The next morning, both of them showed up to class as usual.
For the first fifteen minutes, Uy Phong and An Phong flipped through their books, casually reviewing while tossing a few lines of chatter back and forth.
Then the class rep climbed onto the podium, cleared his throat dramatically, and announced:
"Attention, everyone! Take this seriously… ahem! So, November 20th is coming up. Tradition says every class must perform something on stage to honor the teachers. Later today, a choreographer will come by during homeroom to discuss. Anyone who tries to sneak out, I'll write your names down and hand them straight to the homeroom teacher!"
The room exploded in groans.
"Ughhhh…"
"Not this again…"
"Last year we looked like malfunctioning robots lined up on stage, wasn't that humiliation enough?"
From the back row, someone yawned and buried his head in his arms. "I'll carry the speakers. Don't make me dance."
A kid in front piped up, "C'mon, last year's singing was fun! We even got the 'Most Impressive' prize!"
"Yeah, most impressively bad, maybe," someone shot back.
Laughter, complaints, side chatter—all buzzing through the classroom. Some kids debated which class would go all-out this year, others already plotting escape routes.
At his desk, Uy Phong watched quietly.
Honestly, he wasn't big on singing or dancing either, but he couldn't help being curious. Back in Canada, celebrations were just parties with live bands or volunteer groups performing. Forcing every class to put on a show? That was new… and a little weird.
Seeing the whole room act like they were heading to execution, he turned to An Phong.
"Hey, why's everyone so gloomy? It's a celebration, right? Shouldn't it be fun?"
An Phong kept scribbling notes, pen scratching steadily. Only when Uy Phong's stare grew unbearable did he sigh and glance over, deadpan.
"Because no one actually wants to do it."
"Huh? Why not?"
"Last year, and the year before, it was always a disaster. Two years ago, the only kid who remembered the lyrics had stomach cramps and hid in the bathroom. Everyone else on stage flailed around like a circus act."
Uy Phong stifled a laugh, eyes bright. "Pfft… and last year?"
"There was this hard move. The lead messed it up, fell, broke his leg. Whole team panicked like bees in a fire."
Uy Phong's eyes widened. "Holy crap. Was he okay?"
"He's fine now—it's been a year. But since then, our class decided we're cursed. Anything we perform goes wrong. I still remember it: red spotlight, then a loud crash and a scream that drowned out the speakers. Tragic. Haunting."
Uy Phong nodded gravely. "Okay… yeah, sounds dangerous. But it's tradition."
"Exactly. Which means we're stuck. Nobody wants to, but we can't escape."
That made Uy Phong chuckle. For the first time, An Phong was actually complaining about something. Normally he was indifferent to everything, and now here he was—grumbling, frowning, almost animated. It was… weirdly entertaining.
"Hey, maybe this year will be different."
An Phong squinted at him. "Different how?"
"Ha, you don't know? I'm good luck. If I join, not only will this class break the curse, we'll win first prize."
An Phong stared at him flatly. "Delusional."
"Hey! Not at all! Just wait—if our class wins glory, it'll be thanks to Hoang Uy Phong!" He raised his fist like a hero declaring destiny.
An Phong muttered, "Idiot," and bent back over his notebook.
Uy Phong flushed but puffed up again, stubborn. Inside, he was already scheming. Fine. This time, he'd personally break the so-called curse. He'd sign himself up when the choreographer came.
—
When the bell ended the fourth period, everyone sighed in relief, chattering away. Most had already forgotten the morning's warning.
Then the classroom door slid open. The homeroom teacher stepped in—with someone trailing behind her.
The noise died instantly. Silence sealed the air like glue.
The teacher blinked in surprise at the sudden obedience, then smiled brightly.
"Well, aren't you all well-behaved today? Must be excited, right?"
Her words only deepened the gloom, but her smile shone even brighter.
"Let me introduce—this is the choreographer who'll work with your class this year. The school and your parents agreed to invite him to support you. I hope you'll all cooperate."
Polite, halfhearted claps followed. Sparse, like wind rustling through leaves.
Uy Phong, though, leaned on his chin, studying the newcomer.
The guy looked young, early twenties maybe. Black hair slicked neatly, posture straight, white button-up tucked into black trousers. He radiated a kind of strict, heavy seriousness—borderline intimidating.