jaeyi.”

Jaeyi’s reply was quiet but sharp. “This time, you can drag yourself out.”

The horn blared. 

Timer ticking: 30:00 minutes

Hyein followed Jenna, who set a steady pace without looking at her. 

Across the wide aisle of glass, Jaeyi and Seulgi’s reflections flickered in and out of view as they took the opposite route.

The rivalry continued.

Jenna’s stride was calm, measured but her mind was anything but.

Jaeyi thinks she’s untouchable. Thinks Seulgi will keep her steady.

If I reach the exit before her, it won’t just be a win, it’ll be proof.

Proof I don’t need her pace, her precision, her perfect act.

She tilted her head, pretending to study the mirrored junction ahead, when in reality she was timing her steps to echo just a fraction faster than the pair on the other side.

Hyein could see the way Jenna’s shoulders tensed every time a faint reflection of Jaeyi appeared in the glass.

Oh my god. She’s not even solving the maze. She’s racing Jaeyi. The thought made her jaw tighten. 

These two competitive idiots.

Seulgi, letting Jaeyi lead without complaint, could see the same game playing out from the other side. 

Jaeyi’s steps were too quick, her eyes scanning ahead like she was chasing something she couldn’t quite see. 

She’s not looking for the exit. She’s looking to get there before Jenna.

Seulgi allowed herself the faintest sigh. 

Idiots. 

Both of them.

“That way’s been used more,” Hyein pointed out, nodding toward the opposite corridor where faint scuff marks streaked the floor.

“Which means it’s a trap,” Jenna replied, her voice too calm to be casual.

On the other side of the maze, Jaeyi kept her eyes forward, even when Seulgi paused at a fork.

Jenna will try to take the longer path, something that looks harder just to show she can handle it.

But I know her rhythms. I can match them. Pass her. Make her see my back as I leave. 

Seulgi’s voice was low. “You’re walking faster than we need to.”

“I’m not here to stroll,” Jaeyi said, eyes narrowing at the next turn.

She caught a flicker in the glass, Jenna’s reflection, a few panels over, glancing sideways.

That subtle, assessing look Jenna gave when she thought no one was watching.

Jaeyi almost smiled. 

Keep looking, Jenna. It won’t help you.

Back on Jenna’s side, the air grew cooler, metallic. Too many left turns in a row.

Hyein slowed slightly, counting her steps. “This isn’t…”

“I know where I’m going,” Jenna cut in, not out of arrogance but out of calculation. 

If she reached the exit even seconds ahead of Jaeyi, the rankings would speak for themselves.

She thought of Jaeyi’s composed face during the last trial. The way she didn’t flinch.

I’ll make her flinch.

Hyein kept track of their route: left, right, left, left again, and bit back a sigh. 

This isn’t strategy, it’s ego.

The final stretch revealed itself to both pairs at once: two exit doors, back-to-back, divided by an opaque mirrored wall. 

The timer above blinked red: 00:14. 

Jenna lunged for the handle at the exact moment Jaeyi did on the other side. Both felt the faint tremor of contact through the wall, a single beat shared.

Same time. Perfect. Neither wins, Hyein thought, stepping through the open door.

Maybe now they’ll finally shut up about it, Seulgi echoed silently from the other side.

The competition didn’t fade in the corridor beyond. It hung in the air like static, waiting for the next spark.

But for this game, it wasn’t a victory. It was more like a reminder: 

Trust was just another piece on the board.

An hour later.

The four of them ended up in the common lounge, sprawled across separate pieces of furniture like rival monarchs forced into a peace talk.

Jenna sat primly in the armchair, legs crossed, sipping from a water bottle like it was champagne. 

Jaeyi claimed the couch opposite her, posture loose but eyes sharp, as if daring Jenna to admit defeat.

Hyein sank into a side chair between them, flipping idly through a magazine she wasn’t reading. 

Seulgi perched on the windowsill, knees drawn up, sipping Coke through a straw.

No one spoke for a full thirty seconds.

Finally, Hyein closed the magazine with a soft thump. 

“So…do we talk about the maze, or do I just congratulate you both for tying in the world’s pettiest race?”

Jenna’s eyes flicked to her. “It wasn’t a tie.”

“Funny,” Jaeyi said at the exact same time. “It wasn’t a tie.”

They glared at each other.

Seulgi snorted into her Coke. “Ugh, you’re actually serious.”

“We’re competitive,” Jenna said.

“You’re ridiculous,” Hyein corrected.

“Agreed,” Seulgi added.

For a moment, it looked like Jenna and Jaeyi might snap back, but instead, they both leaned back in unison, refusing to meet each other’s eyes.

The room settled into a truce of heavy silence and slow, pointed sips.

From her spot on the windowsill, Seulgi glanced at Hyein, the corner of her mouth twitching. 

“We survived the maze,” she murmured.

Hyein’s lips quirked. “Barely. And not because of the maze.” (Jaeyi and Jenna about to get slapped…:))

In the breakfast hall the next morning.

The instructions arrived in sealed envelopes.

Each girl received hers at breakfast, delivered to her tray by the ever-smiling kitchen staff, as if it were a napkin. The others pretended not to look. But they all read theirs the same way: alone, hunched over, hearts pounding.

You must vote for one student to be removed from the next Trial. This vote is confidential. The majority choice will be eliminated.

Hyein took her seat without a word. The silence felt heavier than usual.

Jenna arrived with the kind of calm that had too much teeth. She sat directly across from Jaeyi, a statement in itself.

Seulgi drifted in last, earbuds already in. She clocked the arrangement, smiled and dropped into the chair beside Hyein like she had better things to do, which she probably did.

The vote began.

Each girl was given a blank slip and a black pen. No names were read aloud. No reasoning was requested. 

You were supposed to just… know. Who to target. Who deserved it less.

And maybe that was the point.

Hyein hesitated. Not for dramatic effect, but because the weight of the pen in her hand felt unreal. Like the moment before a lie, or an apology. Her fingers shook.

She thought of Choi Kyung, the quiet girl from that trial. The one who always finished second, always smiled too wide. 

She hadn’t shown up this morning. Her dorm bed was made too neatly. Her name was still in the rankings but ghost-gray, half-faded.

Hyein’s hand moved. She wrote a name.

She didn’t cry. But it felt close.

Afterward, the room didn’t empty right away.

Jaeyi was the first to speak.

“You all chose her?” she said, her voice too calm.

No one answered. Seulgi didn’t even glance up from her phone.

“She was top three,” Jaeyi went on, standing now, jaw tight. “She was smart. Better than most of you.”

Baek Jenna smiled thinly. “And that’s exactly why she was a threat.”

“You voted for her too, didn’t you?”

“Oh, I did.” Jenna leaned back, fingers laced. “I just don’t pretend to feel bad about it.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“No, that’s strategy.”

Jaeyi slammed her hand on the table. “You make this sound like it’s a game.”

“It is a game.” Jenna tilted her head. “Or did you forget what school we’re in?”

Jaeyi stepped forward. The tension crackled between them, something deeper than hate, sharper than rivalry.

Hyein didn’t move.

Seulgi calmly slid her chair back two inches. Took out one earbud. Fished a pen from her blazer pocket and passed it to Hyein:

“Let me know when they’re done moralizing.”

After breakfast was done, Jenna spoke with two other seniors, voice low.

As she crossed behind Hyein, her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen, expression sharpening, then diverted down a staff corridor marked...

AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

Her posture shifted, looser, almost casual but her pace quickened toward the west wing.

Hyein watched her go, “Meeting someone?” she asked when Jenna appeared at first period, five minutes late.

Jenna didn’t answer, smoothing her cuff.

“Who?”

The pause was a fraction too long. “No one important.”

Later, in the gardens, the air felt cleaner. It had rained earlier, and the grass was still soft beneath their shoes. The sky was all bruised gray and gold.

Seulgi sat cross-legged on the stone bench, arms loosely wrapped around her knees. Jaeyi paced nearby, arms folded, jaw tight.

“Do you ever regret coming here?” Seulgi asked.

Jaeyi stopped. “What kind of question is that?”

“A real one.”

Jaeyi didn’t answer right away. Then, finally: “Yes.”

Seulgi nodded, like she expected that. “You’re not who you pretend to be.”

Jaeyi turned to her. “Neither are you.”

Their eyes met. It didn’t feel like a challenge.

More like a truce.

A few days passed late in the morning when the next Trial came.

The rain finally broke.

Sunlight cut through the main hall’s windows, throwing gold across the polished floors.

The Trial room was bare except for two tables, each with a stack of small, square tiles printed with different symbols.

“Solve the sequence. Both pairs must succeed to pass. Failure by one is failure for all.”

The supervisor’s voice echoed once and was gone.

The pairs weren’t random. The system made them obvious:

Hyein with Jenna.

Jaeyi with Seulgi.

Jenna was already turning over tiles. “It’s a cipher,” she said. “Shapes to numbers, numbers to letters. Simple.”

Hyein crossed her arms. “Then maybe you should do it alone.”

Jenna’s eyes lifted, slow and deliberate. “What’s your problem?”

“My problem,” Hyein said, “Is that you like to lead without listening.”

“And you like to pretend you’re not playing an angle.”

The air between them felt like the moment before a glass falls.

Across the room, Jaeyi and Seulgi worked in quiet sync. Jaeyi placed tiles in a clean, straight line; Seulgi followed with quick adjustments, their movements brushing but never clashing. They didn’t speak much, but their glances carried whole sentences.

“Row three doesn’t match,” Hyein said, leaning over the tiles.

“It matches if you know what you’re doing,” Jenna shot back.

Hyein slid one tile sideways. “It matches if you stop assuming you’re the only one who does.”

The timer on the wall ticked past the halfway mark. Their board was only half done.

Jaeyi and Seulgi’s board clicked into place with a soft chime. They were done. Watching. Waiting.

Hyein exhaled hard. “Look… if we both want to pass, we don’t have time for this.”

Jenna’s jaw flexed. “Fine. Tell me your idea.”

“Reverse the number-to-letter mapping. The sequence reads backward.”

Jenna paused, then began moving tiles with quick, precise hands. Hyein matched her speed. For the first time, they didn’t get in each other’s way.

Their fingers brushed as they reached for the same tile. Neither moved away.

“Your hands are cold,” Hyein said without thinking.

Jenna’s mouth twitched. “Yours are shaking.”

“From the timer,” Hyein replied.

“Sure,” Jenna said, sliding the tile into place. But she didn’t pull her hand back until the sequence clicked completely.

The final tile clicked into place with twelve seconds to spare.

The room fell quiet except for the timer’s final beep.

In the hall after, Jenna said nothing until they reached the stairs. “You were right about the reversal,” she admitted, not looking at her.

Hyein glanced sideways. “You were fast once you stopped arguing.”

A corner of Jenna’s mouth lifted. “Don’t get used to it.”

But as they split at the landing, Hyein caught the faintest curve of a smile before Jenna turned away.

Cute.

Meanwhile, in the far corner of the hall, Jaeyi and Seulgi lingered.

“You let me lead,” Jaeyi said quietly.

Seulgi’s smile was faint. “You were right. This time.”

Their eyes held for a beat too long before Seulgi walked ahead, not checking to see if Jaeyi followed. She did.

That evening.

The Legacy summons came at twilight. The corridors were empty, the sky outside fading from lavender to ink.

The Trial room this time was huge, almost gym-sized. The floor was marked with a grid, each square lit in faint white. In the center: four narrow plinths, each topped with a small glass dome. 

Inside each dome was a button, glowing a faint, pulsing red.

The supervisor’s voice echoed:

“Welcome to the Grid-Button Trial.”

“Step only on the safe squares. Press all four buttons before the time ends. If any dome is pressed twice, the Trial ends in failure.”

The timer lit up above the door: 

08:00

The first step told them the rules.

When Jenna moved forward, a square lit green under her foot, safe.

The square Seulgi stepped onto flashed yellow, a warning. 

And when Jaeyi’s shoe brushed a third, the light turned solid red and the air filled with a warning buzz.

“Three strikes and the floor locks,” Seulgi murmured.

They split fast:

Hyein with Jenna on the left grid. 

Jaeyi with Seulgi on the right. 

The safe squares were random, shifting every twenty seconds.

Jenna’s voice was sharp but focused. “Two forward, one right.”

Hyein moved, copying the pattern. “Your timing’s off,” she said, eyes on the lights.

“Then match it,” Jenna snapped but her tone lacked bite.

They reached their dome with two minutes gone. Hyein pressed the button. It flickered to green; somewhere across the room, the timer jumped down by thirty seconds.

On the right grid, Jaeyi was halfway to her dome when the square in front of Seulgi shifted from green to red. Without thinking, Jaeyi grabbed her arm, pulling her back just as the floor under it dropped half an inch with a mechanical hiss.

“Watch it,” Jaeyi breathed.

Seulgi’s smirk was thin but her grip on Jaeyi’s wrist lingered for a second before she let go. “You watch me.”

Three domes pressed. One left.

The floor lights shifted faster now, forcing Jenna and Hyein to match each other’s timing without words. At one point, Hyein reached out instinctively, catching Jenna’s sleeve before she stepped onto a red square.

Jenna’s eyes flicked down to the grip, then up again. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

They didn’t.

Seulgi reached the final dome with forty seconds left. She glanced back once at Jaeyi, quick, unreadable, before pressing it. The red light turned green; the timer froze.

The floor lights went dark.

Outside, the air felt heavier, the kind that came before rain.

Nobody spoke as they walked back. But Hyein noticed Jenna falling into step beside her without looking, and Jaeyi’s hand brushing briefly against Seulgi’s before they split at the dorms.

The dorm was still, the kind of stillness that came after long hours under too-bright lights.

Hyein had almost fallen asleep when she noticed the faint scrape of the window latch.

Jenna stood by the open pane, her silhouette framed by the silver glow of the courtyard lamps. She didn’t turn when Hyein sat up.

“You’ll catch a cold,” Hyein said quietly.

Silence.

Jenna’s voice came back soft, almost lost under the hum of the night air. “Do you think people get to choose when they leave this place?”

Hyein frowned. “Leave? As in…?”

“Any way you want to define it,” Jenna murmured, still looking out. Her tone was even, but there was a tightness in it, like a wire drawn too far.

“I guess it depends on who you ask,” Hyein said.

“That’s the problem.” Jenna’s hand rested on the sill, fingers tapping once before curling in.

“Some people here… they think choice is just another way to measure you.”

Hyein didn’t know what to say to that.

Jenna finally glanced over her shoulder. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes caught the light in a way that felt too honest, too close to something unguarded.

Then it was gone. 

She closed the latch and crossed the room without another word, sliding into bed with her back turned.

Hyein lay awake longer than she meant to, the question looping in her head.

Two days later.

Classes and whispers filling the gaps. Hyein noticed Jenna’s absence from lunch one day, overhearing a senior mention someone had been in the restricted archives.

On the third floor, after lunch, Hyein and Seulgi passed an open office.

Two teachers murmured:

“…The last Trial shouldn’t have run at Level Two protocols,” one teacher muttered. “You saw what happened to…”

A chair scraped. “Keep your voice down. Do you want another incident?”

“....”

“But we can’t keep adjusting criteria mid-term.”

“Then stop giving them reasons to dig.”

“They’re talking to the wrong people.”

A folder lay half-open on the desk. On top: a photocopy of the Legacy guidelines with black rectangles where whole paragraphs should be. 

A handwritten note clipped to the corner: Off-record: Trial #11 - DO NOT CITE.

Another was a logo stamped into the side of the folder the teacher carried.

A black crest, unfamiliar, but its clean lines made her skin itch.

Hyein and Seulgi exchanged quick glances, and footsteps moved away.

Seulgi’s eyes were fixed on the hallway ahead, like she was listening to something only she could hear.

“It’s about the Foundation, isn’t it?,” Hyein said under her breath. “What are they?”

Seulgi didn’t answer right away.

“I’ve only heard two things,” Seulgi murmured. 

“One, they don’t fund schools. They invest in… outcomes. Two, they don’t care about the rules,  just the results.”
 
“Results of what?”

Seulgi’s gaze didn’t shift from the retreating figure of the teacher.

“Figuring out which kind of people are worth keeping.”

The words landed cold. And for the first time, Hyein wondered if the Trials weren’t about winning at all but about proving who could be molded, and who could be erased.

That day, after classes were over, Jaeyi and Seulgi were supposed to go together after classes as they always do.

But Seulgi sent Jaeyi away and stayed behind.

In the library, she sat cross-legged on the floor of the back archive, surrounded by shelves thick with dust. 

She’d been hunting for patterns: old Trial rosters, redacted newsletters, anything. But what she found was something else entirely.

The archive room smelled of dust and old glue. 

Seulgi’s fingers skimmed the spines without looking at the titles, eyes scanning the gaps in the shelves instead.

An old yearbook sat crooked on the bottom row. She pulled it free.

Half the pages were loose, the glue brittle. Class photos blurred into posed smiles and identical blazers, until she found Ha-rin’s face. 

Same eyes as Jenna, though softer.

In the margin beside her name was a small printed notice: “Status: Withdrawn - Week 7.”

Seulgi flipped forward. Two pages later, the memorial insert appeared: “In Loving Memory,” dated three days later. Cause: “Accident off-campus.”

Withdrawn. Then dead. In that order.

She shut the book carefully, as though it might bite.

After a long search. 

She saw a slim, soft-covered journal tucked between two untouched volumes on ethics and propaganda. 

No name on the front. Inside the first page, in light blue ink: 

Baek Ha-rin - Year 3.

The last entry was dated three days before she died.

Seulgi’s breath hitched as she read the page. It wasn’t a goodbye. It wasn’t even sad. It was a list.

Names. 

Percentages. 

Arrows.

And one line scrawled at the bottom:

“It’s not about who wins. It’s about who watches you lose.”

Seulgi didn’t blink. Not once.

Outside, thunder rumbled soft and distant. The lights above her buzzed, once.

Then, in the corner of the mirror across the archive, something shifted.

And Baek Ha-rin’s reflection smiled. (Ha-rin’s ghost is still pretty tho…)

Seulgi stared so long her eyes burned. In the reflection of the glass cabinet across the aisle, something shifted, just a flicker. When she looked up, it was only her face looking back, steady and tired.

She closed the journal and took it to the back tables.

Back at the dorm, room 3-07.

Hyein sat alone that night, thinking about what she and Seulgi overheard in the teacher’s office, while watching the rankings on her tablet refresh again. The name she’d written was gone.

Not just dropped.

Gone.

She pressed her palm to the screen, as if that might undo it.

Somewhere behind her, the walls of Chaehwa whispered with secrets she hadn’t yet learned.

But she was part of it now.

Whether she wanted to be or not.

They were in the east wing between classes, the hallway quiet except for the soft hum of the old radiator.

Seulgi was leaning against the glass of a display case, watching nothing in particular, until her expression stilled.

Ha-rin…?

Her gaze locked on the glass, eyes tracking something Hyein couldn’t see.

“What is it?” Hyein asked.

“Nothing,” Seulgi said quickly, pushing away from the case. 

But her voice was a fraction lower, and her steps just a touch too measured, like she was counting them.

Hyein glanced at the glass as they passed. Only their reflections looked back.

Days passed with no trials, only classes that felt hollow and mechanical. 

Students lingered in corners more than usual, whispers replacing open conversation. On a gray afternoon, Hyein followed Seulgi into the library, not for studying, but because Seulgi had found something.

The library’s dim light pooled across the dusty wood table, where a worn leather journal lay open between Hyein and Seulgi. The pages were yellowed, edges frayed, and the faded handwriting trembled as though penned by someone struggling to hold onto themselves.

Baek Ha-rin’s voice whispered through the ink:

“I don’t know who to trust anymore. The eyes behind the cameras are everywhere, but no one says a word. I’m sinking, and I’m scared no one will notice until it’s too late.”

Hyein’s fingers traced the lines carefully, a quiet knot tightening in her chest. Seulgi sat beside her, silent but watchful, eyes flicking up and down the hall as if expecting to be caught at any moment.

“Ha-rin… she was Jenna’s cousin,” Seulgi said softly, breaking the stillness. (Ha-rin X Jenna, who wants this!?)

Hyein blinked, looking up sharply. “What?”

Seulgi nodded. “I checked. It’s in some old school records, she transferred here the year before Ha-rin died. Jenna kept her history buried, though. Like it was a secret.”

At the bottom of the journal, there was a school newsletter from three years ago.

Headline: Student’s Passing Under Review

The short paragraph called it “an accident off-campus,” and behind it, a torn memo stamped CONFIDENTIAL: “incident during sanctioned activity; external inquiry denied.”

But in the margin, in handwriting that can’t be recognized: Not an accident. Trial-related. Ask about Week 7.

Two versions of the same night.

Hyein’s breath hitched, and she closed the journal gently, folding the pages as if to shield Ha-rin’s fragile story.

“That explains the silence. Jenna was involved somehow… or at least knew more than she let on.”

A shadow moved between the stacks.

Jenna stepped into the lamplight, arms-crossed, her gaze locking onto the journal like a hawk spotting prey.

Her usual smile was gone. Something raw lived in its place, tight and bright behind her eyes.

“You think I’m a monster?” Jenna’s voice cut through the quiet, low and dangerous.

Hyein looked up steadily, meeting her eyes without hesitation. “I think you’re still trying not to be.”

Jenna’s breath caught, a flicker of something almost like relief passing through her expression before the mask slid back into place.

“Keep your secrets then,” Jenna said, voice steady but brittle.

“But remember, everyone here wears a mask. The question is who’s honest enough to show what’s beneath.”

The exchange was part accusation, part warning. No one here was entirely innocent.

The tension between them simmered like a live wire, charged but fragile. Neither moved to break it.

Seulgi shifted beside Hyein, quietly tugging her sleeve. “Maybe it’s not monsters or saints,” she said. “Maybe it’s about surviving the game… and who’s willing to play dirty.”

Hyein glanced back to Jenna, then down at the journal, the words echoing in her mind. 

The past wasn’t just history, it was the foundation of everything unfolding now. And no one here was entirely innocent.

Jenna turned away first. Her reflection drifted across the cabinet glass and was gone.

The announcement came without warning, projected across the main hall during morning assembly.

By midday, the air in Chaehwa’s main hall was thick with a tense expectancy. The final Legacy Trials were just days away, and the weight of the entire school seemed to press down on the polished floors and dark green blazers.

Jaeyi stood at the center of the room, calm and collected as ever, but even her trademark poised expression faltered when the new rankings were announced. She had secured the top score in the last trial, no surprise there but the celebration was cut short. 

Whispers rippled like a shadow through the gathered students.

An official statement, dry and clinical, laid bare a hidden truth: 

Jaeyi had once manipulated another student’s rank. Not maliciously, the statement insisted, but enough to sway the standings.

Gasps echoed, and eyes darted around. Jenna’s lips curled into a smug, satisfied smile from across the room, while Hye-in’s jaw clenched subtly, and Seulgi’s gaze hardened.

The accusation hovered like a storm cloud, darkening Jaeyi’s usually immaculate image.

“Fixing the game isn’t just bending the rules,” Jenna muttered loud enough for a few nearby to hear, 

“It’s rewriting who gets to survive.”

But before the murmurs could swell into judgment, Seulgi stepped forward, her voice clear and steady.

“That fix didn’t break the game,” she said, eyes locked on the crowd. “It exposed the hole in it. If anything, it means the system’s more fragile than we thought.”

The room fell into stunned silence. Seulgi’s unexpected defense sparked whispers of scandal, some impressed, others outraged.

Jaeyi’s glare shot toward Seulgi, fury mixed with a reluctant, confusing gratitude.

Later, after the formalities, Jaeyi found herself wandering the labyrinthine corridors of the school’s archives, the dusty smell of old books filling the air. Seulgi was there, seated in a shadowed nook, leafing through a faded notebook.

“You’re making things harder for me,” Jaeyi said quietly, voice rougher than usual.

Seulgi smiled, not looking up. “I’m just making sure you don’t lose yourself in this mess.”

Silence.

“Why risk that?”

Seulgi didn’t answer right away. “Because some things are worth losing for.”

Jaeyi wasn’t sure if she meant the game or something else.

She closed the distance between them, the dim light casting soft shadows over her sharp features. Their eyes met, charged, unspoken and for a moment, the noise of the trials, the rankings, the games all faded away.

Their faces moved closer, breath mingling in the tight space between them. A near kiss lingered, electric and fragile.

But reality crashed back, too much at stake, too many eyes waiting, watching.

Jaeyi pulled away, voice barely a whisper: “Not now.”

Seulgi nodded, a mix of disappointment and understanding in her gaze. 

“Later,” she promised.

As the final trials loomed, secrets deepened and alliances twisted tighter. In the shadows of Chaehwa, the girls learned that sometimes the game’s greatest hole was not in the rules but in the hearts of those who played.

The next day was heavy with humidity, the kind that made unify stick uncomfortably to skin.

The sudden crash of the rankings sent a ripple through Chaehwa High like a shockwave.

Screens that usually displayed orderly lists of names, scores, and ranks flickered and scrambled. Then, stark and chilling, a message blinked into existence across every device, every monitor in the hallways and classrooms:

“Baek Ha-rin remembers you.”

The school went unnervingly silent. 

The usual murmurs and footsteps muted beneath a weight that none dared name aloud. Among the crowd, Jenna’s face paled as if the message had pierced straight through her carefully constructed armor.

Jenna didn’t run. She didn’t scream or push anyone away. Instead, she stood frozen, eyes glazed, the faintest tremor in her fingers betraying the storm inside.

That night, alone in the dorm, Jenna’s thoughts spiraled back to that final confrontation with Ha-rin. It wasn’t the shoving or the cold words; it was the silence, the absence of intervention when her cousin faltered and fell apart. 

Jenna had never admitted to anyone how close she’d come to speaking out, to stopping it all but fear and loyalty had kept her lips sealed.

Outside the dorms.

The wind pressed cold against the windows, carrying the sense of something breaking beyond the walls.

Meanwhile, in the shadowed corners of the sprawling school library, Hyein and Seulgi slipped away from their usual haunts. 

The hum of computers and faint rustling of pages masked their footsteps as they crept toward the records room, a place off-limits, whispered about among students but never confirmed.

Hyein’s fingers trembled slightly as she pried open the heavy door, the scent of old paper and forgotten secrets washing over them. Seulgi’s usual playful expression was replaced by a serious focus, the gravity of what they were about to uncover settling between them.

Rows of files lay stacked and labeled with precise order. 

They rifled through folders marked with dates, names, and cryptic notes. 

Each file detailed votes, rankings, whispered rumors, and mysterious “recommendations” all tying back to a web of manipulation far more intricate than they’d imagined.

“It’s not just a game,” Seulgi murmured. 

“They decide who stays and who falls. Every single time.”

Hyein swallowed hard. “And no one’s fate here is really their own.”

A folded photo slipped from one folder, catching the light: Baek Ha-rin, smiling, innocent, hopeful, betrayed.

The two exchanged a look weighted with a mix of horror and resolve. The truth wasn’t just about survival or power anymore. It was about breaking free from the strings that bound them all.

And somewhere deep in the shadows, Jenna’s haunted secret echoed louder than ever.

From the corridor, a cart squeaked and a low voice drifted past, “...Executive Council wants a list by Friday.”

Another voice, “We answer to the Foundation, not the principal.”

Who ran the Trials? Someone above the school.

On the other side of the dorms.

Jaeyi slowed as she caught sight of Jenna at the far end of the east hall. 

No audience this time, no rankings scrolling behind them. Just polished floors and the faint hum of the lights.

“I heard your score never dropped below ninety,” Jaeyi said as she closed the distance.

“I heard yours almost caught up,” Jenna replied without looking at her.

Jaeyi smirked. “Almost is generous.”

“I am generous,” Jenna said, the curve of her mouth sharp but not unkind. “It’s one of my many flaws.”

A few steps passed in silence.

“If we’d been on the same side from the start,” Jaeyi said lightly, “we could’ve crushed them all.”

Jenna’s eyes flicked toward her. “Where’s the fun in that?”

“Winning?”

“No,” Jenna said. “Making you work for it… and watching you get distracted.”

Jaeyi’s brow lifted. “Distracted?”

“Coke. Quiet. Earbuds. Ringing any bells?” Jenna’s tone was smooth, not cruel, like she was just naming a fact.

Jaeyi tilted her head, pretending to be innocent. “What are you talking about?” 

Jenna’s smile deepened, but her voice stayed flat. “Come on, we’re not stupid. The whole school knew something was going on, no matter how hard you tried to hide it.” (bro thought she was sleak…:))

Jaeyi’s laugh was quiet but real. “Careful. That almost sounded like a compliment.”

Jenna’s smile sharpened. “Almost.”

They split at the stairwell, neither looking back but both aware of the other’s footsteps fading away.

The Final Legacy Stage

One spotlight. Four girls.

The grand hall was silent except for the soft echo of footsteps on the marble floor. A single spotlight cast long shadows across the faces of the four girls standing before the final stage of the Legacy Trials. 

The weight of the moment settled over them like a thick fog, thick enough to choke even the bravest heart.

The air was tense, expectant. A voice over the loudspeaker delivered the final instructions, crisp and merciless:

The supervisor didn’t bother with pleasantries.

“Choose one among you to receive the Legacy. The rest… will lose everything.”

20:00

The timer appeared on the tablet. No other instructions.

Jenna’s eyes flickered with a sharp, dangerous gleam. Her usual confidence was taut, but the pressure chipped at the edges of her composure. 

Jaeyi stood rigid, her stained red shirt sleeve a vivid scar against her immaculate white. She met Jenna’s gaze head-on, neither willing to yield.

Hyein and Seulgi lingered nearby, a quiet solidarity binding them in the storm. They exchanged glances, an unspoken pact forged from trials, secrets, and shared survival.

Jaeyi was the first to speak. “We don’t even know what it means to receive it. For all we know, it’s a death sentence.”

Seulgi’s tone was low, almost bored. “That’s the point. They want to see what you’ll sacrifice without knowing the cost.”

Jaeyi’s mouth curved. “Then maybe the smartest choice is not to choose.”

Jenna leaned back, arms folded. “And what happens if the system reads that as non-compliance? You think they’ll just let us walk?”

Her eyes flicked to Hyein as she spoke, too deliberate to be random.

“Some people here like to play angles.”

Hyein’s brow lifted. “And some people are just looking for an excuse to blame someone else.” 

Her voice was calm, but her shoulders squared slightly, ready for a fight.

The room felt silent.

“Then maybe failing is the only way to win,” Hyein said again. She kept her gaze steady, even when Jenna’s sharpened.

The seconds dripped away.

“We could vote strategically,” Jaeyi suggested. “Pick the least dangerous one to keep.”

“That’s still playing their game,” Seulgi said. “You really want to hand them a winner?”

No one moved. The weight of the choice pressed down, heavier with every tick of the clock.

Minutes ticked by. The air grew heavier.

The screen blinked: 

15:00

“Let’s stop pretending this is about fairness,” Jenna said finally. “We all want to stay. We all know what losing everything means here.”

Her eyes cut back to Hyein. “So either you write a name or the system writes yours.”

“Let it,” Hyein replied. “At least then it’s not mine.”

The heat between them was sharp enough to taste.

Neither broke eye contact until Jaeyi’s voice broke the silence again, softer than anyone expected. 

“I don’t want to win like this. Not if it means someone else loses everything.”

Seulgi’s breath hitched, eyes wide but steady. “Then what do you want?”

Jaeyi took a step closer, the space between them charged and fragile.

“You.”

Their fingers brushed, hesitant, the world narrowing to that small, electric contact. 

Almost a kiss.

Then they pulled back, the stakes too high, the silence louder than any words.

Across the room, Jenna’s eyes found Hyein’s. The tension was different here, raw and exposed.

“You’re the only one who ever looked me in the eye,” Jenna admitted quietly, the edge of vulnerability cutting through her usual sharpness.

Hyein’s reply was steady, almost weary. “That’s the problem.”

The room seemed to hold its breath.

The final choice loomed ahead, fraught with consequence, with sacrifice. But in that moment, beneath the unyielding lights and cold marble, something else flickered…

Hope

Jaeyi voted first. Hyein voted next. Then Seulgi. Jenna last.

The timer hit zero.

The screen didn’t show names. 

Instead, it glitched for a second, lines of static across the glass before displaying a single phrase:

INVALID OUTCOME.

The camera above them tilted sharply, almost like a head cocked in curiosity. Then the door hissed open. 

Trial over.

In the hallway after, the four of them walked in silence until Jaeyi murmured something low to Seulgi.

Seulgi’s answering smirk was small but real.

Jenna, falling into step with Hyein, didn’t look at her, but she noticed Jenna’s hand brushing her elbow lightly when a student rounded the corner too fast. 

It could have been nothing. It could have been everything.

Two days later.

Hyein’s fingers traced the edge of a report detailing the anonymous rankings, their manipulation, the rigged votes, the cruel mechanisms concealed beneath official language. 

The files leaked: Names. Dates. Proof the Trials were rigged from the start.

Whispers turned to shouts. Teachers scrambled. The Legacy system cracked.

Her throat tightened as she swallowed back the weight of her own role, the decisions she’d made, the compromises she’d silently agreed to in the name of survival.

“I thought it was a chance to prove myself. To be different. But…” Her voice faltered. “We were all pieces in the same game.”

Seulgi nodded, tapping a line that read: 

“Students marked for elimination showed sharp declines in rank before disappearing without explanation.” 

“It wasn’t skill or merit that decided this. It was power, fear, and silence.”

Outside, the school’s atmosphere shifted. Whispers began to spread like wildfire as the files, released anonymously by Seulgi and Hyein, circulated among students and teachers alike. 

Confused looks replaced once-confident expressions.

Hallways once ruled by hushed fear now buzzed with tension and disbelief.

In the cafeteria, teachers exchanged worried glances. Some students gathered in small, urgent groups, their voices low but fierce. The very foundations of Chaehwa’s Legacy system trembled under the weight of exposure.

In the chaos of the day’s announcements, the school’s email system glitched for exactly three minutes. When it returned, every staff inbox had a single unread message.

No subject. No sender. Only one line:

“Stage complete. Begin evaluation.”

No one spoke of it, but Hyein caught the look on Seulgi’s face, a rare, sharp flicker of unease.

One Month Later.

The winter air in Chaehwa had a bite to it. Frost clung to the outer windows like delicate lace, the sky washed in pale blue and silver. The courtyard was empty except for a scattering of leaves frozen mid-drift.

The Trials had been suspended. Officially, they were “under review.” Unofficially, everyone knew the system wasn’t gone, only wounded.

Jenna didn’t come back.

On a night cold enough to silver the windows, Hyein found an envelope slid under her door. Plain. No crest. Her name was handwritten in the same she’d seen scrawled in Trial notes, unflinching even in chaos.

She sat on the edge of her bed and read:

Hyein,

Don’t look for me. I’m taking care of unfinished business that the school forgot to finish. Someone is watching closer than you think, and I’d rather they keep watching me.

I’m closer to the truth about the Game, the system, but the truth here has a cost. Pay it only if you can live with who you are afterward.

You were right once. I should’ve listened.

I think about Ha-rin more than I let on. She wouldn’t have wanted this, but I have to know who decided her ending. Some truths you find in the light. Others you dig out of the dark.

When I come back, things won’t be the same.

- J

Hyein read the words twice, the last line catching in her chest. She thought of the worn journal in the library, of Ha-rin’s neat lists and final messages.

She folded the letter carefully, tucking it under her pillowcase as if it were a secret worth guarding from the cameras.

Meanwhile, Seulgi sat on the library steps, scarf loose around her neck, hands curled in her coat pockets.

She watched her breath mist in the air until Jaeyi’s shadow stretched over her.

“Still keeping watch?” Jaeyi asked.

Seulgi’s eyes slid to hers.

“Maybe I’m waiting.”

Jaeyi smiled faintly, but it carried weight now, the kind that came from surviving together. 

She sat beside her, their shoulders brushing, not by accident this time.

“You remember when those files about the Trials leaked last month?” 

Jaeyi said suddenly, leaning back on the bench, eyes fixed on the pale winter sky. 

“Who would’ve even had access to that kind of thing?”

Seulgi tilted her head like she was considering it, then shrugged. “No idea. Who do you think it might be?”

Jaeyi’s lips curved faintly. “Whoever it was… they were brave. Smart too.”

Seulgi’s brow twitched, just barely but enough to tighten the space between them. 

“Brave, huh?” she said.

Her voice was calm but edged, like she was testing the word.

“And clever,” Jaeyi added, glancing sideways with that infuriating calm she used when she knew someone wanted her attention.

Seulgi let out a quiet breath that might’ve been a laugh, might’ve been something else. 

“Guess I should be jealous,” she murmured, so softly it was almost lost to the cold air.

Jaeyi’s eyes lingered on her a beat longer before she looked away. 

“Maybe you should.” a soft laugh.

Then, after a pause, softer, “But you’re already those things too.”

Seulgi didn’t answer right away, but her smile faded into something warmer, the kind of smile that wasn’t for anyone else to see.

“I meant it, you know,” Jaeyi said softly. “That I didn’t want to win like that.”

“I know,” Seulgi replied. Then, after a beat, “You still owe me later.”

This time, Jaeyi didn’t hesitate. 

She leaned in, lips brushing Seulgi’s in a long kiss that was warm against the cold, brief but sure.

She pulled her closer and deepened the kiss. 

Seulgi melted, ears flushed red.

They parted with matching, quiet smiles neither could hide.

A victory neither the Trials nor the rankings could measure.

Elsewhere, Jenna’s absence was a gaping void. Her dorm room sat untouched, a silent testament to a girl who had vanished into the cracks of the very system she once ruled. 

Rumors swirled.

Had she fled? 

Had she been forced out?

Or had she simply become another casualty of the Legacy’s cruel game?

Hyein stood outside Jenna’s door for a long moment, fingertips brushing the cold brass of the handle. Inside, Jenna’s influence lingered like a ghost. 

A complicated mixture of resentment and something softer, regret maybe…twisted in Hyein’s chest.

“She’s not just a villain,” Hyein whispered to herself. “Maybe she never was.”

Later that evening, gathered in the quiet of the library’s reading room, Hyein held Baek Ha-rin’s battered journal in her hands. 

The small group of students and a few wary teachers listened intently as she read aloud the final, haunting entry:

“They say the game ends when a Legacy is chosen.”

“But it never ends. It just changes players.”

“It waits in the silence between us, in the things we don’t say, the truths we hide.”

“If we want to break free, we have to start by looking at the hole in the game, the place where no one dares to play.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and unresolved. A long silence followed, thick with unspoken understanding.

Outside, the school’s wall screens flickered, lines of static running like cracks in glass. Then the displays reset, the clean white of a new ranking board.

The anonymous rankings blinked back into existence: 

New names, new faces.

In the main office, a single white envelope sat on a desk. The new girl’s hands trembled as she broke the seal. Inside: a note in neat, blue ink.

WELCOME TO THE GAME

Her lips parted, not in fear, but in something close to a smile.

The screen above her desk blinked once.

The game began again.