The morning was cold, and the smell of damp from worn-out sneakers and the sour tang of sweat wafted down the hallways of Seoul Sun High School. Jihu Park passed through the entrance, pressing his body against the wall to avoid a group of older boys shoving each other with curses and laughter. His height—nearly one-eighty-five—was usually striking, but he hid it with a deliberate hunch of his shoulders, folding himself into a faded, washed-out gray hoodie. He was like a ghost trying to vanish in the daylight.
His face, beneath a disheveled curtain of black hair, looked pale and sallow. Deep, bruised shadows were etched under his dark eyes, as if he hadn't slept for months. His thin lips were pressed into a tight, expressionless line. He wasn't breathing; he was lying in wait.
---
Class 2-3. First Period: Math. 8:30 AM.
Jihu was the first to enter the empty classroom. The soft scrape of his shoes on the dirty vinyl floor was the only sound. He went straight to his territory: the window seat, last row. The window was large, but its panes were stained and blurred, turning the outside world into a dull watercolor painting. For him, this window was not a portal to freedom, but a stage where his daily humiliation played out.
One by one, the others filed in. The noise level rose. Jihu shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets, his fingers tightening around the knuckles of his left hand.
"Wait a minute... who got here first?" A female voice, thin and deliberately mocking. "Right, Soojin? He's hungry. Wants to eat everyone else's breakfast."
Soojin, a girl with a blonde ponytail and golden acrylic nails, stood by her desk, looking at Jihu with a satisfied smile. Her friend, Yujin, giggled beside her: "Or maybe he wants to go through the bags before anyone gets here. Remember my purse last time?"
Jihu didn't even glance their way. His eyes were fixed on the blackboard, as if studying formulas not yet written.
Minsoo, the class's unofficial king, swaggered in. His hair was slicked back with gel, his school uniform blazer hung open disrespectfully, revealing an expensive brand-name t-shirt underneath. His lieutenants, Jungho and Taesoon, moved like attack dogs flanking him.
"Oh, you're alive today too, Park?" Minsoo announced, his voice loud and clear for the whole class to hear. "Surprising. Yesterday, when Dongwoo cornered you in the bathroom stall, I thought you might suffocate."
A wave of laughter followed. Dongwoo, a chubby boy with thick glasses, puffed out his chest proudly behind Minsoo.
Jihu only twitched his right ear—very slightly, almost imperceptibly. An auditory tic. Information: Minsoo. Need to display power in front of the group. Underlying insecurity. Targeting the weakest to solidify position.
As Minsoo moved toward his seat in the center of the class, his long legs deliberately blocked the narrow aisle. Jihu, knowing the game, stood up to pass. Just as he stepped over Minsoo's legs, Minsoo jerked his knee up, driving it with considerable force into Jihu's inner thigh.
Thump. A dull sound of bone against bone. Sharp, sudden pain shot up his leg. Jihu didn't even stumble. He just paused for a moment, his breath catching, then slowly made it to his seat and sat down. His face was an impassive mask, but his jawline was taut.
"Sorry, I'm clumsy," Minsoo said, shrugging indifferently. Jungho snickered behind him.
Mr. Kim, the middle-aged math teacher with a weary, indifferent face, entered and began the lesson without looking at anyone. When he turned his back to write on the board, a crumbled eraser flew from the right side of the class and struck Jihu's temple. Soon after, the sharpened end of a pencil hit the back of his neck and fell.
Jihu didn't even blink. His eyes were fixed on the window. In the glass's reflection, he saw Taesoon grinning wickedly, readying his next throw. Jihu logged the data: Taesoon. Needs validation through violence. Accurate throw—baseball skills? Likely on the school team, maybe expelled. Sensitive about sports talk.
Then, the whispers started. Soojin's voice, from a few rows away, clear and calculated: "Seriously though... do you think someone like him has ever even been with anyone? I mean... look at him. He reeks. Probably still wipes himself standing up in the bathroom."
Yujin whispered back, "Did you hear what Taesoon said to him yesterday? He said maybe if he sold himself right, they could pool some money for him. And he didn't even react. Like... he enjoyed it?"
Muffled giggles. Jihu pressed his right hand in his pocket harder against the knuckles of his left. His joints turned white under the pressure. Soojin and Yujin. Language as primary weapon. Attempting to connect with the boys' group through complicity in humiliation. Core fear: Being ignored, becoming the next target.
Mr. Kim turned around, and the class suddenly fell silent. But the stares continued. Heavy, curious, and voyeuristic stares from some of the boys looking over their desks at him. Stares that stripped him bare, dissected him, turned him into a commodity for visual consumption. Jihu made himself smaller, as if by folding in enough, he might truly disappear.
---
Recess. 10:20 AM.
Jihu didn't get up. He knew the game. Movement meant becoming a target. So he stayed in his seat, pulling out an old philosophy book and pretending to be absorbed. The curtain of his hair acted as a barrier between him and the world.
Minsoo's group huddled around their desk. Minsoo's voice dominated: "...so I told him, if you look at my friend one more time, I'll gouge your eyes out and shove them up your ass."
Derisive laughter. Jungho clapped Minsoo on the back. Taesoon said eagerly, "You're the man, Hyun! We should see if you really could, though."
"I can do whatever I want, Tae," Minsoo said arrogantly. "Like right now. Hey, Park!"
Jihu showed no reaction. As if deaf.
"Park! You gone deaf?" Minsoo raised his voice.
Jungho half-stood: "Want me to go get his attention?"
"Nah, hold on," Minsoo said, a wicked smile spreading. He stood up and sauntered slowly toward the back row. A heavy silence fell over the class. Everyone was waiting.
Minsoo stopped by Jihu's desk. The smell of his cheap, strong cologne filled the space. He leaned down, placed his hands on the desk, and brought his face so close to Jihu's that his breath—smelling of garlic and energy drink—washed over Jihu's cheek.
"You know what your problem is, Park?" Minsoo said quietly, almost confidentially. "You're not alive, and you're not dead. You're something in between. Like a cockroach that's been half-crushed but its legs are still twitching. Everyone's just waiting for someone to finish the job."
Jihu kept his gaze on the book page. The letters blurred before his eyes.
"All it takes is a nod from me," Minsoo continued, his voice still low but dripping with venom. "One nod. And Jungho and Taesoon can play with you in the bathroom until you walk funny for the rest of your life, but you can't tell anyone why. Or maybe... the girls want in too. Soojin has some interesting ideas. Right, Soojin?"
From across the room, Soojin called out, "We could always run a test to see if you're really a boy or not, Park. It just takes a simple medical exam."
Another wave of laughter. Jihu felt his abdominal muscles contract. But on the outside, nothing. He slowly raised his head and looked directly into Minsoo's eyes. An empty, deep, penetrating look. A look holding no anger, no fear, no pleading. Just... knowledge.
Minsoo was thrown off—for just a moment—by that empty stare. It was as if he'd seen something in Jihu's eyes he shouldn't have: a future empty of himself. He straightened up quickly and said with feigned annoyance, "Waste of time. Like talking to a wall."
As he turned away, he deliberately slammed his shoulder into the side of Jihu's head. A shooting pain lanced through Jihu's neck. And in that same motion, Minsoo's hand swiftly, in passing, dragged from the nape of Jihu's neck down his spine—a sudden, violating, deeply humiliating touch.
Jihu drew in a breath. His knuckles under the fabric of his pocket clenched so tight the pain flared like a sharp white light in his brain. This pain was tangible, real, manageable. In the background, the group's laughter started up again.
---
Last Period: Literature. 2:00 PM.
Mrs. Park, the literature teacher, was reading an old poem about cherry blossoms. No one was listening. Jihu, from behind his curtain of hair, was plotting.
He observed Jungho. Jungho was passing a note to Soojin. His eyes were bright, his hands slightly trembling. In love. But Minsoo doesn't know. That's a crack. A weakness.
Taesoon was drawing a crude sketch on his desk. His face was scrunched up, as if angry. Feels sidelined from the core group. Needs more attention.
Then Dongwoo. He was whispering to the boy next to him, gesturing dramatically toward Jihu: "...and my mom said if I bring the smell of that bastard home one more time, she won't let me step foot in university. You know why? She's scared of catching something. Leprosy or something. Seriously... do you think you can get dirty just by looking?"
Dongwoo wrinkled his nose for effect. The boy beside him laughed reluctantly.
Jihu heard it all. Every word, every laugh, every breath. He filed them away in a place in his mind that would never be erased. These weren't just insults. They were data. Each attack revealed information about the attacker: fears, desires, insecurities.
He had begun to design. Not with paper and pen, but with invisible threads in his mind. He could weave these threads, tie knots, and eventually... pull.
---
Final Bell. 3:30 PM.
When the bell rang, Jihu deliberately waited. He placed his things in his old bag with slow, measured movements. He knew what was coming.
Most students left the classroom. But a few remained: Taesoon and two other boys, standing in the exit hallway, their backs to him. Minsoo and Jungho were also by the door, pretending to talk, waiting.
Jihu stood up and walked slowly toward the door. When he reached Taesoon, the path was completely blocked. Taesoon turned around, a brazen grin on his face.
"In a hurry, Park?" Taesoon said. "Got a date? Oh, sorry... I forgot."
One of the boys behind him let out a quiet laugh.
"Let's see..." Taesoon continued, eyeing Jihu's bag theatrically. "What have you got that you're in such a rush? Porn? A weapon? Or maybe... love letters for Minsoo?"
From behind, Minsoo's voice came, annoyed: "Shut up, Tae. Don't talk crap."
Taesoon paled. He was afraid of Minsoo's power. But he redirected his anger toward the easier target. As Jihu tried to move past him, Taesoon swiftly and forcefully drove his knee between Jihu's legs.
A direct, calculated, vicious hit. The pain was so sharp and debilitating that for a moment, Jihu's vision went black. His breath seized. His body instinctively curled, but he remained on his feet. He never fell. Never.
"Oops, sorry!" Taesoon exaggerated. "I'm so clumsy."
Jihu straightened up. His eyes were watering from the pain, but there was nothing on his face. Just that stone mask. He turned his head and looked directly into Taesoon's eyes. This time, there was something in his gaze—the endless cold of an empty grave.
Taesoon flinched back from the look.
Without a word, Jihu walked past him toward the door. Minsoo and Jungho moved aside, but as he passed, Minsoo leaned in and whispered quietly into his ear: "We'll talk more tomorrow, Park. I promise."
Jihu left the classroom and stepped into the relatively empty hallway. Pain throbbed in his groin, making every step torture. But his steps were firm and even. He didn't go to the bathroom—it was a trap. He headed for the main exit.
In the schoolyard, it was pouring rain. He pulled his hood down and stepped into the downpour. The cold water streamed down his face, perhaps it could wash away the feeling of dirty hands on his skin. But he knew it couldn't.
He didn't think about his empty, cold apartment. He didn't think about his solitude, deeper than any ocean.
He thought about revenge.
And at the corner of his right lip—beneath the rain mimicking tears—a faint, cold tremor appeared and vanished. His soundless laugh. The first sprout of a plan taking root.
This wasn't just another repetitive day. This was the last day of mere endurance. Tomorrow, observation would begin. And after that... the game.
Their hell had just begun, but the real hell was one they hadn't yet built themselves.
And Jihu Park would be the architect of that hell.