Chapter 1: prologue & intro
Chapter Text
kiss the knife
let it scar
★
Geum Seongje couldn't be loved . Only managed .
So she hid the muzzle Na Baek Jin slipped over his mouth,
and fastened a collar around his throat.
★
"She knows which of them will swing first. Knows which will bleed quietest."
☆
독다라
Dok Dara
(Shin Ye Eun)
금성제
Geum Seong-je
(Lee Jun Young)
백민지
Baek Minji
김혜아
Kim Hyeol-a
담민수
Dam Minsu
(Park Solomon)
강대현
Kang Daehyun
(Seo Jihoon)
나백진
Na Baek-jin
(Bae Na-Ra)
독연희
Dok Yeonhee
(Han Hyo Joo)
박후민
Park Hu‑Min ''Baku''
(Ryeoun)
연시은
Yeon Si‑Eun
(Park Ji‑Hoon)
고현탁
Go Hyuntak ''Gotak''
(Lee Min-Jae)
서준태
Seo Jun‑Tae
(Choi Min‑Young)
안수호
Ahn Su‑Ho
(Choi Hyun‑Wook)
도성목
Do Seong‑Mok
(Yoon Jong‑Bin)
백동하
Baek Dong‑Ha
(Lee Myeong‑Ro)
rest of the official whc2 cast as themselves.
Chapter 2: act I
Chapter Text
The weight of the world on your shoulders.
★
DOK DORA is the middle child of three sisters.
Their life is good.
Dora runs for her school, places nationwide in exams, works at an electronics shop, and tutors underclassmen in English. An overachiever on all levels, ticking the little boxes next to the desirable titles for her future curriculum vitae that would say: sporty, smart, social, hardworking. She is in her final year. Her all-girls' high school is marked for excellence both in sports and studies.
Her older sister Yeonhee is a prosecutor, with a gruesome schedule too taxing for the only guardian of two teenage sisters with no other relatives to speak of.
Suhee has found the love of her life, despite being stuck with cram school after hours, unlike Dara.
However, the attention of the gang consisting of high school delinquents proves to be a bigger threat than hallway teenage drama.
Silly boys with their pathetic pissing contests. Eunjang. Yeo-il. Hyeongshin. Ganghak. Daehyun. Yoosun.
It played right into her hands that nobody looked twice at an all-girls high school.
Until Dara made the abrupt decision to transfer into the prestigious Byuksan High, leaving behind the relative safety of Yeongwon.
Finding herself in the middle of high school conspiracies and schemes led by the Union itself, it does not take long for Dara to meet its biggest predator on retainer.
But one did not meet Geum Seong-je. You survived him.
No one had ever seen him lose. When they say his name, it is barely even a whisper. The Wolf of The Union.
In her world, he just exists as a name, as if a missing person report, a woman with flawless makeup and proper manners would announce gravely on morning news, a minute or two dedicated to someone with no relation to her.
Not a martially gifted boy and a student her age. A presence, a warning. A declaration that exclaimed: This can be you, join the Union now! A warped idol for delinquents. It's a carefully crafted neon sign that says beware and apply now both at the same time.
She has no reason to tangle their fates together.
——At least, she didn't.
☆
Chapter Text
001. Stray
[strey] / streɪ /
noun
1. a domestic animal found wandering at large or without an owner.
2. any person or animal who is homeless or friendless.
3. a person or animal that strays.
When she was nine, her dad had a Belgian Malinois.
Although she can't remember its name now, the dog was unforgettable with its deep eyes and the unwavering stare that bore into its owner's figure at all times. A mean dog. One that required exercise every day for long hours, tireless and relentless. It's enjoyment of running free was what made Dara in her childhood faster than others her age. The dog would run after her, near her, at her, for her. Her dad would watch from afar, his own no match for the energy of a working breed dog and a child that not yet learnt her limits.
Dara remembers running, but not many of the answers to the whys.
Was she running because she loved it, or was she running because she was afraid the dog would catch her?
The bright smear of red on a white fur, the alley cat loose-limbed and stiff. It's barking, the same red around the maw. Fangs that never touched her skin were gleaming. Dara brought out a bowl of milk, which usually started a chorus of meows from the stray. Her favorite. But the red dripping, dripping, dripping. The milk is pink. The cute cat is cold.
When her father died, the dog broke the chain that contained him to the garden, then, to nobody's surprise, went around the neighborhood looking for him. The dog never found him, of course. Hours before he escaped, her dad's bones were already dusted into ash, and the funeral was held.
Dara recalls hating the yukgaejang, the spicy broth burning her tongue, stinging her eyes. Realizing she was on the verge of tears, Yeonhee had quickly swapped her soup for rice.
Nothing good happened to unowned beasts, however, so when the local shelter found it and slipped on a tighter chain around its neck, it didn't go quietly. When Dara and her sisters found out that they had put the dog to sleep after continuous aggressive behavior towards its caretakers, in which a man was left with a mangled hand and a leg shattered in five different places, it had been three days too late.
Dogs were dangerous. They had to know who they belonged to with constant reminders, or they would bite the hand that fed them.
It was in their nature to be violent. Why else would they be born with fangs and claws?
Dara lowers the bowl in her hand, plastic and flimsy, like all things destined to end up in a trash can at the end. She never once breaks eye contact with the stray dog across her, not in the mood to take risks and end up with a bite on a school night.
The mutt pants up at her with a lolling tongue. This one loved to prowl the streets where the traffic was low enough to be nonexistent, and the shops located were in the business of serving food. Dara was also one of the people who was easier to trick with bright eyes and a goofy grin, which is why she now holds the leftovers of her dinner in the white spongy plastic container, about to offer it.
The stray loves the rice and chicken, it seems.
Dara gets back up, the cool breeze traveling through the escaped strands at her neck. The heater at the store had been broken for three weeks, which made the inside colder than the outside, as it was located in the half-basement of a dingy two-floor apartment with a cramped rooftop. For all her love for cold weather, it made her reluctant to head back down.
The work was slow today. Nothing had happened, except for a shifty middle schooler coming with his mother's phone to replace the cracked screen. Dara had done as the boy requested, not even bothering to fling interrogation questions concealed as small talk. The kid watched her with brightening eyes as she efficiently replaced the glass, and at the very end, thanked her with the air of an easily impressed youth, calling her noona and bowing five times before paying and scampering out in his padded jacket.
She leans her back to the biting cold bricks of the building, exhaling over and over to stimulate the hazy white smoke in the air. Being made of warm breath, it dissipated too quickly for her liking. She itched for a smoke.
Her phone rings, the ringtone quiet, as she sets it to three percent of volume as usual. It is generic, unlike the girls in her class who always seem to change it to whatever catchy tune they liked that week.
The screen lights up with an already saved contact: Mr. Jun - PC Bang.
Dara lets it ring four times before accepting the call. ''Ah, yes. Hello?''
"Hello, Dara? It's the PC Cafe 3pop owner." Mr. Jun sounds frazzled. "Ah, we've run out of spare keyboards here... By any chance, do you still have that broken keyboard you took with you to fix in the shop last time?"
Dara tilts her head to the side, humming as if recalling it. "Ah, the one with the stuck keys? Yes, it's still in the storage room, sir."
Jun heaves out a relieved sigh. "Could you please bring it here? We don't have any keyboards to replace the broken one with right now, so it's urgent.''
''Sure,'' Dara answers easily. ''But, Mr. Jun.. What happened to make it break? If it can be salvaged, I'll bring the repair tools as well.''
''Some kid again,'' the man dismisses her, as if she wouldn't notice the way he stopped before answering just now. A soldier walking out to a field of mines. ''You know how it is with high school boys, emotions fly high at that age. No need to repair it, Dara, I'll just... throw it away.''
''You'd think they've never lost a game before," she said, more out of an effort to continue the joke.
She is aware of the correlation between high school students and violence more than anyone would expect.
Mr. Jun sighs. "You'd think."
''I'll be there in ten minutes.''
A flood of thanks escapes the man on the other end of the line, sounding more like a man at the end of his rope rather than a business owner with a request to replace the broken keyboard as fast as possible. Dara swipes a finger across the screen of her phone, letting the call disconnect and the light die.
Her wait had been rewarded.
She pushes away from the wall, dusting off her jeans. The keys of the store were already safe in her jacket pocket, which was grey with navy lines, thrown over a simple black shirt from her tracksuit. Byuksan High School, it read, in a small enough font for the onlooker to focus on in order to read it. She picks up the reusable bag from where it dangled off the door handle, the spare keyboard inside.
Dara leaves the deserted alley and the stray behind to make her way to the PC Bang.
No time to warm her lungs with deathsticks, it seemed.
Work awaited Dok Nara.
☆
The building where high school students who have nothing better to do linger in groups after getting out when the last bell rings has a cramped entrance. Two steps rise to the door hall, ridden with stickers and flyers of advertisements, with video game characters peppered between it all, black paint chipping off around the edges of the old wood.
Those steps that usually seated packs of boys with sprawled figures and gangly long legs that were stuck between the period of nearly transforming into an adult and still staying a teenager formed a sort of rest stop for a generation caught in that limbo.
The streetlamp Dok Dara stood under, buzzing faintly, its glow holding back the night. Outside the neon-lit PC cafe, the air buzzed too, thick with the restless energy of kids who had nothing better to do. The sign above the door glared in ugly green: 3pop: No.1 PC CAFE, like a lighthouse for boys who lived more inside screens than out here in the real world.
A line of them curled from the doorway, lazy and uneven, their breath hanging in the cold. Backpacks sagged off shoulders, hoodies pulled up against the chill—uniforms for a club nobody meant to join. One kid stood slumped against the wall, his hood shadowing his face, the faded JUST DO IT on his sleeve looking more like a joke than a motto. Another leaned in, muttering something low, the streetlamp catching just the edge of his grin.
No students are being extorted for their lunch money this time around, thankfully.
Near the entrance, where the café's orange-red walls swallowed the light from passing cars, the real crowd had gathered. A broad-shouldered guy in a red windbreaker lounged in the doorway like a bored bouncer, arm slung around his lanky friend, who scrolled through his phone like none of this mattered. The rest draped themselves over the steps like they owned the place—legs stretched out, backs against the concrete, kings of nothing. Some traded half-hearted jokes; others just stared into the distance, watching for something that wasn't coming.
Off to the side, a kid in a red-and-white jacket leaned against the wall with practiced cool, DON'T WASTE YOUR ENERGY blaring across his chest. Funny, in a crowd that seemed built on wasted time. She would bet none of these boys were gifted in English enough to rank nationally, not like her, but still insisted on wearing clothes with cool quotes and mottos, as if waving around high-end brands enough times would ultimately make them gain some of that coolness they dreamed of.
The air smelled faintly of exhaust smoke and late-night ramen, damp concrete, and city grime. Beneath it all, the silence of something unspoken hummed like low static. This was not quite a gang, not quite a brotherhood. Just a gathering of boys on the verge of something. Something violent. Something tragic. Or perhaps nothing at all.
But she could see the quiet understanding that they were all in the business of waiting in their arrogant gazes.
Before entering the building, Dara lets her check her phone for any new notifications. Nothing, aside from seven new messages from her group chat with Minji and Hyeol-a.
baek minji
you guys hear the news?
han sooji's new boyfriend beat up another boy from eunjang
kim hyeol-a
fucking hell
let sooji know which fucker is toting the reddest flag around
dara, didn't you bet about it?
baek minji
lol high school students and violence?
she knows the math by heart
Dara taps the screen to make the keyboard appear.
dok dara
still working.
i'll see you both tomorrow morning.
Dara swipes out of the app, her eyes catching the time at the upper corner. Eight minutes since her call with Mr. Jun. She stashes away her phone in her jacket pocket, zipping it up to avoid the device falling out to its demise.
When she nears, nearly all the boys' heads pick up, like bugs startled into action by the presence of a bigger figure encroaching on their territory. Few recognise her, probably from the other instances where Dara had to work as a repair hotline for the owner. Maybe she helped them fix the lag on their computers. Maybe she gave a hand when one accidentally deleted an important program or pushed the wrong button in a fit of gamer rage. One or two waved a hand, giving a casual hello. Some nudged their friends, as if to say Look, a girl.
Before picking her way from the labyrinth they created among their sprawled out legs, she nods, a recognition more than a hello. The presence of their gazes almost lets her curl a hand into a fist— almost.
The door clicks shut behind her. She blinks once, letting her eyes adjust to the neon-soaked interior.
Games flicker in every computer, gunshots, explosions, fantasy characters running toward something, or away from something else. Somewhere behind the front desk, the owner, Mr. Jun, was talking quietly into a phone, half-buried in papers and instant coffee cups.
Dara waits. No one notices her.
Most of the boys were glued to their screens, shadows half-lit in blue, their faces pale and unbothered, like they hadn't moved in hours. She steps lightly between the rows, her shoes barely making a sound on the rubber-tiled floor.
Mr. Jun waves her over finally, mutters a rushed thank you for showing up, then disappears behind the staff door, still holding the phone to his ear. She was left standing in the small clearing between seat rows, her hands tightening around the sleeves of her jacket.
That's when Dara looks at him.
Tucked into the farthest row in front of the labelled smoking room, the kind of spot you only pick if you don't want to be bothered by those coming through the entrance, a bespectacled boy sits amongst students attending the same school, as evident from their maroon uniforms. Ganghak.
He does not move much. Just his fingers, tapping keys with a quiet precision. His chair is angled back just enough to touch his chin to his chest. A crumpled soda can sits abandoned beside the keyboard, half-flattened. A phone next to it buzzes, once, twice; the screen flashing against the desk. He doesn't touch it.
Dara knows she is staring. She isn't sure why. Maybe it is the way his figure relaxes back like a lazy predator, like someone existing beyond the planes of reality in life. Maybe it was the other students around him, lining the two rows like obedient little soldiers, that even in the hum of the room, he seemed separate from. Untouched. Feared that if she interpreted those minuscule glances thrown his way now and then, as if afraid to set him off, scared of being on the receiving end of their ire.
Dara averts her gaze. Despite herself, she finds it sad.
The fear and apprehension do not make him wanted. It makes him alone.
Mr. Jun reappears, quieter now, drying his hands on a paper towel. He motions her toward the counter, and as she passes in front of that corner desk, where flung off keycaps smeared with something red are scattered above the desk in every direction, she feels it, the barest shift of attention.
Awareness.
The boy must have looked up, Dara thinks. Just for a second. Like someone who saw everything, then chose to acknowledge none of it. His attention burns the print at the back of her jacket, and her neck prickles with nerves.
That gaze.
Just there. A knife is balanced on the edge of a table.
Notes:
It's been a long while since a fictional character inspired me in such a way. I can't believe what made me return here after all these years is an action kdrama about high school bullying. I blame binge-watching the series last week in one sitting, which made me obsessed with the characters and particularly the plot of the second season.
Although the narrative does not deeply explore Geum Seong-je’s world or delve into the intricacies of his machinations, leaving his motivations somewhat ambiguous for the watcher, I still found him to be the most potentially nuanced fictional character.
Seong-je only exists in a world of others. We only see him while interacting with the rest of the characters, with a personality built around the main characters to usher the plot along, a perfect antagonist that leaves the watchers starved for more.
So, no wonder I wanted to sink my teeth in and analyse him like a rat in a lab by creating an OC solely for him to see how he would react.
English is not my native language, but I'll do my best to do it justice, however I can.
Some passages of writing may be awkward. I tend to over-describe and embellish the scenes too much, so the writing ends up too wordy with a saddening lack of dialogue. All in due time, though! Everything is intentional on my part. I also used to write action sequences a lot in my youth, so you can look forward to that if you're into that sort of thing.
This work will be posted on Wattpad as well, though I would advise you guys to read there if you like visually rich chapters, as I added a few moodboards and fake Instagram accounts of the characters.
I also made a Pinterest board to inspire myself and a Spotify playlist to listen to on repeat while writing this. After editing, I plan to give the links to it here so that you may also have a look at them.
This story contains intense depictions of violence, bullying, and psychological distress, in line with the tone of Weak Hero Class. Reader discretion is advised, especially for those sensitive to themes of abuse or trauma. Please take care while reading.
Last but not least, please take a bit of time to read every Author's Note section, as I will be explaining some points if the text proves to be ambiguous at first.
Comments and constructive criticism are always appreciated, but if you have nothing kind to say, don't even attempt to type it out.
Thank you for reading.
—Starling x
Chapter Text
002. Smoke
[smohk] / smoʊk /
noun
1. the visible vapor and gases given off by a burning or smoldering substance, especially the gray, brown, or blackish mixture of gases and suspended carbon particles resulting from the combustion of wood, peat, coal, or other organic matter.
2. something unsubstantial, evanescent, or without result.
3. an obscuring condition.
4. an act or spell of smoking something, especially tobacco.
"Yah, isn't this the second time something like this happened?"
Laughter. Loud, uninhibited.
"Is this school cursed or what?"
It's always fascinating to see what kind of traumatic events high school students manage to make fun of without experiencing any lingering sympathy for the people involved.
Dara's hands tingle throughout. She manufactures many excuses for the talkers because she can't take their lighthearted conversations to heart; perhaps it was how they dealt with their shock in response.
"Crazy how another student in their first year also landed in a coma this year."
"Coma? Wasn't she awake, though?"
"Oh yeah, that's right!" The boy nudges the other one in the arm. "You should've seen it yourself, man. Nothing happened, nobody even touched her. She just dropped like a rock. Just bam— went down like her strings were cut off. Her eyes were open all the time."
"Man," The third one huddles further into his jacket, shivering from the cold wind that sweeps across the tracks. "That's fucking freaky."
"You think she was sick in the head or what?"
"No idea." The first one again. "Maybe she forgot to take her crazy meds."
They laugh. Again.
Again and again and again, the sounds are like the mind-numbing static of a greyscale television.
Dara lets the conversation wash over her like a cold shower while stretching to make sure her muscles cool down properly. Not waking up stiff the next morning has always been her motivation to avoid skipping the process.
Now that they had changed the subject, her eyes wandered towards the steps that climbed high, a fake rock surface that offered an occasional seat to tired limbs, and a diagonal colosseum that would be overcrowded with the audience on the sports day.
They find the group immediately, hard to miss such cruel mouths belonging to the boys who think themselves above any tragedy. Nam and Byun from classes 1-3, Hong from 1-6. Their first names elude her.
Sometimes, the school feels more like an escape room fashioned to let adolescents express their cruelty without limit.
In her worst moods, she let herself imagine it was the upbringing they had. It made her feel better, less prone to doing something she would later find that crossed the line. No matter what, Dara clung to her morals firmly.
A human was a moral animal. Without it, they were just animals.
"Oh, sunbaenim!" Hong, who noticed her walking towards her sports bag, gives a shallow bow from where he was sitting. "You must be done running."
His two friends look more shy, befitting their status as first years. He must remember her from the track and field team, overseeing potential recruits on their first gym days. He was one of the promising ones: until Kang Daehyun caught him smoking behind the bleachers. It led to the said team captain firmly rejecting his application. Daehyun hated smokers with a burning passion, not to mention the legalities of underage and sportsmanship rules.
"You're even faster than last time."
She slows to a stop, wiping sweat from her brow. "Aren't classes over? Are you guys supposed to be here?"
Hong tilts his chin, the picture of innocence. "Just enjoying the weather, sunbaenim."
A breeze ruffles the fabric of his rolled-up sleeve. The glint of a lighter peeks out before he adjusts, smooth and deliberate.
Dara's eyes narrow. Still smoking, then.
Before she can say anything else, another voice cuts through the air, cold, controlled.
"Hong Junmyeon."
Kang Daehyun is at the edge of the track, arms crossed. He wasn't yelling. He didn't have to.
His gaze flicks to Dara for half a second, just long enough for something unspoken to tighten in his jaw, before locking onto Junmyeon.
"You were told not to loiter near practice." Daehyun steps closer, his voice dropping to something low and dangerous. "You know the school's policy on disciplinary records, don't you? Especially for students on academic probation."
A flicker of tension crosses Junmyeon's face.
Dara blinks at the sudden confrontation happening in front of her.
Daehyun continues, calm as ice. "One more infraction, and you're not just off the team. You're out of this school." He leans in slightly. "Do you want to test that?"
Junmyeon looks unsettled. His friends had gone completely still.
Dara expects defiance, a smirk, something from the too smug first years, but Junmyeon just exhales through his nose and clambers to his feet, brushing invisible dust from his uniform. "Right. Got it, sunbaenim."
Daehyun watches him go, with the other first years right on his heels, expression unreadable, before turning to Dara.
He hesitates when he meets her already expectant gaze, then says stiffly, "You shouldn't talk to him."
Dara raises an eyebrow. "Why? Because he smokes?"
"Because he's trouble."
"You're not the coach, Daehyun-ah. Since when do you care who I talk to?"
Daehyun's expression doesn't change, but something flickers in his eyes, something she can't quite place.
Then he turns away. "Just be careful."
Kang Daehyun was the kind of guy who stood out without trying. Tall and lean, with the natural athletic build of someone who ran track but didn't obsess over the gym. His dark hair was usually a little messy, like he couldn't be bothered to style it properly, and his school uniform was always neat but not overly pressed; just presentable enough to avoid teacher complaints.
People listened when Daehyun spoke, because something in his calm presence made you want to.
Dara watches him walk off, before turning away herself.
☆
"Hey," Baek Minji calls out, her silver charmed bag hitched high on her shoulder, matching the bracelets she wears on her wrists.
Her hair is down from the high ponytail she favors during the day. She wears a leather jacket over her uniform shirt, which is fully open to reveal a graphic t-shirt under it. A habit she developed in her first year, after telling her just how much the uniform made her look standard
Dara steals a glance at the design, which features a badly scribbled black cat. Fitting.
"Are you done?" Minji asks, eyeing her track and field outfit.
It makes Dara chuckle. "Don't worry, I am."
"Finally!" Minji let out a cheer, throwing her arms around Dara after skipping forward. "No more school, please!"
"You had a mock test today, right?" Dara grabs her bag off the floor, throwing her metal bottle inside after making sure she twisted the cap tightly.
Minji sobers up, suddenly dead serious. "I wasn't made to work hard."
Dara hums an agreement, now heading towards the gates, dragging her alongside. "I'm so tired, too."
Minji whines, bangs over her eyes, and flops in every direction. Dara can see the way her mascara clumped some of her eyelashes together, the way her eye makeup ran, probably from the way she rubbed them to release at least some tension during the test.
"Did you text Hyeol-a?" Dara asks, making no move to detach from her.
Minji nods. "She's waiting for us at the gates." Then tilts her head to watch her face better. "How was yesterday?"
"Good," Dara answers. "The owner called."
"Had any issues?"
She smiles at her. "It went perfectly."
Dara can see the way Minji's eyes gleamed with satisfaction at that. If there was one thing she appreciated, it was the strategy they built to be flawless, going down without a hitch.
Out of the three of them, Baek Minji was the one with a delicately curated life; every Instagram post, every video, every offhand remark in the hallways polished until it gleamed. She knew the exact angle to tilt her head for photos, the right amount of laugh to sound carefree but not obnoxious, even the way to let her uniform skirt ride just a fraction higher when she knew certain eyes were watching.
But curation came at a cost. There were nights she stayed up until 3 a.m. Deleting and re-editing a single story post because the lighting made her mouth look wrong. There were lunch periods spent hunched in a bathroom stall, scrolling through comments that dissected her posts like it was some kind of forensic evidence. And there was the gnawing, constant fear that one misstep, one unflattering candid, one awkward reply, would unravel everything.
All the others thought she was lucky. Famous. Untouchable.
Dara knows the truth: Baek Minji was just the best at hiding what the real her was doing.
Before they can converse any further, their gazes catch the blonde figure down at the gates, surrounded by a few students, all of them male. The third member of their friend group almost shines under the cloudless sky, with a speckless white uniform and the dye job allowed in the all-girls high school Dara used to attend last year.
Kim Hyeol-a was beautiful in the way a cosplayer was beautiful, striking, deliberate, but never quite natural. Her eyeliner was always sharp enough to look tattooed, her lips stained the perfect gradient of cherry pink, and her hair fell in silky waves that looked effortless but took an hour to style each morning. She moved through everyday life like she was walking onto a stage, every step practiced, every smile timed just right.
The girl they were seeing was a character. A role.
Next to her, Minji scoffs loudly. The roll of her eyes makes it obvious just how much she despises simple-minded boys who turned into grasshoppers the moment they spotted a pretty girl. She shares a look with Dara, which makes her shake her head and quicken her steps.
"Yah, Kim Hyeol-a!" Minji waves to get her attention.
It makes the girl talking to the group pause, and lift her head to scan her surroundings to see who called her name. Pupils hidden by grey lenses, spot them fast.
Dara lifts a hand as well.
Kim Hyeol-a smiles, easy and bright, the same one she practiced in the mirror until it looked effortless. Dara knows her well, twhichreason why the smiles and cheerfulness come easily to her.
Kim Hyeol-a knows the rules of a popular high school girl: never stop moving, never let them see you check your reflection, and always keep your voice just loud enough to be overheard.
After all, those were the ones she and Dara sat down together to create.
Hyeol-a detaches fast from the crowd, giving no mind to the disappointed faces around her. She comes to a stop in front of them, swaying back and forth on her feet like a kid on a sugar rush.
"Oh my," She gasps when finishing her inspection of them. "Two of you need to get a good cup of coffee."
Minji grumbles. "I make good coffee, and I still can't deal with school."
"Unnie, you especially look like a hot mess."
"Thank you, Hyeol-ah."
The younger girl side eyes her. "That wasn't a compliment."
☆
The park across the food stall is nearly overcrowded, with a sea of maroon uniforms and backpacks, of students spilling out from school like ants from a kicked-over nest. Some cluster around picnic tables, shoving tteokbokki into their mouths between laughs, while others lean against the railings, phone out, snapping selfies.
A boy from the Ganghak accidentally bumps into her, and Dara watches as Minji flashes him a smile that makes his ears turn red before she's already turning away, leaving him stammering.
Hyeol-a sits on the edge of the fountain, picking at her glitter-studded nail job. She watches Minji's performance with a smirk, knowing the game too well. Meanwhile, near the trash bins, Dara, always the observer, never the participant, silently takes it all in, her fingers tapping against her digicam screen.
Dara doesn't take pictures of things. She takes pictures of the spaces between them. The way shadows pool under the food stall awning. The way steam from the tteokbokki curls like a ghost before vanishing. Hyeol-a's shadow reflected on the water, Minji's dark strands of hair fluttering behind her with the flow of movement.
Her friends play the scene out well, Hyeol-a jumps from place to place, from pose to pose like an excited bird hopping on its feet. Minji is more reserved, a smile here and there, a cool peace sign thrown between; all Instagram famous poses that show off her outfit perfectly. They make a good contrast against each other despite the ruckus they were causing, blonde against dark, the usual happiness and carefree attitude of girls on the cusp of adulthood.
At some point between wandering close to the food stalls and putting down the camera to take the picture of all three with the backdrop of trees, her finger pauses over the shutter button.
Minji detangles her arm from Hyeol-a's grip. "Who wants food?"
It is like a password keyed into some invisible system. Hyeol-a gets excited again. "Are you paying, unnie?"
Minji doesn't falter. "Obviously," she says, like it's nothing, like the offer isn't planned.
"Extra spicy, please," Hyeol-a says, already turning away, now crowding close to Dara as she flicks through the pictures they took, shoulder pressing against hers as she flicks through the digicam's tiny screen.
"Ohh. This one's good," she says, tapping a shot of the food stall. Blurred steam, the sharp lines of the boy's profile caught mid-bite, his dead-eyed stare just visible through the haze.
Dara hums, noncommittal. "It's not bad."
Hyeol-a snorts. "This digicam is so cute, unnie. Keep your windows open at night, okay?"
"No tteokbokki for me, Minji-ah." Dara interrupts, loud enough to carry. "Just a fish cake."
Minji nods, fake solemn and mischievous. "As you command, young miss."
As usual, she performs as she orders, leaning just a little too far over the counter, laughing a little too brightly at the ajumma's gruff response.
Only then, when she's sure she won't be caught, does Minji slide her gaze towards Geum Seongje.
The Wolf of the Union sits slouched on the rickety stool, one elbow propped on the bent knee of his spread legs. It is the kind of posture that claims space without permission. His maroon school jacket hangs open despite the chill, the sleeves shoved up to reveal those telltale bruised knuckles: split skin over bone, the kind of damage that came from faces meeting fists too often.
He eats with mechanical disinterest, chopsticks moving between the cardboard container and his mouth without hurry. His eyes, flat, dark, utterly devoid of the laughter echoing around the park, scan the crowd with the boredom of a predator tolerating lesser creatures. The two lackeys jostling beside him might as well have been ghosts for all he acknowledged them; their forced laughter died the second it hit the air around him, snuffed out by his silence.
Geum Seongje doesn't even glance her way.
But one of his lackeys does.
"Hey," the guy calls, elbowing his friend. He's all sharp elbows and bad posture, his uniform jacket hanging off one shoulder. "Aren't you that girl from Instagram? The one with the—"
He mimes a dance move poorly.
Minji blinks, as if surprised. "Oh! Maybe," she says, sweetly vague.
The lackey grins. "Let me follow you." He's already pulling out his phone.
Now, Minji lets her smile turn apologetic. "Ah, sorry... I don't give my socials to strangers." She says it like it's a regret, like she wishes she could.
The lackey deflates. His friend shoves him, cackling.
Seongje doesn't react. Doesn't even seem to hear.
Minji hands over the money, takes the tteokbokki, then the singular fish cake, and saunters back. She rejoins the group, her silver bracelets chiming with each step.
Geum Seongje didn't look up at first. Not when her shadow fell across the stall's counter, not when the lackey beside him stammered through some half-formed flirting. His attention only lifts when those chiming bracelets come to rest right in front of him, when the confident girl's too loud laughter and too perfect posture demand notice.
His bored eyes track her movement for just a second before sliding past, past the blushing lackey, past Minji's carefully constructed performance, landing instead on Dok Dara.
Only then does his chopstick pause mid-air. Only then do his deadpan eyes sharpen with new interest as they settle on Dara's turned back, on the way her track and field varsity jacket looks familiar with a name he vaguely remembers from last night.
"Here," Minji says loudly, handing Dara her fish cake with deliberate ceremony. "Your royal highness's order."
She keeps the second container between her and Hyeol-a, the second stick piercing one of the glazed rice cakes doused in spicy sauce.
Hyeol-a, after chewing through several of them, clings to Dara's arm, her whine carrying across the park. "Oh, that just reminds me! Come to the arcade with me today!"
Dara laughs, shaking her head as she takes a careful bite. "Can't. I've got my part-time job in an hour."
Minji jumps in. "Tomorrow's Saturday, though. The arcade will be packed with middle school brats."
"But we'd have all afternoon tomorrow," Dara counters, louder than necessary. "Today we'd barely get an hour before my shift."
Minji glances at her phone with exaggerated disappointment. "Still working at that internet cafe?"
"No, at the electronics shop a few blocks away," Dara corrects immediately. "The cafe owner just sometimes calls in for repairs or replacements because nowhere else is left open at that hour."
Behind the bleached-out bangs, Hyeol-a's sharp gaze lingers on the boys seated upon the stools, her point of focus hidden by the way she attached herself to Dara to spy over her other shoulder.
Geum Seongje's chopsticks pause mid-air. Just like her, one of his lackeys also notices his sudden attention and follows his gaze to the girls.
Hyeol-a tugs harder on Dara's arm. "You always put work first! Just call in sick!"
Dara shakes her head, smiling. "And lose my employee discount at the shop? Never." She takes another bite, then adds pointedly, "Besides, I like the quiet there on weekday evenings. Sometimes interesting people come in."
At the stall, Geum slowly sets down his food. His eyes never leave Dara as she speaks, his usual deadpan expression giving way to something more alert.
Minji pretends not to notice, but her smirk betrays her. She leans in conspiratorially. "Fine, but you're buying us coffee after your shift tomorrow to make up for it."
"Only if you stop spending all your allowance on gacha games," Dara replies, their familiar banter carrying clearly across the space between them and the food stall.
Hyeol-a groans dramatically, releasing Dara's arm. "You two are no fun. I'm going to find someone else to hang out with."
She flounces off toward a group near the fountain, leaving Minji and Dara standing together.
Minji adjusts her jacket zipper. "Well," she says just loud enough, "I guess it's just me and my boring best friend left."
Dara smiles down at her camera, pretending to check the shots. "The horror," she deadpans.
"Ah, let me check, too!" Minji comes closer, tilting her head a bit to see the screen. "Did the shots come out good?"
She flicks through them. "See for yourself."
Never once had Dok Dara looked his way.
Geum Seongje noticed that.
Not the way boys usually noticed things about girls, with nervous fingers or flushed cheeks, but with the frozen intensity of a wolf catching a scent. His spine straightens just enough to telegraph danger, the way a blade seems more lethal when wound back slowly before delivering a strike.
The other two Ganghak students exchange an uncertain glance between them. If there was one thing they feared more than anything, it would be the Wolf's mercurial mood swings.
"...Hyung?"
Geum Seongje stands abruptly, not even bothering to toss his empty container in the trash. His lackeys scramble to follow as he walks away, though not before casting one last, lingering look at the two girls, just the perfect amount of curious.
Seongje's retreating footsteps crunch deliberately on the gravel. Minji exhales through her nose, the tension leaving her shoulders in a relieved release.
"He's even more intense up close," she murmurs.
Dara finally lowers her camera, watching his receding back.
There would be no smoke if a fire weren't lit.
Notes:
Seongje: it's so loud. can't even enjoy eating in peace. somebody shut this girl up.
Also Seongje after seeing Dara: wait a damn minute
Just realized if I share the Pinterest board of this fic with you guys, the plot will be massively spoiled...
Okay, so I decided to stretch the canon timeline a bit, because the series of events in the show all happen too fast for me to develop my plot as I would like. So just as an idea, Geum Seongje showing up in the museum and his first scene at the gaming cafe with Hyoman have one or two weeks in between. Please comment if you get confused at any point, though.
Also planning on publishing a chapter every week, at least until I run out of my creativity juices.
Now, a question for you guys. What do you think of the chapter's length? Is it too short or too long? What do you think of the OCs introduced in this chapter? Hyeol-a, Minji, and Daehyun? What about Dok Dara, our unsettling final girl?
Let me know your thoughts!
Until next time,
—Starling x
Chapter Text
003. Stalker
[staw-ker] / ˈstɔ kər /
noun
1. a person who pursues game, prey, or a person stealthily.
2. a person who harasses another person, as a former lover, a famous person, etc., in an aggressive, often threatening and illegal manner.
Everyone is a hypocrite about something.
When they meet, Jung Daewon is trembling ever so slightly.
She let herself smoke a cigarette after days of abstinence, the taller shadow of her executioner darkening the space behind her left shoulder. Dara was fresh from her morning practice, choosing to ditch the classes after that to get a late breakfast. Alone, at first. Then joined by another ghost, one that coasted alongside her in search of a detection.
Unlike her expectation that she would find him well rested and brighter, Dam Minsu looked rough for someone who finally decided to abandon street fighting for money, looking to repent in blood and pain.
Both Dara and Minsu watch as a boy in a neat grey uniform approaches them near the gates, Byuksan hushed and silent while the classes commenced even without the two of them.
The boy from Yo-il had a reference, a cousin's girlfriend whom Dara helped get the upper hand on her bullies. She must have given out where to find her, Dara supposed. It made no difference to her whether she was recognized or not. They all could be easily disapproved, easily manipulated.
But Jung Daewon had a problem dire enough not to warrant ramifications.
The boy had gone to the teachers, his parents, then, when all else failed, the police. The adults dismissed him too easily, and society paid no mind to a man being stalked by a girl, calling it a harmless crush and puppy love with the poison of patriarchy and misandry dripping from each word, to settle, to soothe, to brush under the rug.
Two years her senior, with an affluent family and attending a great academy, what reason did Jung Daewon have to be afraid of a freshman girl with a crush?
It would pass, everyone remarked. Except it didn't. Now, six months later, after finding her waiting outside his house, he was out of logical solutions.
So he came to make a deal with the patron saint of the unfortunate. Dok Dara.
Her reputation must have preceded her.
They were the door at the end of a one-way street, fenced and brick-walled, no other way through other than turning back around and betraying the process it took to arrive at that point.
Her and her friends, lovingly dubbed the Karaoke Crew by Hyeol-a in their private group chat, due to their usual hauntings of the closed-down business near Dara's old cram school, they made sure to look out for others who couldn't do it themselves.
But even Dara's kindness did not betray the other part of her that burned with rage. The reality was that Jung Daewon was from Yo-il Academy, and a favor from a student there weighed heavily in her decision.
Their target is a girl two years younger than them today. With natural honey brown hair, big doe eyes hidden behind little rectangular rimless glasses, and cherubic cheeks, no makeup and modest clothes that suited a family of devout Catholics. Lee Sara is pretty in an innocent, harmless way.
For Dara, she is just a name a boy had shivered while giving it up.
Their small invasion was subtle, then absolute. Minji first stalks her existence in the digital shadows, a phantomlike presence tracing Lee Sara's every post, every story, a silent spectator to her life. Then came Hyeol-a’s ground assault: with an unassuming charm, she seamlessly infiltrated the girl's inner circle. What was once a vibrant group had been whittled down to a wary quartet by then, the others having fled from experiencing the progressively unsettling demeanor of the said girl, progressively unsettling and obsessive.
It all makes it easier for Dora when the rest of the task is left for her and Minsu.
The hunt led her to a place of supposed sanctuary. The trail ended not in some dark alley, but in a sun-drenched pew on Sunday morning. There, amidst the hymns and prayers, sat the stalker, a picture of pious innocence between her missionary father and mother. The mask, in that holy place, was perfect.
Now Hyeol-a entertains the matter and father outside, playing clueless, playing at being a classmate from Sara's class, while Minji busies the Father about a class credit project about religion.
It leaves Dora and her shepherd dog to protect the herd.
Unlike all other times, the clothes she is wearing are the ones she chose on a whim, not by plan, not by design. No school name on display, no uniform to make herself stand out in a crowd. They serve no other purpose other than Dara liking the oversized black jacket and the baggy jeans, paired with a pair of flat tennis shoes.
Minsu peels away, a similar shadow moving along the polished pews, his task not to confront but to cut off retreat. He is the gatekeeper, settling his large frame casually against the exit door, a silent, immovable obstacle should their quarry bolt.
Dara is the blade.
She moves through the stragglers, her footsteps silent on the stone floor. She doesn’t speak until she is right behind Lee Sara, her voice low, a razor wrapped in velvet.
"Do your beloved parents know you stalk people in your free time?" Dara asks.
Sara spins around, her face a mask of shock and panic. Upon meeting her gaze, she then takes a step back, only to find her path blocked by Minsu’s unwavering figure.
"There’s nowhere to go," Dara drawls, her tone flat, leaving no room for negotiation. "So, let’s talk about why you’ve been following him. Let me hear you admit it."
"Wh-what? I don't know who you're talking about! You have the wrong person!"
Dara hums a bit, her head tilting to the side.
It makes Sara flinch.
"The wrong person," Dara repeats, not as a question, but as a flat, amused echo.
She doesn't break eye contact as she slowly pulls out her phone. With a few deliberate taps, she turns the screen to face Sara. It shows a perfectly framed photo of Sara herself, taken from behind, her face partially visible in the reflection of a bus window— right as she was tailing the boy.
"The wrong person who wears the same distinctive yellow ribbon in her hair every Saturday. The wrong person whose shadow is in every one of his public posts for the past three weeks."
She swipes. Another photo. A closer shot of Sara's hand, nervously gripping her phone, its screen visibly showing a map pinned to the boy's neighborhood.
"Stop," Sara whispers, the word a broken thing.
Dara raises her gaze to meet the girl's watery, wide, caught. "Okay," She says, now smiling a little.
She relaxes back from where she had leaned over to show the phone screen, locking it with the push of her thumb and sliding it back into her jacket pocket.
Dara knows the sudden retreat must be more disarming than the attack. The pressure doesn't vanish; it simply changes form, becoming a silent, patient predator waiting to pounce.
"Okay," Dara says again, softer this time, as if they've just agreed on something simple.
She leans a hip against the pew in front of Sara, a picture of casual ease. The smile doesn't reach her eyes, which remain watchful. "So. We agree that I don't have the wrong person. Now we can have a real conversation."
The quiet, almost conversational tone is somehow a thousand times worse than the threat. It invites confession, makes it feel inevitable. Dara sees the way Sara's eyes dart toward Minsu, full of a silent plea for any kind of escape, but finds none in his stoic posture. He is merely a fact of the environment now, like the walls. There is no escape, no negotiation. Only the terrifying, gentle pressure of Dara's waiting silence.
"Do you know of Jung Daewon?" The question is, by all means, a theatrical farce. Dara knows Lee Sara knows the name. How could she not, when she took pictures of her following the said boy?
A violent tremor runs through Sara. Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out. She manages a jerky, almost convulsive nod, her eyes fixed on the floor as if she can hide in the patterns of the stone.
"Look at me," Dara instructs, her voice still soft, but leaving no room for disobedience. "And say it. Say his name."
Sara's gaze is dragged upward, glassy with unshed tears. "Jung... Daewon," she chokes out, the name sounding like a blasphemy in the holy quiet.
"Good," Dara praises, as if coaching a small child. The condescension is an expertly placed needle. "Now, tell me what you thought would happen. Did you think he would one day just fall in love with the girl who followed him everywhere, despite what he wanted?"
Something in the girl's face fractures. The meekness shatters like glass. A raw, jagged laugh escapes her, a sound utterly alien between the pews.
"Fall in love?" she echoes, her voice rising, losing its tremble and gaining a sharp, hysterical edge. "You think this is about something as simple as that? You don't understand anything!"
The tears in her eyes now are not of fear, but of furious, indignant rage. She takes a sudden step forward, and for a moment, Dara sees the way Minsu tenses over Sara's shoulder, but then choosing to remain rooted to his spot, stare still blank.
"My love isn't some cheap confession shouted across a schoolyard! It's devoted! It's sacred! I know which brand of milk bread he buys on Tuesdays. I know he ties his left shoe before his right. I know he hums that one song when he thinks he's alone." Lee Sara jabs a finger at Dara, her composure completely gone, replaced by the fervent glare of a fanatic. "Things no one else knows! Not his friends, not his family... and certainly not you!"
Her voice rises and rises until she screeches, flinging a hand toward Minsu. "You two delinquents barge into a place of worship, and you desecrate something beautiful with your ugliness! You're not protecting him. You're jealous! You saw what I had— this pure, perfect connection, and you had to ruin it! You couldn't stand that I loved him more truly than anyone ever could!"
Dara exhales long and hard, raising her gaze to Minsu. Her chin urges him to move.
Minsu grabs the girl from the pews, deaf to the screams and the trashing. In his unescapable grip, her eyes are bulging out, like a rabid animal knowing it is trapped.
In this equation, Dara is the rabies shot herself.
She allows herself a moment to consider the younger girl before her.
Lee Sara is undoubtedly pretty in the way that she fits the standardized public opinion. On all fronts, she is a dutiful daughter and an exemplary churchgoer in the path of God. If one could ignore the obsession seeping through the cracks in her mind anyway.
"Who are you people?" Sara shrieks, still straining against Minsu's iron grip. Her body twists, a frantic, trapped animal, but his arms were like steel clamps, locking her in place, making her thrashing utterly futile. "Huh? How can you disgrace God's house in such a filthy way? Why are you doing this? What right do you have?!"
A beat of silence follows, heavy and profound, absorbing her hysterics without leaving a trace behind.
Then, from Dara, a low, almost joyful chuckle rises, a sort of dark amusement that seemed to siphon all the oxygen from the air, the sound of mirth not reaching the glacial coolness of her eyes, still intent on watching Sara like a rat trapped in a cage.
She lets a slow, predatory smile touch her lips as she casually reaches into her jacket pocket.
"Never heard of an avenging angel," she counters, her voice a silken, mocking murmur, "in all those Gospels you pretend to revere?"
She produces a crumpled packet, selects a slim cigarette, and placed it between her lips with a deliberate, unhurried grace. The click of her lighter is obscenely loud in the holy silence. The flame flares, illuminating the cold contempt in her eyes for a brief moment before she brings it closer to the unfiltered tip.
She takes a savoring, long and slow drag, the end glowing ember like a single, damned star in the space between them, and exhales a plume of smoke that drifts toward the vaulted ceilings. "The kind heaven sends not with a halo," Dara continues, her gaze sharp enough to scour, "but with a flaming sword. Not to bless, but to punish."
Dara extinguishes the butt of her cigarette on the girl's skirt, long, white and satin. A faint sizzle, unmistakable in the pointed silence, is followed by the acrid smell of burnt fabric and a sharp cry from Sara as the heat sears through the satin to reach her skin, her voice cracking against the vaulted ceilings, a raw and desperate sound that seems to startle even the dust motes dancing in the slanted afternoon light.
"You should’ve prayed harder," Dara says, her voice devoid of any emotion beyond a cold, clinical assessment.
As Sara gasps and twists in Minsu's unyielding grip, trying to escape the throbbing sting, Dara leans in close again, meeting the terrified girl's gaze squarely.
"This was a courtesy, Lee Sara," Dara murmurs, her eyes flicking down to the small, blackened ruin on the pristine fabric. "A warning of what comes next if you so much as whisper Jung Daewon's name again. Because the real punishment… the real punishment isn’t for you."
She pulls back just enough to watch the horror dawning in Sara’s eyes. Strangely, the sight pleases Dara immensely. The girl was clever; she understood implications quickly, which made this so much easier.
"It’s for your sweet mother, who tells everyone at the neighborhood how proud she is of her devout daughter. It’s for your kind, frail father, who still gets up for his early shift at the restaurant."
She pauses, letting Sara's imagination begin its work, picturing their faces.
"You see? We know your parents' names and where they work. We know where you live. We know which university you plan on going to. That future? It's ash. I will burn every single dream you have to the ground. I will get your father fired. I will make sure your mother's reputation is a joke."
Dara's voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, bringing the now almost out cigarette up but not smoking yet to rekindle it.
"They will lose everything because of you. Their jobs. Their friends. Their peace. Every time they look at you, they will see the shame you brought them. I will leak every pathetic, obsessive note you've ever written to your entire school, to your family, to his family. They won't see a victim. They'll see a monster."
Another deliberate pause. Dara regards the stick between her fingers, then drops it to the ground. Her heel grinds it out. Her voice hardens.
"They will love you a little less each day, until all that's left is disappointment. You will live in that house, watching the life drain from their eyes, and you will know it is your fault. And when you have absolutely nothing and no one left, I will still be watching. This is your one and only warning. Listen well Lee Sara-ssi. Otherwise I will make you the architect of your family's ruin."
When Lee Sara ultimately bursts into tears, Dara can't find it in herself to feel sympathy.
All she feels is a sharp, uncharitable thrill of vindication instead. She observes the display with a clinical detachment, her first instinct not to console, but to critique the technique— the timing a tad too perfect, the volume a little too loud.
These are not the tears of innocent grief, but the tears of a caught culprit, and any potential for softness has long since been scorched away by a history of these same performative sobs. It isn't just cruelty that stops Dara— it's a profound exhaustion. Her own emotional reserves are simply bone-dry, tapped out by one too many of these crying spectacles she has witnessed so far.
Of course, distantly she feels the impulse to sympathize, but then again it’s instantly smothered by the cynical certainty that she’s watching a master at work.
In the end, all that remains is a hollow, silent apathy. Dara’s heart doesn't soften; it ices over, locked away behind a door of thick skin she grew very long ago, leaving behind only the residue of resentment for a downfall so thoroughly earned.
It never matters to her conscience when someone is a girl, a child, an elderly. Presences that have been long exploited by society. Perhaps it should. But why bother with fighting the stereotyped roles the society shoved them into when it didn't help in saving the one Dara had cared more than her own self?
The hospital room, glassy open eyes, the clumps of hair in balled up fists— Yeonhee's voice, wrecked from talking with the police, the doctors, the teachers; Dara's own hoarse from pleading at the feet of the sick bed, knees hurting from pressing onto cold lineloum floor, headache building behind her eyes from crying too much, from staying sleepless and devoid of warmth, the sterile air making her lungs fill with ice cold.
That failure had scraped her soul out, leaving a yawning pit behind where her conscience once resided. Now, a colder, more efficient calculus governs her actions. She doesn't see genders or ages; she sees variables. Assets. Liabilities. Threats.
To see the world through the soft, forgiving lens of societal roles is to wear a blindfold in a knife fight. It is a luxury she cannot afford, a weakness that was brutally ripped out of her the day she learned that mercy and assumption are the two most fatal poisons.
Dara is a hypocrite, because she does to others what they had done to her loved ones.
Because at the end of the day, it helps her in her plans to be owed favors, to be seen as a some sort of savior. She cashes each in with precise decisions, and only when she's sure she needs it. Most remain blind to what she's doing in their relief. Dara uses them. They let her. Maybe never being asked of money in exchange for her help matters to them more, perhaps it makes their heart lighter to know they are helping her out in return. The reasons pile up, but Dara has no need for them either— as long as she is where she planned, manipulated and lied her way into it.
Dara understands that sympathy is a lever, not a virtue. A child's tears are a tool to loosen a tongue. An old woman's fragility is a perfect disguise for planting a lie. She has become a master artisan of human emotion, crafting the exact response she needs from anyone. Man, woman, or child— by presenting whatever face they most want to see.
The grieving sister. The compassionate helper. The respectful youth. The hardworking student. The ideal girlfriend.
Her mission operates on a simpler, starker binary: the objective, and the obstacles in its way. Everything else is just noise. The ghost of the one she lost is the only thing that matters, a silent, lingering witness to every moral choice she makes. And if the path to vengeance is paved with the tears of the innocent, of befitting from them when they are at their weakest, most vulnerable point, then so be it.
Her grief had forged her into a weapon, and weapons do not sympathize with their targets. They study them, learn their weaknesses, and present the perfect edge to make the cut.
Dara straightens up, the lesson delivered. She gives a slight, almost imperceptible nod to Minsu. His grip on Sara loosens, but he doesn't step away, a silent wall ensuring the girl doesn't collapse or lunge forward.
Truly, her most well behaved debtor.
Sara sags, a choked sob escaping her as the full weight of the threat finally crushes her. The fight drains from her completely, leaving only a hollowed-out shell of shame and terror.
Dara watches this final surrender for a beat. She turns without another word, her boots clicking softly on the stone floor. Minsu falls into step behind her, a shadow once more.
She doesn't look back as she pushes the double doors open, but pauses in the frame, the afternoon light highlighting her silhouette. She turns only halfway, her eyes finding Sara's broken form one last time.
Dara smiles, eyes creasing into half moons. "So be a good girl Lee Sara. Vanish from Jung Daewon's life."
☆
Everyone is a hypocrite about something.
Dok Dara is no exception.
But she is, above all else, selfish.
Dara wants to be good.
She cultivates this desire like a rare orchid, tending to it with meticulous care, admiring its fragile beauty in the privacy of her own mind. To be good is to be righteous, and to be righteous is to hold the high ground, a vantage point from which she can clearly see the moral failings of others.
She has, on numerous occasions, orchestrated the social ruin of men she deemed predatory, women she labeled as emotional vampires. She would dissect their manipulations with surgical precision in group chats, her words a whip that drove them from the circle. She took a fierce, burning satisfaction in it. This was justice. This was goodness.
Dara could not afford to be non-righteous, not even once, because she knew the dark thing that lived inside her was not a simple impulse but a fundamental hunger. To excuse a single transgression in another was to open a door within herself, and she knew, with a cold, certain terror, that she would not know how to close it again. Her righteousness was the cage. Without it, she would become the very monster she hunted, and she would enjoy it too much to ever stop.
The punishment for the crime she saw in others was exile. But for herself? She granted clemency. The line she drew for the world was drawn in thick, permanent ink. The line for herself was sketched in smoke, constantly shifting, impossible to grasp.
A true hypocrite.
Dara wanted to be good. She truly did. But she wanted to do this more than remaining righteous. And in the quiet theatre of her own life, where she was the only audience, this performance of goodness was enough. The curtain never had to fall. No one was there to boo.
The cage, for now, remained shut.
Monday arrives lazily. She goes through her usual motions, practice in the morning, a short one on one talk with her gym teacher, giving confirmation on competitions she's scheduled to enter, the lunch where she sits with the rest of the team, classes till afternoon and then a mock test announced last Friday. Dara breezes through it all, and when the school is dismissed, she leans on one of the shoe lockers and checks her phone. The screen flares to life, a stark rectangle of blue light in the dimming evening. Three notifications from different chats pop up, three tiny digital weights vying for her attention.
She swipes, her thumb a practiced, dismissive flick, letting the screen open not to the most recent, but to the one that matters least and most. The one with her older sister.
dok yeonhee
Are you done for the day? Let's have a meal together when you're free.
The message sits there, simple and unadorned. It’s been three hours since it was sent. Dara can almost see the patient, unassuming hope behind the words, a hope she has consistently, quietly, deferred. She exits the chat without tapping out a reply, the action as smooth and final as closing a book mid-sentence.
The second notification opens to the group chat, a cacophony of avatars and exclamation points. A torrent of messages about a party, about someone’s new job, about a trivial drama she’d missed. The texts scroll by, a river of effortless belonging she observes from the bank, her fingers hovering above the screen.
baek minji
still on with the karaoke tonight?
kim hyeol-a
of course!!!!! wanna grab a bite before? all those plotting makes me hungry 😣😣
dam minsu
Sure
I'm in
dok dara
Any updates?
kim hyeol-a
oh yeah
found where he is rn
skipped the school after lunch and went to an arcade
he is in this neighborhood
📍location
only two ✌ minions with him today tho
one of my girls saw them when they passed by her hagwon 🤓🤓🤓
baek minji
no good restaurants near there
how much you guys wanna bet they'll be going to a convenience store after it
dok dara
Do we know the names?
kim hyeol-a
no idea 🤷♀️
Buuuut got a quick little picture of them hehe
here 👇
📷 picture sent
baek minji
Lmaoo look at those cheap geum seongje copycats
At least smoke a cigarette like true delinquents, wtf is that grape flavored vape??
kim hyeol-a
Unnie don't say that 😖🥺 I like fruity vapes too!!
dam minsu
That's Park Doyoon with the white tshirt and Choi Yoojoon smoking
baek minji
huh
think Doyoon is the one who asked me for my socials btw
dam minsu
Dara
Are you done at school? Want me to pick you up?
kim hyeol-a
waah really.... look at this favoritism! Where was my offer for a pick up huh Dam Minsu?? 😠
baek minji
i literally just picked you up
dok dara
I was thinking of going for a run.
kim hyeol-a
Not with a cool motorcycle Minmin-ie!
Huh? Why??
Didn't you have practice in the 🌞?
baek minji
damn you track stars are totally crazy
u getting ready in case for a dystopian apocalypse or what girl
when do you rest??
dam minsu
Ah
You're going to meet with Geum Seongje again?
kim hyeol-a
WAITT WHAT
That's what you meant??
dok dara
I should, right?
It's been three days already.
dam minsu
If you say so
But take care
kim hyeol-a
unnie! lemme know ur take out order after you're done!
Don't forget!!
baek minji
lmao good luck dara-yah you're gonna need it
Dara goes back to the first chat.
dok dara
Sorry, I can't today.
Let's have a dinner next time.
The third one wasn't saved in her contacts. A number with no name, a blank slate of potential.
unknown
Hello, is this Dok Dara?
I got your info from my friend, Yejin, who recommended you as a tutor in English.
I heard you were ranked nationwide.
I need help to raise my grades, sunbaenim.
How much for you charge hourly?
Dara smiles. A small, private curl of her lips that held no warmth, only the cold satisfaction from a mechanism clicking perfectly into place.
Hook.
dok dara
Hello!
Don't worry, we can work something out.
Would you be amenable to meeting tomorrow for a quick face to face discussion?
The reply is instantaneous, a flurry of grateful, eager text.
unknown
Thank you so much sunbaenim...
You're a total lifesaver!
Also yes, I'm free tomorrow after school!
Line.
dok dara
That's a relief.
Which school do you go to?
The three blinking dots appears and hovers. Dara watches them, her breath even, her heart rate steady. She can feel the fish on the line, twisting in the air.
unknown
Ganghak.
Sinker.
The smile on Dara’s face doesn't widen. It simply settles, becoming a permanent, chilling feature.
Ganghak High. Of course. The same school as him.
The pieces of the board were arranging themselves, and she was, as always, several moves ahead. She doesn't bother replying further. The meeting was set. The information was gained. The conversation was already a relic, its purpose served. She locks her phone, plunging the screen into blackness, and stands in the quiet, already picturing the next move in her mind.
☆
She stops her smart watch, heart rate reading 86 at maximum. Despite the three kilometers she went without a break, she's not even out of breath.
Dara can see them elbowing each other from the corner of her eye.
"Yah," One student whispers at the other, thinking himself quiet. "Isn't that Odeng?"
Fish cake.
She doesn't know whether to be flattered by being remembered or her nickname to be of food.
"Be quiet, you idiot. What if hyung—"
A part of her, the part that is still seventeen and desperate to be invisible, wants to pull her hoodie tighter and pretend she didn't hear. But the role she’s boxed herself into simply turns her head, a single, slow swivel that catches both boys mid-nudge.
Their eyes widen, caught. The whisperer freezes, a deer in the pinpoint glow of her attention.
Dara offers a slow, deliberate blink. Then, the ghost of a smile touches her lips. It is not a friendly expression. But no one who wouldn't know her could recognize the underlying mockery in it.
They had seen her. They had remembered. The nickname should feel like an insult, a reduction to something simple, common, cheap.
All Dok Dara feels is vindication.
They fall into an abrupt silence, watching her strides reach the automatic doors as if one would watch someone with no critical thinking skills step into a tiger's den at the zoo despite the predator prowling within.
She stretches up, hands going to the back of her head where her high ponytail swishes loosely. She tightens the rubber band, letting her absentminded gaze travel over the Ganghak students, and then, with light steps, she heads in out of the cold, the artificially warmed air greeting the rapidly cooling sweat on her nape. The store, almost located on the outskirts of the neighborhood, is empty except for the bored looking cashier behind the counter and the towering figure of one Geum Seongje decked in his maroon uniform.
Dara's eyes brush over him.
Now that he was standing for the first time in all their three encounters, albeit still slouching boredly with the easy laziness of someone who knew they were the biggest predator in the jungle, Dara can see that Geum Seongje is almost two heads taller than her.
The clink of the doorpanes draws his eyes immediately. His gaze is not a flicker, but a slow, deliberate pivot. The weight of his attention is a physical pressure in the still air.
Dara inclines her head to the worker, the man doing nothing but flicking his eyes to and then away. She walks to the drinks in the cooler first, steps even and unhurried. Her windbreaker crinkles with each movement, her shoes squeak. The sounds are absurdly loud in the tense quiet, a proclamation of her every motion. She is hyper-aware of the space between her shoulder blades and where he stands, a monolith of maroon and latent energy.
She does not look at him again. Instead, she studies the cooler’s contents with an academic intensity she does not feel. The condensation on the glass, the precise alignment of the bottled teas, the way the fluorescent light glints off a can of coffee—these become the most important details in the world. Her periphery, however, is a wide-angle lens, taking in the impossible breadth of his shoulders, the way his relaxed posture seems to warp the geometry of the cramped convenience store, making the aisles appear narrower, the ceiling lower.
He doesn’t move. He is a statue, a sentinel. But his stillness is not passive; it is a concentrated force. It demands an acknowledgment she refuses to give. She feels his eyes on her, a neutral, appraising weight, tracing the path from her head to the scuff on her heel and back again. It isn't hostile. It is… systematic. As if he is categorizing her, filing her away based on the cadence of her squeaking steps and the brand of drink she finally selects.
She moves to the next aisle, and Geum Seongje lingers at the ramen aisle, a stubborn shadow that dogged her steps, that watched her each movement with an interested observation of a hunter studying the tracks on the path before him.
He must catch the top of her head heading towards the front, because they arrive at the till at the same time, like he quickened his strides to create a coincidence in timing the encounter. He tosses down his own haul: a single red packet of cigarettes and three identical packs of extra spicy ramen, then shifts to the right slightly to let her go first, a small concession that feels less like politeness and more like a predator allowing prey to walk into the clearing first.
She feels the heat of a large body at rest, smells the faint, clean scent of laundry soap, and the cold outside air still clinging to his uniform. The familiar heavy smell of the nicotine smoke wafts from where it clings to the fabric, too, mixed with the sharp antiseptic and the iron from the blood.
She places her items on the counter next to his: lime ice cream, a can of cherry cola, a diet white chocolate cranberry bar, contrasting comically with the simplistic nature of his shopping. In her effort not to meet his piercing gaze, Dara catches herself while trailing the distance between the pack of cigarettes on the counter to the shelf on the wall behind the cashier with her eyes.
The part timer behind the counter blinks at her. "You can't buy cigarettes." He nods towards the shelf. He must have recognized the high school name stitched onto her jacket.
Dara looks back at him, her expression flat. "I don't smoke." Her tone carries a particular dryness, the verbal equivalent of dust.
The employee, suitably chastised, rings her stuff. Dara can easily watch in her peripheral the way Geum Seongje cocks his head, his gaze intense, flicking from her face to her odd assortment of purchases as if trying to solve a riddle.
His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek.
The transaction is silent but for the beep of the scanner and the rustle of her money. As she accepts her change, she allows herself one final, fleeting glance in his direction. He is looking straight down at her, his expression unchanged, that same bored laziness in his hooded eyes behind the glasses. In that split second, something passes between them— a simple, silent acknowledgment. The unspoken understanding of two people who are acutely aware of each other’s presence, pausing the world just long enough to note it.
Then she breaks the contact, tucks her change into her pocket, and turns toward the door. She doesn't look back again. She feels his gaze on her until the moment the door snaps shut behind her, severing the connection with a final, decisive hiss. The night air outside feels vast and empty by comparison.
She slides her phone out to check her notifications, not paying any mind to the minions that still occupy the plastic chairs and the table, waiting loyally like dogs for their owner to finally head out of the store.
Both the ice cream and the can feel freezing in her left hand.
She turns her wrist over, her watch flaring to life with the motion. Under the displayed clock, her heart rate gives off a warning, beating at 114 and climbing down with each second. A numerical betrayal of the encounter, a secret no one but herself would ever know.
Dara allows herself a small inhale, breathing in the crisp, biting cold air of the Fall in Seoul.
It fills her lungs, a clean, clarifying burn that washes away the scent of laundry soap and fluorescent light. She exhales a plume of vapor into the darkness, watching it dissolve into nothing. Then, without a backward glance, she walks away, the steady scruff of her shoes on the pavement the only sound in the unaware world, a metronome counting down to whatever came next.
Notes:
Seongje: omg we meet everywhere. this is fucking fate. destiny. peak soulmatism
Dara, secretly sending a thumbs up emoji to the groupchat: uh huhOur girl Dara... Not so innocent and unassuming after all huh...
Three chapters in and still not one word exchanged between Seongje and Dara 😭 guys I promise they will have their first ever conversation in the next one, I just had to make the plot going first 😔
So far, what do you think of the motives of my original characters, and our girl Dara? What does she have to do with Seongje, I wonder.... Let me hear your theories!
Special thanks to those who have commented so far.
Enjoy!
—Starling x
echanmabangis on Chapter 3 Wed 30 Jul 2025 01:27AM UTC
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ThePrettyZombie on Chapter 3 Wed 30 Jul 2025 11:33AM UTC
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Sulishinki on Chapter 4 Tue 19 Aug 2025 12:47PM UTC
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ThePrettyZombie on Chapter 4 Mon 25 Aug 2025 02:34PM UTC
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Bia (Guest) on Chapter 4 Mon 25 Aug 2025 10:57PM UTC
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Bia (Guest) on Chapter 4 Mon 25 Aug 2025 10:58PM UTC
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ThePrettyZombie on Chapter 4 Mon 25 Aug 2025 11:39PM UTC
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