The rain continued for three days, filling the school with a clammy humidity and the stink of wet shoes. Jiho Park spent those three days observing more intently. He was no longer just a victim, but a potential murderer studying the anatomy of his own targets. And his first target was clear: Dong-woo.
Dong-woo was the weakest link in the chain. He lacked Min-su's physical power, Jung-ho's blind loyalty, and Tae-sun's fear-driven violence. His only weapon was his tongue—a tongue Jiho now intended to choke with its own words.
---
Wednesday, Art class. 11:10 AM.
The art studio was thick with the smell of paint, thinner, and clay. Students were scattered, working on individual projects. Jiho, as usual, was seated in a cozy corner near the supply closet, seemingly sketching a still-life vase. But his eyes, from behind his hair, were tracking Dong-woo.
Across the studio, Dong-woo was telling a fabricated story to a few boys with feigned confidence—a tale about confronting a shopkeeper at the mall: "...So I told him, don't you know my dad owns half the stores in this district? He could have your license revoked with one call! And then he apologized..."
Jiho twitched his right ear. Lie. Dong-woo's father was a butcher, not a businessman. These hollow boasts screamed of his deep need for respect and his fear of being "common."
The art teacher stepped out to help another student. The moment was right.
Jiho rose quietly and walked toward the shelf holding the sketchbooks. He adjusted his path to pass behind Dong-woo's desk. As he passed, his loose hoodie sleeve brushed against the rim of a jar of watercolor. The jar slid, with astonishingly smooth precision—as if guided by an invisible hand—tipped, and spilled its contents onto Dong-woo's open sketchbook, flooding the half-finished cityscape he had been carefully working on.
Prussian blue pigment bled across the urban landscape, turning it into a smeared, chaotic mess.
"Ah! No! You idiot!" Dong-woo shrieked, jumping up. His jeans were stained too. All eyes turned to him.
Jiho stopped. His face was filled with feigned innocence. "Sorry," he said in a soft, monotone voice—one rarely heard in class. "It was an accident."
Dong-woo, red with rage and humiliation, glared at him. "You... you bastard! That was my final project!"
"You can start over," Jiho said, and in his eyes—for a split second—there was nothing but coldness. Then his gaze fell on the sketchbook. Beneath the soaked pages, the corner of another sheet was visible. On it, in a childish yet eager script, was written: "In the city's leaden sky, my song is my light..."
Dong-woo noticed the direction of Jiho's stare. His face shifted from anger to terror. With a swift motion, he closed the sketchbook and clutched it tightly to his chest. Those silly poems were his ultimate secret. A potential weapon.
"What was that?" one of the boys asked curiously.
"Nothing!" Dong-woo snapped back, his voice an octave higher. "Just stupid scribbles."
Jiho said nothing more. He turned calmly and walked back to his desk. But as he moved, his gaze momentarily locked with Dong-woo's terrified one. And in that moment, a distinct tremor appeared at the right corner of Jiho's expressionless mouth. A brief muscle spasm that formed into an incomplete, profoundly cold smile. Like ice cracking on a lake's surface.
It was the first time that smile—real and visible—had appeared. And Dong-woo had witnessed it.
The color drained from Dong-woo's face. That silent smile was more frightening than any curse or blow. It revealed something behind that impassive mask. Something that had been activated.
---
That same night. Jiho Park's apartment.
A small room, almost devoid of decoration. A single bed, a worn desk, a wardrobe. It smelled of damp and old things. Jiho stood alone under the cold fluorescent light hanging from the ceiling.
He had taken off his loose school clothes. His lean body, with its tight, corded muscles, was revealed. His ribs were visible under pale skin, but the muscles of his forearms, shoulders, and calves looked wired and powerful.
He stood facing the blank wall. Took a deep breath. And began.
His movements were fast, precise, and silent. His fists shot toward imaginary targets with complete control. His kicks were solid and balanced. This wasn't martial arts practice; it was control practice.
And with each motion, flashbacks assailed him:
Tae-sun's hands dragging him into the dark bathroom. The sound of the lock clicking. Today, with each kick, he shattered that imaginary door.
Heavy stares and sudden touches in crowded hallways. Today, with each punch, those faces crumbled.
Soo-jin's voice: "Maybe he's not even a girl. Should check." Today, with each defensive move, those hands were wrenched from their joints.
Min-su's voice in his ear: "You're just a thing." Today, with each focused breath, those words were erased.
Sweat streamed down his body. The pain in his muscles was sacred. This pain was his. This pain was fuel.
He practiced for a full hour. Until his muscles trembled and his lungs burned like a furnace.
He quietly went to the bathroom and stood under a cold shower. He looked at his reflection in the foggy mirror. His dark eyes now held a glint of near-madness in their depths. That cold smile was no longer on his lips, but its trace remained in the set of his jaw.
In bed, in the darkness, he thought about tomorrow for the first time not with fear, but with the patience of a hunter. Tomorrow, he would make a small move. A minor shift in the placement of objects. Soo-jin's lost earring would be found in Yu-jin's drawer.
And outside, the rain continued to fall, setting the stage for a grander performance.