"The train arrived earlier than expected. Like almost every good thing in my life. And I, as usual, almost missed it..."
I sprinted down the subway platform, heart hammering against my temples and a half-bitten slice of toast hanging from my lips like a white flag of surrender. The metal floor vibrated under my worn-out sneakers, ticking like a countdown.
"Wait!" I shouted, my voice muffled by the effort and the toast.
I threw all my strength into my knees, leaping at the very last second and landing with the grace of a sack of potatoes.
With a sharp beep, the doors hissed shut behind me, sealing my entrance into a new world.
My legs were trembling, my backpack was slipping off my small shoulder, and my second-hand uniform clung to my body. Honestly, I couldn't tell if it was from the sweat of the race or because it was two sizes smaller than my actual clothes.
I leaned against the door, trying to reclaim my lost breath.
"I should... work... out... more..." I muttered to myself, barely able to hold onto the air.
As I managed to regain my composure, my gaze met that of a man sitting with his back as straight as a ruler. As he scanned me, his face tightened.
Great, a bitter old man in a pressed tie.
"Another one with no manners..." he pronounced, a sneer sliding from his grey mustache down to his chin.
Those words were my first greeting. Words I knew all too well. But I wasn't about to swallow them along with the rest of my toast.
I stared him down, back straight, pinning an imaginary lens right over his head; he was bald and wrinkled to a shine, looking exactly like a grumpy lightbulb.
"And what about you, old man? Did your will to smile go down the drain with your hair?"
The man pursed his lips into a small, wrinkled "o," as if I'd spit on him with my gaze. But he didn't protest. Victory for me.
It was then that, from the other side of the car, I heard a soft, almost musical laugh. I looked toward the back. A boy with pink hair seemed to have heard everything.
He was covering his mouth with a hand of long, delicate fingers, trying to contain himself, but his shoulders—covered by a blue blazer with the high school logo—were shaking slightly.
The light from the window illuminated small charms shaped like jester-style Venetian masks scattered across his clothes: one on the blazer, another on his shirt collar, and a tiny, almost invisible one shimmering on his ear, partially hidden by his striking hair.
That same light also caught his profile, and for an instant, my world stopped.
He was beautiful. Not in a traditional way, but as if he'd been sculpted by an artist and then placed on the cover of a magazine. His skin looked soft even from a distance, and his eyes... they had that calm of someone who is used to being admired by everyone and everything.
He looked away, a delicate movement, giving all his attention to the landscape as if the view itself were the greatest privilege.
Against my chest, I felt a slight metallic shiver. A dry, vibrant click broke my bubble of wonder—a sound that, to anyone else, would have been lost in the clatter of the train, but to me, it sounded like a gunshot.
My heart jumped into my throat. I froze, waiting for him to turn around with a scowl or for the old man to drop another acidic comment.
One second... two... three?
The silence confirmed that no one had noticed the "theft." With trembling hands, I slumped into an empty seat, gripping my camera strap with almost resentful strength. I looked down at the screen to check the damage.
"Oh, Grandpa... don't do this to me again," I whispered, feeling the pressure in my chest release. Luckily, the flash was off.
I looked back at the boy, that subway angel who was still lost in the scenery.
With clumsy hands and a pulse still racing, I tucked the camera into its case, sinking it deep into the left pocket of my backpack.
I awkwardly adjusted my blue jacket, fighting the tag still hidden under the collar that wouldn't stop scratching the back of my neck. Not even the original owners had removed it, and as a guarantee of authenticity, keeping it was my best bet.
I swallowed hard and whispered, "Day one..."
I opened my backpack and pulled out my worn notebook. I checked the facts about the school for the tenth time, as if reading them could make them more real.
Hathor High School. Founded over a hundred years ago. Its classrooms have shaped ministers, heirs of multinational corporations, artists, models, and... well, people who would never dream of speaking to me.
The institution takes regular trips to Europe. It has courts for every sport you can think of—even Ullamaliztli, which I have no idea what it is, but I want to take a photo of it. They even have a private theater with a capacity for a thousand people.
I don't even know how I got here.
After years of studying without rest, of sleepless nights and sacrificing weekends, I managed to win first place in the state photography contest. They awarded me a full scholarship. And as if fate had turned romantic, a spot opened up at the school of my dreams.
I can't imagine the faces of the sponsors when they saw which school I was accepted into.
From the train's speakers, a velvety female voice announced the long-awaited news:
"We have arrived at Hathor Station."
Stepping out of the car, I was greeted by a gleaming platform with grey walls and a floor as white as marble.
"How rich does a school have to be to have its own train station?" I asked quietly, tossing the thought into the air.
"Better ask yourself how rich its students are, since they don't even use it," a female voice declared from beside me, clear and confident.
It was a girl with golden, perfectly waved hair. Her uniform looked custom-made. There was a notable difference from mine: hers had a gold blazer.
Her lips were thin and pink, and her teeth were a perfect row of pearls.
"For many, traveling on this train is like trying to enter Platform 9¾," she declared with a smile. "I'm Mary. Nice to meet you." She extended her hand with a circular flourish.
"Ah... n-nice to meet you. I'm Suri Kang, new at Hathor," I accepted the handshake, feeling how soft her skin was. "It's my first day."
"It shows," she laughed softly—a laugh that was nothing like the pink-haired boy's; this one was more controlled, more social. "A word of advice: it's not pronounced Hathor, it's Jan-tor. It gives it a more sophisticated touch."
My hand moved slowly to the back of my neck, scratching it slightly.
"Thanks. I didn't know they had a welcoming committee?"
She knit her brows as if I'd offended her.
"I'm not part of any committee. I just like welcoming the new ones." Her gaze traveled over my entire body, from my messy hair to my worn-out sneakers. "Though it's not normal to find a new student in the A-Class." With a smile, she gave a slight wave of her hand as she started to walk away. "Come, I'll show you the campus."
A strange sensation settled in my throat.
"Class 1-A?" I whispered. "As far as I know, I haven't been assigned a class yet."
During the next hour, Mary was my guide through the paradise of Hathor. She spoke with a fluency and elegance so natural that we didn't seem to be the same age.
The air inside Hathor was different. It didn't smell like chalk or cooped-up teenagers. It smelled of noble woods, new leather, and vanilla.
"Does it always smell like this?" I asked, inhaling deeply.
"What do you mean?"
"Like... I don't know, like vanilla."
Mary smiled.
"That's the school's custom air freshener. They manufacture it in France exclusively for Hathor. They say it improves concentration and memory."
Of course they had their own scent. It's Hathor. I took a deep breath with a smile.
"I even remember what I had for lunch yesterday."
"Heh, yes, it's incredible." She took my hand. "Let's continue, there's still plenty of school left."
I nodded, following the tour.
"This is the cafeteria. You'll eat here every day."
My eyes locked onto the digital menu above the counter.
"A cup of coffee... five thousand dollars for a coffee?"
"Hehe, yes, it's delicious. But if you don't feel like having anything, the school has a... free... menu. It's limited, of course, but it's good for trying new things." She winked at me with a kindness that felt rehearsed.
The way she said "free" was so subtle I barely noticed it.
We kept walking. The marble floor echoed the sound of Mary's heels with musical precision. Mine, on the other hand, squeaked.
As we moved down the hallway, Mary fixed her eyes on my backpack.
"What's that bulge?"
"Oh, it's my camera," I replied, pulling out its leather case.
"Camera? It looks... ancient."
Instinctively, I pulled back, clutching my greatest treasure to my chest.
"It's a modified 1954 Leica M3," I replied proudly. "It belonged to my grandfather, but my father spent months adapting it with a digital sensor and screen. I'm sure no collector has ever seen anything like it."
Mary looked at it with curiosity, like someone observing an archaeological artifact.
"Oh, how... vintage." She struggled with the word, wrinkling her nose slightly. "Very authentic. Though, wouldn't it be easier to just use the latest iPhone? It has 108 megapixels and automatic filters."
"It's not the same," I defended, stroking the worn leather case. "This camera has a soul. Every photo is a small miracle, or a miserable disaster."
"If you say so," she smiled condescendingly. "My father gave me a digital Hasselblad last year. It cost more than a car, but I barely used it. He wanted me to enter that silly photography contest. You should have seen his face when I threw it out the window. It was so much fun."
I stood there stunned. That camera was surely worth more than a decade of rent.
"Yeah, I can imagine..."
"Anyway, follow me," she continued.
We kept walking down a corridor with a marble floor so polished I could see my distorted reflection. Beside us, glass display cases showcased trophies and awards that looked more like works of art than school prizes. However, a disturbing detail caught my eye: none of those laurels were recent. The latest one was dated four years ago.
"And here is the student lounge."
My eyes went wide. That wasn't a lounge; it was a luxury space with Italian leather sofas, a coffee bar attended by a uniformed barista, and students who looked like they'd stepped out of a fashion magazine.
"Is that a chocolate fountain?" I asked, pointing to a golden structure in the center.
Mary nodded with a small laugh.
"Yes, but they only turn it on Tuesdays and Thursdays. On Mondays, we have imported cheese fondue, on Wednesdays, Norwegian verdens beste kake, and on Fridays, artisanal ice cream. You know, so we don't get bored."
"Just cheese?" I said, dropping my shoulders.
"You're right," she declared. "It's unfair they save it for just one day. I'm going to propose they serve it every day. Good idea, Kang."
I froze. That wasn't what I meant. Does she even know how much that cake costs?
Before I could say anything, a girl in a red uniform passed by us, nearly pushing us aside. She stopped at the bar, slammed her cup onto the counter without looking at the barista, and said simply:
"It's too sweet."
Mary's gaze tightened the moment she saw her.
"Red uniform," I noted.
"Ignore her," she replied, with a coldness so natural it almost sounded polite. "The D-Classes don't deserve your attention."
My eyes wavered at her attitude.
"What do you mean?"
"That's Clarissa. I don't know her and I don't care to, but she seems to go out of her way to be unlikable. Her father only owns three private islands. That's why she only donated five million last year; it's the bare minimum for an invitation to the cocktail party. They want their little brat to mingle with us. Appalling."
I felt the disdain dripping from everyone, as if there was a difference between jackets.
"Sounds a bit sad."
"Sad as it may seem, her life is well-settled." She clenched her fist. "Her fiancé owns a major wine brand from the Loire. Not all of us are so lucky with those things."
She swallowed hard. Barely perceptible. She signaled for us to continue.
We kept walking until Mary stopped in front of a room with glass walls. Inside, surrounded by sketches and half-carved marble blocks, a boy with black hair and amber eyes worked with a chisel. His blue jacket hung from a nearby chair; a gold ribbon connected both sides of his white shirt collar, which had patched sleeves and was covered by a leather apron.
His hands moved with the same precision with which others breathe.
"I love watching him work," Mary said softly, almost to herself. "The President is a complete artist. Last year, he won the election with 98.8% of the vote."
"Incredible," I confirmed. "I did see something about that in the newspaper."
My fingers brushed against the camera case before I could help it. I stopped myself.
"I could spend all day watching him, but there's still more school. Let's go."
We stepped out of the building.
"And here is the central fountain, built by the founder's grandfather. They say whoever tosses something valuable in here can make a wish."
I pulled a five-hundred-won coin from my pocket. But she stopped me.
"Don't throw that; copper brings bad luck. Better try it later with a gold one," she said, smiling without apparent malice.
"...A-a g-gold c-coin?"
"And here is the Olympic pool," Mary pointed toward a glass structure.
"You have an Olympic pool?"
"Oh, actually we have three. This one is for competitive swimming, the other is for diving classes, and the third..." she paused. "Well, that one is just for selfies. It's heated and has special lighting. You might like it."
I blinked several times.
"Are you telling me you have a pool... just for taking photos?"
"Of course," she replied as if it were the most normal thing in any world. "Though you have to book it two weeks in advance. And Thursdays are exclusive for influencers with over a million followers."
I couldn't help but laugh, thinking it was a joke. Mary's serious face confirmed it wasn't.
"We also have an underwater posing coach," she added. "He was an Olympic medalist, but now he teaches how to splash water without ruining your makeup."
We passed a door with a small plaque: "Darkroom — Photography Lab." I stopped for a second, feeling my heart give a little leap. A real darkroom. I couldn't help but smile, comparing it to the tiny closet we had at home.
Mary stopped in front of a large wooden door with gold details that shimmered under the light of French chandeliers. The vanilla scent of the exclusive air freshener seemed to grow heavier in that hallway.
"And finally," Mary said, turning with that perfect pearl smile, "this will be your classroom. 1-A."
"Wow... I didn't know a high school could be this big," I whispered, still processing the madness of the three pools and the Norwegian cake.
Mary let out a musical giggle, but her eyes didn't leave mine.
"Yes, I was surprised the first time too. I hope to see you at the February cocktail party, friend. Did your family receive the donor parents' invitation too?"
The question hung in the air, heavy and lethal.
"What cocktail party? No... I got in on a scholarship."
The air froze.
Mary's smile didn't disappear—it transformed. It became a mask of empty courtesy, the kind she would use to look at an insect before stepping on it. Her pupils dilated, becoming a cold darkness that seemed to suck all the light out of the hallway.
"Oh. I see. You're poor."
She was no longer looking at me. She was appraising me, like a defective object she'd just found in a luxury store. In her voice, there was no trace of the warmth from the tour; only disgust remained.
"I thought so when I saw you, with those worn-out shoes and that grey jacket." She clenched her fists. "What an... ordinary mistake."
She turned around without another word. The echo of her heels on the marble marked the rhythm of my breaking heart. Just before rounding the corner, she tossed one last word over her shoulder, like someone brushing a stain off their clothes.
"Disgusting."
I stood alone in front of the golden door, fists clenched, the smell of vanilla making me nauseous.
It doesn't matter, I vowed as my jaw ached from the tension. I didn't come here to make friends... I came to take that class ribbon away from them.