The air is colder than I expected when I step through the school gates.
It's early, too early for most students, but the campus isn't empty. It never is. Fluorescent lights hum inside the main building, a low electric buzz that leaks out through the glass doors and settles into my skull.
I pause just past the gate, backpack strap biting into my shoulder, and let the scene imprint itself.
Haneul High School doesn't look violent.
That's the first thing I notice. Clean concrete. Trimmed hedges. A banner near the entrance bragging about "discipline" and "reform," the letters already peeling at the corners. Students move in loose clusters, uniforms neat, shoes polished.
Some laugh too loudly.
Some don't talk at all.
No one runs.
Running draws attention. I adjust my grip on the strap and start walking. Every step feels slightly off, like my body is ahead of my mind or the other way around. I'm tall, too tall to disappear completely, but I'm thin enough that people glance once and move on.
Transfer students are common here. That's what they tell you, anyway.
I keep my head level. Eyes up, not challenging. Breathing slow. Survival starts with posture. Inside, the hallway smells like disinfectant and old floor wax.
My shoes squeak faintly against the tiles. Lockers line the walls, dented and repainted, some still bearing faint scratches that look less like vandalism and more like impact marks. I don't stare too long.
People are already claiming territory.
Not officially.
Not with signs.
But it's there if you know how to look. Certain benches are full. Certain corners are empty even though they're closer to the classrooms. A group of seniors loiters near the stairwell, bags slung low, voices relaxed in a way that suggests nothing here can surprise them.
They look at me.
Not all at once. One at a time. A flick of the eyes, a quick assessment. Tall. New. No insignia, no visible alliances. I feel the weight of those glances like pressure against my ribs.
I don't react.
I walk past them without changing pace.
Behind me, laughter spikes briefly, then fades. I don't turn around. Turning around means engagement, even if you don't say a word.
My classroom is on the second floor. Zero Period room, according to the schedule folded in my pocket. The name is printed in the same font as everything else, like it's just another class.
Homeroom, technically.
But the timing is wrong.
Thirty minutes too early.
I climb the stairs on the right side, close to the wall. The left side is faster, more exposed. I choose slower.
At the landing, I catch my reflection in the window: long limbs, narrow shoulders, hair still damp from a rushed shower. I look like what I am, a sixteen-year-old who hasn't figured out where to put his hands yet.
Good.
The classroom door is already open.
I step inside.
Conversations drop by half a notch. Not silence—just adjustment. People clock me, then return to whatever they were doing. Chairs scrape. Someone yawns. The room is bigger than I expected, with desks arranged in neat rows that no one fully respects.
I chose a seat near the back, second row from the window. Not the corner. Corners trap you. Center-back gives options: window, aisle, space behind.
I sit.
The chair is cold through my uniform pants. I place my bag between my feet instead of hanging it on the chair. Easy to move that way. My hands rest on my thighs, fingers relaxed. Now I watch. Hierarchy reveals itself in small things.
Who sits without looking around.
Who sprawls, legs stretched into the aisle.
Who keeps glancing at the door even though class hasn't started.
There's a group near the windows laughing quietly, their jokes sharp but contained. Across from them, three boys sit apart, shoulders tight, eyes down. No one chooses the desks near the teacher's podium.
Not yet.
A few minutes pass. More students trickle in. The room fills, but the spacing remains intentional. Invisible lines drawn and respected.
Then the Overseer arrives.
They don't announce themselves. The door opens and closes with a soft click, and the temperature in the room shifts.
I don't know if it's a man or a woman at first, short hair, neutral expression, posture straight enough to suggest authority without advertising it.
They stand at the front, hands folded loosely, and scan the room. Not like a teacher taking attendance. Like someone counting inventory.
Their gaze moves slowly, methodically. When it lands on me, it doesn't linger. Just a brief pause, as if noting a variable, then on to the next. I breathe out through my nose. No reaction is good. Strong reactions, positive or negative, mean interest.
The Overseer says nothing. Just checks a watch, then steps aside, leaning against the podium. The message is clear: sit, wait, exist quietly.
I do exactly that.
My mind works anyway.
I catalog faces. The senior near the aisle with the scar along his jaw. The girl by the window who hasn't looked up once but somehow seems aware of everything.
The nervous kid two rows ahead who keeps bouncing his knee, eyes flicking toward the door like he expects something to come through it. Zero Period hasn't started yet. But it's close.
I can feel it in the room, a tightening under the skin. Conversations thin out. Phones disappear into pockets. Someone cracks their knuckles, then stops when another student glances over.
The bell doesn't ring yet.
When it finally does, it's dull. Almost polite.
Nothing happens.
That's the first lesson.
Zero Period doesn't explode into chaos. It seeps. It waits. Violence here is patient. The Overseer checks their watch again. Thirty minutes. They step out of the room, the door closing softly behind them. No announcement. No rules stated.
The room exhales.
Chairs scrape as people stand, stretching like they're heading to PE. Some leave immediately, slipping into the hallway in pairs or alone. Others stay seated, eyes lowered, pretending this is just another morning.
I stay put.
Decision first, action later.
I watch who leaves and who stays. The seniors are gone within seconds. So is the girl by the window. She stands smoothly, bag over one shoulder, movements economical. No rush. No hesitation. When she passes my desk, I catch a glimpse of her face.
Calm. Sharp eyes. No wasted expression. I don't know her name yet, but I file her away anyway.
People like that matter.
The nervous kid stays seated, shoulders hunched. The scarred senior doesn't come back. Someone laughs in the hallway—short, sharp, cut off abruptly.
I don't move.
When Zero Period ends, it ends the same way it started: quietly. The bell rings. Students drift back in, some with flushed faces, some adjusting their uniforms, some avoiding eye contact entirely.
No one explains anything. The Overseer returns, takes attendance, and the day slides into place like nothing happened.
By the time first period starts, my pulse has slowed. My shoulders loosen slightly. I survived the first thirty minutes by doing nothing. That's not a victory. It's a delay.
—
The commute home that afternoon is louder.
Buses packed with students, conversations overlapping, the city pressing in from all sides. I stand near the back, one hand on the rail, watching reflections in the window. My face looks older than it did this morning. Or maybe I'm imagining it.
I replay the day in fragments.
The way people avoided certain hallways during Zero Period. The way some desks remained empty even when seats were scarce. The way that girl, whose name I finally learned is Ri-ah, moved through the room was like gravity bent slightly around her.
At my stop, I step off and let the crowd carry on without me.
The walk home is short. Concrete, convenience stores, the smell of fried food drifting out onto the street. Normal life layered over something else.
At home, my mother asks if school was fine. I say yes. My sister talks about her math test. I nod at the right moments. I don't mention Zero Period.
That night, I lie awake longer than usual, staring at the ceiling. My body feels heavy, but my mind keeps circling back to the same thought. Rules exist. I just don't know them yet.
—
The next morning, I arrive earlier.
Earlier means quieter. Fewer witnesses. More information.
The gates are open, the campus half-lit. I linger near the entrance, pretending to check my phone while watching who comes in. Patterns emerge quickly. Certain students arrive together every day.
Others come alone, heads down. A few arrive absurdly early, like they're trying to outrun something.
I spot Ri-Ah again, crossing the courtyard with unhurried steps. She doesn't look at anyone, but people subtly adjust their paths around her. Not fear. Recognition.
I follow at a distance, not close enough to be obvious.
Inside, the hallway feels narrower. Sounds carry differently this early. Footsteps echo. Lockers clang shut with finality. Somewhere upstairs, something hits a wall hard, then silence.
I don't flinch.
In the Zero Period classroom, the seating shifts slightly. Power recalibrates overnight. I take the same seat as yesterday. Consistency matters.
The Overseer arrives, scans, and leaves.
This time, when the bell rings, I feel it before it sounds. A pressure behind my eyes. My breathing changes without conscious effort.
Students stand. Move.
I stay seated.
A boy from the row ahead glances back at me, eyes flicking over my height, my posture. He hesitates, then looks away. Decision made, for now.
Ri-Ah passes again. This time, she glances at me. Just once. A quick assessment, no expression.
I don't react.
Observation cuts both ways. Zero Period ends without incident, for me. When the bell rings, I feel relief and something else underneath it. Anticipation, maybe. Or dread.
In class, I take notes. My hand cramps from gripping the pen too tightly. When I relax, my fingers tremble slightly. No one comments.
At lunch, I sit alone. I watch alliances form and dissolve over trays of food.
Who eats fast.
Who eats slowly.
Who doesn't eat at all.
The nervous kid from before drops his chopsticks. They clatter loudly. Conversation pauses. Someone snorts. He flushes, bends to retrieve them. No one helps. I look away. Not my fight. Not yet, at least.
—
By the end of the week, I know more.
Not everything. Enough.
Zero Period isn't random. It's curated. People choose where to be based on what they can handle. Some hallways are safer than others. Stairwells are dangerous. Bathrooms are worse.
The Overseer never intervenes. They don't have to.
I learn to move with purpose without appearing confident. I learn to stand still without looking weak. I learn that my height makes me visible, but my silence makes me forgettable.
That's a balance.
Ri-Ah remains an anomaly. She moves freely, untouched by the undercurrent that drags at everyone else. When she fights—because she does, sometimes—it's quick, precise, over before anyone can gather around. No spectacle. Just aftermath.
I watch from a distance.
The seniors watch me back.
One morning, as Zero Period ends, the scarred senior pauses near my desk. He doesn't speak. Just looks down at me, eyes flat.
I meet his gaze, neutral.
After a moment, he snorts softly and walks away.
My heart doesn't slow until he's gone. That afternoon, I found a note in my locker. No name. Just three words, written in block letters.
**Watch your timing.**
I stare at it for a long time.
Timing is everything here. When to arrive. When to leave. When to look. When not to. I fold the note and slip it into my pocket. If I learn the rules first, I won't be caught off guard when the real battles start.
But as I sit in class, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, I realize something else. Learning the rules doesn't mean they'll protect me. It just means I'll know exactly when they're about to break.