Missions (Part 5)

The Life of Aurelius Valemont: Missions (Part 5)

Later that night...

I flopped onto the hotel bed, face-first. I nearly scratched Shadow Jr.—my black scooter-motorcycle—on the way in. That alone would've been the final straw in this overly dramatic first week of school.

I was done.

Done with fanclubs.

Done with being filmed live.

Done with being called a "k-pop prince" by some girl with glitter eyeliner.

Just as I buried my face into the pillow, my phone buzzed—

Video call.

I didn't even need to check who it was.

"Hey, bro! What's up??"

Philip. Freaking Philip. Of course.

I picked up the call, already half-regretting it.

There he was on the screen—grinning like a lunatic, eyes sparkling like he'd just watched a season finale.

"I'm fine..." I muttered, hugging a pillow. My whole body ached. "You probably watched that drama, huh?"

Philip leaned into the screen, smirking.

"Yo! That was legit! So... what's the deal? K-pop idol arc now?"

If he were here, I would've smacked his smug face. Or at least launched a pillow through the screen.

"You'll be there 'til nineteen, right? Need some help?"

I knew he meant well. Really. But could someone PLEASE wipe that grin off his face?

Then—

Just when I thought the chaos couldn't get worse—Luciana leaned into the screen.

Luciana. My final and current stepmother.

Twenty years old.

Basically a walking contradiction: a Royal by blood, my father's wife on paper, but more like my annoying older sister in practice. And to make matters worse—

She looked a lot and act a lot like my mother.

"My little knight, are you okay?" she cooed. "Should we come over?"

I groaned, rubbing my temples.

"No need. Really. If you show up here, Father's going to kill me. I have to do this alone. That's what he said. And you're still his wife... technically."

Luciana pouted, folding her arms. "I don't even know that guy. Or love him."

Before I could respond, a silver tray flew across the screen—

CRASH!

Cookies everywhere.

"Young Master Aurelius!"

Cue: Yumi.

Crying. Bawling. Somehow holding a tray of cookies in one hand and a tissue in the other.

She crashed into the frame like a storm, launching the cookies all over Philip's face—which he deserved. He sputtered, trying to shake the crumbs out of his hair.

I chuckled despite myself. "I missed you too, guys."

Then I paused—

Something caught my eye.

"Hold on, Yumi. Whose hand are you holding?"

The camera shifted slightly.

A hand.

A very familiar one.

With the faintest blush at the knuckles.

Philip, now munching the cookies off his face, casually said between bites:

"Oh, that's Matthew. They're dating now. Official."

I blinked. "WHAT?! You're kidding, right?! Come on! Why does something always happen when I'm gone?!"

Yumi blushed furiously and tried to hide behind the tray (which had no cookies left), while Matthew—stoic, silent, always composed—nodded slowly, ears a little red.

I sighed. "Honestly… I'm happy for you guys."

After years of Philip shipping them like it was his life's mission, it was about time.

Then the camera shifted again.

In the corner of the screen, Peter, the ever-suffering librarian of the Valemont estate and Philip's grandfather, let out a heavy sigh.

Somehow...

He looked more stressed than I did.

A few hours later (9: 14 pm) after all the dramas in Video Call coming from them, the others have left (not literally left, they're still there at the library) leaving me and Philip having a private conversation...

Still hugging the pillow like it was the last thread of my sanity, a thought struck me like a lightning bolt to the brain.

"Philip," I said, sitting up just a little. "Can you do me a favor?"

He paused mid-bite of a cookie shard. "…This sounds like one of those favors that could get me arrested or turn me into a legend."

"It's the second one."

He grinned wider. "Go on."

"I need a full background check on someone. Minjun Cheong."

Philip immediately sat up straighter.

"Minjun Cheong?" he repeated. "As in the son of Cheong Hae-Jin, CEO of Aesther Studio?"

"The very one," I muttered. "He's an idol trainee, sure, good looks, fanbase, whatever. But something's off about him. I don't care how shiny his smile is—there's something wrong. You know the gut feeling I get when someone's fake?"

Philip nodded slowly, wiping his fingers on a napkin. "You think he's involved?"

"I don't know," I admitted, rubbing my eyes. "But I need to be sure. This guy's been too close, too conveniently. And remember what you said about important students enrolled in this school? Is he on that list?"

Philip's fingers were already flying over his second laptop. "I'll cross-reference Aesther Studio's internal connections, enrollment records, alumni under aliases, and known associates of—" He glanced at Luciana and Peter. "—well, you know who."

I exhaled deeply. "Do it quietly. I can't afford to draw any attention to myself right now. I already have four fanclubs, probably trending on Korean social media, and some kid in a unicorn hoodie asked me to sign her pencil case."

Luciana stifled a laugh behind her hand. Yumi was nodding in agreement, her eyes comically wide. "You looked like a prince in that video!"

I ignored them and stared back at the screen.

"You sure he's not related to my target?" I asked, voice quieter. "The principal. Chan-Woo Gong. The devil's former second-in-command. If he's even remotely connected—blood, business, blackmail—I need to know now, Philip."

Philip's smile faded a little. "Got it. I'll dig. If there's anything hidden in the dark web, in student records, or even in his dad's shadow financials… I'll find it."

I gave a slow nod. "Thanks. And don't tell the others. Not even Matthew."

He held up a hand. "Hacker's honor."

Then I leaned back into the pillows and stared at the ceiling. Aesther Studio, Minjun Cheong, and this cursed school... They were all threads in a web. And I was starting to feel like a very impatient spider.

The next day was, unfortunately, the same circus all over again.

I pulled into the school parking lot on my Shadow Jr., still clinging to the faint hope that maybe—maybe—today people would stop treating me like some runaway K-drama lead.

No such luck.

The moment I removed my helmet, the shrieks started again. Some of them even had signs now. Signs. With glitter. How fast do these people print things?

I muttered under my breath, "Son of a hen…"

Of course, I said it in English—habit. This is Korea, and I'm supposed to be a polite foreign transfer from Canada. Emphasis on supposed.

I made my way to class, dodging a girl trying to hand me a protein bar and someone holding a "LEE JAE-WON STAN FOREVER" poster. I swear that one's fanclub president.

Sliding into my seat beside Seojin, I was greeted by the sight of his head down on the desk, eyes half-lidded, trying to ignore the world. Again.

He groaned at my arrival.

"You're early," I said.

"You're loud," he grumbled. "And shiny. My life has never been more stressful."

"Good morning to you too."

We both looked up when he arrived. Minjun Cheong. As if summoned by sarcasm.

He strolled in from another first-year class like he owned the entire building. The girls whispered. The boys tried to act indifferent. And Minjun? Oh, he smiled like this was his stage, like I was the guest appearance in his show.

He came up to my desk, leaned slightly with that practiced idol-tilt, and said, "Good morning, Jae-won."

I smiled back—dangerously sweet, as Yumi would say—and muttered under my breath, "Son of a hen."

Seojin snorted beside me.

Minjun, of course, didn't notice. Or maybe he did, but didn't care.

"I heard you're still struggling with basketball," he said, that perfect grin never fading. "If you want, I could help you out sometime. I'm the captain of our class team, after all."

Was this an offer of help, a jab, or a setup?

Probably all three.

"Sure," I said, still smiling. "Teach me how to spin a ball on one finger. I'll return the favor by teaching you how to run for your life."

He blinked, a little caught off-guard. "What?"

"Kidding," I replied, still smiling.

Maybe.

Seojin groaned again and dragged his hoodie over his face. "Why am I always stuck next to problematic people?"

Because, dear Seojin, fate is cruel. And you look too peaceful when you nap.

Four fanclubs. One fake identity. Zero basketball skills. And now an idol trainee sniffing around me like a suspiciously well-dressed bloodhound.

Perfect.

Absolutely perfect.

Then Minjun tilted his head with that same idle curiosity idols master all too well and asked, "How old are you, Jae-won?"

I froze for a split second, mentally digging through the layers of lies I'd wrapped myself in. Right—my forged identity still used my real age. No point lowering it when you look like this.

"Seventeen," I said, keeping my tone casual. "Why?"

Minjun blinked, mildly surprised. Even Seojin stirred from his semi-dead nap mode.

"Oh, it's nothing," Minjun replied with a soft laugh. "It's just that most of us in the first year are sixteen, especially in your class. But hey—don't worry! I turned seventeen last month too."

I wasn't sure if he was telling the truth or trying to make a connection. Either way, it didn't matter. Because just then, I heard the girls behind me whispering again.

"Oppa…"

"He's older than me? That's so cute!"

"I'll definitely make a fan banner tonight!"

Great. That's definitely what I needed—fuel for Fanclub #5.

Seojin blinked groggily at me. "Didn't know you're a hyeong here. Guess you're a few months older than me. Lucky."

Right. I'm in Korea. Of course. That's how age works here—older equals automatic seniority, and "oppa" or "hyeong" gets tossed around like free snacks at a fan meet.

I forced a sheepish smile—the one Yumi called "dangerously adorable," whatever that meant. "Sorry. I was homeschooled all my life back in Canada because of my illness."

Half-truths. The best kind of lies.

Yes, I was homeschooled.

No, it wasn't due to an illness. Unless you count learning twenty ways to break a man's spine at age fourteen an "illness." Father certainly treated it like one.

"Ah, that makes sense!" Minjun nodded, a little too brightly. "You give off that sheltered, mysterious vibe. It's cute."

Seojin looked like he was about to throw up.

I smiled again. "Thanks… I guess?"

Inside, I was screaming.

This was going to be a long mission.

The class finally started, and thank God Minjun left for his own room. My brain could finally breathe.

Not that I was paying attention.

Math was on the board, but my mind was off-grid. I've been through this already—basic functions, quadratic crap, theorems. I was digesting college-level texts by age eight, between hacking drills and field combat simulations disguised as "strategic exercises." Numbers don't scare me. People do.

Instead, I let my mind drift to something else far more dangerous than calculus—Chan-woo Gong.

The principal. The mission. The reason I'm here, pretending to be a seventeen-year-old Canadian transfer student with a tragic medical history and an illegally perfect face.

Chan-woo Gong—the devil's former second-in-command. If you can survive Victor Valemont, you don't just get promoted. You become something...other.

And according to the files I managed to pull before coming here, he brought his inner circle with him. Only... no identities. Just code names, like we're in some mafia-run petting zoo.

"The Black Dog"

"White Lion"

"Speed Monkey"

"Terrifying Ape"

And a few more I couldn't even take seriously. What is this? A Jungle Book reboot?

I rolled my eyes.

This school is a zoo, I thought grimly. And I was dropped into it in a school uniform, expected to blend in like I'm just another tree in the forest.

Still, I know better than to underestimate them. Nicknames like that don't come from nowhere—not under Chan-woo. If he acknowledged them, it means they've done something violent enough to earn it. Blood-soaked loyalty, perhaps. Or maybe they're just monsters in disguise, like all the worst ones are.

They could be anyone.

Students.

Teachers.

Janitors.

Lunch ladies.

Even the sweet librarian with glasses that looks like she belongs in a romance drama could be Speed Monkey for all I know.

I scribbled absently on my notebook, drawing a mental web of aliases and potential roles. I had to find them. Identify them. Track them.

And when the time is right…

Well.

Let's just say not even a Black Dog bites harder than a Valemont who's ready to finish what his father started.

It was already lunch.

The cafeteria buzzed with noise—laughter, trays clattering, and the faint hum of K-pop music from someone's phone.

Minjun sat right in front of me.

Again.

He was staring like I was some puzzle he couldn't figure out. Seojin sat beside me, yawning, half-alive, and ignoring my silent pleas for help like I wasn't mentally screaming. My every movement was tracked by the BL fans behind us—like a live drama episode waiting to unfold. Some were even from the four fan clubs I somehow accumulated in just a week.

I sighed deeply, poking at my rice.

All I wanted was a peaceful meal. Maybe an escape tunnel.

But of course, that peace shattered the moment my phone buzzed. A message from Philip—encrypted, naturally.

It looked like gibberish to anyone else, but we've been doing this since we were kids.

"Я нашёл настоящую личность Минджуна Чонга. Шашлык, борщ, пельмени."

(I found the real identity of Minjun Cheong. Shashlik, borscht, pelmeni.)

Food words. Russian food words. Code.

Each one represented something in our system—"Shashlik" meant a hidden operative, "Borscht" stood for family ties to the target, and "Pelmeni" meant access to high-level classified data.

I replied without looking suspicious, typing lazily:

"Спагетти?"

(Spaghetti?) — meaning What the hell does that mean?! Explain.

He replied in a heartbeat:

"Минджун — внук Чан-У Гонга. Пельмени двойной порции."

(Minjun is the grandson of Chan-Woo Gong. Double portion of pelmeni.)

I blinked.

Grandson? Of him?

Double pelmeni—access to deep classified intel, maybe even encrypted lines within the estate's core. This wasn't just a complication. It was a damn landmine sitting right in front of me with a sweet smile and a lunch tray.

I slowly lifted my eyes to Minjun.

He smiled.

I smiled back.

Yumi's "dangerously adorable smile," weaponized.

My appetite vanished.

I kept chewing slowly, eyes still on Minjun, but my hands moved under the table as I typed another coded message to Philip.

"Здесь 12:27. Сколько сейчас времени в поместье? Селёдка, оливье, икру."

(It's 12:27 here. What time is it in the estate? Herring, Olivier salad, caviar.)

Three layers of encryption. "Herring" for time zone shift, "Olivier" for estate surveillance status, and "Caviar" for danger-level code.

Philip answered almost instantly.

> "Там сейчас 6:27 утра. Блины и мед."

(It's 6:27 AM there. Pancakes and honey.)

Pancakes—quiet hours. Honey—no activity detected. For now.

Good. That meant father was probably asleep—or at least not yet sending any orders from the estate. Still, I couldn't relax.

Not with Minjun in front of me, smiling like he wasn't related to one of the most dangerous men on earth.

I looked at my plate. The food was untouched.

Suddenly, Minjun asked, casually stabbing a piece of meat with his chopsticks, "You don't eat much, huh?"

I smiled again. "Not when I'm being watched like a panda behind glass."

He chuckled. "You're funny, hyung."

Yeah. Hilarious.

Just as I was about to finally enjoy a bite, another encrypted notification flashed on my screen—this time in Thai.

"อีกหนึ่งคนของชานอู กง—'แบล็กด็อก' เป็นนักเรียนในห้องเดียวกับนาย ชื่อฮัน ซอจิน ชื่อเล่น: สุนัขดำ"

(Another one of Chan-woo Gong's men—'Black Dog.' He's a student and your classmate. Name: Han Seojin. Nickname: The Black Dog.)

I froze mid-chew and slowly turned my head to the right.

There he was—Han Seojin—eating quietly, calmly, like he didn't just carry one of the most threatening nicknames out of that entire file.

I typed back quickly:

"จริงเหรอ...?" (Seriously...?)

Philip replied almost instantly:

"อย่าหลงกลการแสดงของพวกเขา นายไม่มีทางรู้ตัวตนจริงๆ ของพวกเขาได้ บางที 'แฟนคลับ' ของนายก็อาจจะเป็นบอดี้การ์ดของเขาด้วย"

(Don't get fooled by their act. You'll never know their real identities. Maybe your 'fanclub' are actually his bodyguards.)

I dropped my spoon back onto the tray with a soft clink and took a breath. Of course they are. Why wouldn't they be?

I replied in Thai, short and firm:

"โอเค"

(Okay.)

This mission was getting more twisted than a pretzel. I needed to stay sharp.

Philip suddenly messaged me again—this time in English:

"Anyways... while I was hacking your school's data intel (blah blah firewalls, boring stuff), I found out your homeroom teacher is actually Chan-woo Gong's personal bodyguard."

I paused, spoon still hovering mid-air.

"Like Matthew?" I typed back casually while chewing, pretending I wasn't just mildly panicking inside.

He replied,

"Matthew's better. Stronger. More loyal. But still... be careful around your homeroom teacher. He's been trained by the same system."

I sighed and sent him a thumbs up emoji.

Seconds later, another notification popped up. A picture.

Philip sent me a selfie—with Luciana kissing his forehead.

That idiot. That absolute jerk.

I gripped my phone hard, almost cracking the screen. My eye twitched.

I could almost hear him laughing from across the continent.

After lunch, Minjun suddenly pulled me into a secluded hallway near the back of the school. No cameras. No witnesses. Suspicious.

I instinctively gripped the hidden dagger inside my uniform, already on high alert. After all, he was the grandson of Father's former second-in-command. If this was a trap...

But instead of attacking, he… smiled.

And not just any smile. That kind of smile that could light up a room—or hide a thousand lies behind it. The kind of smile Luciana used to say was "too pretty to be real."

Then he handed me something. A card?

"What's this?" I asked, narrowing my eyes.

"Aether Studio," he said brightly. "You should join."

I blinked. "Like… an idol?"

He nodded—enthusiastically. "My bandmates will love you. You've got the look. You've got the presence. You're practically born for the stage."

What?

Eh??

Seriously??

This has to be a trap.

My brain ran a thousand calculations per second. Was this a cover? A test? Some twisted way of monitoring me? Or worse… recruiting me into their circle?

I forced a polite smile, trying to keep my irritation at bay.

I didn't sign up for this. I just want to finish this mission, survive high school, and maybe—just maybe—not get dragged into some sparkly, pop-star nightmare.

At this point, I'd rather poison his grandfather and walk away from this circus.

Ugh.

A few months had passed since that ridiculous idol recruitment attempt. Now, it's written exam season. Everyone around me was nervous—chewing on pens, reviewing notes, pacing like their lives depended on it.

But me? I wasn't even sweating. I'd been through worse.

Still, even after all this time, I couldn't get used to the attention. The stares. The whispering. The four fan clubs. Minjun Cheong, alias White Lion, was still clinging to me like a leech with expensive shampoo. I tried to shake him off countless times, but that guy could persist like an incurable virus.

And yet… no sign of the real boss. No access to the devil in the chair. Principal Chan-woo Gong.

Now I understood what Father meant.

"Infiltration is never about fighting your way in. It's about walking into a lion's den wearing a lamb's skin. And surviving it."

If I slipped even once—just one misstep—I'd be swarmed by this crowd of blissfully ignorant students. And if they realized who I really was? Well, police would be the least of my problems.

Still, progress.

I had uncovered the true identities of his secret men.

The Black Dog—my ever-exhausted seatmate, Han Seojin. Silent, calculating, and always pretending to nap.

The White Lion—Minjun Cheong. Flashy, social, with a voice that could charm a classroom or lead an army.

The Speed Monkey—the deceptively friendly librarian, Eunji Soo. Small, smiley, but with records that hinted at military-grade agility and a hidden knife collection.

And then there was the last one.

The Terrifying Ape.

At first, I refused to believe it. The name sounded ridiculous. And when I found out who it was, I nearly laughed.

Until I saw her fight.

Flashback. Midnight.

It was just past 2:00 a.m.

The school was silent, drenched in moonlight. I slipped through the back hallway, bypassed the ancient biometric lock on the principal's office, and crept inside.

It was cold. Papers stacked in unnatural order. Not a speck of dust on the chair. Everything screamed control freak.

I had just finished photographing one of the ledgers on the principal's encrypted desk when—

Crash.

The sound of metal colliding with tile.

I ducked behind the file cabinet, heart rate steady.

Then I saw her.

A girl. Small. Barely 5'2. Pale skin. Innocent face. Straight-cut bangs. She looked like a manga character, someone who probably spent her weekends feeding stray cats or studying for college entrance exams.

Her name tag flashed: Aecha Kim. Class 3-C. Third year.

She was The Terrifying Ape?

I almost laughed.

Until the shadows moved behind her.

Three men. Tall. Masked. Trained. I recognized the build—likely mercs sent by a rival group or testing internal security.

I should've interfered. But I didn't need to.

She let them throw the first punch.

Then, she unleashed hell.

One twist, one broken arm.

A kick that sent a man twice her size flying into a cabinet.

The third man? Didn't even see her coming. She slammed his head into the desk—Chan-woo Gong's desk—and knocked him out cold.

It wasn't just raw power. It was technique. Brutal precision. Zero hesitation. Every hit calculated. No wasted motion.

Then she dusted off her skirt, checked her reflection in the glass, smiled, and calmly dragged the unconscious bodies down the hallway like bags of laundry.

I didn't move. Not until she was gone.

Back to present.

Even now, I shivered just remembering it.

That innocent girl who giggles during lunch? Yeah, she could crush someone's ribcage with one elbow jab.

No wonder Chan-woo Gong acknowledged her.

No wonder this school felt like a cage filled with lions in school uniforms.

But I wasn't prey.

I'm just biding my time.

Waiting for the moment to strike.

Exams were finally over. Every subject—math, science, literature, history. We submitted our answer sheets with the finality of a death sentence. Around me, students groaned, collapsed over their desks, or stared at the ceiling like they'd just come back from war.

But me?

I barely blinked. The exams were… manageable. Child's play, really. I'd gone through university-level problem sets before I turned ten. It was like watching children try to solve a Rubik's Cube they'd never peeled the stickers off of.

Seojin beside me yawned, scribbled the last of his answers, and stretched as if he'd just woken up from a nap. "Done," he mumbled. Of course he was. He may act like a sloth, but I now know he's The Black Dog, so I didn't expect anything less.

As the top student in this class before I arrived, Seojin didn't seem too worried. But I could feel his occasional glances. Quiet recognition. Perhaps even… curiosity.

This school is prestigious. Not just in name, but in bloodlines, influence, and secrets buried beneath polished floors.

One of them? Jisu Sung.

Granddaughter of the multi-billionaire chairman of Sung Holdings. A name that echoed across stock markets and political negotiations like a royal decree. People expected her to be a stereotypical brat—entitled, loud, basking in her privilege.

But she wasn't.

She was quiet.

Distant.

Sharp.

She sat at the far right corner of the classroom, never speaking unless called. Her hair was always neat, uniform perfect, eyes hidden behind round glasses. Teachers treated her with calculated politeness. Students avoided eye contact like she carried a curse.

I found that interesting.

So did Philip.

I had him run a background check weeks ago. The results were… compelling.

Homeschooled.

Just like me.

No medical records, but rumors of "illness."

No public appearances until this year. No clubs. No clubs applied to her either. Her file was heavily encrypted—almost too perfectly clean.

She's been completely avoiding me since day one.

Not even a glance.

I'm used to stares—glares, admiration, suspicion.

But her?

She walked past like I was invisible.

Which only made her more interesting.

And in our world?

Someone who acts invisible usually has the most to hide.

Rumors swirled like cigarette smoke in back alleys—thin, hazy, impossible to catch. The newest one? Jisu Sung and Minjun Cheong—secretly dating.

I didn't buy it.

Something about the way Jisu ignored everyone, even Minjun, told me there was more beneath the surface. So, naturally, I contacted Philip. If anyone could peel the layers off a mystery, it was him.

Ten minutes later, my phone buzzed.

"They're cousins," Philip messaged in encrypted slang.

"Jisu's mother and Minjun's mother are twins. Fraternal, born to a poor household in Busan. Their lives split in two."

Apparently, Jisu's mother was forced into marriage with a cold, powerful mogul—a man who needed a wife, not love. Minjun's mother, on the other hand, married for love… without realizing her husband had deep ties to criminal empires.

"That's not even the real kicker," Philip added.

"Your homeroom teacher? That guy? He's Minjun's father. Also Chan-woo Gong's personal bodyguard—son of the devil himself."

I blinked at the screen.

So that means…

Homeroom teacher = Minjun's dad = Chan-woo Gong's son.

That makes Minjun the grandson of Chan-woo Gong.

And my daily seatmate Seojin? The Black Dog.

The principal's spy network is everywhere.

Yumi, meanwhile, had been following the Jisu-Minju romance rumors like a melodrama. She cried dramatically on call:

"Why do the beautiful ones always fall for each other?! Jisu and Minjun—destined lovers torn by bloodlines!"

I sighed.

The truth was far more tragic.

Their fathers—rivals.

Their mothers—sisters, separated by cruel fate.

Love? Please. That wasn't a romance. That was a power knot, twisted so tightly it might one day snap.

And me?

Still stuck here in a forged identity, surrounded by descendants of criminals, bodyguards disguised as teachers, and cousins pretending not to be cousins. I thought this mission would be a simple infiltration.

But it's turning into a Shakespearean tragedy.

With daggers.

And fan clubs.

I leaned against the balcony railing outside the empty music room, phone pressed to my ear.

"Philip," I muttered low, "If Minjun's mom came from poverty… how did she end up as the chairman of Aether Studio—one of Korea's largest entertainment empires?"

I could hear the soft clack-clack of Philip's mechanical keyboard echoing through the call. His breath quickened, and I imagined his expression: narrowed eyes, furrowed brows, a lit coffee cup going cold beside him.

Seconds passed. Then a minute.

Then his voice came, flat but weighty.

"Jisu's mom died."

I straightened. "What?"

"After giving birth. Internal bleeding. No one in the media even knows. They buried it under fake hospital records."

Silence.

"That... changed Minjun's mom. Made her desperate. She and her twin were close, apparently. They promised each other as kids: if one of them makes it, she'll bring the other to the top too. Jisu's mom always dreamed of creating a platform—an entertainment empire where people like them, poor girls with talent, could shine."

My grip on the phone tightened.

"So she begged Chan-woo Gong," Philip continued, tone edged with disdain. "Begged. Minjun's grandfather. The same man who's been grooming assassins since the '80s. She got on her knees and cried. And because her husband—Chan-woo's son—loved her more than life, he agreed."

I swallowed.

"He used his underground network. Laundered money. Pushed out rival studios. Pulled strings with old 'friends'—government, yakuza, former agents. All so she could live her sister's dream."

And so, Aether Studio was born. Not from corporate genius. But from blood debt and underground currency.

"...And Minjun?" I asked.

"Golden child," Philip snorted. "Trained since twelve. They wanted him to be the nation's crown jewel. Perfect looks, perfect voice, perfect lie. But his smile? That wasn't fake."

My head spun.

So Minjun, the kid who clung to me like an affectionate puppy, had a deeper reason for it. Raised in legacy, groomed for stardom—but born from tragedy.

I watched the distant courtyard from the music room window. Minjun was out there, laughing with a group of underclassmen. Sunshine glinted off his hair, the usual flock of fans orbiting him like moons.

But now, I could see the shadows behind his halo.

A boy made to smile so no one would hear the screaming.

The voice wasn't Philip's. It was deeper—precise, edged with that quiet ruthlessness I recognized all too well.

Father's personal bodyguard.

Yumi's boyfriend.

"Master Victor's extra order," he said coldly. "You need to get close to the Chairwoman of Aether Studio. No matter what."

I froze, phone pressed against my ear.

"Valemont's data—top-level intel—is hidden there. Not in this school. Chan-woo Gong knows where. He stashed it inside the entertainment industry."

My breath hitched. I glanced down from the balcony, at the very crowd I'd been trying to avoid: students, staff, watchers in disguise. Minjun's laughter echoed faintly from the gardens below.

"I… have to go there?" I asked, forcing my voice into a whisper. "But… continue as a student?"

There was a long pause. So long I thought the call had dropped.

"Yes," he finally answered, and hung up.

I stared at the blackened screen. The words echoed in my skull.

"Yes."

So that was it. Not just a mission to observe, or gather names. Now I had to walk into the belly of the beast—Aether Studio, led by a woman with powerful enemies, built from blood deals and forced dreams.

I needed to get close to her.

To gain her trust.

To infiltrate an empire.

All while pretending to be a regular student. While smiling at Minjun. While side-eyeing Seojin. While surviving Chan-woo Gong's zoo of soldiers in disguise.

And deep in my chest, something twisted. A pulse of dread.

Because I knew this kind of mission had no safety net.

If I slipped, if I failed, or if I hesitated for even a second—

I wouldn't just be expelled.

I'd vanish.

Just like the last spy who tried to cross Chan-woo Gong.

The bell finally rang—sharp, shrill, like a blade scraping glass. Everyone rushed out, but I moved faster.

I grabbed Minjun by the wrist and yanked him into the nearest hallway. Empty, quiet—until I slammed him against the wall.

Gasps rippled behind me. Cameras clicked. Phones raised.

Great. #BL or whatever the heck that was. Not now.

His eyes widened, hands stiff at his sides. A faint blush spread across his cheeks. "W–What are you doing?"

I stepped closer, my voice low and urgent, gripping his collar until his nose nearly bumped mine.

"I need to join Aether Studio. As an idol trainee. With you."

His mouth parted, stunned.

For a second, I thought he'd yell, panic, or run.

But Minjun… he squirmed.

He actually squirmed like a flustered schoolgirl and nodded furiously.

"O–Okay. Sure! But why the sudden—"

"Don't ask," I growled. "Just get me in."

His blush deepened, but he didn't resist. "I… I'll tell my mom. She'll love you anyway."

Love me?

I wanted to gag.

But I forced a smile—tight and fake—and released him.

"Good."

I turned sharply, ignoring the whispers and recording phones behind us. I had no time for rumors. No time for gossip or shipping tags.

Because now the real mission had begun.

And I had just walked through the front door of hell.

End of chapter 54.