The ceremony ended with a final, booming chord from the school orchestra. Students began to file out, row by row, the civilized murmur instantly returning. I, on the other hand, was still trying to get my heart to climb down from my throat.
"Okay, San-ssi," Ms. Choi said, standing up and brushing her trousers. "Let's go."
"That was... a surprise."
"A surprise?" I managed, my voice sounding strained. "Representative of Foreign Students? Seonsaengnim, what does that even mean?"
"It means," she said, guiding me out into the now-chaotic grand hall, "that the principal enjoys new titles. And that you are, for now, our only exchange student. Don't worry. It mostly means you'll have to make one speech during the festival. We'll write it for you."
That was not reassuring. I was getting stared at even more now. Students were actively pointing, whispering "San-ssi" and "Ukraine" as I passed.
"Now," Ms. Choi said, checking her watch. "Your class is 2-B. It's one of the specialized 'Applied Music' tracks. A lot of talent... and a lot of... personality." I didn't like the way she said "personality."
"Park Jun-seo is your class president," she continued. "He's in charge of you. He'll show you around, get you your schedule, and take you to the tailor. He just needs to... ah... finish his presidential duties."
I glanced over and saw Jun-seo near the stage, already surrounded by a circle of adoring students and a few teachers, all listening to him with rapt attention. The golden boy. My official babysitter. Great.
I was about to ask Ms. Choi where I should wait when it happened again.
Click. The bright, airy lights of the grand hall vanished. The whole building plunged into darkness. A collective gasp, and then—unlike the nervous silence in the auditorium—a wave of excited cheering.
"What's going on?" I yelped, grabbing the strap of my backpack.
"Oh, Aish... jinjja..." Ms. Choi hissed, her voice tight with annoyance. "Not today. I told them not today..."
A single, booming drum hit echoed through the hall. Then, the sound of a Gregorian chant filled the air. A heavy, distorted bassline kicked in. A series of spotlights—not from the ceiling, but apparently set up on the second-floor balcony—flashed on, aiming at the grand marble staircase.
Eight boys stood on the landing. They were in uniform, but it was a suggestion, not a rule. Shirts untucked, ties loose or missing entirely. One had a black beanie pulled low over his hair. Another had headphones slung around his neck. They looked nothing like the polished, perfect Jun-seo.
The music exploded. It was EXO's "MAMA." I knew the song— I had tried (and failed) to learn the choreography from a YouTube video.
The eight boys launched into the dance. And they were not messing around. Their movements were sharp, aggressive, and perfectly synchronized. It was a professional-level performance, happening on a staircase.
"Who are they?" I shouted to Ms. Choi over the music. She had her hand over her face, rubbing the bridge of her nose.
"Class 2-B, San-ssi," she yelled back, exasperated. "Those are your other classmates!"
The reaction was instantaneous. The orderly, high-class students from the ceremony broke. Dozens of them, mostly girls, swarmed the base of the staircase, holding up their 2015-era smartphones to film. They were screaming, chanting, and some kids in the back were even dancing along, mirroring the sharp, slicing choreography.
The boy in the center—the one with the beanie—was magnetic. He moved with a lazy, dangerous energy, like he was bored and brilliant all at once. The entire hall was in chaos, a spontaneous, illegal concert in the middle of the school's main artery.
Twenty minutes later, the music was over. The PA system was silent. The lights were on.
And I was standing in the "gyomushil" (교무실)—the Faculty Office. It was a large, tense, quiet room, smelling of coffee and printing paper. I was standing awkwardly near the door, a silent witness.
In the center of the room, Park Jun-seo was standing perfectly, speaking in calm, respectful tones to Ms. Choi, who was nodding and sipping from a "keep calm" mug.
And lined up in front of the principal's desk, looking utterly, completely unbothered, were the eight performers. The principal, a short man whose face was turning an impressive shade of purple, was pacing in front of them.
"A disgrace!" he was shouting, his voice echoing in the quiet office. "On the first day! Unauthorized use of the PA system! Unapproved assembly! Do you know how much trouble this causes? What kind of example do you think you're setting?"
The eight boys just stared back. The one with the beanie—who I could now see had sharp, cat-like eyes—was busy studying a crack in the ceiling. The one next to him was subtly chewing gum. They were the very picture of teenage indifference.
"You are the 'Applied Music' class! You are supposed to be the pride of Kirin, not its... its..."
"Delinquents?" the one with the beanie offered, his voice bored.
"Myung-Dae!" the principal roared. Ms. Choi winced.
Jun-seo, my "guide," hadn't even looked over. He just countersigned a form on Ms. Choi's desk. He was the golden boy. They were the rebels. And, I realized with a sinking feeling, I was in a classroom with all of them.
This wasn't just one K-drama. I'd been dropped into two, and they were at war with each other.