The rain hammered down mercilessly, each droplet striking like tiny bullets against the concrete rooftop. Lightning tore across the night sky, briefly illuminating the silhouette of a girl standing precariously at the edge of Hankuk Elite Academy's main building. Her school uniform, once pristine and worn with pride, now hung in tatters around her battered frame. Purple-black bruises bloomed across her exposed skin like poisonous flowers, mingling with dried blood that the rain was slowly washing away.
Song Min-ah's fingers trembled as she clutched a crumpled photo—the only thing she hadn't left behind in her locker. It showed three smiling faces: her mother's tired but hopeful eyes, her younger sister's bright grin missing two front teeth, and Min-ah herself, beaming with pride in her brand-new uniform. The day she received her scholarship notification.
"What a joke," she whispered, her voice nearly drowned by thunder. The prestigious institution that loomed seven stories below her had never been the sanctuary of education and opportunity that the brochures promised. The gleaming hallways and state-of-the-art facilities featured in those glossy photos existed, certainly—but they concealed something far more sinister beneath their polished surfaces.
Min-ah had arrived with nothing but determination and the weight of her family's expectations. Her acceptance letter had been celebrated like a national holiday in their tiny apartment. Her mother had prepared a feast that strained their budget for weeks afterward. Her sister had bragged to everyone at her middle school. Even her father, working overseas, had called for the first time in months, his voice cracking with pride.
"I'm sorry," she murmured to the photograph before tucking it back into her pocket. "I thought I was strong enough."
Another flash of lightning revealed the true extent of her injuries—a split lip, a gash across her cheekbone that would have scarred had she lived long enough, fingers bent at unnatural angles from when they'd slammed her hand in a classroom door earlier that day. The school nurse had turned her away, whispering that she should know better than to "cause trouble" with the Kim family's eldest son.
Min-ah took one shaky step closer to the edge, remembering her first week at Hankuk. How naive she'd been, thinking her top entrance exam scores would earn her respect. Instead, they had marked her as a target. The elite students—children of politicians, business moguls, and celebrities—had made it clear that no scholarship student would outshine them. Their methods were as creative as they were cruel.
"First it was just words," she said to the howling wind. "I could handle words."
But words had evolved into "accidents." Her research papers mysteriously deleted from secure servers. Her gym clothes vanishing during swim class. Her lunch tray knocked from her hands. Her textbooks defaced with obscenities. Then came the physical torment—trapped in bathroom stalls, shoved down stairwells, held down while they took turns spitting on her. All beyond the view of security cameras that somehow always malfunctioned at convenient times.
When she'd tried to report it, the counselor had smiled sympathetically before explaining that perhaps she was "misinterpreting normal student interactions." When she'd shown bruises as evidence, the vice principal had suggested she might be hurting herself for attention. When she'd captured video proof, her phone had been confiscated for "unauthorized recording on school grounds."
A particularly violent crack of thunder made her jump, momentarily pulling her back from the brink. Min-ah glanced down at the courtyard below, where granite tiles gleamed slick with rain. From this height, it would be quick. Perhaps not painless, but quick.
"I just wanted an education," she said, tears mixing with raindrops on her cheeks. "I just wanted to make something of myself."
Her latest transgression had been her worst offense yet—scoring higher than the school director's nephew on the national standardized test. She'd been cornered in the chemistry lab after hours, held down as they took turns demonstrating what happened when skin met bunsen burner flame. The faint smell of her own burned flesh still lingered beneath the rain's petrichor.
Min-ah stepped closer to the edge, toes now hanging over seven stories of empty space. The scholarship that had seemed like salvation had been her damnation. Her grades had plummeted from the constant harassment. Her once-vibrant spirit had withered. The university dreams that had driven her every waking moment now seemed like a child's fantasy.
Most scholarship students simply withdrew, disappeared quietly back into the working-class neighborhoods they'd tried to escape. Some endured, keeping their heads down, accepting their place at the bottom of the social hierarchy. But three others had chosen this same rooftop exit before her. Their names never appeared in school records or newspapers—their families quietly compensated and silenced with threats or money or both.
"At least my family will get something," she murmured, thinking of the insurance policy her father had maintained despite their poverty. It would be enough for her sister's education—somewhere else, somewhere safe.
Min-ah's thoughts turned to her younger sister, Soo-jin. Bright, fierce Soo-jin who idolized her, who dreamed of following in her footsteps to Hankuk Elite Academy. The thought sent ice through Min-ah's veins colder than the rain soaking her uniform.
"No," she whispered firmly. "Not this place. Never this place."
Her last act of rebellion had been the letter hidden beneath her mattress at home—detailed accounts of everything she'd endured, names, dates, methods. A warning for Soo-jin. Evidence of the school's true nature. She'd addressed it to her sister with strict instructions to open it only if she ever expressed interest in attending Hankuk.
Lightning flashed again, and for a moment, Min-ah thought she saw someone else on the rooftop—a shadow moving near the access door. But when the darkness returned, she convinced herself it was just her imagination, her mind playing tricks in these final moments.
"I'm sorry, Mom. I'm sorry, Dad," she breathed, the wind carrying her words away. "Soo-jin... be stronger than me."
Min-ah closed her eyes, thinking of the chemistry exam she'd been studying for, the university brochures still tucked in her desk drawer, the half-finished letter to her father describing a school life that existed only in her imagination. What a waste it all seemed now.
She thought of the faces that had tormented her—of Kim Jun-ho and his enforcers, of the teachers who looked the other way, of the silent witnesses who feared becoming targets themselves. Would they feel anything when her body was discovered in the morning? Or would they simply see it as another problem efficiently handled?
"This place is hell on earth," she said to the storm.
With one final deep breath, Song Min-ah stepped forward into emptiness. For a brief, suspended moment, she felt weightless, free from pain for the first time in months. The rain seemed to slow around her as gravity took hold. The wind rushed past her ears, drowning out everything but her final, fleeting thoughts.
Don't come here, Soo-jin. Don't make my mistake.
Her vision faded to black long before her body met the unforgiving ground below.
The following Monday, classes at Hankuk Elite Academy proceeded as scheduled. The student body was informed that Song Min-ah had transferred to another school due to family circumstances. Her empty desk was quickly filled by a new transfer student. The security footage from that rainy night was reviewed by the director personally, then permanently deleted. A substantial donation was made to the school's scholarship fund by an anonymous benefactor.
And in a modest apartment across the city, a package arrived for Song Soo-jin—her sister's belongings, neatly packed and delivered with the school's condolences and a letter explaining that the unfortunate accident had been the result of Min-ah's own carelessness during the storm.
Beneath her mattress, an unopened letter waited, its contents yet to spark the fire that would one day burn Hankuk Elite Academy's carefully constructed facade to the ground.