Son Oh-gong stared at the paper in his palm. It was heavier than ordinary school paper, possessing the almost silken texture of premium stationery. The two words, "Be Strong," were written in a script that was neither hurried nor decorative, but simply—intentional. It was a message, not of sympathy, but of direction. A demand.
He was no longer terrified; he was galvanized. The fear of being watched had transformed into a cold, hard focus on the watcher. The person was real, they were close, and they possessed a terrifying, deliberate proximity that allowed them to slip a physical object into his space without detection. Yet, the message itself was confusing. Was it a threat veiled as encouragement, or was it a genuine attempt at guidance? Who needed to tell him to be strong? Only a person who knew his vulnerabilities—knew his grief, his solitude, and his father's cold, calculated threat.
He stood up, shoving the paper deep into the inner pocket of his jacket, where the cake had briefly rested hours before. The spot still carried a faint, sweet vanilla scent, a jarring contrast to the stark fear of the moment. He walked deliberately toward the massive, twisting oak tree that cast the deepest shadow near his mother's old house. It was ancient, its branches thick and low enough for someone to have scaled silently, or simply dropped the note from above.
He spent the next twenty minutes examining the ground, a patch of damp earth and withered grass. He didn't find footprints; the watcher was too careful for that. But as his fingers combed through a tangle of dark moss near the base of the trunk, he felt a minute snag. He pulled his hand back, and in his palm lay a single thread of woven material. It was a dark, charcoal gray, almost black, and impossibly fine. It felt like silk, but stronger, possessing a metallic sheen only visible under the beam of his phone's flashlight. This wasn't the kind of fabric worn by students or ordinary people; it was the mark of tailored, expensive clothing. The watcher had resources. The watcher had status.
The realization settled like a stone in his gut: this person was not a ghost or a random eccentric. They were someone with the means to move silently and remain hidden, someone who might belong to the same wealthy, manipulative world as his father. The isolation that had been a product of sorrow now felt like a condition of a secret, high-stakes game.
The following morning, the events of the previous day felt distant, yet profoundly influential. Son Oh-gong arrived at school precisely at the bell, his eyes automatically seeking the cheerful disruption that was Jin Seon-mi.
She was already at her desk, organizing an enormous stack of colorful index cards. When he reached his seat, she didn't launch into a cheerful greeting, which was unusual. Instead, she looked at his hand—the knuckles were slightly bruised and scraped from the fight with Yoon Eun-seong.
"Sit," she instructed, her tone surprisingly firm. She pulled a small, sterilized wipe from a tin decorated with cartoon pandas and gently began cleaning the abrasion.
He tried to pull his hand away, irritated by the physical contact and her presumption. "Stop."
"I won't," she said, not looking up, her brow furrowed in concentration. "You don't do things halfway, do you? If you're going to fight, you should at least clean up the evidence." Her voice was soft but her hands were steady, applying a small patch of clear disinfectant ointment. "You fought for no good reason, and you got in trouble. Next time, let the lunatic and I finish our conversation."
"He threatened you," Oh-gong stated, the words clipped.
Seon-mi finally looked up, her expression a mix of surprise and knowing amusement. "No, he was trying to borrow my new expensive pen so he could copy my notes because he didn't study for the history test. He was being obnoxious, not threatening." She leaned back. "But thank you, anyway. It was the first time anyone has ever... interfered for me." She offered him a small, genuine smile that cracked the ice around his chest. It wasn't the constant, bright cheerfulness he was used to; it was vulnerability and gratitude.
In that moment, the protective instinct that had surged in the infirmary solidified. The world could be cold, calculated, and governed by unseen watchers, but Jin Seon-mi was a warm, concrete reality he could protect. He realized he was no longer merely annoyed by her; he was afraid for her, and he wanted her near.
His newfound sense of purpose was tested that evening. When Son Oh-gong returned home, his father, Son Gyeong-cheon, was waiting in the cavernous, sterile living room—a rare and unsettling event. He sat behind a glass table, flanked by two lawyers in suits that gleamed almost as metallically as the thread Oh-gong had found.
"Son Oh-gong," the father's voice was measured, devoid of warmth, every syllable calculated to convey authority. "Your recent conduct at school is unacceptable. Brawling is beneath the name you carry. It shows a lack of discipline, a lack of self-control required to manage the inheritance you are soon to receive."
Oh-gong remained standing, his stance firm. He thought of the note: Be Strong.
"To remedy this," Son Gyeong-cheon continued, gesturing to a document on the table, "I have arranged for you to immediately transfer to the Haewon International Preparatory Academy. They offer rigorous military-style discipline, mandatory residency, and zero tolerance for distraction. Your enrollment is non-negotiable."
This was the expected maneuver: isolation. If his father could remove him from the school, remove him from his routines, he could remove him from the one person who mattered—Jin Seon-mi—and solidify his control.
"No," Son Oh-gong said. The sound was flat, yet reverberated in the cold room.
His father's eyes narrowed, a muscle twitching near his jaw. "What did you say?"
"I will not transfer," Oh-gong repeated, his voice gaining strength. It was the first time he had directly defied his father's deliberate, powerful will. "My education is adequate here. My conduct is my responsibility."
One of the lawyers cleared his throat nervously. "Young master, this is a matter of administrative necessity to protect your assets."
"My mother ensured my assets are untouchable until majority," Oh-gong countered, quoting clauses he had memorized long ago during nights of fear and planning. "I do not require a change of environment. If you persist in attempting to remove me from my school, I will instruct my mother's legal counsel to investigate every transaction made by the family trust in the last year." He fixed his cold gaze on his father. "I am not a child you can ship off to a warehouse."
Son Gyeong-cheon simply stared, a look of profound, chilling surprise washing over his face. He had expected passive resignation, not calculated legal resistance. The power dynamic, which had been static since the funeral, had shifted. Oh-gong felt a surge of adrenaline mixed with sheer terror, but the resolve held.
His father let out a slow, unnerving breath. "You have become bolder, Son Oh-gong. We will discuss this later." It was a retreat, not a surrender.
Later that night, the adrenaline faded, leaving only weariness and the unsettling victory. Oh-gong went back to his mother's old house. It had become his sanctuary, his place to cry, and now, his place to investigate.
He retrieved the note from his pocket, the "Be Strong" command feeling like a strange new compass. He remembered the cake, the scent of vanilla, and the way the note had materialized. What if the watcher was not just an observer, but a guardian left behind by his mother?
He entered the master bedroom, which had remained locked and undisturbed since her death. He had never been able to bear going in until now. The heavy, floral scent of lilies was faint but still present. He went to her old writing desk, its surface covered in a thin layer of dust.
He noticed a small, unmarked wooden box tucked away in a drawer—a box he'd overlooked a thousand times. He opened it. Inside lay only a stack of postcards and a few folded letters. Beneath them, tucked into the velvet lining, was a small, empty slot. It was perfectly sized to hold a small, metal object.
Then, he saw it. Tucked underneath the lid, held by aged tape, was a small, framed black-and-white photograph. It was a picture of a woman—not his mother, but an older woman with sharp, intense eyes—standing next to the same ancient oak tree outside the house. On the back of the photograph, written in the same sharp, careful handwriting as the "Be Strong" note, was a single word, underscored twice: "Gyeolsa." The word meant 'final resolution' or 'death-defying resolve.'
He looked at the face in the photograph. The high cheekbones, the slight curve of the lips, the intense gaze. It was a face he knew, yet didn't know. A face that had been watching him, hidden by the shadows, commanding him to be strong.
The Watcher was linked to his mother. And the game had just become much more dangerous.