WHO IS THAT GIRL

Chapter 15: Fault Lines

By Thursday, the calm felt fake—like plastic wrapped over something spoiled.

Classes moved on. Teachers lectured. Pens scratched. But under it all ran a pulse Mirae could feel in her wrists: too quick, too loud, too close to breaking.

The first c***k showed up before first period.

The student council room sat at the end of the third-floor corridor, a glass-walled aquarium for the school’s most polished creatures. This morning, the blinds were half-drawn, hiding half-truths. Mirae would have passed it without a glance if a voice—low, amused, edged—hadn’t carried through the gap.

“Tell me again how you did it.”

Taewoo.

Mirae slowed without meaning to. Her footsteps softened.

Inside, Baek Taewoo lounged in a chair like he owned the place, one ankle resting over his knee, tie loose, uniform immaculate in a way that still looked careless. Opposite him, Seo Rihan stood by the table, sleeves buttoned, gaze cool, a stack of papers neat under his hand.

“I’m not in the business of lectures,” Rihan replied. “If you’re asking for a lesson, you’ll have to enroll formally.”

Taewoo’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You shut them up overnight. That takes power.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees, suddenly more intent. “Or fear.”

Rihan’s expression didn’t change. “Rules, Taewoo. Even wolves understand them.”

“Please,” Taewoo drawled, “you didn’t remind them of rules. You reminded them of who writes them.” He tapped a finger against the table, a soft, rhythmic threat. “You don’t like me touching what you think is yours.”

Mirae’s breath snagged. She couldn’t see Rihan’s face clearly from here, only his profile where the light hit his cheekbone like a blade.

“Nothing here is mine,” Rihan said, voice almost bored. “And I don’t touch what I can move from a distance.”

Taewoo laughed once, humorless. “You think pushing people around with rumors makes you clean? It makes you cowardly.”

“What you call cowardice,” Rihan said, sliding the top paper precisely a millimeter back into line, “I call efficiency.”

Taewoo stood. The chair legs scraped the floor, unpleasant and loud. “Then here’s a more efficient message. Let the whispers run. See if I care.”

Rihan lifted his gaze. “You don’t. She does.”

The room cooled by degrees.

Taewoo’s jaw flexed. “Watch your mouth.”

“I am watching,” Rihan said softly. “That’s the problem. Everyone is. You’ll back off because I can make you look worse than you already do. And if you don’t—” His voice barely changed, but it darkened. “—I will let them believe everything they are already ready to believe about you.”

For a heartbeat, it looked like Taewoo might lunge. Then his grin returned—slower, thinner, meaner.

“Careful, Rihan. You pull strings long enough, one will snap around your neck.”

He turned to go. When he reached the door, he paused, eyes flicking—just once—toward the narrow gap in the blinds where Mirae stood frozen, breath held.

She thought he’d say something. He didn’t. He pushed the door open and vanished into the corridor, his cologne fading like a dare.

Inside, Rihan didn’t look toward the blinds. He didn’t have to. He picked up the papers and stacked them again, edges precise, then said, calmly and clearly, “You can come in, Yoo Mirae.”

Mirae swallowed and slid the door open. The air changed the second she stepped over the threshold—brighter, colder. Rihan didn’t invite her to sit. He didn’t have to. There were only two people in the room, and somehow the space between them was crowded.

“You’re becoming predictable,” he said, not unkindly.

“In what way?” Her voice sounded steadier than she felt.

“You move toward exits. You stop by windows. You hide in silence but always choose angles with escape routes.” He studied her a beat, then nodded to the whiteboard behind him, its schedule crowded with boxes and arrows. “If you want to stop being moved, learn the map. Stand where the light makes people blink.”

Her fingers tightened around her bag strap. “Are you giving me directions now?”

“Advice,” he said. “You can ignore it.”

She hesitated. “Why did you say that to him? About me.”

“You heard,” Rihan replied, head tilting, “because you needed to. Your world keeps happening offstage. You should at least know who’s moving scenery.”

“I don’t want anyone moving anything,” she said quietly.

“That,” Rihan said, “is a luxury none of us here have.”

He set the papers down and, for the first time, smiled without coldness. “There’s an opening for volunteers for the midterm exhibition logistics. Front-facing, tedious, unavoidable. The kind of visibility that makes vultures bored.” He wrote a room number on a sticky note and slid it toward her with a fingertip. “If you want to look like you belong here, take something no one else wants and make it work.”

The door slid open again without a knock.

“Hyung,” came Harim’s voice, light but tight at the edges, “do you—I didn’t know you had someone—” He saw Mirae and stopped. “Oh.”

Rihan didn’t look surprised. “Your rehearsal schedule is on the desk. Take it. Yoo Mirae is leaving.”

Mirae took the note, unsure if it was an invitation or a trap. She sidestepped Harim in the doorway. He reached out instinctively, a half-motion, then let his hand drop.

“You okay?” he murmured.

“I’m fine,” she said, too quickly. “I’ll see you later.”

She walked out. Harim watched her go, then turned to Rihan, quiet anger simmering behind his smile.

“What are you doing?” he asked softly.

“Organizing,” Rihan said.

Harim’s laugh was short. “Organizing people or outcomes?”

“Both,” Rihan said. “Because here they’re the same.”

Harim shook his head. “Don’t make her another task on your board.”

“Then stop making her a crusade,” Rihan replied. “You won’t win it.”

Harim’s voice softened to something almost pleading. “She’s not something to win.”

Rihan didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The silence did it for him.

---

Mirae found the logistics office by accident and helpful signs. It sat behind the auditorium, a narrow room that smelled faintly of paper and dust, stacked with bins labeled with tape—PROGRAMS, NAME TAGS, CABLE TIES, DO-NOT-LOSE. A petite third-year with a neat bob looked up from a spreadsheet and blinked.

“Volunteer?” the girl asked.

Mirae nodded, holding out the sticky note like a passport.

“Good. We needed hands.” The girl’s tone warmed by degrees. “I’m Hwang Yuna. You’ll be with me this week. Can you sort the name badges by class, then cross-check against this list? If someone’s name is wrong, mark it with yellow. And if they don’t have a badge at all, mark it with… heartbreak.” She smiled, small and conspiratorial. “Kidding. Red.”

Mirae exhaled a laugh she didn’t expect. “Red. Got it.”

They worked in companionable silence. It was astonishing how restful it felt to move labels into lines, to turn chaos into tidy stacks. Names were strange power here. On the glossy plastic rectangles, they looked less like weapons.

Yuna glanced at Mirae’s hoodie but said nothing. “You’re new,” she said, not a question.

“Yes.”

“Don’t listen to them,” Yuna said, pen ticking boxes. “They talk about everyone.”

“Do they talk about you?” Mirae asked.

“All the time. ‘Yuna’s too quiet. Yuna’s too meticulous.’” She smiled without bitterness. “They think being careful is a flaw. It isn’t.”

Mirae’s shoulders unknotted by a degree. “It doesn’t look like one on you.”

Yuna’s eyes softened. “It doesn’t look like one on you either.”

In another life, Mirae would have cried at that. Here, she only breathed.

By the time the last stack was aligned, the afternoon had slid toward gold. Yuna gathered clips and wires like she was braiding a spine.

“Tomorrow,” Yuna said, “I’ll need someone to man the delivery entrance and check vendor passes. You’ll be alone for a bit. That okay?”

Alone sounded amazing. “Yes. That’s… fine.”

“Good.” Yuna scribbled an address on another note. “And if anyone tries to push around rules, call me. Or the council office.”

Mirae went still. “The council?”

Yuna shrugged. “Rihan runs this part too—well, he runs most things.” She grimaced. “But he’s efficient.”

Mirae tucked the note into her pocket. She didn’t know whether to be grateful or tired.

---

On her way out, she cut across the back courtyard, a shortcut lined with ginkgo trees whose leaves turned the light a new shade. The day had cooled. The sky held that temporary blue that always vanished too quickly.

“Busy, Hoodie Girl?”

She turned. Taewoo stood under a ginkgo branch, arms folded, expression tilted toward playful but pulled too tight at the corners.

“Don’t call me that,” she said, more firmly than she had in weeks.

He smiled. “What should I call you then?”

“Mirae.”

He rolled the name in his mouth like a test. “Mirae.”

For a moment, he looked different—less smirk, more boy. Then it broke.

“I hear you’re joining Logistics.” He clucked his tongue. “Thrilling. The glamorous world of extension cords.”

“It’s work someone has to do,” she said.

He stepped closer. “Or it’s hiding. You always pick the back doors.”

“I like quiet places.”

“Then why,” Taewoo asked, head tilting, “are you in the loudest game in the school?”

She didn’t answer.

He watched her for a beat that stretched too long. “Rihan muzzled everyone for you. He thinks that makes you safer. He’s wrong.” He leaned against the tree, gaze lifting to the leaves. “Silence doesn’t keep wolves out. It just makes them hungrier.”

“Is that what you are?” she asked softly. “A wolf?”

His grin returned, tired at the edges. “Depends who’s asking.”

“I’m not asking,” she said. “I’m telling you to leave me alone.”

“Say please.”

“No.”

He laughed, surprised. “There you are.” He pushed off the tree. “Fine. I’ll leave you alone today. But don’t mistake distance for defeat.”

He sauntered past her. When she thought he was gone, his voice drifted back, lighter, colder. “Be careful at the delivery entrance tomorrow. Some doors bring the wrong people.”

She turned; he was already gone.

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