The classroom felt like a prison wrapped in fluorescent lighting.
Aara sat at her desk with her hands folded, eyes fixed on the chalkboard even though the lesson might as well have been in a different language. Her mind wasn't here. It was with the envelope stuffed into the inside pocket of her blazer — last night's fight money, barely enough to cover the electricity bill and some of the loan sharks' interest.
She'd bled for that cash.
Her knuckles still ached beneath the bandaids, and the sting in her ribs told her she should've rested longer before school. But there was no time for rest in her world. Just breathing and surviving.
"Hey."
The whisper came from her left.
She turned her head slowly. It was Minji.
Bright eyes. Glossy lips. That same fake smile she wore like a crown.
"Your bag looks old," Minji said, voice sweet but sharp. "Want me to lend you one of mine? I have like, five."
Aara blinked. She said nothing.
Minji leaned in closer. "Or maybe your parents can't afford one anymore. I heard your dad left you guys? Debt or something?"
Aara's jaw clenched, but she didn't react. That's what Minji wanted.
The whispers from other desks started again.
Debt girl. Trash girl. Ash girl.
They didn't know how close they were to the truth.
She closed her eyes. Just three more hours. Then I can leave. Then I can work.
At lunch, she didn't even pretend to eat.
The cafeteria reeked of curry and gossip. She took her usual spot in the far back corner, headphones in — no music playing, just blocking out the world.
Across the room, Minji held court with a group of girls. One of them pointed at Aara and laughed. Another whispered something while looking at her chest.
Aara's uniform blouse was second-hand. A button was missing. She'd stitched it with black thread instead of white.
More laughter.
She stood and left without a word.
Behind the school building, she lit a cigarette.
The smoke filled her lungs like poison and comfort all at once. She didn't even like smoking. It just gave her five minutes of space where no one wanted to be around her.
Except someone did.
"Back again?" came the low voice.
She exhaled slowly without turning around. "Don't you have better things to do?"
Haru stepped around the edge of the building, hands in his pockets, head tilted slightly like he was studying an insect pinned to glass.
"I like the smell," he said, eyes on the cigarette. "Reminds me of my mother."
"Was that meant to make me feel something?"
He smirked.
"No. But you do."
She looked away. "You're delusional."
"I might be. But I'm not wrong."
He stepped closer. Too close. She didn't back away, though.
That seemed to interest him even more.
"You know," he murmured, "most people don't ignore me. They either kiss up… or run."
"I don't have the energy to do either."
That made him laugh—quietly, darkly.
"You should be careful," he said, reaching up and brushing a piece of hair from her face. "People like me—"
"—aren't worth the time," she finished for him, swatting his hand away.
Haru didn't move. He just kept staring. Not at her face. At her.
Her body. Her posture. Her bruised aura. The exhaustion she carried like perfume.
"You're interesting, Aara."
"Don't be."
"Too late."
The next class passed in silence — until Aara opened her locker.
A rotten banana fell out.
Along with a crumpled note:"Even trash needs to rot somewhere else."
Laughter from behind her. Minji and the girls were watching. Waiting for a reaction.
Aara didn't give them one.
She bent down, picked up the banana with her bare hand, and tossed it into the trash can without looking back. Not even a flinch.
But inside, something cracked.
She walked home that day without feeling her legs. Her phone buzzed five times.
All messages from her mother.
"The gas bill came again."
"They called me a whore today. You don't even care."
"Why are you always gone? You're just like your father."
"We need money."
"Ayin hasn't come home. This is your fault."
She didn't reply. Just walked.
It started raining halfway through her commute, but she didn't stop.
Didn't run.
Didn't even lift her head.
By the time she reached home, she was soaked to the skin, shivering. Her mother was passed out on the couch. The lights were off. The TV was still on. Empty beer cans littered the table.
Aara tiptoed to her room and shut the door softly.
She peeled off her wet clothes and sat on the edge of her bed in just a towel, staring at the floor, feeling the tightness in her chest grow tighter… and tighter.
It shouldn't hurt this much.I'm used to it.This is normal now.
Then she realized something horrifying.
She didn't cry anymore.
That night, she suited up again.
The warehouse reeked of sweat, blood, and adrenaline.
The underground ring glowed under flickering lights. Men screamed bets. Women leaned against cages, bored or drunk.
She taped her fists. Pulled on her hoodie. Tied her mask.
In that moment, Aara was gone.
There was only Ash.
Halfway through the match — her opponent landed a cheap shot to the ribs.
She staggered.
Pain lit up her side like fire.
Get up, she told herself. Get up. No one's coming.
Then… movement in the shadows.
She glanced toward the crowd.
He was there.
Haru.
Watching.
Expression blank.
But his knuckles were white where he gripped the railing.
Aara turned back to her opponent and smiled behind her mask.
Good.
Let him see what she really was.