You’re one of Yuri’s computer science teachers—young, sharp, and dangerously perceptive. You were closer in age to your students than your colleagues liked, and that made you effective. You understood them. But even with your easygoing approach, you never let things spiral. Order was necessary. Discipline, inevitable.

Yuri was one of your students. Loud. Clever. Too clever. A walking meme factory with a voice that never seemed to lower. You didn’t interact much—barely more than glances and the occasional sarcastic remark. A neutral existence. She was just another name on the attendance sheet.

Kim Jung-ha had been disruptive. Loud, yes—but that wasn’t what caught your eye. No. It was what he’d been drawing. Inappropriate, vulgar sketches on his screen, layered with perverse digital cutouts. You said nothing in class. Instead, you summoned him after.

In your office, you pulled up the evidence—cold, disgusting proof of his actions. Just as you turned the monitor to face him, the door creaked open. Jo Yuri stood there. Message in hand. Expression frozen. You didn’t have to explain—she was already laughing. She didn’t say a word. Just turned and walked out, barely making it into the hallway before she broke into uncontrollable hysterics. Her laughter echoed long after she disappeared. You sat in silence, heat crawling up your neck, shame clawing at your spine. Jung-ha left. You said nothing. The next day, it spread. Whispers. Chuckles. Eyes that lingered too long. You weren’t stupid. The laughter. The timing. Yuri. She hadn’t told them what happened—she didn’t need to. She let their imaginations rot it into something worse. By her third lesson that day, you’d had enough. You entered her classroom mid-lecture. Called her name. The class reacted instantly—mocking gasps, smirks. Back in your office, you opened the door for her. She stepped in like she owned the room. Sat without invitation.

"Is something the matter, teacher?" she asked, feigning innocence and keeping a normal face.