Thursday afternoon I approached the library study session with Seung-Ho with healthy skepticism.
Seung-Ho didn't do things without self-interest. The question was what angle he was playing this time.
I arrived at the library at 4:55 and found him already set up in one of the group study rooms, his materials spread out with characteristic precision. He looked up when I entered and smiled in a way that almost seemed genuine.
"Ji-Mang. Right on time."
"I'm nothing if not punctual." I set my bag down and pulled out my laptop. "So how do you want to do this?"
"I figured we could each present our thesis and main arguments, then critique each other's approach. See if we can strengthen our papers before submission."
"Sounds reasonable."
It did sound reasonable. Which made me even more suspicious.
"You want to go first?" he offered.
"Sure."
I walked him through my argument about heightened judicial scrutiny for irreversible environmental harm. He listened attentively, took notes, asked clarifying questions that seemed thoughtful.
Then he started offering suggestions.
"Have you considered using the Massachusetts v. EPA case as your primary precedent?" he asked. "It's more recent than the cases you cited."
"I looked at that case, but it's about standing, not the standard of review. It doesn't really support my argument."
"Really? I thought it had some language about deference to agency expertise that could be useful."
I pulled up the case on my laptop and skimmed it again. "The language you're thinking of is actually the court explaining what they're NOT doing. They're saying they won't defer blindly. Using it the way you suggest would actually undermine my thesis."
"Oh. Right. My mistake." He smiled apologetically. "What about the Chevron framework? You could argue for a modified Chevron test in environmental cases."
"Except my whole point is that Chevron deference is insufficient for irreversible harm. Proposing a modified version would weaken my argument that we need a fundamentally different standard."
"Hmm. I see your point."
We continued like this for another twenty minutes—him making suggestions that sounded helpful on the surface but would actually sabotage my argument if I followed them. Citing cases out of context, proposing theoretical frameworks that contradicted my thesis, recommending structural changes that would make my paper less coherent.
And I realized: he was trying to tank my paper.
The question was whether he knew I'd figured it out.
I decided to play along.
"You know what, you're right about the structure," I said, pretending to consider his latest terrible suggestion. "Maybe I should reorganize it to put the policy arguments first."
"Exactly! Lead with the practical concerns, then bring in the legal analysis."
"That's a really good idea. Thanks, Seung-Ho."
He looked pleased. "Happy to help. Now let me show you my approach."
He presented his paper—which was genuinely good, frustratingly. His argument was different from mine but solid, well-researched, clearly written.
And now I had a choice. I could offer genuine feedback, taking the high road. Or I could return the favor.
I chose a middle path.
"This is really strong," I said honestly. "Your research is thorough, your argument is clear. But—"
"But?"
"Have you considered the counterarguments? Like the Citizens to Preserve Overton Park precedent? That directly contradicts your position on arbitrary and capricious review."
His expression faltered slightly. "Overton Park is about substantive review, not procedural requirements."
"Right, but your argument about notice-and-comment rulemaking relies on the procedural/substantive distinction. If you don't address Overton Park, Professor Kwon will destroy you in her comments."
This was actually true. It was a genuine weakness in his paper that he needed to address.
He made a note. "That's... that's a good point. I'll work that in."
"Also, you might want to reconsider your conclusion. It's a bit abrupt. Professor Kwon hates conclusions that just repeat the thesis. She wants synthesis—showing how your argument fits into the broader conversation about administrative law."
Again, true. And actually helpful.
Seung-Ho looked at me with something that might have been respect. Or confusion. Or both.
"Why are you helping me?" he asked. "After I just tried to sabotage your paper."
"Did you try to sabotage my paper?" I asked innocently. "I thought you were just confused about case precedent."
His mouth twitched. "Right. Confused."
"Besides, I don't need to sabotage you to beat you. My paper is better on its own merits." I smiled sweetly. "But thanks for the attempted help. Very generous of you."
"You knew. The whole time."
"Of course I knew. You recommended Massachusetts v. EPA for a point it explicitly argues against. That's either sabotage or incompetence, and you're not incompetent."
He leaned back in his chair, studying me. "You know what, Ji-Mang? I might actually respect you."
"Might?"
"I'm not ready to commit fully. But you're smarter than I gave you credit for."
"And you're more transparent than you think you are."
"Fair." He started packing up his materials. "For what it's worth, your paper is good. Really good. You'll probably get a better grade than me."
"Probably," I agreed.
"But I had to try."
"Why? Why waste energy trying to sabotage me instead of just making your own work better?"
He was quiet for a moment. "Because my father expects me to be top of the class. And you're in my way. It's not personal—"
"It's absolutely personal. You've been taking shots at me since freshman year."
"Okay, it's a little personal. You make it look easy. Being smart, working hard, earning your place. I have to fight for every bit of respect while you just... exist and people take you seriously."
"That's not true and you know it. I work twice as hard as you because I don't have your advantages. People take me seriously because I've proven myself over and over. You get taken seriously because of your last name."
"Exactly. Which means I can never be sure if I actually earned anything or if it was just handed to me because of who my father is." He zipped his bag with more force than necessary. "At least you know everything you've achieved is yours."
I hadn't expected that. Vulnerability from Park Seung-Ho was not on my bingo card for today.
"So you try to bring other people down to feel better about yourself?"
"When you put it that way, it sounds pathetic."
"That's because it is pathetic."
He laughed, surprising both of us. "You're right. It is." He stood up. "Look, I'm not going to suddenly become a good person. But maybe I'll try being less of an asshole. To you, at least."
"That's a low bar."
"It's the bar I can reach right now."
"I'll take it."
He left, and I sat there processing the strangest study session of my academic career.
Park Seung-Ho, revealed to be not just an asshole but an insecure asshole struggling with imposter syndrome. It didn't excuse his behavior, but it at least made it make sense.
I pulled up my paper and skimmed through my notes, mentally flagging all of Seung-Ho's "suggestions" to actively ignore. Then I checked the time—5:45. I had fifteen minutes before LEET prep.
My phone buzzed.
Bok-Jin: How was studying with Seung-Ho? Did he try to poison you academically?
Me: He tried. I caught him. We had a weird moment of mutual understanding. It was very strange.
Bok-Jin: That's very on brand for your life. Everything okay?
Me: Yeah. Just reminded me that everyone's fighting something, even the people who seem to have everything.
Bok-Jin: That's very philosophical of you.
Me: I contain multitudes.
Bok-Jin: You really do. Good luck at LEET prep tonight.
Me: Thanks. See you tomorrow at running club?
Bok-Jin: Wouldn't miss it.
LEET prep that evening was brutal.
Professor Jung had moved us into timed practice sections—simulating real test conditions. Thirty minutes for reading comprehension, thirty for logical reasoning, thirty for essay writing. No breaks, no do-overs.
I was rusty on the timing. I'd gotten so used to working through problems slowly, making sure I understood everything, that the pressure of the clock threw me off.
I only finished twenty of the thirty reading comprehension questions before time was called.
"Don't panic," Professor Jung said, seeing several of us looking discouraged. "This is why we practice. You need to learn to move faster, skip questions that are taking too long, come back if you have time. Perfect understanding isn't the goal—maximum correct answers in minimum time is the goal."
We reviewed the questions we'd completed, and I realized I'd gotten most of mine right. I just needed to speed up.
"Ms. Han, you're overthinking," Professor Jung said when we discussed my approach. "You have good instincts. Trust them more. Don't spend three minutes on a question you can answer in thirty seconds if you just commit."
"But what if I'm wrong?"
"Then you're wrong. But you'll answer three more questions in the time you saved, and if you get two of those right, you're still ahead. It's a numbers game."
It went against every instinct I had—to rush, to guess, to move on without being certain. But she was right. LEET wasn't about perfect knowledge. It was about efficient decision-making under pressure.
After class, Su-Jin and I walked to the subway together.
"That was humbling," she said.
"Very humbling."
"Want to do extra practice this weekend? Tae-Min suggested we do a full practice test on Sunday, time ourselves properly."
"Yeah, I'm in. Where?"
"Library, 1 PM? We can book a study room."
"Perfect."
We parted ways at the station, and I rode home thinking about timing strategies and efficiency and the difference between knowing the answer and knowing it fast enough.
When I got home, Yoo-Na was at the kitchen table with her laptop, looking stressed.
"Everything okay?" I asked.
"Family drama. My father wants me to attend some business dinner next week. Network with potential clients."
"That sounds very corporate."
"It's exhausting. I'm a student, not a networking opportunity." She closed her laptop with more force than necessary. "Sorry. I shouldn't complain. I know my problems are very privileged."
"Problems are problems. Yours are valid too."
"Thanks." She looked at me. "How was your day?"
"Weird. Seung-Ho tried to sabotage my paper, I caught him, we had a moment of honest conversation about insecurity and imposter syndrome. Then LEET prep kicked my ass."
"That's a very full day."
"It really was."
Min-Ji emerged from her room, looking exhausted. "Please tell me someone made food. I'm too tired to function."
"I can make ramyeon?" I offered.
"You're a saint."
I made ramyeon for all three of us, and we sat around the kitchen table eating and complaining about our respective struggles. It was normal and comfortable and exactly what I needed after a day of academic chess and timed pressure.
"Oh, by the way," Yoo-Na said, "that business dinner next week? I'm allowed to bring a guest. Want to come?"
"To a fancy business dinner? With your father's corporate contacts?"
"Yes. I need someone there who won't judge me for being uncomfortable. Plus, it's at a really nice restaurant. Free expensive food."
"When is it?"
"Next Friday. 7 PM."
I checked my mental schedule. "I have LEET prep until 9 on Thursdays, but Friday night I'm free."
"Perfect. Wear something nice. Not your 'I'm about to argue in court' nice. Like, 'I'm a normal person at a fancy dinner' nice."
"I don't own those clothes."
"We'll go shopping. My treat."
"Yoo-Na—"
"Consider it payment for saving me from social anxiety. Please. I cannot face those people alone."
I looked at her desperate expression and caved. "Okay. Fine. But you're helping me prepare so I don't accidentally insult someone important."
"Deal."
Friday morning running club, I told Bok-Jin about the business dinner.
"You're going to a networking dinner with Yoo-Na's father?" he asked as we ran.
"Apparently. She needs moral support."
"Those dinners are brutal. Very formal, lots of talking about profit margins and market share."
"You've been to them?"
"Unfortunately. My father drags me to at least one a month." He glanced at me. "Want tips? Survival strategies?"
"Yes. Please."
"Rule one: Have one drink maximum. These people will try to get you drunk to see if you're indiscreet. Rule two: Never volunteer opinions about politics or business unless directly asked. Rule three: Compliment the food, always. Rule four: Have an exit strategy prepared."
"This sounds like going to war."
"It's basically the same thing."
We finished the run, and he walked with me toward the campus exit.
"Hey, so," he said, seeming nervous. "Tomorrow is Saturday. You have LEET prep in the morning, but what about the afternoon? Want to do something?"
"Like what?"
"I don't know yet. Something fun. Something that's not studying or working or being responsible adults."
"That sounds dangerous."
"The best things are."
"Okay. Yeah. Surprise me."
"Really?"
"Really. But nothing that requires athletic ability beyond running. I've maxed out my coordination."
He laughed. "Deal. I'll pick you up at 2?"
"See you at 2."
He smiled, and I felt that familiar warmth in my chest.
We were building something. Slowly, carefully, but definitely building.
And for once, I was letting myself be excited about it instead of scared.