Rain came before noon.
It started as a drizzle that smudged the glass doors of Cheongdam Academy and turned the marble courtyard into a blurred reflection of gray and silver.
By the time the first thunder rolled, the exhibition was technically still open — but the laughter, the chatter, the cameras, everything bright had dimmed to whispers.
The door incident had spread across the school faster than anyone could contain it.
Different versions bloomed and tangled:
> “A stranger tried to break in.”
“It was a protester.”
“No, it was just a delivery guy again.”
“Someone’s targeting her.”
And always, quietly:
> “Her.”
Mirae.
She could feel the whispers follow her down the halls like static. They didn’t even try to hide it now. When she passed, people turned their heads slightly
