After the Meet, things don't cool—they simmer. The results left "Other" crowned, but the throne is emptier than yesterday's promises. No one admits to running the poll, but everyone claims to know.
Monday morning, campus is split into two moods: rivalry and regret.
Minji meets me at the school gate, cheeks pink from the wind. "You see the fallout?"
I shrug, tugging my jacket close. "Change comes slow. But when it lands, it shakes everything loose."
Jay, as ever, ghosting in from the bus stop. Dao joins us in a rush, new scuff on his knuckle. "Burn Knuckles lost face last night—now Zack's out recruiting hard."
We move as a unit, dodging glue-eyed stares and the tension humming in corners. Posters appear overnight: "Stay loyal, stay strong. No room for traitors." The world's shifting, and everyone's scrambling to pick a side.
First class is grim. Ms. Park teaches on, but half the room is on edge.
Minji flicks a pen cap at my desk. "Think we'll make it to break without a scene?"
I answer with a sideways grin. "In this place, every silence is just foreplay for chaos."
Dao's phone vibrates. He squints at the screen. "Someone just sent every first year a message: 'Meet at the gym. Choose wisely.' I smell a setup."
Jay sighs, "History doesn't repeat, but it does rhyme."
I raise my hand when Ms. Park asks a question, but my mind's drifting. The word on the street is the real class today won't be on the books.
Lunch is louder than usual—arguments at every table, eyes darting, packs shifting.
I grab milk and bread, sit with Minji, Jay, Dao, plus one extra—a new girl. Rina Park, tiny but fierce, sleeves rolled and eyes stormy.
She introduces herself by taking Dao's seat. "You the guy making moves?"
Dao shrugs. "Depends on the moves."
Rina grins. "Word is, if you want to walk these halls and not get clocked, you gotta pick who to follow."
Jay: "That's not new. Just louder."
Rina's mouth twitches. "They're picking muscle, not vision. Big mistake."
I lean in. "Only fools believe power is just fists. Sometimes, it's simply having a better story."
Rina nods, approval flashing in her gaze. Minji raises her juice, like it's a toast.
"To chaos, then. May the stories never get old."
Jay adds, "The wheel keeps spinning."
We clink, unorthodox but united.
Bell rings—students flood the halls, tension measured in glances and clenched jaws.
Dao peels off to 'check on Zack's crew', but I catch his look. He's loyal, just doesn't want to be last to pick a side if things go south. Minji and Jay move tighter. Rina tags along; she's a wildcard, unpredictable and dangerous in all the ways I approve.
At the gym, the standoff is in full swing.
Zack's new recruits—older kids from the wrestling club, a pair of siblings whose only claim to fame is that no one can out-cuss them—square off against Sungho's battered loyalists. The rest of us—Burn Knuckle hopefuls, neutral first-years, the ones who thrive on chaos—watch from the sidelines, hungry for spectacle.
Zack, shirt sleeves rolled, calls out, "State your claim. You here to join or just to mock the strong?"
Sungho spits to the side. "We're here to show you that muscle isn't everything."
A fight's about to break open—body language clear, trash talk sharp as knife edges—but I step onto the mat first.
The voice inside me: "If not now, when?"
I raise a hand, grin cocky, crowd ripples. "We doing a contest or hosting a circus?"
Rina answers with a can opener, popping a soda, unbothered. "Depends. Who's the clown?"
Even Zack cracks a smile. "Why not let the crowd pick?"
Minji calls from the back, "We pick team captains. Winners take half the gym for a month—losers carry their bags."
The challenge is accepted, the teams are chosen—Zack, Rina, Jay, a couple meatheads, versus Sungho, Dao (pulled over by muscle loyalty), Minji, three speedsters.
I'm captain of chaos.
Jay winks, mouth barely moving: "You can't win if you don't play. Wheels up."
First round—sprints.
Sungho's team pulls ahead, Dao darting like he's got a point to prove.
Rina, out of nowhere, jumps two lines, takes a flying shortcut nobody expects. Cheers erupt.
Wrestling next—Zack's specialty, and he dominates, pinning two Sungho loyalists before they can even blink.
I fake a limp onto the mat, sell it with Broadway flair.
Zack narrows his eyes, "You sure?"
"If I go down, at least I go down in history."
Crowd chants, "Han Gyeol! Han Gyeol!"
He hauls me up, spins me twice for show, then gently sets me down—laughs from every direction.
I bow, arms spread. "It's not about winning. It's about leaving an impression."
Grappling isn't the point.
By the third round—pushups, relay, improv trash talk—the sides blur. Antagonists laugh. Cliques shift. The rivalry slips into something less fierce and more alive.
For a moment, the school is united—by nonsense, by resistance, by the urge to live a little wilder than yesterday.