The school gates empty in waves.
Not all at once, never all at once. Influence leaves in layers. The strongest go first or last, depending on what they want to show. The weak drift in the middle, carried by momentum they don't control.
I step out with the second wave.
My body feels lighter than it did a week ago. Not stronger. Just steadier. Like I've learned where to hold the tension so it doesn't leak into my hands or face.
Confidence isn't loud. It's quiet enough that no one notices it changing.
The afternoon air is cool, the kind that sinks into your lungs and stays there. Traffic hums on the main road beyond the school wall. Vendors shout somewhere in the distance. Life keeps moving like nothing inside that building mattered.
That's the lie everyone agrees to.
I don't put my earbuds in. Sound is information. I keep my hands in my pockets, shoulders relaxed, pace unhurried.
The walk home takes fifteen minutes if you go straight.
No one who wants to last goes straight.
I take the long route.
—
The first intersection is where cliques start to separate.
Three boys peel off toward the bus stop together, laughing too loudly, one of them shoving another into the curb. The shove isn't friendly. The laugh afterward isn't either. The one who gets shoved doesn't push back.
Noted.
Two girls cross the street without waiting for the light, bags slung low, eyes scanning behind them more than ahead. They don't talk. They keep a careful distance between each other, like they're not sure who's being followed.
Also noted.
I slow slightly near the convenience store on the corner. The glass reflects the street at an angle—good visibility without turning my head. I catch sight of Kang Dae-Hyun and two seniors loitering near the alley across the road, smoking openly.
No uniforms anymore, jackets pulled on, postures loose.
Outside school rules end. Reputation doesn't.
A middle school kid passes them and stiffens visibly. One of the seniors laughs. Dae-Hyun doesn't even look at the kid.
He doesn't need to.
Power that doesn't have to move is the most dangerous kind. I keep walking. The sidewalk narrows two blocks down. Old apartments crowd the street, their walls close enough that sound bounces. This is where timing matters.
Students who walk alone unconsciously adjust their pace here. Some speed up. Some slow down. The wrong choice exposes you.
I maintain a steady rhythm.
Ahead of me, the stocky guy from the cafeteria, Min-Su, whom I heard someone call earlier, walks with two friends. They're relaxed now, shoulders loose, joking about something on a phone screen.
He glances back once.
Our eyes meet through the glass reflection of a parked car. He looks away first. I don't feel satisfaction. Just confirmation. He doesn't know what to do with me yet.
That uncertainty will either make him cautious or reckless.
Both are exploitable.
—
Halfway home, there's a narrow footpath that cuts between two buildings. Most students avoid it unless they're in groups. No cameras. Poor lighting even during the day. I pause at the entrance, pretending to check my phone.
Two first-years are already inside, walking fast, heads down. Ten seconds later, a third student follows them. Taller. Older. He increases his pace slightly once he's inside.
Predator behavior.
I don't follow.
Instead, I cross the street and take the longer road around the block. It adds three minutes. It removes variables. Survival isn't about bravery. It's about choosing the fights that can't be avoided—and avoiding the rest.
By the time I reach the small park near my apartment complex, the sun is already dipping behind the buildings. Shadows stretch long across the concrete.
Old men sit on benches playing baduk, stones clicking softly, eyes sharp despite their age. They notice everything.
I pass through without stopping, nodding once out of habit. One of them nods back. Recognition without involvement.
I like that.
—
At home, my shoes come off quietly. My mother isn't back from work yet. My sister's door is closed—music muffled, homework or games, I can't tell.
I wash my hands longer than necessary.
The mirror above the sink shows me a version of myself I'm still getting used to. Same face. Same height. But my eyes don't drift anymore. They lock onto things and stay there. That scares me a little. I go to my room and drop my bag on the floor.
No rest yet. I stretch first, slow and deliberate.
Ankles. Knees. Hips. Shoulders. Neck. I pay attention to the small protests in my body. Tight hamstrings. Weak balance when I shift my weight to my left leg. My shoulders fatigue faster than they should.
Data.
I clear space on the floor and lower myself into a squat. Hold. Count breaths. My thighs burn quickly, too quickly.
Noted.
Push-ups next. Controlled. No rushing. My arms shake by fifteen. That's unacceptable. Not because I need strength, but because endurance buys time.
Time is survival.
I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling, breath coming in slow pulls. Sweat beads along my hairline, trickling down my temple.
This isn't training.
It's an assessment.
I visualize the school as I lie there. Hallways. Stairwells. Corners where sound carries too far. Places where you can get pinned. Places where you can stall. What if Min-Su corners me near the lockers after class?
Options: keep distance, force witnesses, angle toward a teacher's office, use words only long enough to draw attention.
What if it's during Zero Period?
Different math. No staff. No cameras.
Stall. Don't strike unless necessary. Use walls. Count the bell. What if there are two of them? Don't let them flank. Back into a corner only if there's an exit angle. Keep one between me and the other.
What if I fall?
Tuck chin. Roll. Protect the spine. Get back up or stay down long enough to be boring.
I sit up slowly.
The scenarios don't make my heart race anymore. They slot into place like problems waiting for the right conditions. That scares me more than fear ever did.
—
Dinner is quiet. My mother asks about school. I say it's fine. She believes me because she wants to. My sister complains about a teacher. I nod at the right moments.
I don't talk about routes or faces or timing.
Those things belong to a different version of me now.
After dinner, I do homework at my desk, pausing often, not because it's hard, but because my mind keeps replaying movements from the day. The way Dae-Hyun stood without looking.
The way Ri-Ah controlled space with half-steps. The way Min-Su avoided my eyes outside school. Patterns don't exist until you notice them. Once you do, they're everywhere.
Before bed, I stretch again. Balance drills this time. Standing on one foot, eyes closed. I sway more than I should. Adjust. Breathe. Try again.
Better.
Still not good.
I lie down, lights off, listening to the building settle around me. Pipes creak. A car passes outside. Somewhere above, someone drops something heavy. I think about tomorrow's route.
Not just mine.
Everyone else's too.
—
The next day, I leave five minutes earlier. That alone changes everything.
Different faces. Different clusters. A girl from my class walks ahead of me, always turning corners just a little too fast. She's avoiding someone. I don't know who yet. Two boys from the mid-tier group walk behind me, arguing quietly.
They split at the crosswalk, tension unresolved.
That matters.
At the school gate, I slow down and let the flow pass me. I watch who arrives early and who cuts it close. Who waits outside pretending to text. Who checks the time too often.
Zero Period is coming.
I feel it, like a pressure shift behind my eyes. Inside, I don't head straight to the classroom. I detour past the gym. The doors are closed today. Yesterday was a test. Or an invitation.
I keep walking.
In the Zero Period classroom, the atmosphere is heavier than usual. Fewer voices. More people are standing instead of sitting. Min-Su isn't here. Ri-Ah is. She leans against a desk near the window, arms crossed loosely, eyes unfocused.
She doesn't look at me when I enter.
She doesn't need to.
I take my seat. The bell hasn't rung yet, but everyone's already waiting. I count breaths. Thirty minutes. When the bell sounds, movement ripples through the room. Some students leave immediately. Others hesitate, then follow.
I stay.
Two minutes in, someone enters quietly. Min-Su. He doesn't look at me. He takes a seat near the front, shoulders tense. That's new. He's hiding.
I don't react.
I don't need to.
The bell ends Zero Period without incident. But the air feels different when it does. As we pack up, Min-Su stands and leaves quickly. He doesn't wait for his friends.
Fear? Or recalculation?
Either way, it's useful.
—
After school, on the long route home, I change one variable. I take the narrow footpath. Not because it's safe. Because I need to know. I enter at a steady pace, senses sharp. Footsteps echo behind me; someone else enters. I don't turn.
Breathing steady. Distance measured by sound.
Halfway through, the footsteps stop.
I keep walking. At the exit, I glance back casually. No one there. A test, then. Someone is gauging my reaction.
Good.
At home, I write nothing down. No lists. No maps. Everything stays in my head. Safer that way. That night, as I lie in bed, I don't think about fights. I think about timing. If I can predict them, I can outmaneuver them before they even know it.
And for the first time since transferring here, that thought doesn't feel like hope. It feels like a plan.