Day One, and I Already Miss My Mattress
If confidence were currency, this school charged interest.
The hallways gleamed like they'd been waxed by anxiety itself.
White floors. Gray lockers with gold detailing. Digital screens on every wall displaying the day's announcements in three languages.
Students moved like choreographed dancers—fast, efficient, polished. Not a hair out of place.
And then there was me.
I walked down the corridor in my standard-issue uniform, carrying a bag that looked like it had survived a war zone and wearing sneakers two shades too beige.
My red hair might as well have been a flare gun.
Heads turned.
Subtle glances, whispers just loud enough to register.
— "New transfer."
— "She's tall."
— "She's… foreign?"
— "Who let her dye her hair like that?"
I wanted to disappear into the floor, but I knew better.
In places like this, shrinking made you a target.
So I walked like I knew exactly where I was going—despite having no clue at all.
Room 3-A was at the far end of the hall.
When I reached it, the door was already open, and most of the students were seated, their notebooks aligned with surgical precision.
I hesitated for half a second.
Just enough for every pair of eyes in the room to turn and land on me.
That familiar burn crept up my neck.
I stepped in, nodded politely, and took the empty seat at the back.
The girl next to me shifted her chair an inch away without making eye contact.
Subtle. But loud in its own way.
I didn't blame her. Not yet.
This place wasn't about kindness. It was about rank.
The teacher arrived ten seconds later, wearing a blazer so stiff it could've walked on its own.
She had thin glasses, a clipboard, and the aura of someone who believed caffeine was for the weak.
She scanned the room, eyes falling on me with clinical disapproval.
— "You must be Miss Lee."
I stood.
— "Yes, ma'am."
— "You're late."
— "Yes, ma'am."
A pause. She scribbled something on her clipboard. Probably 'Doesn't respect time or authority. May explode under pressure.'
— "Sit. And try not to stand out more than you already do."
I nodded, sat down, and clenched my jaw so I wouldn't say something I'd regret.
She turned toward the board and started writing a list of lecture topics. Words like "International Policy Simulation" and "Macroeconomic Scenarios" filled the screen.
Seventeen years old and they wanted us to be CEOs.
I glanced around. Every student in the room had the same sharp gaze, expensive haircut, and skin that said "I have a dermatologist on speed dial."
They weren't teenagers. They were products.
Perfectly packaged. Efficiently dangerous.
And I was the mystery box nobody ordered.
I took out the only pen I had and started copying the notes, my handwriting stiff. The girl next to me angled her notebook away slightly.
Her perfume was light—probably designer—and everything about her screamed "don't touch my life."
The air in the classroom was filtered, but still somehow tense.
The kind of tension that made you sit straighter, breathe quieter, and calculate every glance.
I adjusted my collar and looked straight ahead.
No distractions. No fear. No time to panic.
This was only day one.
But already, I could feel it:
The rules were different here. And the price of misstep?
Reputation. Relevance. Maybe even survival.
So I did the only thing I could.
I started watching.
Faces. Gestures. Pauses in speech.
The way one guy whispered answers to the girl next to him. The way another checked his reflection in the blank screen of his tablet.
The teacher's tone when addressing different students. Who got nods. Who got silence.
Information was power.
And right now?
It was the only currency I could still afford.
The first period ended with a chime so delicate it almost sounded like a warning.
A soft bell, high and clear—designed to say, You are not in an ordinary school anymore.
Everyone stood in near-perfect sync, like they'd practiced the movement.
Books closed. Pens clicked. Notebooks stacked in satisfying unison.
Me? I fumbled. My pen rolled off the desk, hit the floor, and skidded three rows forward like it was trying to escape this reality.
— "Ugh," someone muttered.
A boy in the second row picked it up with two fingers, turned to me slowly, and handed it back like it was toxic.
— "You dropped this."
His voice was polite. His eyes were not.
— "Thanks," I muttered.
He didn't answer. He was already turning back to his group, who smirked without speaking. I recognized the formation instantly: alpha pack behavior.
I slid my pen back into my bag and followed the flow of students into the hallway.
Between classes, the atmosphere shifted.
No longer frozen. Just cold in a different way.
There were no lockers slammed shut. No loud laughs. No casual chaos.
Instead, there were low murmurs, intense eye contact, and the subtle click of shoes that probably cost more than my monthly rent.
Everyone here had a rhythm—and I didn't know the steps.
I walked slowly, hugging my bag to my chest, pretending I was reading the campus map in my hands even though I was pretty sure the print was decorative.
Then I heard it.
— "Is that her?"
— "The transfer?"
— "She's tall."
— "And redhead. On purpose?"
I didn't look. I didn't answer.
If I had learned one thing in my old life, it was this: when you're being talked about, silence makes you powerful.
Still, it itched.
I turned a corner and stepped into the next classroom early, claiming a seat near the window.
Natural light poured in, and for a moment, I just breathed.
That's when I noticed someone already sitting near me—reading.
A guy. Tall, composed, black-framed glasses.
His hair was dark, immaculately parted.
His uniform was ironed, and his shoes looked new enough to squeak.
He didn't look up.
That didn't stop me from watching him.
There was something in the way he turned pages. Deliberate. Careful. Like everything he did was intentional.
Then he spoke. Quietly. Without turning.
— "You're sitting in the scholarship zone."
I blinked.
— "What?"
He finally looked at me. His eyes were calm. Deep brown.
But not warm.
— "Top ten percent of the class sits in this row. Unwritten rule."
Ah.
I glanced down at the floor, then at the empty seats behind me.
— "You want me to move?"
A pause.
He shrugged.
— "Up to you. But they'll expect you to justify it."
Before I could reply, another student walked in—then another.
The room filled, and I didn't move.
If I was going to survive here, I had to learn fast.
So I sat up straighter, opened a notebook I hadn't even labeled, and prepared to take notes I wouldn't understand.
The boy next to me didn't say another word.
But he didn't ask me to leave, either.
The second class was "Advanced Contemporary Economics."
Because, clearly, nothing says seventeen like inflation metrics and global trade policy.
I stared at the board, nodded thoughtfully, and understood maybe 3% of what was going on.
The teacher spoke fast, like he assumed everyone had already read five textbooks over the weekend. Which, judging by the heads bobbing around me, they probably had.
Me? I wrote down words like "supply chain" and "fiscal elasticity" and hoped context would save me later.
Next to me, the boy with the perfect posture—whose name, I later saw on the attendance sheet, was Seo Rayan—took notes with quiet efficiency.
His handwriting was clinical. Organized. Not a single ink smudge.
Meanwhile, mine looked like someone had tried to take dictation during an earthquake.
The class ended just before noon.
And that's when she walked in.
She didn't knock. Didn't pause. Just entered with the confidence of someone whose name was printed on the school's donation wall.
She was beautiful.
The kind of beauty you see in luxury brand campaigns—flawless skin, straight black hair cascading down her back, posture like a ballet dancer trained to kill.
She wore the uniform like it was custom-tailored.
Shoes polished. Lip gloss perfect. A discreet designer pin on her lapel.
Her eyes scanned the room like a queen checking for peasants in her court.
She locked onto me instantly.
I didn't flinch.
But something in her gaze made me sit up straighter.
She turned to the teacher, handed him a slip of paper, and then—without waiting for instruction—sat in the empty seat right in front of me.
The air shifted.
People started whispering. Soft, almost reverent.
— "Isn't that the Jeong family's daughter?"
— "She's back already?"
— "I heard she skipped a year. She's a genius."
— "And deadly."
I kept my eyes forward, pretending not to listen.
But she didn't pretend.
She turned, just slightly, and said over her shoulder, perfectly clear:
— "Your hair is... brave."
I smiled.
— "Thanks. Yours is very... unoriginal."
There was a beat of silence.
Then she smiled back. A slow, rehearsed curve of the lips.
And turned forward.
The teacher began the lecture.
And I had the very real sense that I had just made my first enemy.
Lunch break arrived like a whispered promise.
No bells, no announcements—just a quiet understanding that it was time. Students stood up in practiced sync, chairs barely making a sound. Bags slung over shoulders. Words exchanged in hushed tones.
I lingered at my desk, pretending to organize my notes, when in truth, I was giving everyone a thirty-second head start.
Not because I was scared.
Because I had no idea where the cafeteria was.
I followed a group of students out, staying just close enough to blend, just far enough not to be questioned.
The cafeteria was located two floors down, through a corridor with crystal chandeliers and walls lined with awards and portraits.
Seriously. Chandeliers. For lunch.
Inside, the room buzzed with polite conversations and credit cards. There was a hot food section, a salad bar, a juice bar, and even a corner for imported snacks.
It smelled like wealth and avocado.
I grabbed a tray and queued at the back of the line, trying to look like someone who'd done this before.
The card in my pocket—labeled "STUDENT AID MEAL PLAN" in uncomfortably bold letters—was apparently only valid for the "standard set."
Which, as I discovered, was a sad triangle of rice, one piece of kimchi, and something brown I chose not to identify.
I took it anyway. Sat at the far end of a long table. Alone.
The room divided itself naturally:
Populars in the middle.
Athletes and their fan clubs by the windows.
Club leaders and scholarship geniuses near the professors' area.
And me, in no man's land, between the trash bins and a poster about food waste.
I chewed slowly, eyes down.
And yet, I still heard them.
— "She sits like she owns the place."
— "That's not confidence, it's desperation."
— "Transfer kids always think they're different."
They weren't talking to me.
But they weren't not talking to me either.
I glanced up—and made direct eye contact with Jeong Haeun, the girl who had kindly insulted me during class.
She held her fork like a scepter, posture perfect, gaze amused.
Behind her, three other girls laughed in sync. A mini court. A polished echo.
One of them leaned in and whispered something.
Haeun smiled.
And I knew. I was officially on the list.
The "Watch Her" list. Maybe even the "Break Her" list.
I didn't flinch.
Instead, I folded my napkin, stood up, and walked past their table without a word. My tray empty. My pride intact.
I didn't need to win lunch.
But I'd remember who tried to serve it cold.
Back in class, the last hour dragged. The teacher announced something I almost missed because my brain was still trying to digest dried rice and trauma.
— "Mid-semester evaluations will be based on the ranking system," she said. "Top ten will receive benefits. Bottom ten will receive… warnings."
The room stilled.
Everyone already knew the rankings mattered.
But this was the first time someone made it official.
She clicked her remote. The screen blinked, and a digital board appeared.
Column after column of names.
GPA. Activity points. Teacher evaluations. Club attendance.
I scanned the list, line by line.
And there it was.
Lee Nina — Unranked
A blank space. A ghost in the system. No past scores, no club participation, no academic history.
Just a name floating between the cracks.
Students around me leaned in. Murmurs started again.
— "Unranked?"
— "She's not even on the board."
— "What does that mean?"
It meant I didn't exist.
Not yet.
The teacher turned back to us, eyes sharp.
— "New students have one month to establish a record. After that, placement is permanent."
My fingers curled around my pen.
One month.
Four weeks.
That's all the time I had to go from invisible to undeniable.