I walked down the stairs from the roof, my phone in hand. I had a bassist who played violin, a lead singer who hated the original bassist and vice versa for some reason, and a setlist of zero songs.
I needed the oracle and some help.
San: Where are you?
The reply came instantly.
Min-ah: Hagwon hell. Daechi-dong. Skipping club for Calculus. Why?
San: I need to meet you. It's urgent.
Min-ah: I figured. It was inevitable. Come to 'Study Brew' near exit 3. Don't wear your uniform if you can help it.
I dialed Mrs. Lee. It rang and rang, eventually going to voicemail. She was probably at her charity gala or managing another giraffe crisis.
I typed a quick text: Eomeonim, I'm going to eat out with some friends after school. I'll be home a little late. Don't worry.
I hailed a taxi.
"Daechi-dong," I told the driver.
He looked at me in the rearview mirror. "Going to study, student? At this hour?"
"Something like that."
Daechi-dong was a different kind of intensity. It wasn't the artistic chaos of Hongdae or the silent wealth of my host neighborhood. It was an industrial factory for grades. The streets were packed with students in various uniforms, rushing between nondescript buildings that glowed with fluorescent lights.
The taxi dropped me off near a large intersection. I found 'Study Brew'. It was a quiet, serious cafe filled with students bent over textbooks.
I walked in. The air smelled of caffeine and desperation.
I scanned the room for Min-ah. I didn't see her.
But I did see a splash of color that made my stomach tighten.
In the back corner, occupying a large group table, were six students. They weren't wearing the navy blue of Kirin or the other colors of other high schools.
They were wearing bright, aggressive crimson blazers with gold trim.
Hanyeong Arts High.
I froze. I was in enemy territory. Or rather, neutral ground that had been claimed by the enemy.
They were busy studying, music scores and tablets spread out on the table. A girl with a sharp bob cut looked up. Her eyes locked onto me—onto my Kirin uniform and the logo on my bag.
She didn't glare. She didn't sneer like the ones in the cafe. She just looked... past me. As if I were a ghost. Then she went back to her sheet music.
I swallowed hard. I found a small table near the window, trying to make myself invisible. I sat down, my back to the Hanyeong group, and checked my phone.
Where is she?
"You're brave, sitting here."
The voice came from above me. Deep, amused, and calm.
I looked up.
A guy was standing over my table. He was tall—my height—with a lean, athletic build. He was wearing the crimson Hanyeong blazer, but he wore it casually, unbuttoned over a black t-shirt.
His hair was dyed a striking, icy silver-grey, cut short and styled messily. He was, frankly, annoyingly handsome.
"Excuse me?" I asked, tensing up.
He didn't ask for permission. He pulled out the chair opposite me and sat down.
But he didn't sit normally. He turned the chair around and straddled it, leaning his arms on the backrest. His broad shoulders effectively created a wall, blocking my view of the Hanyeong table—and blocking their view of me.
"Don't mind them," he said, jerking his head backward toward the red blazers. "They take the rivalry too seriously. They think Kirin students carry a virus or something."
I narrowed my eyes. "And you?"
"I'm immune," he grinned. It was a charming, lopsided grin. "You're San, right? The 'Representative'?"
"Word travels fast," I muttered.
"Min-ah told me," he said.
My eyes widened. "You know Min-ah?"
"I should." he shrugged. "I'm her cousin."
Cousin? The Gossip Queen of Kirin had a cousin in the rival school? That explained how she got her information. It was a cross-border spy network.
"Okay," I said slowly. "So, Min-ah sent you. Why?"
He leaned in closer, his voice dropping.
"She told me you're crazy enough to try and reunite W-Naut."
I nodded.
"And she said you're desperate," he continued, his silver eyes sparkling with amusement.
"She talks too much," I grumbled.
"She said you need a drummer," he said.
He reached into his blazer pocket and pulled out a pair of drumsticks. He twirled one effortlessly between his fingers—a blur of motion that spoke of thousands of hours of practice.
I stared at the sticks. Then I stared at him.
"You?" I asked. "But... you go to Hanyeong. We're rivals. If we play together, won't you get in trouble?"
"Probably," he laughed. "But Hanyeong is boring right now. Don't worry it's my problems."
He extended a hand across the table.
"I'm Park Jin-hyun," he said.
I looked at his hand. I looked at the red blazer sleeve.
"This is going to be a disaster," I said.
"Oh, absolutely," Jin-hyun agreed cheerfully. "But it'll be a loud one."
I shook his hand.