The safehouse felt different that night. Not tense, not loud—just quiet. The posters were already circulating, the hashtags trending. For the first time, the movement had momentum of its own.
Jihoon stood by the window, the glow of streetlamps tracing shadows across his face. His allies—the victims he had gathered one by one—watched him, waiting for his word.
He finally turned, voice calm but sharp.
"From now on, the public will carry it. We've lit the match. The fire doesn't need us to breathe on it anymore."
They exchanged glances, uncertain. He continued:
"Until I call you again, go back. Act as usual. No changes. No smiles out of place. No strange routines. If we look different, they'll find us. Blend in. Endure. This is the break before the next phase."
There was a heaviness to his words. It wasn't victory. It wasn't relief. It was strategy—the kind of silence a predator takes before striking again.
One by one, they nodded, though their eyes carried a mix of gratitude and fear.
Jihoon's expression didn't change. No smile, no fire. Just a mask of normalcy as he picked up his school bag.
The next morning, he walked through the school gates like any other student. Same uniform. Same tired eyes. The world around him buzzed with gossip about scandals, protests, whispers of corruption.
No one looked at him twice.
But as he stepped into his classroom, Jihoon's gaze flickered to the rooftop—silent, empty, but never forgotten.
Inside, he thought: The truth is already moving. And when it comes back to me… they won't be ready.