AIDING & ABETTING

“This was such a dumb idea!” Jiwoo shouts down the street, at shuttered shopfronts and the back of your skull.

“This was your idea!” you fire back, checking behind you—she’s barely keeping pace.

“You could’ve talked me out of it!”

“Since when has that ever worked?” A corner; you take it. “Anyway—aren’t you meant to be the smart one?”

“That’s not fair—” but she’s laughing, cheeks gone a furious rosy-red, frost and fever all at once; hood flapped off her face, the new caramel cut already a lost cause, the teddy-bear patterned facemask hitched crooked over her nose. (Supposed to be a joke; given to her before her first flight out of the country—she’s kept it ever since.)

And yeah, you’re fleeing the scene of a crime, sprinting for your lives over minor vandalism, and God, sure, okay, you're realising that this hour of night’s got her looking gorgeous lit up under starlight and streetlights, but you'll never admit it to her because she'll never let you live it down; either way right now it’s impossible not to look at her and think:

How has Jiwoo made it this far in life without ever learning to run like a normal human being?

It’s a genuine problem: too much arm—scratch that—too much elbow—like a bad gallop; an old horse that should probably be put down. Seriously, what's the point of the Salomons she’s always wearing? You’re both gonna get caught in a matter of seconds if she carries on like this so you gotta—

“Hey! You kids—stop right there!”

Right on cue: security guard, on your tails and closing, gaining despite the age on him. Great job, Jiwoo.

“Kids?” Jiwoo skids, turns, possessed to slow down, needing to litigate this because she’s a crazy person with crazy priorities and you’re crazy too for always going along with it—“I’m nineteen—”

“Leave it!”

Reach out for her hand—she’s already reaching for yours—and yank, sending her stumbling (dragging’s probably faster), but you make it easy for her. Just hang on. You go, she goes—the two of you, hand-in-hand, tearing off into the empty midnight.

(Backtracking a tick, for the record: this was Jiwoo’s idea.

Not Jiwoo’s fault.

That lies with him, the target: an absolute asshole.

A “colleague,” if you want to stretch the word. A “rapper,” if you want to stretch another till it snaps. An idol, like Jiwoo, except the sole embodiment of everything you hate about the industry she’s determined to carve a legacy into.

Four times they crossed paths, four chances for him to spin a story—oh this fancam where it looks like we’re whispering? These vague lyrics I rapped about a blonde girl? This bracelet I just so happened to be caught wearing after seeing it on her socials?

Just gross—this fucking guy.

Never said it outright, never had to. Just let the internet build him a ladder of headlines, climbed it, and waited for the whole thing to come down on her instead.

Bigger idol, bigger label: so she took it on the chin, just the cost of doing business. The official position, drafted for her to recite on cue; stock-standard denial, because no statement was ever going to rewind a month of scandal, and she’s supposed to be nothing short of perfect, flawless even in apology.

Kowtowing to her company, sitting her group down and promising to make up for a thing she didn’t do; while he cashed in, got a great comeback out of it, and the only statement he needed—how could I ever dream of such a thing, I've only ever been in a relationship with my precious fans.

So yeah. He had it coming.

Someone had to be in her corner—who else but you.)

So: a couple days ago. Jiwoo on the other end of the phone; called you when the sun was setting and now it’s coming right back up, her first schedule due to start soon, just checking in for her regularly scheduled therapy appointment.

This session has her monotoning through the speaker, all of her—voice, mind, soul—flat and ground right down, working through another consecutive hour of I told you, I’m fine.

Same Jiwoo who fought a math teacher on your behalf over an A that should’ve been an A-plus, then rubbed your nose in it for a week for trying to talk her down—and now, nothing.

You’d said, joking-but-not-really: “Say the word and I’ll go sort him out. Crowbar, balaclava, the works. Like Batman.”

And she’d said, not-joking-even-slightly: “I know where he parks his car.”

Maybe here’s where a better, more mature person would talk their clearly fragile friend out of something stupid, career-ending, or just, you know, a crime.

Unfortunately, that’s never been you.

“Go on.”

“He posts it on Instagram. Tags the location every time. Even shows the parking bay.” Jiwoo inhaled, deep, and in a real stretch for her: “Asshole.”

(You looked him up: scoffed at the follower count. Scrolled a bit, past a couple of self-obsessed selfies—jawline, abs, the whole manufactured thing, blatantly leaning into it; kept looking for more reasons to hate him and found said car instead, over and over, at every angle.

Drake under most of the videos—started from the bottom and now please find somewhere high to jump off.)

You offered, “You ever use spray paint before?”

“I was thinking rocks,” she replied. “But spray paint’s probably easier to carry.”

And the next night you were sent a comprehensive dossier—Jiwoo, with an alarming amount of due diligence—and that’s what ended with you crouched behind a pillar in an underground carpark with a bag of paint and a criminal record in your near future.

(Alright, alright. Maybe, technically, you’re kinda, definitely not the best influence in her life.

But go ahead: try telling the girl who’s had your back since diapers and daycare no.

Try it once. Then come back and let’s talk.)

“Seriously—this is it?”

The car’s where he so kindly advertised: a blue Nissan, lowered, neon-lit (he's left it on for your benefit); sporting, up close, comically fake GTR badging, and, par for the course—an anime-girl air freshener swinging from the mirror, big eyes and bigger tits.

Again: this fucking guy.

“Yeah, this is his baby,” Jiwoo says, miming a finger-gun to her head, pulling the trigger, brain-splatter onto concrete; probably the most adorable mock-suicide ever performed. The hoodie she’s wearing doesn’t help; formerly yours, now annexed permanently, swallowing her tiny frame whole: big and grey and down to her thighs, razor-thin black leggings poking out underneath, clinging tight and sinking into her sneakers. Not like you're noticing, never, it’s just a hoodie, but there’s the image, the idea of her wearing you, and it’s well short of platonic, and it takes a slow lap of your mind before—

Enough of that, wherever the hell that came from; not enough time to dwell, anyway—Jiwoo’s already rotating her shoulders, warming up, getting to work, fast.

Watch a sec—she starts simple. A straight red line striping the car end-to-end, winding up at the bonnet, where she lets the paint flow, easy way to rack up the revenge points.

You never actually went over what either of you were doing tonight in terms of artistic choices, wouldn’t want to overlap and ruin the other person’s vision—but Jiwoo’s arms are swinging wide: whatever she’s drawing, she’s been drafting it in her head for a while.

Anyway—take the driver’s side, it’s yours.

Don’t overthink it. Toss the juvenile shit around and go for the worst of them—nothing too graphic, not trying to do a hate crime or anything, just the classics.