The morning sunlight spilled across the classroom, glinting off Jae-Hyun's neatly arranged stationery. He sat quietly at his desk, meticulously straightening pens, pencils, and notebooks, enjoying the small rhythm of order before the chaos of the day.
The calm didn't last long.
"YOU JOINED THE BASKETBALL TEAM?!"
Jae-Hyun barely had time to flinch before Jae-Suk and Tae-Ho practically barreled into the room, their voices shrill and panicked. Tae-Ho's face was flushed, his hands trembling as if the news had personally wounded him.
"Hyung! That's… that's the biggest heartbreak I've ever experienced!" Tae-Ho wailed, clutching his chest dramatically. "How… how could you join without even telling us?!"
Jae-Suk leaned over Jae-Hyun's desk, eyes wide. "We're your best friends! Your. Best. Friends! And you just… How do you just decide without even giving us a heads-up?!"
Jae-Hyun didn't raise his voice; he simply tilted his head and replied calmly, almost apologetically. "My bad. I planned to tell you eventually."
Tae-Ho groaned, sliding into the chair beside him. "Eventually? Eventually?! We could have had an epic first-year recruitment strategy! We could've—"
"Calmed down," Jae-Hyun interrupted smoothly. "It's just basketball. No one's dying here."
"Just basketball?" Jae-Suk's voice cracked. "Just basketball?! That's like saying volcanoes are just warm rocks!"
Jae-Hyun let a small smirk tug at the corner of his lips. "Volcanoes are warm rocks, technically."
Both boys blinked at him, speechless for a second.
Tae-Ho finally regained his breath. "Okay… okay. Fine. But what made you change your mind? You said you weren't interested."
Jae-Hyun leaned back, arms crossed. "My mother convinced me. Said it might be good for me… that it'd give me some challenge."
Jae-Suk tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly in curiosity. "Really… your mom? So easily? Are you a mama's boy or what?"
"Not a mama's boy," Jae-Hyun interrupted, voice even. "It's just, I joined because I wanted to, eventually. But her words… helped me decide sooner."
Tae-Ho threw his hands up, mock exasperated. "I can't believe you! Joining the basketball team, and keeping all of this from us? You're impossible!"
Jae-Hyun leaned back. "It's not a big deal. You two should join a club too. It's fun… might even give you a challenge."
Tae-Ho waved his hands frantically. "Me? Athletics? Nope. Not my thing."
"You know, it doesn't have to be a sports club," Jae-Hyun said casually, almost as if it were obvious.
Jae-Suk tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Hmm… I've been thinking about joining the student council… but they always seem busy."
Jae-Hyun gave a small smirk. "Sounds great. Give it a shot, you might actually enjoy it."
Before Jae-Suk could reply, a loud, mechanical voice boomed through the school's speaker system.
"Attention all students, please report to the assembly hall immediately for an important announcement."
Jae-Hyun raised an eyebrow. "Well, that's… sudden."
Tae-Ho shot up. "What?! No! I wasn't ready for this! I haven't even cried properly over Jae-Hyun joining the team without telling us!"
"Oh, come on, stop overreacting," Jae-Suk said with a chuckle.
"You think this is funny?!" Tae-Ho wailed, clutching his heart again.
"Somewhat," Jae-Hyun admitted.
The buzz in the hallway was restless. Students filled the corridor in waves, shoes clicking against the polished floor as announcements echoed from the speakers above.
"Attention all students. Please proceed to the assembly hall immediately. I repeat, all students to the assembly hall."
Desks scraped. Bags zipped. Whispers rose like static.
Jae-Hyun tucked his pen neatly beside his notebook, stood, and joined the moving crowd. Around him, his classmates hummed with curiosity. Tae-Ho was already dramatizing the situation.
"What's this about? Are they cancelling exams? Please say they're cancelling exams."
"Maybe it's another partnership thing," Jae-Suk replied, half-listening as he adjusted his tie. "They've been bragging about expanding the school's image abroad."
Jae-Hyun didn't say anything. He slid his hands into his pockets and followed the steady current of uniforms heading down the wide staircase. The chatter grew louder as they reached the hall — a massive, high-ceilinged space bathed in white light, banners of the school crest hanging above the stage.
The front rows were already filled with students from the honors and advanced programs. Teachers stood along the walls, faces carefully neutral.
When the microphone crackled to life, the noise dulled instantly.
The dean, Mr. Seo Myung-Do, stepped up to the podium — tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of presence that made people straighten unconsciously. His expression was firm but composed, the glint in his eyes sharp as a blade polished too many times.
He bowed once, precisely. "Good morning, students."
A few hundred voices echoed faintly in response.
He continued, his voice smooth, controlled — the kind that demanded silence without ever raising volume. "Today marks a historic step forward for our institution. As you know, Shinseong Academy has long been a symbol of academic integrity and excellence. But excellence, my students, must evolve. The world is changing — and so must we."
He paused, letting the weight of his words hang in the air.
"Which brings me to our next step — the launch of the Prestige Curriculum."
The projector behind him blinked to life, displaying the school emblem beside the new program's sleek logo.
Murmurs rippled through the room. Tae-Ho leaned toward Jae-Suk and whispered, "Prestige what now?"
The dean smiled slightly, the polished charisma of a man used to cameras. "This program will redefine what it means to be a student of Shinseong. Designed in partnership with global education boards and international sponsors, the Prestige Curriculum will nurture not just scholars, but leaders — individuals capable of shaping the future."
Applause began from the teachers' side, trickling weakly into the crowd before fading again.
"The benefits are remarkable," he continued. "Top-performing students will have access to international study tours, scholarships, and guaranteed recommendations to leading universities worldwide. You will train under elite mentors, compete in exclusive national events, and represent our academy on a global scale."
Gasps and cheers followed. Someone in the back whistled.
Jae-Hyun watched, unmoved. His classmates' excitement was almost contagious — faces lit with ambition, whispering possibilities. But to him, something about the dean's words felt too polished. The rhythm, the phrasing — every line sounded rehearsed, like he'd practiced it in front of a mirror one too many times.
He leaned slightly against his seat, gaze steady.
The dean's expression didn't waver. "Of course, such opportunity comes with responsibility. The Prestige Curriculum demands commitment. Only those who meet the highest academic and behavioral standards will qualify. You must uphold our image — as students of excellence."
There it was again — image. He used that word more than once.
Jae-Hyun noticed the teachers nodding like clockwork, their smiles identical. The air felt… calculated.
Tae-Ho raised a hand hesitantly. "Sir, does this mean only the top students get to join the program?"
The dean smiled with fatherly patience. "Every student has the chance to prove themselves. Merit will decide — as it always has."
But Jae-Hyun caught the faintest shift in the dean's tone. Merit… or something else.
Another student called out, "How do we apply?"
"No need," the dean replied smoothly. "The selection process is already underway."
That sparked another wave of murmurs.
"Already?" "Wait, they've been planning this?"
Jae-Hyun's gaze sharpened slightly. He didn't show it, but inside, he noted how carefully phrased that had been — already underway. Meaning the decisions were already made. Meaning this announcement was only to sell it.
The dean clasped his hands behind his back, voice lowering just enough to sound solemn. "This is no mere announcement — it is the beginning of a new era for Shinseong Academy. An era of prestige, excellence, and global recognition. You are the chosen generation to represent what true genius looks like."
The hall erupted in applause — loud, proud, a sea of hopeful faces.
Everyone was thrilled. Everyone except one.
Jae-Hyun clapped once, twice, out of courtesy, his expression unreadable. To him, it sounded less like a promise and more like a performance.
Still, he didn't think much of it then. Why should he? He fit the description perfectly — the prodigy, the athlete, the model student. If anything, this new program would only make things easier for him.
Or so he thought.
Days later, small things began to feel… off.
One morning, a classmate of his — brilliant but outspoken — didn't show up for class. By lunch, whispers spread that he'd been "transferred" to another school without warning.
A week after that, a scholarship student from the science division had hers revoked. "Academic dishonesty," the teachers said. But Jae-Hyun remembered her — meticulous, quiet, the type who color-coded her notes. Dishonesty didn't fit.
Then came the subtle changes. Teachers addressing certain students more formally. Staff glancing at clipboards mid-conversation. A few faces from the lower-ranked classes missing from the cafeteria altogether.
It wasn't obvious. Not yet. But to someone like Jae-Hyun — who'd long mastered the patterns of human behavior — the pieces didn't add up.
He started watching more closely. Listening between words. Observing how people moved when they thought no one was looking.
And lately, the ghost stories had started spreading again.
At first, it was just idle gossip about "the paper ghost." Now, even the sound of paper rustling was enough to make half the class tense. Someone once dropped a worksheet during homeroom, and three people screamed. Another time, a first-year opened her locker and found a single folded plane inside — she burst into tears before anyone could explain it was probably a prank.
It was ridiculous… yet strangely consistent.
Every story was slightly different, but they all started the same way: the paper moved on its own.
Jae-Hyun didn't believe in ghosts. He didn't believe in anything he couldn't quantify. But lately, he'd started noticing something off — how every rumor, every coincidence, every reaction felt too perfectly timed.
It was like someone — or something — was controlling the narrative.
The world around him looked normal, but the patterns were wrong — too clean, too deliberate.
And somewhere deep inside, a quiet realization was already taking root — that whatever was happening at Shinseong High wasn't just rumor or coincidence.
And Jae-Hyun was beginning to get suspicious.