Morning practice. The gym reeks of sweat, cheap air freshener, and pent-up aggression.
Coach Kim barks over the squeak of worn sneakers, "No cuts, no calls, no mercy!"
I jog laps, blending in. Legs burn. Across the court, Tall Boss—Sungho, I overhead his name finally—pushes his goons into a wall-run that looks more like a desperate charge.
Bandaid Girl—Minji Lee—waves from the bleachers. Jay sits two rows up, headphones in, head bobbing to a song only he can hear.
Coach splits us into groups. I land in a relay with a junior called Beom, broad-shouldered, solid stance, wary eyes. He nudges me. "What's your event?"
"Moving fast, looking prettier than you," I deadpan.
He snorts. "Heard you made Sungho flinch in the alley. That's new."
Always two sides—one crowd wants to test you, another wants you left in the rumor bin.
We sprint, handoffs messy but quick. I lose my baton mid-stride, launch after it, hit the floor—crowd roars. "That's what you get for running your mouth!" someone jeers.
I spring up, flick a smirk, and give the audience a deep bow.
"Fall down seven times, get up eight."
Minji giggles, Jay lets the corner of his mouth turn up. Sungho stalks past, muttering.
Coach Kim eyes me, amused. "You want to be a clown or an athlete, new kid?"
"Depends who's buying tickets."
I shower late, stragglers peeling off to class. The locker next to mine slams—Sungho's silhouette filling the frame. He's got a shiner from yesterday's fight-behind-the-gym, jaw bruised and pride leaking through every motion.
He almost growls, "You think you're clever, transfer?"
I open my locker, unwrap a piece of gum.
"No, I know I am. You're just slow to catch up."
Pause. Miscalculation? Or is he about to throw down again?
Instead, he slams his fist on the metal. "You steal Vasco's attention or Jay's respect, doesn't mean you own this school."
A deep breath. "Is that right? Well, let me know when someone actually does. Otherwise, it's just noise."
He storms out. I wait. Never chase someone else's explosion.
Homeroom again. Ms. Park returns papers, eyes tracking each desk, pausing on mine.
She drops the page, leans in. "You like jokes, Han Gyeol?"
I grin, "Sometimes it's all I got."
She glances at the back, where a faux-poetic rant about 'meaningless Mondays' fills the margin. "You're not stupid. Don't play dumb."
I shrug. "Just hiding from destiny."
She sighs.
"Success is ninety percent showing up. Try showing up for yourself."
It lands harder than I want.
Minji elbows me. "She likes you. That means trouble."
Jay, humming, offers a lyric: "The world's a stage, let's give them a show."
Lunch, I eat outside. The courtyard buzzes with whispers.
New rumor: Sungho's looking to recruit back-up. Heard he's got connections with the infamous Burn Knuckles—or thinks he does. I keep my head down, soak it in.
Vasco does, in fact, walk past. He pauses, brown bag in hand. "Rumor says you can fight. True?"
I don't answer immediately.
He grins, huge and honest. "Doesn't matter. Jay thinks you're interesting. Minji thinks you're cool. Sungho wants you crushed. Means you're worth keeping around."
I salute with my sandwich. "Always happy to entertain."
Vasco leaves, but not before adding:
"Old saying: In chaos, there is profit."
Jay flops down beside me in the grass. "Ever read Sun Tzu?"
I answer, "All warfare is based on deception."
Jay's grin widens. He's not easily impressed, so I take the win.
After lunch, the tension in the halls is electric.
I wander with Jay and Minji, drifting past clusters of first years. Someone scrawled a caricature of Sungho above the water fountains—chin square, frown exaggerated, "King of Nothing" in blocky letters.
Minji snaps a pic with her phone, grins. "You see what happens when people get bored?"
I shrug. "Boredom is the root of all evil — the despairing refusal to be oneself."
Jay says, "You talk too pretty for a guy who looks like he's never read homework."
We find a new face near the stairwell: Hyeon, spindly and intense, glasses flecked with rainwater, piecing together flyers for an after-school debate club. "No blood, just words," he calls to passing students.
I lean against the wall. "You expecting a war or a therapy session?"
He smirks. "Sometimes, the battlefield is inside your head."
He's the type who'll witness everything, take notes, and never get involved unless it's a checkmate.
Minji taps her chin. "Maybe that's the secret. Fight without fists, win with words."
"Unless someone brings brass knuckles to a poetry slam," I reply.
Jay snorts. "That's your problem, Han—you're always betting on the unlikely."
I tilt my chin. "Unlikely's just reality in denial."
Afternoon classes. The hours drag, but the drama doesn't.
Whispers spread that Sungho's plotting a spectacle after school—an ambush, maybe, or a public challenge. Hyeon quietly plants himself in the hallway, ready to record everything.
The bell rings for final period. The exodus is chaos—kids trying not to look nervous, Sungho's crew lining the exit, flexing bad intentions.
Minji slips me a note under her math book:
"Back gate. Five after. Bring your best line."
I stash it in my pocket, heart thumping faster than I mean to admit.
Jay walks me out, silent but solid.
He mutters, "Remember: not all those who wander are lost."
I toss my head back. "Not all those who fight win, either."
He grins. "We play to see who remembers."
At the gate, dusk falls like a velvet punch.
Sungho's already waiting, arms crossed, minions fanning behind. He spits on the ground. "Thought you'd run."
I pace into the open, hands loose, eyes up. "That's boring. Got a better idea?"
He circles. The crowd grows—Minji appears at my shoulder, flanked by Hyeon, notebook ready, and Beom, arms folded, acting security.
"You want to run this school so bad," Sungho sneers, "why don't you prove you're worth the rumor?"
More people now. Vasco's somewhere in the back, calm, Hulk-smile playing at his lips. Jay coasts beside Minji, scanning for trouble.
Sungho squares up, punch cocked, whole world waiting.
In that silence, all the noise drops out of my head.
Words come, cool and easy:
"If you're good at something, never do it for free."
"I could do this all day."
"All men must die, but we are not men."
Sungho blinks, thrown for half a beat.
Crowd cracks—the vibe shifting, uncertainty trickling down the line.
I wink at Minji. "Always a pleasure to be the exception."
She laughs, voice sharp. "Finish it quick, or we'll be late for dinner."