Chapter 7: Echoes of Absence

The grand orientation ceremony had gradually morphed into something else entirely—a lavish social gathering that sprawled across Hankuk Elite Academy's immaculate central courtyard. Under white canopies and fairy lights, uniformed servers weaved through clusters of students and faculty, offering hors d'oeuvres on silver trays. A string quartet played softly in one corner, their classical melodies providing an elegant backdrop to the networking underway.

Soo-jin observed it all from the periphery, her back against one of the ancient oak trees that dotted the courtyard. The social dynamics were immediately apparent—students gravitating toward those with the most social capital, faculty members paying special attention to certain family names, scholarship students hovering awkwardly at the edges, much as she was.

"Not exactly subtle, is it?" she muttered to herself, watching as Park Ji-hoon, the principal's grandson and student representative, held court among a circle of admirers.

The entire affair reeked of performance—a stage where the hierarchies of the outside world were recreated and reinforced within academic walls. Every handshake, every introduction, every polite laugh seemed calculated to establish or reinforce position within the complex social ecosystem.

This wasn't a welcome party; it was an elaborate sorting mechanism.

Soo-jin checked her watch. She had made an appearance, as required by the orientation schedule, but had no intention of staying a minute longer than necessary. Her real work lay elsewhere—in the apartment where Min-ah had lived before that fateful night. Where, perhaps, answers waited.

Just as she pushed away from the tree, a familiar voice called out.

"Soo-jin! There you are! I've been looking everywhere!"

Hee-chul emerged from the crowd, his vibrant jacket somehow even more eye-catching in the dimming light. He clutched two crystal glasses of what appeared to be sparkling water, extending one toward her with a grin that seemed to radiate genuine pleasure at finding her.

"You can't leave yet," he insisted, pressing the glass into her reluctant hand. "This is where all the important connections happen. Everyone who matters is here."

Soo-jin regarded him with cool assessment. His persistence in seeking her out despite her obvious disinterest was puzzling. Was it simple friendliness, or something more calculated? After her encounter with the mysterious fighter in the hallway, she couldn't afford to take anyone's motives at face value.

"I'm not interested in connections," she said, but accepted the glass to avoid drawing attention. "And I have somewhere I need to be."

Hee-chul's expression turned surprisingly serious, his voice dropping lower. "Look, I know you're a scholarship student, and trust me, that makes this party even more important for you." He gestured subtly toward a group of older students chatting with several adults in expensive suits. "See those third-years? All scholarship kids who found sponsors. Corporate mentorships, internship guarantees, even housing stipends—all because they showed up to events like this and made the right impression."

Something in his earnestness gave Soo-jin pause. Was this simply the advice of someone who knew how the system worked, or was there more to his insistence?

"How do you know I'm on scholarship?" she asked sharply, remembering that the mysterious fighter had known this too.

Hee-chul blinked, momentarily thrown by her intensity. "You mentioned it earlier, when we were checking the class assignments. Remember?"

Had she? The day's events had blurred together, but she supposed it was possible she'd revealed that detail. Still, she filed away this moment of uncertainty, unwilling to dismiss any potential connection.

"I appreciate the advice," she said, softening her tone slightly, "but I really do have to go."

"At least let me introduce you to a few people first," he persisted, gesturing toward a less crowded area where several faculty members stood conversing. "Professor Lee over there heads the academic scholarship committee. One good impression now could make your whole year easier."

Soo-jin hesitated, weighing the potential intelligence value against her urgent need to investigate Min-ah's apartment. The scholarship committee might have information about her sister, might have been involved in whatever pressure had been applied...

"Five minutes," she conceded, setting her untouched glass on a nearby table.

Hee-chul's face lit up with triumph as he guided her toward the faculty group. For the next several minutes, Soo-jin found herself engaging in precisely the kind of networking she had intended to avoid—exchanging pleasantries with professors, answering questions about her academic interests, smiling politely at jokes she found neither amusing nor relevant.

Professor Lee, a thin woman with shrewd eyes behind cat-eye glasses, seemed particularly interested in her background.

"Another Song from Gangnam Public," she remarked, studying Soo-jin with unnerving intensity. "We had a scholarship student from there recently. Any relation?"

Soo-jin felt her pulse quicken but maintained her composure. "My sister, Min-ah. She transferred out last semester."

Something flickered in Professor Lee's eyes—recognition, discomfort, perhaps guilt—before her professional mask slipped back into place. "Ah yes, I recall now. Bright student. A shame about her... situation."

The deliberate vagueness of "situation" confirmed what Soo-jin already suspected—the school's official story about Min-ah's departure remained consistent among faculty. No mention of the rooftop, the fall, the hospital where her sister still lay unresponsive.

"Yes," Soo-jin replied evenly, "a shame."

The conversation shifted to safer topics—curriculum requirements, extracurricular opportunities—but Soo-jin had gotten what she needed. Professor Lee knew something, and that knowledge made her uncomfortable. Another thread to pull when the time was right.

After exactly five minutes, she excused herself politely, ignoring Hee-chul's disappointed expression.

"I'll see you in class tomorrow," she told him as she turned to leave. "Thanks for the introductions."

"Wait!" Hee-chul called after her. "At least let me get your number? For study group purposes?"

Something about his insistence nagged at her. Why was he so determined to form a connection? Was it merely his naturally sociable personality, or something more strategic?

"I don't have my phone with me," she lied smoothly. "We'll connect tomorrow."

Before he could protest further, she slipped into the stream of students heading toward the exit. The late afternoon air felt cleaner somehow once she passed through the academy gates, as though the institution itself exuded some invisible contamination that clung to its occupants.

The walk to Min-ah's apartment building took twenty minutes—twenty minutes of processing everything she'd learned on this first day. The class hierarchy, the unwritten rules, the mysterious fighter who seemed to know who she was, Hee-chul's strange persistence, Professor Lee's discomfort at the mention of Min-ah. Pieces of a puzzle she was only beginning to assemble.

As she turned onto the street where Min-ah had lived, Soo-jin felt a strange mix of anticipation and dread. This apartment had been her sister's sanctuary—or perhaps her prison—during her time at Hankuk. Whatever had happened to Min-ah, traces of it might linger here, waiting to be discovered.

The building itself was modest but well-maintained, a five-story structure in a neighborhood populated primarily by students and young professionals. Nothing like the luxurious apartments or family estates that most Hankuk students likely called home.

As Soo-jin approached the entrance, an elderly woman emerged from the ground floor apartment, a small watering can in her gnarled hands. When she spotted Soo-jin, her face transformed with a mixture of surprise and delight.

"Min-ah!" she called, her voice warm with affection. "You've been gone so long! I was beginning to worry—"

The woman stopped mid-sentence as Soo-jin drew closer, confusion replacing her initial joy. "Oh my, I'm sorry. For a moment, I thought—"

"It's alright," Soo-jin said gently, bowing respectfully to the elder. "I'm Song Soo-jin, Min-ah's younger sister."

The old woman's hand flew to her mouth. "Oh! The resemblance is remarkable." She studied Soo-jin's face with open curiosity. "Is Min-ah well? We haven't seen her in months."

So the neighbors hadn't been informed of what happened. Another piece of the cover-up.

"She's... away for a while," Soo-jin said carefully. "I'll be staying in her apartment in the meantime."

The elderly woman's face softened with a knowing smile. "You have her eyes, but there's something different about you. More... steady, perhaps." She set down her watering can and reached out to pat Soo-jin's arm with unexpected familiarity. "Your sister was such a lovely girl—always helping me carry my groceries, playing with the children on the playground downstairs. Even when she looked tired, she'd never refuse if someone needed help."

Soo-jin couldn't help the small, sad smile that formed. "That sounds like Min-ah."

"Too kind for her own good, that one," the woman continued, shaking her head slightly. "Always putting others before herself, even when—" She paused, seeming to reconsider her words. "Well, it's not my place. I'm Mrs. Park, by the way. First floor, apartment 106, if you need anything at all."

"Thank you, Mrs. Park," Soo-jin replied, filing away the woman's unfinished thought for later consideration. "It's nice to meet you."

After a few more pleasantries, Soo-jin continued into the building and up the stairs to the third floor. The hallway was quiet, four doors spaced evenly along its length. Min-ah's apartment—302—was at the far end. As she walked, Soo-jin mentally noted the neighboring units. Perhaps these neighbors, too, had pieces of the puzzle she was assembling.

Standing before the door to 302, key in hand, Soo-jin felt a momentary hesitation. Beyond this threshold lay her sister's life—the one she had kept separate from family, the one that had ultimately led her to that rainy rooftop. What would she find? What traces had Min-ah left behind?

With a deep breath, Soo-jin inserted the key and turned it. The lock clicked open with surprising ease, as though welcoming her home.

The apartment beyond was suspended in time—a perfect preservation of the moment Min-ah had left it for the last time. A half-eaten breakfast still sat on the small table by the kitchenette, now dried and moldering. A uniform jacket hung by the door, waiting for an owner who would never wear it again. Books and papers were strewn across the desk in organized chaos, Post-it notes marking important pages in textbooks.

Soo-jin closed the door behind her, sealing herself in with her sister's abandoned life. The air felt heavy with unspoken words and unrealized futures. As she stood motionless in the entryway, taking in every detail with methodical precision, Soo-jin felt both closer to and further from her sister than ever before.

"What happened to you here, Min-ah?" she whispered into the stillness. "What did they do to you?"

The apartment offered no immediate answers, only the silent evidence of a life interrupted. But somewhere within these walls, Soo-jin was certain, lay clues to the truth she had come to uncover. And she would find them, no matter what it took.

With resolve hardening in her chest, Soo-jin stepped fully into the apartment, closing the door on the outside world and immersing herself in the task ahead. Her investigation had truly begun.