Jiho POV
He shouldn't have known exactly where she was.
But he did.
The last few days had rearranged the school in his head—like someone had drawn invisible lines around every place Hana might be watched. The courtyard where Jiwon talked to her. The hallway where teachers "accidentally" stepped outside just as her name came up. The corners where ClassNet rumors seemed to start.
And now, the Elite building.
He watched from across the yard, leaning against the shadowed side of the regular track block as Hana stood near the base of the Elite staircase, clutching her books a little too tightly.
She wasn't trespassing. She wasn't even that close. Just… near. Close enough to make Elite kids glance at her like she'd wandered into the wrong neighborhood.
Seohui stood beside her, talking fast, hands moving sharply. Hana nodded, but her attention kept sneaking upward toward the glass doors.
Jiho's jaw tightened.
He knew that look.
It was the same look she'd had when she'd told him she'd find the truth herself.
He told himself to walk away.
He didn't.
His phone buzzed.
He checked it out of habit.
A new message from an unknown number.
No picture this time. Just text.
"You're late. Student council room. Top floor."
No name. No context.
But he somehow already knew who it was about.
And who it was from.
Oh Seokmin. Student council president. Elite Track.
The one Minjae had mentioned between stammers when he talked about "someone who pays attention to the cameras."
Jiho slipped his phone back into his pocket.
He looked once more at Hana across the yard.
Then he headed for the Elite building.
Elite Track
The Elite building always felt too bright.
Marble floors. Glass walls. Clean lines. Everything designed to look expensive but effortless, like the people inside had never struggled for anything in their lives.
Jiho scanned his ID at the side entrance, waiting for the red light that usually meant "you don't belong here."
It blinked green.
He froze.
Someone had changed his permissions.
He stepped in before the system could decide it made a mistake.
The air smelled faintly of coffee and some kind of expensive cleaning solution. Students lounged in clusters on leather sofas, talking about internships and overseas programs and stock market trends like it was normal.
Conversations dipped when they saw him.
Kang Jiho.Regular Track troublemaker.Not supposed to cross this threshold.
Whispers chased him down the hallway, but he kept his gaze forward, shoulders loose, pace steady.
If he looked like he was lost, they'd pounce.
If he looked like he belonged, they'd just whisper.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. He stepped inside and hit the button for the top floor.
The reflected version of himself in the metal door looked like he'd wandered into the wrong drama—hood half up, tie loose, sleeves pushed back, dark circles under his eyes.
He almost laughed.
If they knew whose son he really was…No. That was the point. They weren't supposed to.
The elevator opened.
The student council room door was already ajar.
The President
Oh Seokmin sat behind a wide table strewn with neatly stacked documents and a sleek laptop, the window behind him framing the city in cold blue and grey.
He looked up as Jiho walked in, expression politely curious, like he'd expected this but wouldn't admit it.
"Kang Jiho," Seokmin said. "Impressive. Most Regular Track students don't find their way up here."
Jiho shut the door behind him.
"I got your message," he said.
Seokmin smiled faintly. "Did you? There was no name on it."
"So you admit it was you."
"I admit I wanted to talk," Seokmin replied. "Sit down."
"I'm fine standing."
Seokmin studied him for a second, then shrugged. "Suit yourself."
He closed the laptop with a deliberate click and folded his hands on the table, posture perfect.
"I heard you've been… upset," Seokmin said casually. "Confronting people. Asking about anonymous posts."
"Stop watching Hana," Jiho said.
No preamble. No politeness.
Seokmin arched a brow. "You're very direct."
"Someone sent me a picture of her," Jiho continued, ignoring the comment. "Near the gate. Near my brother. With a message."
"Ah." Seokmin's eyes flickered with recognition. "So they finally got your attention."
"They?" Jiho repeated.
Seokmin leaned back, chair gliding a little on the polished floor. "This school has many eyes. Some of us pay closer attention than others."
"To what?"
"Patterns," Seokmin said. "Irregularities. Things that don't match the image we sell the world."
Jiho's jaw clenched. "You mean people like me."
"And people around you," Seokmin added. "Like her."
The room felt colder.
"If someone wants to target me, fine," Jiho said. "Leave her out of it."
"Can't do that," Seokmin replied calmly. "You did that the moment you let yourself be seen with her."
Jiho took a step forward.
Seokmin's gaze didn't waver. "Careful."
"Is that a threat?" Jiho asked.
"No," Seokmin said. "It's a fact. You know better than anyone that some names can't appear online. Not in certain contexts. Not next to certain rumors."
He didn't say Kang Group.He didn't say hidden son.He didn't have to.
"You're watching the cameras," Jiho said. It wasn't a question.
Seokmin tilted his head. "The council has access to certain security feeds. For safety, of course."
"And for leverage."
"That depends on who's asking," Seokmin replied. "And why."
Jiho's hands curled at his sides. "What do you want?"
Seokmin smiled, small and precise. "For now? I want you to understand something."
"Try me."
Seokmin's gaze sharpened.
"You were supposed to stay invisible," he murmured. "Whoever put you in Regular Track wanted you quiet. Background noise. A rumor, not a story."
Jiho's chest tightened.
Seokmin went on, voice steady. "When cameras catch you over and over with the same girl—defending her, standing too close, looking at her like she's the only real thing in the room—it stops being background noise. It becomes a narrative."
Jiho swallowed hard.
"So?" he forced out.
"So," Seokmin said, "some people don't like that narrative. They get… nervous. They use people like me to monitor it."
Jiho's skin prickled.
"Who's nervous?" he asked.
Seokmin didn't answer directly.
Instead, he tapped his fingers once on the table.
"You must have felt it already," he said quietly. "The shift. Teachers suddenly more interested. Administration calling students in. Your brother walking the Regular Track more often than usual."
Jiho's pulse thudded against his ribs.
Seokmin's gaze didn't soften. "You're not just a boy with attitude to them. You're a risk."
"And Hana?" Jiho asked.
"A casualty," Seokmin said. "If you're careless."
Jiho took another step forward, closing the distance between them until the edge of the table touched his hip.
"I'm not going to let that happen," he said.
Seokmin watched him calmly. "That depends on what you do next."
Silence thickened between them.
Jiho leaned in slightly. "Then tell whoever is 'nervous' they can stop using Hana to get to me. I'm right here."
"Brave," Seokmin said softly. "Or stupid."
"Maybe both."
For the first time, something like genuine amusement flickered in Seokmin's eyes.
"You really think you can shield her from this?" he asked.
"I have to," Jiho said.
Seokmin studied him.
Then he reached into a folder at his side and slid a printout across the table.
"Then you should see what you're dealing with."
Jiho looked down.
It was a still frame from a security camera.
He recognized the angle immediately—high, near the main gate, stamped with the school's logo in the corner.
Hana.Near the car.Jiwon.Standing across from her.
And, in the far edge of the frame, half-obscured by motion blur—
him.
Jiho.Watching from the shadow of the building.
His stomach dropped.
"Someone submitted this as part of a conduct concern," Seokmin said. "They're building a story about you."
"About me and Hana," Jiho said.
"Exactly."
"How did you get this?"
Seokmin smiled thinly. "Some of the staff don't like being used either. Information travels."
Jiho stared at the paper until his vision swam.
"And you?" he asked slowly. "Why show me this?"
"Because you still have a choice," Seokmin said. "For now."
"What kind of choice?"
"End this quietly," Seokmin replied, tone flat. "Stop standing near her. Stop being seen with her. Stop giving them reasons to connect your name and hers to anything… sensitive."
The words hit like a slap.
"You're asking me to abandon her," Jiho said.
"I'm telling you how to minimize damage," Seokmin corrected. "To both of you."
Jiho's throat burned.
"And if I don't?" he asked.
Seokmin held his gaze for a long moment.
"Then this goes higher," he said. "And people above me don't deal in warnings."
Jiho's fists flexed helplessly.
He hated this.
Hated the game, the cameras, the quiet threats wrapped in polite words.
But most of all, he hated that the logic made sense.
Walk away, and you might protect her.Stay close, and you drag her into something she can't escape.
He swallowed thickly. "Too late," he muttered.
"What?"
"She's already involved."
Seokmin studied him one last time. "Then I suggest you at least stop making it worse."
Jiho wanted to argue.Wanted to say he'd do anything but walk away.
Instead, he turned the printout over so he didn't have to see Hana's face in grainy black and white.
"Are we done?" he asked.
"For now," Seokmin said.
Jiho left without another word.
The Call
The hallway outside felt even brighter than before, every light too sharp, every reflection too clear. He walked with his head down, printout folded in his fist, trying not to think about what he'd just seen.
He made it to the stairwell before his phone buzzed again.
He almost ignored it.
Then he saw the sender.
Mr. Jung.
His father's secretary.
His chest clenched.
He opened the message.
"Jiho-ya. Report from school reached your father.He wants a meeting.Tonight."
The floor seemed to tilt under his feet.
A second message appeared.
"Do not leave campus early.The driver is on his way."
He leaned against the stairwell wall, eyes closing as the weight of those words settled over him.
They knew.Maybe not everything—but enough.
Enough to drag him out of hiding.
Enough to make Hana more than just a girl in the wrong place.
Enough to make him realize that the decision he'd made—to confront, to push, to step into the Elite building—had just lit a signal flare straight up to the very person he'd been trying to avoid.
His father.
Jiho slid down the wall until he was sitting on the cold step, staring at the message.
He'd wanted to act.
He'd wanted to protect her.
Instead, he'd just made it worse.
And tonight, he was going to pay for it.