The envelope felt like an anchor inside my backpack, a paper secret burning through the fabric. I stood there, in the middle of the library that was supposed to be my sanctuary, feeling a hundred eyes on me—or at least, the memory of them.
The whispering was starting again, and I knew I was the main topic. The clumsy scholarship girl who had stood up to two members of NEON7.
I couldn't stay there a second longer, unless I wanted them to start carving my premature tombstone. So, with a sharp movement, I turned around and walked toward the opposite exit, almost running.
I didn't look at anyone, but I felt their stares like tiny pins in my back. My footsteps echoed too loudly in the silence my scene had caused. I needed a place to disappear. A place without velvet sofas or witnesses.
It seemed Hathor had heard me. Ahead, at the end of a secondary hallway, I found my apocalypse shelter: "The school restroom."
As I entered, the classic change in temperature hit me with its icy atmosphere, managing to completely dissolve the magic of my illusions about Hathor.
I leaned against the door, letting my head fall back with a dull thud.
And without meaning to, I returned to that morning.
The kitchen smelled of freshly made rice and fermented kimchi. The steam from the rice rose in lazy spirals from the cooker, slightly fogging the window that looked out onto the building across the street. Mom had set the table with what we had: white rice in three mismatched bowls, homemade kimchi on a chipped ceramic plate, a fried egg for each of us, and a small pot of seaweed soup.
"Are you sure you don't want more?" Mom asked for the third time, pointing at the rice with her wooden spoon.
"Mom, I've had enough," I replied, though my stomach protested otherwise. Only one slice of toast remained on the counter, lonely and slightly burnt at the edges.
Dad, who just like every morning was drinking coffee from his Kia Tigers mug—his favorite baseball team—finished his drink in one gulp, setting the mug down with a soft click.
"Do you have the camera?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.
"Of course," I showed him, pulling the straps to the front. "I wouldn't go anywhere without it."
His eyes softened. That Leica M3 was the only thing left from my grandfather, and Dad had spent months modifying it, adapting a digital sensor and a screen, turning a relic into something functional. It was his way of saying he believed in me.
"My girl at Hathor..." Mom whispered, and this time she couldn't stop her voice from trembling slightly. She wiped her hands on her apron, even though they were already dry.
I took the slice of bread, wrapping it in a napkin.
"It's just the first day," I said, trying to sound casual, even though my heart was beating so hard I was sure they could hear it. "I'm sure they have an incredible cafeteria, but this... this is for good luck."
Mom hugged me at the door. She smelled like cheap detergent and that aloe hand cream she bought at the market. Dad ruffled my hair—something I hated, but today I let it slide.
"Make them see who you are," he said, entrusting me with his energy and hope.
"Don't doubt it, Dad," I confirmed, believing I could.
At that moment, I truly believed I would.
I opened my eyes.
The Hathor restroom stared back at me: flawless marble, mirrors without a single smudge, golden faucets that probably cost more than our kitchen table.
I dragged myself to the sink and faced my reflection.
A girl with messy hair, eyes too wide, and a huge brown coffee stain spreading across her chest like a map of her humiliation. The second-hand uniform fabric clung to my skin, still damp. It smelled of expensive spices and failure.
A low growl escaped my throat.
I closed my eyes again. I didn't want to think, much less remember, but that air freshener made my efforts useless... my mind wouldn't let me escape.
The bus rattled through the streets of Seoul, taking me closer and closer to the train station. Eight minutes. Only eight minutes separated my world from theirs.
I pressed my forehead against the window, watching the landscape change. My neighborhood, with its buildings still sporting worn cement walls and street food stalls, began to fade. In its place, glass structures began to rise like cold, shimmering giants.
It was in that city of neon lights where I found the photograph that gave me the win. My fingers barely brushed the glass with the tenderness of someone stroking a memory; it was a sweet nostalgia.
In my lap, my worn notebook was open to the page where I had pasted the newspaper clipping.
"VACANCY AVAILABLE AT HATHOR HIGH SCHOOL."
I still remembered the exact moment I saw it.
It had been two weeks after winning the contest. I was in a phone booth, about to call home to say I'd be late, when an older man—bald and wrinkled to a shine like a lightbulb—bumped into me without looking. His newspaper fell to the ground.
"Excuse me," I murmured, leaning down to pick it up.
He didn't even turn around. He just reached out, took the newspaper I offered, and shuffled away. But I saw it. A loose sheet from his newspaper slipped and fell at my feet. I tried to call him, but he didn't stop, as if he didn't really care.
At that moment, my gaze landed on a small box in the important notices section: Vacancy for Hathor High School for full-scholarship students.
It was just the announcement and a number to call, which I dialed in that same booth with trembling hands.
"I have the full scholarship to cover the monthly fee," I whispered, barely able to keep the air in my lungs. "If the vacancy is still available... I'll be able to enter Hathor!"
Fate, I thought then. This is fate.
On the bus, I smiled like an idiot as the glass buildings multiplied. I imagined Hathor full of talented students, teachers who would appreciate my work, classmates who would understand what it meant to love something with desperation.
I imagined my talent would be enough to be one of them.
How stupid I was.
I opened my eyes. Tears were there, right on the edge of my eyelids, burning.
Why? Why would I want to cry?
Those questions bounced around my skull. And from my vocal cords, a single sentence was born—one that my throat held back with all its might, but that would break me from the inside if I didn't release it.
"Stupid," I managed to whisper. "Stupid, spoiled, arrogant..." I repeated with hatred, but I paused, biting my lower lip. "Stupid... stupid, delusional, naive..." I told myself, my voice breaking. "Childish."
In my mind, only the worst parts of my day were drawn:
Mary and her perfect smile, transforming into those hollow pupils as she said: "You're poor. Disgusting."
Vhy and his indignation over a spilled coffee, as if my existence were an inconvenience.
Jhin and that pity in his eyes. That damn pity that hurt more than any insult.
And the flashes. The whispers. The looks.
I gripped the sink until my knuckles turned white. My breathing became irregular, jagged. The knot in my throat tightened more and more.
Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't give them that damn luxury.
But the tears were already there, blurring my vision.
And then I remembered the photo.
On a night before the contest, it was raining. One of those Seoul rains that turned the city into an impressionist painting, where every neon light stretched and bled onto the wet pavement.
I was in Myeongdong, my Leica hanging from my neck, soaked to the bone but not caring. I was looking for something. I didn't know what, but I'd know it when I saw it.
And I saw it.
An elderly woman, sitting on the ground under a transparent plastic awning. In front of her, a piece of cardboard with trembling calligraphy. Around her, the city throbbed: neon lights reflecting in puddles, umbrellas moving like a river of colors, buildings shining like fallen constellations.
And the people. Dozens of people passed by her. Everyone looked. Everyone.
Their faces, distorted by the rain in my lens, showed the same thing: pity. A silent apology. Some looked away quickly. Others held it a second longer, as if that were enough. But no one stopped. No one reached out.
Everyone felt. No one acted.
I raised my camera. I framed. And I captured that exact moment: compassionate indifference. The beautiful pain of having seen but not helped.
That photo gave me the victory. That photo brought me here.
I snapped my eyes open, and something clicked in my head.
Jhin. Jhin had seen me on the floor, stained with coffee, humiliated. And he offered me help. He offered me his jacket. He looked at me with that same pity I had captured in those faces.
And I... I rejected him. I yelled at him. I insulted him.
Because I didn't want to be that woman in the photo. I didn't want to be seen with pity. I didn't want to be anyone's charity project.
But by rejecting him, hadn't I become one of those people passing by? Hadn't I just perpetuated the same cycle my photo denounced?
The irony hit me like a slap. And then, something stronger than irony: rage.
Rage against Mary for her disdain. Against Vhy for his arrogance. Against Jhin for his pity. But above all, rage against myself for having believed that here, it would be different.
The tears were a second away from falling. But I couldn't allow myself to fall.
NOT HERE.
This wasn't me. The girl hiding in a bathroom about to cry over a bad day. I was the one who had taken that photo in the rain while everyone else sought shelter. The one who had spent entire nights in my darkroom developing photos. The one who had won when no one expected her to.
I came here to win.
I didn't come to impress conceited idols with custom-made perfumes. I didn't come to beg for the approval of girls like Mary. I came for something bigger than all of them put together.
I came for me.
I turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on my face. The shock cleared my mind like a whip. When I looked in the mirror again, the stain was still there, but I no longer saw it as a mark of humiliation.
I saw it as a declaration of war.
My hand instinctively went to my backpack. I opened it and pulled out the envelope. N7 with its shimmering Amethyst. I held it between my fingers, feeling the thick, almost velvety paper.
The temptation to open it was intense. What would be inside? A letter? Lyrics to a song? A secret I could use?
That curiosity, that desire to have a weapon against them, filled my mind with a pleasure as great as the cocoa in chocolate.
I touched the triangle, the edge of the letter. I could hear the adhesive starting to peel.
"No," I stopped myself. "Opening it would be sinking to their level. It would be proving that their world matters to me."
And it couldn't matter less.
But returning it... not that either. Not after how they'd treated me. Let them worry a bit. Let them feel, for a second, what it was like to lose something.
With a sudden decision, I tucked the envelope back into the inner pocket of my backpack, pulling the zipper shut with a definitive tug. It would be my small, silent trophy of this hellish day. A reminder that I, too, could take something from them.
I dried my face with paper towels that were, of course, ridiculously soft. I smoothed my uniform as best I could. The coffee stain was still horrible, but my posture had changed.
I stood for a moment longer in front of the mirror, looking myself straight in the eye.
"They don't know who I am," I whispered. "But they're going to find out."
It wasn't an empty promise. It was an oath.
I walked out of the restroom with my head held high, ignoring the curious look of a girl who was touching up her lip gloss.
The day was just beginning. And if this was the welcome Hathor had for me, then they'd better get ready.
The silent war had just begun.
And I didn't intend to lose.