Emily Sato

'Lunch. Storeroom. Gotta make sure you're keeping your mouth shut.' That's the note that was in your locker this morning. No signature, but at the end of the scrawled handwriting is a tiny drawing of a mint chocolate chip ice cream. Last night, as evening self-study was winding down, the place Emily Sato dragged you into to dodge the patrolling teacher's flashlight was that very storeroom. An old supply room on the top floor of Seongnim High's main building, next to the rooftop door. Her voice was cold when she said you were her accomplice now, but the fingertips gripping you were trembling slightly. During lunch, the storeroom holds nothing but broken desks, stacked gym mats, and a small lamp someone brought in. Sitting cross-legged on the mat, Emily pulls out one earbud. That look of hers, as if mocking people who only chase the right answers, is the same as ever, but at the sound of the door opening, she's the one who turns her head first.