Spectral Ye-Jun’s POV
It started with a single photo.
That day, someone—cowardly enough to stay anonymous—snapped a picture of me and Han Ji-a sitting side by side.
Nothing romantic. Nothing even noteworthy. Just two people existing in the same frame.
But in a school like ours, where gossip was sharper than knives and spread faster than wildfire, it was enough.
At the time I didn’t knew it was Hana lee’s work and once I see her again, I’m gonna confront about it again. But thinking again Han ji-a also kept this secret from me again.
By the next morning, the classroom felt like a cage.
Whispers slithered between desks, bouncing against walls until they became a constant hum. I could feel their eyes. The way they stole glances whenever we so much as breathed.
"That’s them, right? I heard they go home together."
"No way. Why would she even hang around him?"
"She must be desperate."
I almost laughed. Same old tune. Different day.
And my younger self? He didn’t react. Neither did Ji-a. This wasn’t our first trial by fire.
She sat there, posture neat, her face calm like nothing around her existed. The younger me leaned back in his chair, eyelids lowered, pretending to nap.
Let them talk. Let them choke on their own poison. That was the attitude I gave at the time. I really didn’t want to be in a school for these reasons as well.
Then the door slammed open. The homeroom teacher stepped in, sharp eyes scanning the room like a judge weighing crimes. He rapped his knuckles on the desk.
"Settle down."
The room went silent, but not cleanly. The air was still buzzing, thick with unspoken words. His gaze lingered on me for a moment—cold, dismissive—before shifting.
"Han Ji-a," he said. "Teacher’s office. Now."
Chairs creaked. Heads swiveled.
She stood slowly, smoothed her skirt, and walked out without a word. The teacher’s eyes followed her until the door clicked shut.
The younger me didn’t move, didn’t twitch an eyebrow. But I—Spectral me—remembered exactly what went on behind that office door.
They didn’t call her in about grades. They wanted the truth.
"Is it true?" one teacher had asked, his arms folded. "Are you involved with Ye-Jun?"
Ji-a’s answer was steady, her tone clipped. "No."
But that wasn’t enough. They pressed harder. Not with concern, but with warnings, with veiled disgust.
"You should stay away from him," another teacher added, her lips tight. "For your own good. You know what kind of boy he is."
Ah, yes. Me. The walking cautionary tale.
The rumors clung to my name like mud: drinking, fighting, smoking ,sleeping around, worse.
Maybe the smoking part but other half of them weren’t even true, but that didn’t matter. I was the easy villain, the student they could point to and whisper about.
The teacher was also about to bring his family situation where my father left us for another moment. This was the final line for Han ji-a.
He could have said thousands of bad things about me but Jnot about Aunt Mi-sun who has been taking care of her like a daughter—she didn’t cower.
Her hands curled into fists at her side as she interrupted, her voice clear:
"Shouldn’t you be helping your students instead of making them feel alone? And I don’t think it gives a good image when a teacher talks about other students family backgrounds behind their backs"
The teachers froze, stunned for a moment. Then the older man cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably.
"Regardless... it would be best if you kept your distance. It will only harm your future."
That was their truth. Their advice. Their cowardice.
The scene shattered like glass, and suddenly I was somewhere else.
The back of the school building. Quiet, shadowed, littered with whispers that turned into daggers.
Han Ji-a stood there, cornered. Around her, a small pack of girls closed in, their laughter sharp, cruel. And at the center of them—Hana. Smiling with lips that hid venom.
"Of course he’s your sugar daddy."
"Bet he’s the one paying your bills."
"Or maybe... he wants something else."
Their voices overlapped, ugly and shrill. Ji-a’s expression didn’t break, but I saw her hands tighten around the straps of her bag.
And then he appeared. My younger self.
He’d only been passing by, but the second those words reached him, something in his face shifted. Anger carved sharp lines across his features—cold, dangerous, lethal.
He stepped forward. Every girl stilled.
"Yes," he said, his voice snapping like iron against stone. "We’re dating. And you should mind your own damn business."
The weight in his tone was enough to silence them.
They faltered, eyes widening, then scrambled away like pigeons fleeing a thrown stone. Even Hana flinched, her mocking smile cracking as she followed the others.
And then it was just the two of them.
Ji-a exhaled, shaking her head slightly. Her voice carried exasperation, but her eyes... they were soft.
"You should’ve just said we’re neighbors instead of blurting that out."
The younger me scratched the back of his neck, gaze dropping to the ground. For a second, he looked almost... shy.
Then her tone shifted, low and careful. "What about Hana? What’s your relationship with her?"
He didn’t hesitate. "I just know her. That’s all."
Her brows furrowed, lips pressing together. She didn’t press further, though. Instead, she warned quietly:
"If you keep saying things like I’m your girlfriend, it’ll only cause trouble for both of us."
And then—he looked at her. Not with hesitation. Not with the careless mask he wore so often. His eyes were steady, his words unwavering.
"It won’t be a problem," he said. "Because I’ll stick with you all the time."
I stood there—Spectral, unseen—watching the promise settle in the air.
The boy who the world painted as poison. The girl who dared to stand beside him.
For once, he didn’t sound like a delinquent, or a monster, or the hopeless mess everyone whispered about.
He sounded like someone who finally had something—someone—worth protecting.
And I... years later, chained to these memories, I knew that was exactly what it was.
A promise. One neither of them understood fully yet... but a promise all the same.