On Monday morning, I wasn't on the attendance sheet.
Again.
It was starting to feel personal.
The teacher didn't even blink. Just glanced over the list, hesitated for a second, and then called the next name like I wasn't the girl physically sitting three meters away, blinking at her with a mechanical pencil in hand and a very obvious face.
Honestly, it would've been more insulting if I wasn't already used to it.
After everything—after the debate, after getting second place in front of half the school—I was still the ghost in the room. A little more visible maybe, a little harder to dismiss, but still not quite real enough to check off in a box.
So I just wrote the date in the corner of my notebook, underlined it twice, and added a tiny note:
Still not a person, officially. But prettier than yesterday.
It's important to track progress.
After class, I tried to ask about my file status at the main office.
Again.
This time the woman at the desk gave me a look that said, "I know you're trying to ruin my lunch break."
She clicked through something on her screen, then muttered:
— "There's no update. Still under administrative hold."
— "Can I speak to whoever's holding it?"
— "They don't take student requests directly."
— "What if I send a polite death threat?"
She didn't smile.
But she did blink. Slowly. Like she was questioning every career decision that led her to this exact moment.
I thanked her and left.
Because clearly, trying to find out who I was in the system was harder than actually becoming someone in this school.
I walked out of the office, passed two upperclassmen whispering by the lockers, and kept my pace even.
It was fine.
No file? No name?
Then I'd be the girl they couldn't trace.
No records meant no rules.
And if they didn't want to play fair—
Great.
Because neither did I.
Mid-week, the school updated the public rankings.
They were only posted once a month, on a digital board in the hallway no one could pretend not to look at.
And there it was.
#36 – Lee Nina.
I stared at it for a good ten seconds before my brain believed it.
Not top ten. Not even top thirty. But thirty-sixth out of 121?
For a girl with no history, no club points, and no last name?
That was… ridiculous.
In a good way.
Behind me, someone whispered:
— "She wasn't even on the board last time."
— "That's the transfer, right?"
— "How did she—"
I didn't stay to hear the rest.
I just turned and walked off like I had somewhere important to be.
Even if it was just the vending machine.
⸻
I sat on the back steps with a can of peach soda and stared at the sky like I was having a meaningful moment, when really I was just avoiding Haeun, Yuri, and the wave of attention that felt one centimeter away from turning into backlash.
Because here's the thing they don't tell you about rising fast:
Nobody likes it.
Not the ones already ahead of you.
Not the ones still stuck below.
Especially not the ones who are used to deciding who gets to rise in the first place.
So yeah, I made it to #36.
Thursday, 8:14 a.m. I was early to class. Again.
Mostly because I didn't want to run into Yuri in the hallway.
Which obviously meant she showed up three minutes later, sat right next to me, and offered me a vitamin water like nothing had ever happened.
— "Peach?" she said.
— "Is this a peace offering?"
— "No, it's peach. Don't twist my brand messaging."
I stared at her.
She looked normal. Smiling, calm, not at all like someone who'd possibly sabotaged a group project and spent last week avoiding eye contact.
So I took the drink.
Because if she was going to pretend things were fine, I could too.
— "I saw your name on the board," she added. "Thirty-six?"
— "Not bad for a girl who technically doesn't exist."
She grinned.
— "You're becoming a problem."
Her tone was light. Casual.
But something in her eyes said she wasn't entirely joking.
Not in a mean way.
Just in a not-sure-if-I-should-bet-on-you-or-block-you kind of way.
We didn't talk for the rest of class.
But she left the vitamin water on my desk.
I drank it.
Because I'm not above passive-aggressive hydration.
By Friday, I knew two things:
1. Someone had definitely tried to stall my records on purpose.
2. I was still on track to outpace at least a third of the student body.
That combination?
Unacceptable. For them.
So it didn't surprise me when I found a note in my locker.
Printed. Neat. No name.
"You've made your move.
Let's see how long you can hold the board."
No threats. No insults.
Just acknowledgment.
I folded the note and slid it into my back pocket.
Then I closed my locker.
Because at this point?
I didn't need proof that someone was playing with the system.
I was the system glitch.