The sterile white of the hospital room seemed to drain all color from the world. The rhythmic beeping of machines provided a mechanical soundtrack to the tragedy unfolding within its walls. Song Soo-jin stood rigidly at her sister's bedside, her face a mask of composure that betrayed none of the storm raging inside her.
Min-ah lay motionless beneath crisp hospital sheets, her once vibrant features now slack and lifeless save for the artificial rise and fall of her chest. Tubes snaked from her body to various machines that kept her tethered to this world—a world that had been cruel enough to drive her to the rooftop of Hankuk Elite Academy on that stormy night.
"My baby, my sweet girl," their mother wept, clutching Min-ah's limp hand between her own. Her shoulders shook with each sob, her grief raw and unfiltered. "Why didn't you tell us? Why didn't you say something was wrong?"
But Soo-jin knew better. Her gaze traveled over her sister's battered body—the bandaged head where skull had met concrete, the casts encasing shattered limbs, the bruises that couldn't all be explained by a single fall. Some were older, yellowing at the edges. Evidence of a longer suffering.
Soo-jin's hands clenched tighter at her sides, nails digging so deeply into her palms that thin crescents of blood welled up and trickled between her fingers, dripping silently onto the polished hospital floor. She barely registered the pain. It was nothing compared to what Min-ah must have endured.
"Suicide," the doctors had said. "Tragic, but not uncommon among high-achieving students facing academic pressure." The school's official statement had been similarly formulaic—expressing appropriate sorrow while subtly suggesting that perhaps Min-ah hadn't been emotionally equipped for the rigors of elite education.
Lies. All of it.
Min-ah, who had meticulously planned her academic career since middle school. Min-ah, who had wall charts tracking her progress toward her university goals. Min-ah, who called home twice a week without fail to share her latest achievements and encourage Soo-jin in her own pursuits.
"She wouldn't do this," Soo-jin said, her voice so low that her mother didn't hear through her sobs.
Three months ago, during one of her visits to Min-ah's small student apartment, Soo-jin had glimpsed something that had troubled her ever since. Her sister had bent to pick up a dropped textbook, and her collar had shifted just enough to reveal a pattern of bruises along her nape—finger-shaped marks that couldn't have been self-inflicted. When questioned, Min-ah had laughed it off, blamed an overly competitive volleyball game in physical education class.
Soo-jin hadn't pushed further, respecting her sister's obvious desire to change the subject. Now, that memory burned like acid in her mind.
A nurse entered the room, checking vitals with practiced efficiency. "The doctor will be in shortly to discuss long-term care options," she said softly to their mother, who could only nod between sobs.
Long-term care. The phrase hung in the air like a death sentence. The doctors weren't optimistic about Min-ah ever waking up. The damage was too extensive—traumatic brain injury, internal bleeding, spinal fractures. Even if she did wake, they warned, she might never be the same.
Soo-jin's blood-slicked knuckles tightened further as she turned away from the bed, unable to look at her broken sister any longer. She moved to the window, staring out at the sprawling city beyond. Somewhere out there stood Hankuk Elite Academy, its pristine buildings and manicured grounds hiding secrets that had driven her sister to that rooftop.
Their mother hadn't even called their father yet. He was working construction in Dubai, sending home most of his earnings to support their education. The news would devastate him, would make him blame himself for being absent. Soo-jin understood her mother's hesitation—once told, it would become irreversibly real.
"I should check her apartment," Soo-jin said suddenly, turning back to her mother. "There might be... something there. Something that explains."
Her mother looked up, eyes red-rimmed and swollen. "The school sent her things. There was nothing... nothing to explain this."
"Not her school things," Soo-jin insisted. "Her personal items. Her journals. There has to be something."
But her mother shook her head. "Not now, Soo-jin. Please. I need you here." Her voice cracked. "I can't lose both my daughters at once."
Soo-jin's jaw tightened, but she nodded. Her mother needed her stability now. The investigation would have to wait, but it would not be forgotten.
The doctor arrived, clipboard in hand, expression professionally sympathetic as he began discussing coma scales and long-term prognosis in hushed tones. Soo-jin half-listened, filing away medical terminology and treatment plans while her mind worked on a different problem altogether.
Unlike Min-ah, whose strength had always been in her brilliant mind and gentle heart, Soo-jin had inherited their father's stockier build and determined temperament. Where Min-ah excelled in academics, Soo-jin had found her passion in the disciplined world of mixed martial arts. For five years, she had trained religiously at a local gym, earning regional junior titles and dreaming of professional competition.
Her original plan had been simple: Min-ah would be the academic star, securing a prestigious career that would elevate their family's status, while Soo-jin would pursue athletic excellence, perhaps winning enough recognition to secure sponsorships. They would lift the family together, using their complementary strengths.
That dream now lay as broken as Min-ah's body.
"—options for rehabilitation, should she regain consciousness," the doctor was saying. "However, I must emphasize that the likelihood is—"
"She will wake up," Soo-jin interrupted, her voice cutting through the room like a blade. Both her mother and the doctor turned to look at her. "My sister is stronger than you think."
The doctor offered a practiced smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Of course we hope for the best possible outcome. But it's important to be realistic about—"
"Thank you, doctor," Soo-jin said curtly. "We understand."
After he left, silence descended on the room again, broken only by the persistent beeping of machines and her mother's quieter weeping. Soo-jin moved to the small bathroom adjoining the hospital room, finally unclenching her fists under cold running water. The sting of water hitting the small wounds grounded her, gave her something tangible to focus on as she washed away the blood.
In the mirror, her reflection stared back with hard eyes. At sixteen, she was nearly the spitting image of Min-ah at the same age, but where her sister's features had always been softened by kindness, Soo-jin's held a sharper edge. The same high cheekbones and straight nose, but a more angular jaw, a more penetrating gaze.
"I'll find out what happened to you," she whispered to her reflection, imagining she was speaking to Min-ah. "And I'll make them pay."
Returning to the hospital room, Soo-jin found her mother had fallen asleep in the chair beside Min-ah's bed, exhaustion finally overcoming grief. Gently, she draped a spare blanket over her mother's shoulders before returning to her position by the window.
Night had fallen over the city, buildings transformed into constellations of light against the darkness. Soo-jin's mind worked methodically through what she knew and what she needed to learn.
Fact: Min-ah would never have jumped willingly.
Fact: She had been hiding injuries before the "accident."
Fact: The school had been suspiciously quick to rule it a suicide and return her belongings.
Conclusion: Something at Hankuk Elite Academy had led to her sister's current state.
Soo-jin's path forward became crystal clear as she watched the city lights shimmer through unshed tears. She would need to get into that school. Not just into the building for a day or two of investigation, but properly enrolled as a student. She would need to navigate the same halls Min-ah had, interact with the same people, uncover the same secrets.
It wouldn't be easy. Her grades were decent but not exceptional like Min-ah's had been. Her focus had always been on training, not academics. But she had something her gentle sister had lacked—a fighter's instinct, honed through years of competition, and an unshakable determination that occasionally bordered on ruthlessness.
Soo-jin turned back to look at her sister's still form. Min-ah had always been the family's golden child—brilliant, kind, destined for greatness. Soo-jin had been content in her shadow, proud of her sister's achievements, secure in her own different path.
Now, she would have to become what Min-ah had been, and more. She would need to excel academically to secure admission. She would need to present herself as the perfect student—exactly the kind of scholarship applicant Hankuk couldn't refuse without raising questions.
And then, once inside those walls, she would become something else entirely.
Soo-jin approached her sister's bedside, opposite their sleeping mother. Carefully, she took Min-ah's cool, unresponsive hand in her own.
"I don't know exactly what happened to you," she whispered, "but I promise I'll find out. Whatever it takes."
The machines continued their rhythmic beeping, the only response Min-ah could offer.
With new purpose hardening in her chest, Soo-jin gently placed her sister's hand back on the bed and walked toward the door. In the hallway, she pulled out her phone and opened her calendar. Three months until Hankuk's mid-year admission examinations. Three months to transform herself from a fighter to a scholar.
Three months to prepare for war.
Unknown to Soo-jin, the key to understanding her sister's fate lay not in the hospital, nor in the official reports, but in Min-ah's modest student apartment across the city. There, tucked beneath a thin mattress, waited a letter and SD card filled with evidence—names, dates, photographs, and Min-ah's own testimony about the true nature of Hankuk Elite Academy.
As Soo-jin stepped into the elevator, her resolve solidified into something cold and dangerous. Her sister had been sunshine and warmth, a brilliant mind who wouldn't hurt a fly. Soo-jin was different. She had the mind, yes—perhaps not as naturally gifted as Min-ah, but sharp enough. More importantly, she had something Min-ah had never possessed: the ability and willingness to inflict pain when necessary.
The elevator doors closed on Soo-jin's reflection in the polished metal—a young woman with bloodied hands and eyes that promised retribution.