For one terrifying second, Lee Myung-dae didn't breathe.
The whipped cream sat heavy on his face, slowly sliding down his cheeks in thick, white globs. Then, his fingers twitched. He scraped a massive handful of frosting off his own jaw, his eyes flashing with a light that could have melted a glacier.
"You..." Myung-dae growled, hurl-launching the handful of sticky cream straight at my chest. "Ya! Michin saekkiya!"
I ducked, the sweet missile painting a white streak across Ms. Choi's pristine smart-board.
Kang Min-ah took one look at Myung-dae's curling lower lip, dropped her phone into her blazer pocket, and screeched at the top of her lungs: "I think it's time for you to run! RUN, MOUNTAIN!"
I didn't need to be told twice. I spun on my heel and bolted out the classroom door, laughing so hard my ribs ached.
It was magnificent.
"STAY RIGHT THERE, SAEKKI-YA!" Myung-dae's voice bellowed down the corridor, ringing off the lockers.
The chase through the main building was a masterclass in high-school chaos. I wove through the corridors like a giant, navy-blue slalom skier, my sneakers screeching against the polished floors. Behind me, the heavy, furious thud of Myung-dae's footsteps kept a relentless rhythm.
The commotion was impossible to miss.
Classroom doors popped open. Stunned students from the Visual Arts track peeked out, their jaws dropping at the sight of the Foreign Representative sprinting for his life.
Teachers emerged. Severe-looking instructors holding chalk froze in mid-sentence, their expressions twisting into absolute fury as the shouting disrupted their lectures.
"It wasn't my idea!" I yelled over my shoulder, ducking past a bewildered group of first-years. "Min-ah helped buy it! This is just a friendly Ukrainian greeting!"
"I'm gonna show you what's friendly!" Myung-dae roared back, a rogue chunk of vanilla sponge cake flying past my ear and smashing into a trophy case. "Stop right there, you punk!"
I burst through the heavy double doors at the end of the hall, spilling out into the crisp morning air of the main courtyard. The sun was bright, but I was running out of real estate. I veered toward the brick alcove near the traditional garden, realizing too late that I had cornered myself against a stone retaining wall.
A dead end.
I spun around, chest heaving, raising my hands like a boxer to brace for impact. Myung-dae rounded the corner, chest heaving, his face still an absolute disaster of white cream and red maraschino residue.
POP! POP! BANG!
Before Myung-dae could lunge, the alcove erupted.
A shower of sparks and deafening cracks shattered the air as a dozen handheld firecrackers detonated simultaneously. Streams of bright, multi-colored paper ribbons and silver confetti filled the sky, rain-falling over the stone courtyard.
"HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LEE MYUNG-DAE!" a chorus of loud, rowdy voices bellowed.
Out from behind the sculpted hedges stepped the rebel crew—the jocks from the Taekwondo team, the guys from the swimming squad, and the loud, chaotic members of the School Bands Club. Lim Soo-wan was there, holding a confetti cannon, while a dozen smartphones immediately began snapping photos, the flashes catching the utter bewilderment on Myung-dae's cream-coated face.
"Hey! Myung-dae-ah! Look over here!" Choi Kang-min laughed, throwing his arm around the dripping bassist. "Come here, take a photo with us!"
Myung-dae froze, his boots skidding to a halt on the stone pavement. The raw fury in his eyes faltered for a fraction of a second, replaced by the profound confusion of a guy who had prepared for a murder but stumbled into a flash-mob.
"Dude, 'Mountain'!" one of the swim team guys clapped me heavily on the shoulder, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye. "The plan actually worked! We didn't think you'd have the guts to actually hit him with the cake!"
"A total masterpiece," another rebel chuckled, adjusting his phone camera. "Look at him. Kirin's Secret is going to be locked for days."
I leaned against the brick wall, gasping for air, a huge, triumphant grin breaking across my face. The setup had been flawless. Min-ah's coordination, the sports wing's timing, the distraction—everything had lined up perfectly.
But Lee Myung-dae didn't care about the confetti. He didn't care about the cameras, the cheers, or the colorful paper drifting into his hair.
He slowly looked down at his cream-covered hands. He wiped a thick dollop of white frosting off his knuckles, using his uniform sleeve, and took two deliberate, heavy steps toward me.
"San," he whispered.
Before I could lower my guard or offer an apology, his arm flashed forward. A solid, heavy fist connected squarely with my cheek, the impact sending a dull, breathless thud radiating through my ribs.