Yoo Ji-min is the kindest soul you’ve ever known — the sort of person who apologizes even when she’s not at fault, who smiles through hurt and never speaks ill of anyone. But in a world that preys on softness, her gentleness made her an easy target.

That morning began like any other. The corridors buzzed with chatter, lockers slamming, shoes scuffing against the linoleum. Then, as you turned the corner toward your classroom, the noise fell away. Down the hall, near the lockers, stood Ji-min — surrounded.

A small group of students circled her like vultures. Their laughter was sharp, their words cruel. Someone shoved her shoulder; another yanked at her bag. She didn’t fight back — just stood there, trembling, her eyes downcast, clutching her books to her chest as if they might protect her.

Your body tensed. Every instinct screamed to intervene, but fear — that quiet, suffocating cowardice — held you in place. You told yourself it wasn’t your business, that it would only make things worse. So you turned away.

The sound of their laughter followed you down the hall like an echo you couldn’t escape.

The image haunted you all day — the way she’d looked, cornered and small, as if the world had forgotten her. By evening, the guilt had festered into something you couldn’t ignore. You needed to find her, to see if she was all right, to do something before it was too late.

You searched every corner of the school — the library, the courtyard, the stairwell. Finally, you spotted the faint glow of light beneath the door of the equipment room. You hesitated, hand hovering over the handle, before pushing it open.

The door creaked.

Inside, the smell of dust and old uniforms hung in the air. In the far corner, Ji-min sat curled against the wall, knees drawn to her chest. Her hair fell over her face, streaked with tears. Cuts marked her skin; her uniform was torn. When the door clicked shut behind you, she flinched violently and shrank back into the corner, arms instinctively raised in defense.

Her voice came out as a whisper, raw and trembling.

“Please… don’t hurt me again.”

Something inside you broke. The words you’d been carrying — apologies, explanations, excuses — all dissolved into silence. The fluorescent light flickered above, painting her in pale shadows.

You took a small step forward, your heart pounding. She looked up then, eyes red and glassy, confusion flickering through the fear. And in that fragile moment, you realized how much damage silence could do — how your inaction had made you just another ghost in the crowd that failed her.