I stood in the dusty, trophy-filled club room, staring at the photo of the three happy boys. The ghost of "Youthful Memoirs"—or whatever they used to be called—hung heavy in the air.
I turned to Jun-seo, trying to look casual and not like a guy who had been ordered by the school queen to manipulate him.
"So," I said, leaning against a stack of amps. "This place is cool. Can I join this club? I mean, I play guitar. I need an extracurricular."
Jun-seo didn't look up from the cable he was coiling. "Of course. The School Bands Club is always looking for members. We have four active bands right now—a jazz ensemble, a funk group, and two pop-rock bands. I can introduce you to the leaders."
"Actually," I said, pointing a thumb at the drum kit on the stage, "I was thinking about joining your band. You know. The one with you... and Myung-Dae."
Jun-seo's hands stopped moving. The coil of cable froze in mid-air.
He slowly straightened up and turned to me. His "President" smile was there—perfect, polite, and dazzling—but it didn't reach his eyes. It was a mask made of glass.
"That band," he said, his voice light but brittle, "is... quite complicated."
"Complicated?"
"It's not active, San-ssi," he said, placing the cable in the box with deliberate precision. "We don't practice. We don't perform. It's... history. Besides, it's not the best choice for you. The atmosphere will not be exactly... welcoming. We have already gave it up and formally it still exists, but you know..."
He clapped his dusty hands together, effectively ending the conversation.
"You should think about the other groups. The jazz guys are great. Anyway, thanks for the help with the boxes. That's the heavy lifting done."
He walked past me toward the door, checking his watch.
"We should go find Ha-neul."
I followed him out, frustrated. He was a fortress.
"Wait," I asked, jogging to keep up with his long strides. "How do you know where she is? Are you a telepath? Or do you have a GPS tracker on her too?"
Jun-seo laughed, the tension from the club room evaporating. "A telepath? No. I just know Ha-neul. She's at her club tent."
I blinked. "Ha-neul... is in a club?"
"Of course."
I was confused. I lived with her. I ate breakfast with her. I'd seen her play piano, study, and eat beef with the ferocity of a T-Rex. I had never seen her do anything "club-like."
Note to self: Ask Min-ah. She definitely knows.
We navigated through the crowded lawn, weaving past the K-Pop Dance Club (who were currently blasting EXO) and the Magic Club (who were failing to make a pigeon disappear).
Jun-seo stopped in front of a quiet, elegant white tent near the traditional garden entrance.
A banner hung above it, written in beautiful, sweeping black ink brushstrokes: Kirin Calligraphy & Traditional Arts.
"Here," Jun-seo said.
I peeked inside. The air smelled of ink and expensive paper. It was a sanctuary of silence amidst the carnival noise.
And there, sitting on a cushion at a low wooden table, was Ha-neul.
She was wearing her school uniform, but she had tied her sleeves back with a ribbon. Her posture was impeccable. She was holding a long bamboo brush, her face a mask of absolute, terrifying focus.
She dipped the brush in the inkstone, took a breath, and swept the brush across the paper. One fluid, perfect stroke.
"Wow," I whispered. "She looks... peaceful."
"She's terrifyingly good," Jun-seo whispered back. "Don't startle her."
Ha-neul finished the character, exhaled, and placed the brush on the rest. She looked up, saw us, and her zen expression instantly vanished, replaced by her usual look of mild annoyance.
"You're late," she said to Jun-seo. Then she looked at me. "And you're... here."
"I brought a helper," Jun-seo grinned.
"Is this... calligraphy?" I asked, stepping into the tent. "I've seen this in movies."
"It's Seoye," Ha-neul corrected. "It's about discipline. Focus. Controlling your mind."
She gestured to the empty cushion and blank paper across from her. It was clearly a setup for visitors to try.
"Want to try, San-ssi?" she asked, a dangerous glint in her eye. "See if you can control your mind?"
I looked at the brush. I looked at the black ink. I looked at Ha-neul's perfect character.
"How hard can it be?" I said, sitting down. "I have excellent handwriting. In Cyrillic."
I grabbed the brush like a microphone.
"Hold it lower," Ha-neul sighed. "No, not like a dagger. Like a brush. Gently."
I dipped it in the ink. Too much ink. It dripped.
"Okay," I muttered. "I'm going to write... 'Mountain'."
I brought the brush down.
SPLAT.
The "mountain" looked less like a majestic peak and more like a squashed spider that had exploded on impact.
Jun-seo choked back a laugh behind me. Ha-neul stared at the black blob, her expression flat.
"Beautiful," she deadpanned. "It really captures your chaotic essence."