← Back to overview

Weak hero

The Strawberry Scented Glitch

The apartment she had found her way to was small, clean, and smelled faintly of vanilla—a stark contrast to the metallic, dusty scent of Eunjang High. She sat on the edge of a bed that wasn't hers, staring at a phone that displayed a life she hadn't lived. There were photos of her in the gallery: selfies at cafes, pictures of cute shoes, and a few blurry shots of the sunset.

She looked the same. But she felt like a ghost haunting a body that had been custom-made for this world.

"Season one and season two have merged," she whispered, the system warning still flashing behind her eyelids like a burnt-in image on a screen. "That shouldn't be possible. Su-ho is supposed to be… and Baek-jin is supposed to be…"

She cut herself off, unable to say the words. In the original story, Ahn Su-ho’s fate was the catalyst for everything. But today, she had seen him. He was alive. He was laughing. And he had looked at her with an intensity that suggested he wasn't just a character on a screen anymore. He was a boy with a heartbeat, and he was curious about her.

The next morning, she tried to lean into her new identity. If she was a "glitch," she would be the most inconspicuous glitch possible. She dressed carefully, choosing a soft pink cardigan to wear over her uniform and pinning a small sparkling clip into her hair. She looked like a girl who cared about aesthetics and nothing else. A "diva," as the system had labeled her.

As she walked through the gates of Eunjang, the atmosphere felt different. The usual tension was there, but there was a new current of electricity humming beneath the surface.

"Hey! Strawberry girl!"

She jumped, her heart hammering against her ribs. She turned to see Park Hu-min jogging toward her, his massive frame weaving through the crowd of students who scrambled to get out of his way. Behind him, Go Hyun-tak followed with his usual scowl, though his eyes softened the moment they landed on her.

"I'm not a strawberry," she muttered, though she couldn't help the small, shy smile that tugged at her lips.

"You smell like them," Hu-min said, stopping right in front of her. He reached out, his large hand hovering near her head before he awkwardly tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers were calloused and warm. "I didn't see you at the gate. I thought maybe you’d realized this school is a dump and transferred out already."

"I'm tougher than I look," she said, tilting her head.

Hyun-tak snorted, stepping up beside Hu-min. "You look like you’d break if someone sneezed too hard. Why are you even here? This isn't a place for people who wear sparkly hair clips."

She looked at Hyun-tak, really looked at him—the sharp line of his jaw, the defensive way he held his shoulders. She felt that familiar pang of empathy. "Maybe I'm here to give you something pretty to look at, Hyun-tak. You look like you haven't smiled in three years."

Hyun-tak’s face turned a shade of red that rivaled a tomato. He opened his mouth to snap back, but no words came out. He just looked away, muttering something about "annoying transfer students."

"See?" Hu-min laughed, clapping a hand on her shoulder. The weight of it was grounding. "Feisty. I told you."

They walked her to her classroom, an escort that drew stares from every corner of the hallway. To the rest of Eunjang, she was an anomaly—a soft, bright light being guarded by the school’s most dangerous dogs.

When she entered the classroom, the first person she saw was Yeon Si-eun. He was sitting in his usual spot by the window, the morning sun illuminating the pale, sharp angles of his face. He didn't look up when she walked in, but she noticed the way his pen stopped moving across his notebook the moment she stepped through the door.

She sat at her desk, feeling his gaze before she saw it.

"You're late," Si-eun said quietly.

"Only by two minutes," she replied, pulling out a notebook covered in heart stickers.

Si-eun turned his head, his dark eyes scanning her face with that terrifying, analytical precision. "You were with Park Hu-min and Go Hyun-tak. They’re loud. You shouldn't associate with loud people. It draws attention."

"You’re the one who told me I looked familiar, Si-eun," she reminded him, leaning closer. "If you wanted me to stay in the background, you shouldn't have noticed me."

Si-eun’s expression remained unreadable, but his fingers tightened around his pen. "I don't understand you. I don't understand why your smile matters to me or why I keep looking for you in every room. I just know that when you're not here, everything feels... wrong."

The honesty of his words hit her like a physical blow. This was Yeon Si-eun—the boy who calculated everything, the boy who lived in a world of logic and survival. For him to admit to an irrational feeling was monumental.

"I'm just a girl, Si-eun," she whispered.

"No," he said, his voice dropping to a level only she could hear. "You're a variable I didn't account for."

The day progressed in a blur of strange interactions. During the break, Seo Jun-tae approached her with a small carton of strawberry milk, his hands shaking so much the straw rattled.

"I saw this and thought of you," he said, looking at his shoes. "You were so nice to me yesterday. I wanted to say thank you."

"Jun-tae, that’s so sweet," she said, taking the milk. She reached out and squeezed his hand briefly. "You don't have to thank me for being a human being."

Jun-tae looked up, his eyes watery behind his glasses. "You remember the things I say, notice when I'm quiet, and smile at me like I'm worth listening to. I don't think I can forget someone like you."

She felt a heavy weight of guilt. She knew what happened to Jun-tae in the original timeline. She knew the bullying he endured. Seeing him stand a little taller just because she had smiled at him made her realize how much power she held in this world—and how dangerous that power was.

Later, in the hallway, she ran into Oh Beom-seok. He was standing by the lockers, looking isolated and angry. When he saw her, his entire demeanor shifted. The anger didn't disappear, but it became focused, simmering into something dark and possessive.

"You were talking to them again," Beom-seok said, his voice trembling. "Su-ho and Si-eun. Why do you look at them like that?"

"Like what, Beom-seok?" she asked gently, stepping toward him despite the warning bells ringing in her head.

"Like they’re heroes," he spat. He stepped into her personal space, his shadow looming over her. "You were kind to me when no one else was. Do you know what that does to a person? I don't think I could go back to who I was before you. So don't... don't look at them. Look at me."

She reached out, tentatively touching his arm. "Beom-seok, you don't have to be alone. We can all be friends."

"I don't want friends," he whispered, his eyes wide and pleading. "I want you."

She pulled away, her heart racing. The system warning flashed again: *Warning: Key characters are displaying abnormal levels of awareness and attachment.*

She needed air. She headed for the roof, hoping the height would clear her head. But when she pushed the door open, she wasn't alone.

Ahn Su-ho was draped over the railing, looking out at the city. He turned when he heard the door, his face lighting up with that effortless, brilliant grin.

"Hey, kid. I was wondering when you'd show up," he said, patting the spot next to him.

She walked over, the wind whipping her hair around her face. "Do you always hang out up here?"

"It’s the best place to sleep," Su-ho said, leaning back on his elbows. He looked at her, his gaze softening. "You always ask if I'm okay, if I've eaten, if I'm tired. No one's ever cared about the little things before. I think I'd miss you too much if you disappeared."

He reached out, his hand covering hers on the railing. "Stay close to me. I don't like the thought of you facing anything alone."

"Su-ho," she started, her voice breaking. "You don't understand. I'm not supposed to be here."

"But you are," he said firmly. "And as long as you are, you're mine to look after. Got it?"

She nodded, unable to speak. The warmth of his hand was so real, so vital. If she was a glitch, she was a glitch that had found a home in the heart of a boy who was supposed to be a tragedy.

The peace didn't last.

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in bruises of purple and gold, a shadow appeared in the doorway of the roof.

Geum Seong-je stood there, his long hair tied back, his expression one of bored cruelty—until his eyes landed on her. He walked forward with a predator’s grace, ignoring Su-ho entirely.

"So this is the little prize everyone is fighting over," Seong-je said, his voice a low purr. He stopped just inches from her, his presence cold and suffocating. "You look at everyone with those soft eyes, and I hate that I have to share that look with other people. I want to be special to you too."

Su-ho stepped between them, his posture shifting from relaxed to lethal in a heartbeat. "Back off, Seong-je. She’s not a prize."

Seong-je laughed, a dry, rasping sound. "Everything is a prize, Su-ho. Especially something that makes even Na Baek-jin lose his composure."

The mention of Baek-jin made her blood run cold. She remembered the silver car, the icy eyes, and the promise that he would see her again.

"I'm going home," she said, her voice shaking.

She pushed past Seong-je and ran. She didn't stop until she reached the street, her lungs burning. The city was waking up, the neon lights flickering to life.

She walked toward her apartment, her mind a chaotic mess of faces and warnings. She was supposed to be a background character. She was supposed to be invisible.

"You're late again."

The voice came from the shadows of an alleyway near her building. She stopped, her breath hitching.

Na Baek-jin stepped into the light of a streetlamp. He looked impeccable, his white uniform stark against the darkness. He held a cigarette between his fingers, the smoke curling around his head like a halo.

"What do you want?" she asked, trying to summon the "diva" persona, but it felt hollow.

Baek-jin walked toward her, his eyes fixed on her face. He stopped just outside her personal space, the scent of expensive tobacco and something sharp and metallic clinging to him.

"Everyone leaves eventually," Baek-jin said, his voice smooth and devoid of emotion. "That's why I never let anyone get close. Strength is the only thing that stays. Everything else is a weakness."

He reached out, his gloved hand tilting her chin up so she had to look at him.

"Then you came along and ruined that," he whispered. "You’re a glitch in my system. An error I can't delete. I should break you just to see what’s inside, but for some reason... I find myself wanting to keep you in a cage instead."

"I'm not a bird, Baek-jin," she said, her voice trembling but steady.

"No," he agreed, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "You're the ink in a story I'm no longer in control of."

He let go of her chin and stepped back into the shadows. "Go inside, little glitch. The world is getting dangerous, and I’d hate for someone else to break you before I decide what to do with you."

She hurried into her building, her heart pounding in her ears. She locked her door and leaned against it, sliding down to the floor.

The system warning appeared one last time before she closed her eyes.

*Story Stability: 64% → Critical Drop.*

*New Objective: Choose a side.*

She buried her face in her hands. She had wanted a place where she could feel safe and understood. She had wanted genuine connections.

She had gotten them.

But in a world of monsters and kings, the girl who smells like strawberries and smiles at the broken was the most valuable piece on the board. And the players were no longer interested in the game—they were interested in her.

"I just wanted to go home," she whispered to the empty room.

But as she felt the lingering warmth of Su-ho’s hand on hers and the chill of Baek-jin’s gaze on her skin, she realized that "home" was a place she might never see again. The glitch had become the heart of the machine, and the machine was beginning to tear itself apart just to hold her.