The law fair was scheduled for Friday—less than a week away—and already the entire school was abuzz with rumors and preparations. Flyers, debate prompts, case studies, and mock court schedules filled every announcement board. And at the center of it all, standing in a sea of chaos, was Yeon Hyerin.
"Do we have confirmation from the prosecution club?" she asked, flipping through her binder with meticulous speed.
I leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching her without interrupting.
"Yes, but they want the main hall," replied one of the event assistants, a third-year who looked like he hadn't slept in two days.
"They can't have it," Hyerin said firmly. "That space is already reserved for the inter-school arbitration demo."
"But their president—"
"Tell their president he should've submitted his request earlier."
The boy blinked, then nodded quickly and scurried off. I nearly laughed. She really was settling into her role.
I waited until we were alone again before I approached.
"You're enjoying this," I said.
She looked up from her papers, surprised. "What?"
"You're in control. I can see it in your face."
She blinked once. "I guess I am."
I tilted my head. "And how does that feel?"
She considered that for a moment. "It feels… earned."
It was the right answer.
But before I could respond, the door opened.
Gaeun stepped in, slow and deliberate, like her very presence was a threat.
My smile faded.
Hyerin's expression tightened, but she didn't move from her spot.
"I heard you're running the show now," Gaeun said, voice light, almost amused. "Congratulations. Must be nice having the President as your personal bodyguard."
I stepped forward, but Hyerin raised a hand subtly, stopping me.
"I'm running the law fair because I earned the right to," she said, tone sharp.
Gaeun blinked. Just once. But it was enough.
"I see," she said slowly. "So now you're talking like you belong here."
"I do," Hyerin replied. "Whether you like it or not."
There it was—that heat. That boldness I knew she'd been keeping beneath the surface.
Gaeun didn't answer immediately. She stepped closer instead, her eyes narrowing.
"You think standing next to Saehwa makes you untouchable. But you forget—she won't always be there."
That's when I stepped in.
"But I am here now," I said calmly. "And I suggest you remember that before you embarrass yourself."
Gaeun's gaze flicked between us, calculating.
Then she smiled. "Fine. I'll be at the fair. I look forward to seeing how well your little pet project holds up under pressure."
And with that, she turned and walked out.
The silence she left behind was heavy.
Hyerin let out a breath and looked at me.
"Was that a threat?" she asked.
"No," I said. "That was a promise."
And I meant it.
Because whatever Gaeun was planning—I'd already decided it wouldn't reach her.
Not this time.
The day before the law fair, the school felt like it was holding its breath.
Students scurried through the hallways, balancing stacks of printouts, finalizing case materials, checking their exhibit slots. The atmosphere was thick with pressure—fueled by rumors, competitiveness, and the looming gaze of the faculty. At Seonghwa, events weren't just academic exercises—they were battles. And everyone was watching to see who would rise, and who would crack.
Hyerin was in the student council planning room with four separate binders laid open in front of her. Each one color-coded, tabbed, and marked with notes in her neat handwriting. Her sleeves were rolled up, and her blazer was off. She looked more like an executive preparing a press conference than a high school student.
I walked in quietly and leaned against the doorframe, watching her.
"You've barely touched your lunch."
"I don't have time," she replied without looking up. "There's a scheduling conflict between the second-year mock arbitration team and the ethics seminar. The room reservations are overlapping by ten minutes and no one's willing to back down."
"Let me guess—both sides think they're more important?"
"Exactly."
I stepped in, setting a bottled drink beside her. "Then cut both times short by five minutes. Neither wins. Neither loses."
She blinked, glanced up at me, and then nodded slowly. "That's actually… a good idea."
I smiled faintly. "Of course it is."
She shook her head. "Don't get cocky."
"I don't get cocky. I get results."
That almost earned a laugh, but she hid it quickly behind her hand.
But the light moment didn't last.
An hour later, as we were reviewing the final submission list, a knock interrupted us.
A second-year girl stepped in, pale and hesitant. "Um… Hyerin, you should see this."
We followed her down the hallway to the bulletin board outside the lecture wing.
Taped in the center—bold, deliberate—was a single sheet of paper with two large photos printed on it.
A candid of me and Hyerin walking together.
And beneath it, one of her in the Vice President's office, clearly taken without her knowledge.
Beneath both, in bold red font:"Nepotism has a name now: Yeon Hyerin."
A crowd had already formed. Some students stood frozen. Others whispered behind their hands.
Hyerin didn't move.
Her face was blank—no anger, no sadness. Just pure, practiced stillness.
I stepped forward, tore the page down slowly, and turned to the crowd.
"Whoever thought this was clever," I said, my voice calm and icy, "will learn very quickly what happens when you touch things that are mine."
No one spoke. No one moved.
Hyerin finally looked at me. "Don't escalate it."
I stared at her for a moment. "I won't. But I will end it."
She didn't reply.
But later, when we were alone again, she sat down heavily in the empty council room and whispered, "I don't know how you live like this. With people watching every step."
I knelt beside her, taking her hands in mine.
"You learn to stop caring about who's watching," I said. "And focus on who's still standing with you."
Her fingers tightened slightly around mine.
"Then I guess I have to keep standing, don't I?" she whispered.
And I nodded once, the fire in my chest burning low and dangerous.
"You do. Because tomorrow, they're going to want you to fall."
And before we knew it, it was time.
Friday arrived like thunder.
The courtyard was transformed—white tents, legal banners flapping against the sharp morning breeze, and long tables lined with neatly printed documents and case briefs. Student-run booths sprawled across the courtyard with mock negotiation setups, fake evidence exhibits, even timed oral argument rounds. A stage had been assembled beneath the east wing arch, where the final debates and arbitration rounds would take place.
It was too polished. Too perfect.
Which meant it was just waiting to fall apart.
I watched from the upper level, leaning against the stone railing that overlooked the center of the fair. Below me, Hyerin moved between the stations like she'd been doing this for years. Her clipboard was in hand. Her stride was fast and firm. No hesitation. No pause.
She looked… commanding.
But I knew the expression on her face.
Focused. But holding back.
A storm in restraint.
And even from this distance, I could tell—she wasn't sleeping well.
Not after what happened the day before.
I made my way down slowly, weaving through students, catching snatches of conversations:
"Is it true someone tried to post that anonymously?""I heard the IT committee is still tracking who used the library printer.""She's only Vice President because of Saehwa—everyone knows that."
The words didn't bother me. But the intent behind them did.
Fear and jealousy always disguise themselves as facts.
At booth #8, I caught up to her.
"Problems?" I asked, my voice low.
She didn't flinch. "Nothing I can't fix."
I nodded toward the central tent. "Arbitration round begins in twenty. You'll need to be there."
"I know."
She turned to walk, but I grabbed her wrist—just enough to make her pause.
"You look tired."
"I am."
"You didn't use the pod again, did you?"
Her eyes flicked up to mine.
"No," she said quietly. "I didn't think I needed it."
I searched her face for any hint of deception. There was none.
She was still holding onto that last thread of integrity.
And for some reason, it made something tighten in my chest.
"You don't," I said. "And don't let anyone convince you otherwise."
She nodded. Then pulled gently out of my grasp and kept walking.
Fifteen minutes later, the arbitration panel began.
Three teachers sat as mock judges. Two teams of students stood poised on either side of the stage. A packed crowd surrounded the platform, phones raised, whispering commentary into ears.
And at the moderator's podium—stood Hyerin.
She adjusted the microphone, papers in hand, eyes scanning the crowd. I watched her from the front row.
"Welcome to the final round of Seonghwa's interschool arbitration," she said, her voice steady. "Today's dispute simulates a cross-border corporate contract breakdown involving breach of confidentiality and international IP theft."
The case was complex. Intentionally brutal. Designed to overwhelm.
She read through the facts, introduced the teams, and stepped aside.
And then she watched—as the storm unfolded.
The arguments began. Controlled, timed, passionate. Seonghwa students had a reputation to maintain, and each word was delivered with mechanical precision—every inflection trained, every citation memorized. But even the most well-rehearsed student couldn't hide one thing:
Something was wrong.
Ten minutes in, one of the lead respondents paused in confusion, flipping through her notes. Her brow furrowed deeply. She turned toward her teammate, whispering furiously. Then, when it was her turn to respond to a critical clause—she froze.
"I… I don't understand this clause," she said, voice shaking.
The room stilled.
Even from my seat, I saw the panic bloom across her face.
"I don't remember this being in the original packet—"
She turned the page and held it up. There, printed cleanly between two familiar paragraphs, was a clause that didn't belong.
A forged insertion.
The students behind her leaned in, confused. One of the judges raised a hand.
"Can you explain where this clause came from?" the teacher asked.
"I… I thought it was from the distributed version."
The second judge frowned. "Vice President Yeon, you oversaw these documents. Is this clause in your version?"
Hyerin didn't hesitate. "No. I checked every line personally. That clause was not in the original."
"Do you have proof?"
Hyerin stepped down from the moderator podium and walked to her bag. She pulled out a slim folder with clear plastic sleeves. "These are the screen captures I saved before the final print run. I submitted them to the council archive the night before."
Minseo, standing beside the stage as student council secretary, stepped forward. "I can confirm that. She sent them to the group chat at 11:46 p.m."
I didn't remember that.
But I remembered why she did it.
She knew someone would try this.
Hyerin was learning.
Faster than anyone expected.
The panel convened briefly behind the curtain. Five minutes passed in tense silence.
Then the lead judge returned.
"It appears the printed clause was tampered with after distribution," he said. "Vice President Yeon is cleared of responsibility. The arbitration will resume with a corrected file."
Relief washed across the crowd. But not just relief.
Respect.
Real, visible respect.
I didn't clap.
I just watched her.
And for the first time that day—she looked back at me.
And smiled.
A real one.
Not cautious. Not defensive.
Just… proud.
The debate resumed with fresh clarity. No one dared question her judgment again.
But I wasn't watching the arguments anymore.
I was watching the girl who had walked into Seonghwa with wide eyes and a worn uniform.
And now stood at the center of our world like she had always been meant to.
After the fair concluded, and awards were handed out, and the booths were packed away, the applause still echoed faintly in the courtyard.
We stood alone at the edge of the school garden, the last place to be cleared out.
"You did well today," I said.
Hyerin wiped a smudge of ink from her thumb with the back of her wrist. "You already said that."
"I wanted to say it again."
"Why?"
I leaned slightly closer. "Because I want you to remember it. Especially when they try to take it away."
She didn't respond for a long moment. She just stared at the empty stage where her voice had echoed hours before.
And then she turned toward me.
"You really think they'll try again?"
I nodded. "Of course they will. This place doesn't let people like you win without bleeding for it."
She looked down at her palms. They were trembling now, just a little. Not from fear, but from coming down after the adrenaline.
"I'm still not used to this."
"You will be."
I paused, then added, "You already are."
She looked at me then.
And for once, she didn't try to act like she didn't believe me.
Instead, she said quietly, "Thanks for not stepping in."
I blinked. "I thought you wanted me to."
"No. I mean… thanks for not stepping in until it mattered."
I let that linger in the air.
Because Hyerin didn't need a savior.
She needed a witness.
And I had never felt more proud to be one.
We walked back toward the school building together, the soft echo of our footsteps the only sound left from the storm we'd weathered.
Seonghwa hadn't changed.
But something about us had.