I stayed in the hallway, ear pressed to the door's narrow glass panel. The fog outside smeared the view, but voices carried—sharp at first, then muffled by the rain.
Minji's line from moments ago still echoed.
Now it was unfolding.
Through the glass, I saw her reach into her blazer pocket and pull out her phone, fingers steady despite the tension threading the room.
Mr. Goh looked up from his closed folder, eyebrows knitting. Kenta and Aria froze, their quiet triumph slipping away.
With a few quick taps, Minji hit play.
The audio spilled out crisp and clean—our conversation from Room 722 that afternoon. Kenta's voice, smug and calculated. Aria's calm agreement.
"We'll clarify things with Mr. Goh. Make the timeline cleaner."
"Why not? She's the variable."
"She shouldn't be in the group in the first place."
Their own words played back, raw and ugly, without the fake polish they'd tried to add.
The lounge went silent except for the faint patter of rain against the windows. Mr. Goh's face darkened. His fingers tightened on the desk edge as the recording ended and clicked off.
"You recorded this?" he asked, voice low with disbelief.
Minji nodded once. "Standard procedure. The Mystery Club records all client consultations—for reference. I started it the second they sat down—since they signed the form this morning."
She reached into her blazer's inner pocket and pulled out the original client form—slightly creased now—and turned it so Mr. Goh could read the fine print just above the signatures.
The clause was highlighted in faint yellow: All client consultations may be recorded for reference and dispute resolution. Signature constitutes consent.
Below it, the same two messy signatures stared back.
Third-years. Used to winning. Used to things bending their way. I bet they hadn't even read it before signing, like the paper was just a formality in the way.
---
I leaned closer to the glass, piecing it together. She'd planned this from the start.
Aria's eyes flicked to the paper, then away, while Kenta's face drained of color.
He recovered first. His laugh came out thin. "That's taken out of context," he said quickly, leaning forward. "We were just… venting. Hypotheticals among friends. You can't seriously think—"
"We were stress-testing the club," Aria cut in, voice steady even as her composure frayed. She folded her arms too tightly. "Role-playing worst-case scenarios to see how you'd handle a real accusation. It's wrong to assume intent from words alone. This recording proves nothing!"
Mr. Goh's stare didn't waver. "Enough."
The word snapped the room still.
He looked from the phone to them. "You approached a school-approved club under false pretenses. You discussed framing a teammate to protect your own positions. And now you're asking me to treat this as a misunderstanding?"
Neither answered.
"This changes everything," he said quietly. "Manipulation like this undermines the entire selection process."
He exhaled, rubbed his temple. When he looked up again, tiredness lingered, but hesitation was gone.
"I'll review my decision immediately. We'll hold an emergency review tomorrow with all Olympiad candidates present. In the meantime, Ms. Pham's removal is on hold."
His gaze cut back to Kenta and Aria. "You two will attend as well—and come prepared to explain yourselves."
Kenta opened his mouth again, but Aria placed a light hand on his sleeve—silencing him. She gathered her bag slowly, deliberately, then paused at the door.
Her eyes found Minji's across the room.
"You think this ends here," she said, low enough that it barely carried through the door.
The door shut behind them with a soft, deliberate click.
---
The rain had eased into a fine mist by the time Minji and I stepped into the courtyard.
Hanni was nowhere in sight. She'd vanished the moment the verdict came down—before Minji dragged everything into the open.
I pulled out my phone anyway. Screen dry. No notifications. Nothing since her last text yesterday.
Hanni was still out there somewhere, carrying the weight alone.
"So you had it," I said. "The whole time."
Minji looked up at me. "Yeah."
"A recording. Clear enough to end it before it reached Mr. Goh."
"Yes."
Mist settled colder against my skin. I waited. She didn't speak.
"Why didn't you stop them?"
She slipped the phone away. "Stopping them early wasn't the point."
"Hanni was removed because of that."
"I know." Her gaze stayed level. "Truth doesn't carry weight on its own. It needs momentum. Otherwise it gets dismissed."
"You let them commit."
"Exactly. Fully. On record."
I exhaled slowly, breath fogging and gone. "You're saying they could've backed off in the club room, adjusted, then come at her again later."
"Without evidence," she said. "Quietly. This way, they can't."
Fog muffled a distant car door beyond the hedges.
"You're saying the damage was necessary."
"I'm saying it made the truth stick. Unavoidable."
The words settled, cold and precise.
"That logic costs Hanni, Minji."
"It's how things work here." She didn't raise her voice. "Mr. Goh didn't act because he believed them. He acted because the rumor threatened his team. I gave him something heavier."
I studied her face in the dim light. The same sharp calculation I'd seen when she revived the club. When she slipped that clause into the form.
"This club can't just be puzzles," she said. "Not if it's going to matter. Truth delivered wrong dies quietly."
Something flickered across her expression—brief, unreadable.
The silence stretched, thick as the fog.
I spoke first. "Like what happened to Jennie Kim?"
Minji went still.
"How did you—"
"The vandal string on the posters. It's not just random words, it's a code. QWERTY shift down one row." I met her eyes. "Jennie Kim."
Rain ticked lightly against the hallway windows behind us—slow, spent.
---
"My sister went here," Minji said. "Jennie Kim."
The name landed heavier now, stripped of ciphers and clues. Just a person.
Her face suddenly went pale—just enough to notice under the dim lamps.
"We'll talk about this next time," she said. "Not like this. We're both exhausted."
I let out a long breath.
I didn't agree.
I didn't disagree either.
Minji stepped past me toward the entrance. Her shoulder brushed my blazer—light, incidental.
She paused at the door. "Go home, Eiji. Get some rest. I'll see you tomorrow."
---
Minji walked out into the mist. The courtyard felt hollow without her.
I stood there longer than I meant to, hands buried deep in my pockets against the cold.
Eventually I pulled one out to check my phone again—still nothing from Hanni—then shoved it back in.
That's when my fingers brushed something deeper. Crisp paper.
A small purple envelope.
I didn't remember anyone touching this pocket...
I turned it over once, twice. The paper caught the thin light from the nearest lamp, dull and soft.
Whoever was sending these had been watching closer than I thought—close enough to slip this in sometime between the chaos of the accusation and now, when hallways were packed and people brushed past without thinking.
I tore it open.
The handwriting was the same—neat, deliberate strokes, identical to the first two envelopes.
Two feet, heavy head
Full of thick regrets
City's close to dead
Another haiku.
The words settled cold in my chest.