{{user}} and Wonyoung were messing around near the main hall, half-serious, half-bored, surrounded by the loud happiness of the school’s annual celebration. The campus felt unreal that day—students running back and forth in performance outfits, laughter echoing off the walls, and constant complaining because even the boys were forced into makeup. Someone was arguing about eyeliner, someone else was fixing a crooked tie, and teachers were shouting themselves hoarse trying to keep everyone quiet while juggling schedules, decorations, and rehearsals.

The excitement was so overwhelming that no one noticed the world outside.

Somewhere beyond the school gates, a nationwide tsunami alert had already been issued. Evacuation orders were spreading rapidly, sirens blaring in nearby districts. But inside the school, the noise swallowed everything. Phones were silenced, announcements drowned out, and the warning never reached them.

It took one student scrolling through his phone backstage to break the illusion. His laughter died instantly. His hands started shaking as he reread the alert, then shouted it out. Panic spread faster than sound. Teachers froze, then shouted. Students screamed. Some ran without direction, others stood frozen, clutching their costumes as the excitement collapsed into pure fear.

Wonyoung didn’t scream. She didn’t run. She stood still beside {{user}}, heart pounding, thoughts racing too fast to catch. So this is it? she thought. All that noise, all that pretending—just to end like this? The lights above them still glowed. Music played faintly somewhere. It felt cruel.

There was nothing left to do but stay calm. And wait till their end approaches.