That Girl From Random Chatting

Hamin's phone buzzed before sunrise:

1103‑Operative: Test Case Alpha: deployment at 08:15. Proceed with standard protocol.

No signature. No context, just the cold imperative of Circle 1103. Hamin stared at the screen in bed, heart pounding. She'd been passively monitoring the Circle's resurgence; now they'd activated a "pawn" to run a social‑pressure experiment on a freshman. And she knew exactly who the target would be: Lee Min‑seok, a boy too shy to fight back.

She slipped her feet into slippers and dressed quietly, resolving to follow, but not to obey.

Hamin arrived early, phone tucked in her jacket pocket. She spotted Min‑seok by the bike racks, head down, backpack heavy.

Hamin's phone buzzed again:

1103‑Operative: Execute scenario: isolation. No mercy.

She looked up to see a second‑year girl, pale, steely, emerge from the shadows. That was the "pawn." The Circle's fresh recruit.

The girl dropped Min‑seok's sketchbook onto the ground, pages splayed. His knees buckled as he bent to gather them. Hamin closed her eyes.

The seniors assigned to "escort" the pawn lingered nearby, recording on phones. Laughter drifted on the cool air as Min‑seok's papers slipped through his fingers.

Hamin's chest felt tight. She activated her own phone's hidden camera and recorded at close range, though Circle 1103 forbade interference. She lifted a finger to her lips, then slipped forward.

When the pawn kicked the sketchbook again, Hamin stepped between them.

"Stop," she said, voice firm.

The pawn startled, stepping back. The seniors approached, scowling. Min‑seok froze.

Hamin kept her gaze level. "Leave him alone."

A tall senior sneered. "This isn't your problem."

Hamin held up her phone. "I'm documenting. Now get out."

The seniors hesitated, Circle 1103 valued secrecy. They melted away.

The pawn stood alone, breath shaky. Hamin reached down, picking up Min‑seok's drawings. She tucked them into her bag.

The pawn's voice was small: "You weren't supposed to..."

Hamin cut her off gently. "Someone needed to. Do you even know why you're doing this?"

The pawn's shoulders sagged. "I… I thought it was for safety. They said we protect the weak by showing them their place."

Hamin's heart ached. "This isn't protection. It's control."

Tears welled in the pawn's eyes. "I... I can't stop."

Hamin offered her hand. "Then let me help."

Later, in the empty computer lab, Hamin and the pawn sat before a row of monitors. Hamin guided her through deleting photos, posts, and internal messages marked "Alpha." Hamin kept her hand on the pawn's shoulder.

As files vanished, the pawn exhaled, relief and fear mingling in her eyes. "What happens if they find out?"

Hamin closed the laptop softly. "We keep this between us. And we watch each other's backs."

That evening, Hamin sent a brief report to Seo‑joon:

Alpha test aborted. Pawn rescued. Evidence erased.

No reply, until midnight:

Seo‑joon: Well done. You broke the protocol. That takes real courage.

Hamin smiled despite the fatigue. Breaking Circle 1103's rules felt like shattering glass, but sometimes only a crack lets in the light.

...

The service alley behind the gym was deserted but for him. Narrow, littered with discarded water bottles and stray baseballs, it was the perfect hiding place, until tonight. Seo‑joon's chest tightened as he slipped between the graffiti‑streaked walls, sketchbook clutched against his side like a shield. He'd fled here to sketch off the tension of another school day rumbling with hushed warnings about Circle 1103.

His phone buzzed once, low in his pocket:

1103‑Operative: Case Beta live. Coordinates: your location. Proceed protocol.

"Proceed protocol." The words echoed coldly in his mind as he slowed, eyes narrowing at a flicker of movement ahead.

Two figures stepped out of the shadows. Both were upperclassmen girls in their winter uniforms, pleated skirts and blazers, but their faces were hidden beneath deep hoods. The taller one carried a slim, black baton; the other gripped a canister of pepper spray. Their posture was predatory, precise.

"You must be Seo‑joon Park," the taller one said, voice as flat as steel. "You think you can leak secrets and wreak havoc. Time to teach you a lesson."

Seo‑joon's pulse spiked. "I don't even know who you are," he said, voice steady despite the dagger‑sharp ache in his ribs.

"No need to know names," the shorter girl replied, pressing the pepper spray's nozzle. "Just enjoy a taste of your own medicine."

The canister hissed. A fine mist of irritant burned his lungs, stinging his eyes with a white fire. He lurched back, wheezing, stumbling into the alley wall. Coughs rasped from his chest.

"Too weak," she sneered. She tossed the can aside; it clattered against the bricks.

The taller girl raised her baton. "Let's see how you handle this."

She struck with a quick jab aimed at his side. The blow landed with a solid thwack, driving breath from Seo‑joon's lungs. Pain flared, a hot brand across his ribs. He gasped, bracing himself against the wall.

Adrenaline surged. He forced back a groan, pushing off the brick and ducking under her next swing. Their movements were precise: baton‑jab, baton‑sweep, baton‑jab. He barely escaped a baton‑to‑head by rolling sideways, feeling the breeze of air as the weapon whooshed past.

Staggering, he reached for his sketchbook on the ground and used the wooden cover as an improvised shield. The baton battered against it, splintering the edge. He retreated, shield‑cover slamming against his forearm, shielding most but not all of the blow. A shard of wood snapped off, embedding in his sleeve.

"You think a book stops me?" the taller girl mocked.

Seo‑joon swung the makeshift shield at her knee, forcing her to step back. The shorter operative seized the moment, stepping in close and slamming her palm into Seo‑joon's chest, pushing him to his knees.

"Stay down," she hissed.

Pain seared his shoulder where her fingers struck his sternum. He coughed, pressing a hand to his chest. His vision blurred at the edges.

No.

He thrust the shield forward, catching the baton‑wielder in the gut. The girl grunted and staggered back, giving Seo‑joon an opening. He scrambled up and feinted a right jab, more of a shove, but the baton‑wielder stumbled, her hood falling back to reveal a pale, tight‑lipped face.

He followed with a low kick to the shin, sending her down to one knee. Her baton clattered away.

The pepper‑spray girl lunged again, fists swinging. Seo‑joon rolled under the first punch and seized her wrist, twisting sharply. A crack sounded at her joints; she screamed, dropping to the ground.

He spared a scant second to check his breath, a ragged, painful gasp, then turned to finish the baton‑wielder, who rose with surprising speed, fury in her eyes. She grabbed the baton and pulled him into a clinch, ramming him against the wall.

The wall jarred his shoulder; stars exploded behind his eyelids. She brought the baton down toward his back. Reflexively, Seo‑joon twisted sideways, blocking and rolling, feeling the baton graze his arm instead of his spine.

He kicked her in the knee, hard, dropping her to the concrete. The baton slipped from her grasp.

Only then did Seo‑joon hear the click of footsteps at the far end of the alley. Motion‑sensor lights flickered on overhead, flooding the space with harsh white glare. The sudden brightness blinded everyone, the girls and him.

Ambush protocols forgotten, they shielded their eyes. Seo‑joon seized his chance: he bent quickly, grabbed the baton, and hauled himself to his feet. A surge of adrenaline lent him clarity and speed. He raised the baton over his head, just once, and brought it down on the shattered brick planter beside the pipe, sending shards flying. The racket was enough to send his attackers reeling.

He didn't look back. He sprinted through the glare, heartbeat pounding like war drums, baton swinging at his side. The girls' curses echoed behind him, swallowed by the night.

He burst through the rooftop hatch into the dusk, gasping. The city sprawled around him, indifferent. He sprawled onto the rough concrete, baton and sketchbook sliding from his numbed fingers. Pain flared with each heartbeat.

A soft voice cut through the night: "Well, that's one way to make an entrance."

Seo‑joon blinked up. In the dim glow stood Yoon Seongah, in her old middle‑school uniform, green ribbon, grey skirt, crisp white shirt, the image of controlled poise.

"Seongah?" he croaked. "What are you..."

She crossed her arms, tilting her head. "Don't you remember? I'm the one who taught you that bullying makes better comedy than punchlines."

He managed a groan. "Has it been that long?"

She knelt, offering a handkerchief. "Open your eyes." The cloth pressed to his cut eyebrow, warm and gentle. "And maybe stop fighting for five seconds?"

He grunted but let her clean the wound. "You shouldn't be here."

She smirked. "Nice try, Seo‑joon. But you're not allowed to hide. Not from me."

He winced as he sat up, surveying his tattered clothes. "All right, Ms. Comedy King. What do you want?"

She tossed him a bottle of water. "Hydration. Then storytime." She perched on the ledge. "Word is, someone tried to take you out."

He cracked open the cap with his good hand. "Call it an ambush." He took a long drink. "Case Beta."

Her eyes narrowed. "So you're Case Alpha now? Interesting nomenclature."

He set the bottle aside. "Whoever they are, they think I'm leaking something."

She tapped her chin. "Or someone wants them to think that."

His brow furrowed. "You still remember the old chain‑mail threats?"

She laughed softly. "I wore them like badges back then. But you, somehow, you never flinched."

He shook his head. "I was scared."

Seongah crossed her legs. "You never let it show." She reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded slip of paper. "I kept this. In case you ever forgot."

He took it, unfolding the paper to reveal her neat script:

"You're stronger than you know. Don't let them break you."

A flicker of heat rose in his chest. "I... thanks."

She stood, heading to the hatch. "Come on. Let's get you patched up before they try round three."

He followed, shoulder to shoulder with the girl who'd once sought to break him, and now offered him sanctuary.

The first bell of evening classes still hummed in the distance when Seo‑joon and Seongah reached the main stairwell. His ribs ached with every step; her hand rested lightly at his elbow, guiding him down the dim corridor.

He leaned against the cool painted wall, wincing. "You know," he gasped, "I always thought you were cruel."

Seongah slid her hand away and offered him a small smile. "I was." She paused, her shoulders reflecting the weight of memory. "But you taught me something better."

They found the nurse's office unlocked, likely forgotten in the rush of after‑school hours. Seongah led him inside, propping him gently on the cot. The fluorescent light hummed overhead. A wall‑mounted first‑aid kit swung open with one practiced movement.

"Let me guess," she said, pulling out antiseptic wipes. "You want to fight every time someone sneers?"

He closed his eyes as she cleaned the cut above his eyebrow. "I thought that's all I could do."

With calm precision, she applied a sterile strip. "You learned it's not the only way." She pressed gently on his ribs with a gauze‑wrapped hand. He flinched.

"Sorry," she murmured.

He shook his head. "It's not your fault."

She hesitated, then whispered: "Thank you, Seo‑joon."

Her gratitude softened the room's harsh light. He sat up straighter. "For what?"

"For not breaking when I needed you to."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thanks for reading. You can also give me ideas for the future or pinpoint plot holes that I may have forgotten, if you want. 

Powerstones. Me. Give. Now.