That Girl From Random Chatting

The glow of her monitor bled into the darkness. Yoon Seongah leaned forward, elbows pressing into her desk, eyes narrowed at the familiar username blinking on the screen:

Thanatos.

"Be kind, even if it doesn't change the world. It changes someone's day."

The post had just gone up ten minutes ago. Hundreds of upvotes already. The comment section was lighting up with people praising the cryptic savior of the forums.

But Seongah wasn't smiling.

Her fingers hovered over her keyboard. That phrasing… it was wrong. No, not wrong, familiar.

"Why do you sound like him?" she whispered.

Her chest felt tight, like a rubber band pulled too far.

Seongah had always been surrounded by people, by laughter, whispers, flattery. Everyone followed her lead. She liked it that way.

She didn't understand why Seo-joon didn't.

"Hey, Seo-joon," she had called out, loud enough for her group to hear, "How come you never smile? Is your face just broken?"

They snickered, like they always did.

He didn't even look at her. Just kept packing his bag slowly, methodically. Zipping it closed like her words hadn't existed at all.

That infuriating silence.

She skipped up to his desk, leaning on it with one hand. "You're not mute, are you?"

Still nothing. He slipped his bag over his shoulder and turned toward the door.

"Do you think you're better than everyone, or just me?"

That stopped him, barely. A faint pause. He turned his head slightly, eyes unreadable.

"I just think games are boring when you already know how they end," he said, then walked off.

The laughter died down. Her friends looked confused, unsure whether to laugh or not.

Seongah stood there, stunned. Her stomach twisted, but she didn't know why.

She stared at the screen again. Thanatos was replying to comments now. Short, gentle replies. Cryptic, but kind.

That phrasing again.

Not everyone deserves your help. But everyone deserves a chance.

Her hands trembled slightly as she opened her chat app.

No new messages from Hansol.

Figures. 'She' had been more secretive lately. Something was going on behind the scenes, Circle 1103 was getting dragged into strange rumors again.

But this… this wasn't a Circle thing.

This was him.

She clicked open a folder on her desktop: "Old Chats." Inside were screenshots, some of her own saved posts, others of old group conversations from middle school. There were even a few candid photos. One of Seo-joon, caught in the background of a class picnic, his face in shadow.

Why do I still keep these?

Because I never understood him. That was the problem.

...

It was raining. The last week of middle school. Seongah had tried everything, mocking, kindness, even crying. Nothing moved Seo-joon.

But today… she cracked.

She found him sitting under the gym stairs, dry and quiet, scrolling on his phone. Probably reading one of his weird posts again.

She stomped over, soaked to the knees.

"You think you're better than everyone," she said. "You sit here, pretending none of it touches you, like you're some kind of, what, ghost?"

He looked up.

"I never said that," he replied. Calmly. As if she hadn't just thrown venom at him.

"Well, maybe you should! Maybe you should say something for once!" Her voice cracked. "Why won't you care?! Why won't you hate me?!"

She wasn't crying, not yet. But the tears were close. Too close.

He stared at her, unblinking. The rain tapped against the stairs above them.

"I don't hate you," he said. "But I don't play your games."

"Then what do you do?" she whispered.

He stood up, brushing off his uniform. Looked at her, not cold, but distant, like she was someone from a memory.

"I watch. I remember."

Then he walked away.

She didn't chase him.

She couldn't.

Seongah closed the chat window.

Her phone buzzed.

A message from an unknown account:

Argent: You knew him before he became Thanatos, didn't you?

Her fingers clenched the mouse.

Who are you?

She didn't type it.

Instead, she clicked open a new browser window and typed in the Thanatos forum again. This time, she scrolled through all the posts from the beginning. Every phrase, every turn of tone, every instance of familiar indifference wrapped in reluctant kindness.

The glass had cracked.

And something was breaking through.

The cursor blinked like a heartbeat.

Seongah hovered over the chat again. The message from Argent was still there.

She didn't reply. Not yet.

Instead, she opened a different folder, one buried beneath layers of useless junk: screenshots, old K-pop memes, homework files. This one was simply titled "Drafts."

Inside were messages. Never sent. Mostly addressed to herself, sometimes to Seo-joon, sometimes just… no one.

One stood out. Dated the week after middle school graduation.

"I think you broke something in me, and I don't know if I hate you for it or if I just miss the chance to matter."

She didn't even remember writing that.

But the ache in her chest said otherwise.

...

The courtyard was a sea of uniforms and tears. Kids hugged each other, passed around yearbooks, and screamed about getting into different high schools.

Seongah stood at the edge of it all, surrounded by girls who adored her, boys who laughed too loudly at her jokes.

But she wasn't listening.

She was watching Seo-joon.

He was standing by the school gates, alone. No yearbook in hand. No smile. Just his bag over his shoulder, head tilted like he was listening to something only he could hear.

She waited. Waited for him to leave first.

When he didn't, she finally marched over, like it was nothing.

"Leaving without saying goodbye?" she asked, crossing her arms.

He blinked. Looked at her. "To whom?"

She bit the inside of her cheek.

"To me."

A pause. The wind picked up, fluttering her skirt, sending strands of hair across her eyes.

"I didn't think you wanted one."

"I didn't," she snapped. Then, softer, "…Not until now."

Seo-joon adjusted his bag. "Then… goodbye."

He turned.

"Wait," she blurted. "Why did you never hate me?"

He didn't stop walking, didn't even look back.

"I don't waste hate on people who are still figuring themselves out."

And he was gone.

That line had lived in her like a splinter.

She had tried to become untouchable in high school. She rose fast, again. Charisma came easily. So did manipulation. And when she met Hansol, in middle school, it was like two magnets clicking into place.

Hansol understood power.

But Seo-joon…

He understood silence. Stillness. Watching without acting. Until it mattered.

She opened another browser tab. The Thanatos forums were buzzing again, someone had just posted a new thread titled:

"Who is Thanatos?"A theory: Thanatos isn't a hacker. He's someone who knows people better than they know themselves.

Her heart skipped.

Buried in the replies were screenshots, one from last year, a cryptic Thanatos message responding to a student in distress. Another from earlier that month. Same tone. Same careful restraint behind the words.

"Don't ask who I am. Ask yourself why my words feel familiar."

She almost laughed.

So he knew. Or suspected someone would figure it out eventually.

On the last day of middle school, she found a crumpled piece of paper in her locker. No name.

Just a single sentence, written in crooked pen:

"You're better than the games you play. You just don't believe it yet."

She'd told herself it was some teacher. Or one of her fangirls trying to be deep.

But now…

Her fingers trembled as she reopened the chat with Argent.

Seongah:Who are you?

A pause.

Then:

Argent: A shadow. Like him. But you saw him in the light first, didn't you? Before the mask.

Seongah: …Why are you watching me?

Argent: Because he's not the only one who remembers middle school.

Her pulse raced.

She hadn't seen Seo-joon in a long time. He kept to himself, like always. But now she noticed everything. The way he glanced at people. The way he lingered when someone was in trouble, even if he didn't step in.

She watched him the way he once watched her.

In class, her friend whispered, "What are you staring at?"

Seongah didn't answer.

Because for the first time in years, she wasn't looking at a game piece.

She was looking at the boy who refused to play.

And now… she finally understood the rules had never mattered.

...

Seo‑joon's room was cloaked in darkness save for the glow of his laptop. He'd meant to log off hours ago, but the words Circle 1103 had caught in his mind like a splinter he couldn't remove. Now, at nearly 2 AM, he scrolled through every mention on the school's private forums and encrypted group chats:

"1103 moved in last night."

"Watch your back, 1103 knows."

"Can't hide from 1103."

He had mapped every post, every whisper, but none explained why a bullying faction would choose that number. His curiosity evolved into determination: he would find the origin.

Pulling a tidy stack of printed forum threads to the foot of his bed, Seo‑joon stared at the jumble of screen grabs. Threads spoke of anonymous "interventions," sometimes merciful, sometimes merciless. The line between protection and persecution had blurred.

He opened the school's digital archives, an old password, a hidden directory, and navigated to the "Emergency Protocols" folder, a place students rarely touched. Inside was a single PDF:

Protocol 1103: In the event of an organized student safety crisis, group violence, widespread harassment, activate 1103. The following measures will be taken confidentially by administration: rapid response by counselors, security, and IT support to neutralize threat.

No author. No sign‑off. Just a sterile memo.

His pulse quickened. 1103 wasn't a student circle at all, it was a covert school protocol. He downloaded it, leaned back, and exhaled.

That explains the number, but not the people.

He rifled through other archived files: yearbook photos, attendance records, and counsel reports. Then he found an expulsion notice dated the same week:

"Eleven students expelled for a bullying-related suicide. See Protocol 1103."

Eleven faces stared up at him: classmates he vaguely remembered. Their names scrolled beneath, none familiar. But the fallout had stuck: rumors that the entire "Inner Circle" had been complicit in a tragedy.

He closed his eyes. Circle 1103, eleven students plus the protocol number. The pieces aligned. A group had once banded together under a tragic shadow. Now, someone was repurposing that legacy.

A sudden realization: Hansol and Seongah had been inseparable in middle school. Could Hansol be involved? But Hansol was at a different school now, and Seo‑joon hadn't seen her since graduation.

He sent a quick text to Hamin:

Seo‑joon: Found it. 11 expelled under Protocol 1103.

Hamin: I knew it meant something. What's next?

He typed back:

Seo‑joon: Tracing names and dates now.

...

Sunlight streamed through budding leaves as Seongah and Hansol led the lunchtime crowd in laughter. Seo‑joon watched from the fringe, sketchbook in hand. He remembered how Hansol's eyes sparkled whenever she wielded power, no cruelty, just precise control.

When a first‑year tripped and books spilled, the two girls laughed. Others joined. But Seo‑joon slipped forward, gathering the girl's papers. He handed them back, wordless, and walked on.

He never spoke to Hansol afterward. She never forgot.

Seo‑joon cross‑referenced the eleven expelled students against extracurricular rosters and club membership. Nine were athletes; one in drama; one in coding, all from the class three years above. One face was blurred in the digital files: deleted, corrupted.

He bookmarked that file. Head #1103 - erased.

His fingers paused over the keyboard.

The original leader was never expelled. Just erased.

He sent another message to Hamin:

Seo‑joon: One face is missing. The code's head was blank.

Hamin: A placeholder? A transfer who vanished?

Seo‑joon: Or someone they wanted the world to forget.

The implication was chilling: Circle 1103 had a founder who escaped blame entirely.

Before he could probe further, his screen flickered. The archives were locked down, automatic security triggered. He scrambled, saving what he could, then closed the laptop.

His heart thundered. Someone, or something, was watching.

He lay awake, mind alight with possibilities. The present‑day circle wasn't just copying a number; they were copying history. A history intertwined with trauma, secrecy, and an unseen leader.

He resolved to move carefully. No confrontations. No assumptions. Just data, logic, and patience.

Seo‑joon rose and drew aside his curtain. The city's lights shimmered like distant stars. Somewhere out there, students whispered about Circle 1103, unaware of its true origin. He pressed a hand to the glass.

In the darkness, he whispered to the night:

"They chose the wrong number to hide behind."

He turned off the lamp. The room plunged into darkness, leaving only the echo of a number, 1103, haunting the silence.

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

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