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TAPPING HER FOOT IMPATIENTLY, y/n was almost done preparing Kwon's study schedule for the academic year. The clock struck five, yet the chair opposite her remained empty. 'Five o'clock, and that moron's nowhere in sight,' she thought, shooting a glare at her phone as if the silent device could relay her frustration. This year had to be different. Senior year was her chance—maybe her last—to fix a record so stained that admissions officers might mistake it for a judicial confession.
The past two years had been a blur of guilt, change, and bitter silence. Moving from city to city was nothing new; her parents' business made sure of that. But the move to Seoul wasn't just another stop on the map. It was an exile. Encino Hills, California, had been the first place she'd felt like she belonged, even amidst chaos. She'd made friends, real ones, and got swept into karate through one of them. It was all innocent at first—sweat-soaked afternoons, playful shoves, and the thrill of competition.
But soon, things escalated after their first All-Valley win. The dojo gained notoriety, new senseis with wild ideas came in, and the line between practice and war blurred. And then there was the fight.
The one that still replayed in her mind, as vivid as the day it happened.
The echo of her own ragged breaths, the screams that splintered the air, the sight of best friend teetering at the top of the stairs. His eyes had locked with hers for a split second—a moment of pure, gut-wrenching fear. She had reached out, fingers stretching into the impossible space between them. But gravity was merciless, and in the blink of an eye, it claimed him. The thud of his body meeting the ground was a sound she could never forget, a sound that haunted her sleep and whispered accusations in her waking hours.
She blamed herself. Not just for failing to save him but for letting it get that far. The red-hot temper that had surged in her veins and driven her fists to fly without thought had been her downfall. Her parents saw the danger too; the expulsion had made it clear. They packed up their lives, ripped her away from the only friends she'd ever cared for, and shipped her to Seoul. For once, she hadn't protested. How could she, when guilt weighed down every breath? Now, nearly two years later, life in Seoul was a quieter kind of battle. It was a place with no familiar faces, no remnants of a life she once had, and certainly no karate.
Yet even with the academic grind and attempts to play the role of the reformed student, the past had its ways of catching up. Like today—March 6th. Eli's birthday. The urge to wish him was gnawing at her, a cruel reminder of the friendships she'd severed. But her phone stayed silent, an impassable chasm of lost connections.
