The first time Woo Seul-gi stepped into Chaehwa Girls High School, she already looked like she was ready to punch the entire building.

Rumors moved faster than the girls in the hallway. Orphan. Psycho. Scholarship case. Easy target.

They cornered her by the lockers that afternoon, a group of rich girls with perfect hair and rotten mouths. Pills changed hands like candy in this school. Study drugs to ace impossible exams. Tiny white miracles. Seul-gi refused them.

She refused a lot of things.

When one girl shoved her shoulder, Seul-gi’s eyes went flat and mean. She looked like she was calculating how much blood would be worth the trouble.

That was when Yoo Jae-i stepped in.

The hallway went silent before she even spoke. Yoo Jae-i was the kind of pretty that made people forget their own sentences. Flawless skin, sharp eyes, posture like she owned gravity itself. She was the smartest student in Chaehwa, the untouchable top rank, the girl everyone wanted to sit beside, copy notes from, befriend, impress, or become.

Nobody ever succeeded.

“Get the hell away from her,” Jae-i said lightly.

The bullies scattered instantly.

Seul-gi stared at her like she was another problem to solve. “I didn’t need your help.”

Jae-i smiled wider. “I know.”

That was the beginning.

Everyone thought Yoo Jae-i had everything. Money. Grades. Influence. Beauty that turned heads without effort. But her house was a museum, not a home. Her parents were ghosts in expensive suits. They had hidden her older sister’s existence her whole life, faked her death before Jae-i could even remember her face.

That kind of betrayal twisted something inside a person.

Seul-gi recognized it. She grew up in an orphanage where affection came with conditions and fists. She knew what abandonment smelled like.

They started studying together. Then running schemes together.

Chaehwa’s pill network was bigger than anyone admitted. Students paying obscene amounts to guarantee perfect scores. Teachers pretending not to see. Jae-i hated the hypocrisy. Seul-gi hated being powerless.

So they burned it down quietly.

Jae-i handled the strategy. She was terrifyingly smart, moving pieces like a chess master. Seul-gi handled the execution. Breaking into lockers. Copying files. Threatening the right people with that unhinged glare that made them piss themselves.

They were good at it. Too good.

But when the pressure built too high, when the lies about her sister clawed at her chest and her parents’ cold indifference felt suffocating, Jae-i had one ugly habit.

She smoked.

Not openly. Never where the student council could see. Never where gossip could stain her perfect image. It was always on the rooftop after sunset, blazer draped over her shoulders, city wind tangling her hair as she lit the cigarette with steady fingers.

It was not about looking cool. It was about control. About watching the smoke leave her lungs and pretending the stress left with it.

The first time Seul-gi caught her, she didn’t say anything. Just leaned against the railing, arms crossed.

“That shit will kill you,” Seul-gi muttered.

Jae-i exhaled slowly, eyes distant. “So will my family.”

Seul-gi rolled her eyes but stepped closer anyway. “You don’t need it.”

“Maybe not.” Jae-i glanced at her, softer now. “But it helps.”

After that, Jae-i smoked less.

Not because anyone told her to. Not because she cared about rumors.

But because Seul-gi would quietly take the cigarette from her fingers and crush it under her shoe, scowling like she was offended by the smoke itself.

“Stress,” Jae-i would say.

“Bullshit,” Seul-gi would reply. “You have me. Use me instead.”

And Jae-i would laugh, low and genuine, something almost nobody else ever heard.

One evening, after exposing the top dealer and sending half the senior class into academic panic, Seul-gi got into a fight behind the gym. Some idiot thought he could grab her wrist and threaten her into silence.

She came back with split knuckles and fury vibrating off her skin.

Jae-i saw the blood and went cold. “Who.”