The hallway smells like disinfectant and damp concrete.
It's still early, too early for the noise to fully wake up, but the building is already alert. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, steady and cold, like they're watching who comes in first.
I walk without rushing. Backpack on one shoulder, hand steady on the strap. Shoes quiet. Eyes forward, but not fixed. Every reflective surface gets a glance, windows, trophy cases, and the polished floor near the teachers' office.
I don't stop moving long enough for anyone to decide they want something from me.
The classroom door is open.
I step in. The room is half-filled. Desks arranged in clean rows, chairs tucked in, the chalkboard still blank except for yesterday's eraser smears.
Morning light cuts through the windows on the left, sharp and pale. Dust floats in it, slow and visible. The air is cooler here, the cold that sinks into your hands if you sit still too long.
I don't hesitate.
Back row. Right side. Third desk from the window.
I slide my chair back just enough to sit, then push it in carefully so it doesn't scrape against the floor. My bag goes under the desk, zipper facing out, handle toward my right foot. Easy to pull. Easy to move.
This seat isn't comfortable. The desk wobbles if you lean too far forward, and the wall behind me traps heat later in the day. But it has what I need.
No one is behind me.
One wall to my right.
Clear sightlines to the door, the windows, and most of the room.
If someone approaches, I see them before they reach me. If something happens, I have space to move sideways instead of back. If I need to stand, I don't have to ask anyone to move their chair.
Safe doesn't mean secure. It means manageable.
I sit straight, shoulders relaxed, head slightly down. Notebook open, pen resting across the page. Blank paper. No name is written at the top yet. Writing your name early invites attention. Teachers don't mind. Students notice.
I let the room fill.
The loud ones arrive first. They always do. They don't knock or hesitate; they come in talking, chairs scraping, voices overlapping. Their bodies take up space without asking permission.
They drop bags hard, lean back in chairs that aren't theirs, stretch like they own the air.
I watch without staring.
Three boys cluster near the center-left. One sits sideways, feet on the chair rungs, laughing too loudly. Another stands instead of sitting, leaning over a desk that isn't his, elbows planted like anchors.
The third stays quiet but smiles at the right moments. He watches reactions more than faces. Leader. Shield. Witness. The pattern repeats across the room.
Near the windows, a group of girls gather desks together, phones out, heads close. They control their volume better, but their eyes are sharp. They notice who walks past. Who hesitates. Who pretends not to see them.
Front row fills last.
The kids who want teachers to remember their names.
They sit upright, books aligned, shoes clean. Some of them glance back, but not long. Looking too much invites being seen.
No one sits directly behind the loud boys. There's a half-row gap, like an invisible line no one crosses. Even the confident ones angle their desks away, just enough to avoid brushing shoulders. I catalog it all.
Posture.
Distance.
Who chooses corners and who claims the middle. Who laughs with their whole body and who keeps their hands close, guarding ribs that still ache from something yesterday.
A chair scrapes behind me.
I don't turn.
The sound stops. Someone hesitates. The weight shifts, then moves on. Another desk fills, two rows up. I mark it without looking. Whoever it is chose not to sit behind me. That matters more than who they are. The door opens again.
Shin Hye-rin walks in.
She doesn't look like she's trying to be noticed. That's what makes people notice her. Her uniform is neat without being careful, tie loose just enough to look intentional.
Her steps are light, but she places them like she knows exactly where the floor creaks and where it doesn't. Her eyes scan the room once. Not searching. Measuring. When her gaze passes over me, it doesn't slow.
No flicker. No pause.
Nothing.
Good.
I let my breath out through my nose, slow and quiet. Being invisible is work. You have to hold yourself just right, not tense, not loose. Present enough to blend in. Forgettable enough to be skipped.
She takes a seat near the window, middle row. Not with the loud group, not alone. Neutral ground. Two girls shift their desks closer to hers without asking.
She allows it by not reacting.
Power doesn't announce itself. It waits to be acknowledged. The bell hasn't rung yet, but the room is almost full.
The noise rises and falls in pockets. Laughter spikes, then dies when someone says a name too loudly. Phones buzz, then disappear under desks when footsteps pass in the hall.
I keep my eyes on my notebook. Blank pages don't draw attention. They suggest compliance without commitment.
Someone drops into the seat two seats to my left. The chair legs squeal. He doesn't apologize. He doesn't look at me either. That's fine. We exist parallel, not intersecting.
A paper ball arcs across the room and bounces off a desk. No one reacts. The thrower wanted a reaction. Silence denies it. The bell rings. It's sharp and sudden, slicing through the room. Conversations cut off mid-word.
Chairs shift. Bodies straighten. The teacher hasn't arrived yet, but the sound is a reminder: this place runs on schedules, not feelings.
I write my name at the top of the page now. Last name only. Small letters.
The door opens again. Homeroom teacher. Middle-aged, tired eyes, coffee breath. He glances at the room, satisfied enough that no one is standing on desks or bleeding. Attendance sheet in hand.
"Sit down." He says, out of habit more than necessity.
Everyone is already sitting. He starts calling names. I answer when mine comes. Clear, quiet. No extra volume. Enough to be heard, not remembered.
As he drones on about announcements, club fees, uniform checks, and some reminder about behavior, I let my attention drift back to the room. Not obvious. Just enough to keep track.
The loud boy in the center slouches deeper, one arm draped over the back of the chair next to him. Territorial. The quiet one beside him leans in to whisper something. The leader smiles without looking.
Near the door, a boy I don't recognize keeps glancing back. His leg bounces under the desk. Nervous energy. New or desperate. Either way, not dangerous yet.
Behind the teacher's back, phones reappear like fish breaking the surface. Thumbs move fast, then still. I feel the weight of the wall at my back. Solid. Reliable. It doesn't move or judge. If I lean into it, it's there.
The teacher finishes and leaves.
Another bell rings, signaling the start of the first period. A different teacher enters almost immediately. Younger. More alert. She scans the room like she's expecting trouble.
Her eyes pass over me, too.
I don't look up.
She starts the lesson.
Korean literature. Poetry. Something about metaphor and longing. Her voice fills the room evenly, practiced. Chalk taps against the board, white lines forming characters that blur together if you don't focus.
I focus.
Not in the lesson. In the room.
Someone coughs near the front. Someone else snickers. A pencil drops and rolls, stopping against a desk leg. The sound is loud in the quiet.
I shift my foot slightly, adjusting the angle so my knee doesn't press against the desk. Comfort matters. Discomfort makes you fidget. Fidgeting gets noticed.
Time stretches.
Minutes pass, measured by chalk strokes and page turns. My pen moves when it's supposed to, copying enough to look engaged. I don't raise my hand. I don't slouch. I exist in the middle ground.
A folded note slides onto my desk from the left. I don't touch it. The paper sits there, bright against the wood. A test. If I open it, I'm participating. If I pass it on, I'm involved. If I ignore it, I'm boring.
Boring is safest.
After a moment, a hand reaches over and takes it back. No comment. No glance. I breathe again. The second period comes and goes. Math. Numbers are predictable. The teacher is strict, which keeps the room quieter.
I like strict teachers. They enforce rules that aren't personal.
Between periods, the hallway floods with bodies. I stay seated until the rush thins. Moving with the crowd means elbows, bags, accidental contact that isn't accidental.
It means people notice you exist.
When I do stand, I check the floor first. No spilled water. No trash to slip on. My bag goes on smoothly. Zipper closed.
In the hall, I keep to the right side, near the wall. Doors on my left, lockers on my right. I walk at an even pace, not too fast, not too slow. Fast looks like you're running from something. Slow looks like you're waiting.
Voices echo. Someone shouts a name. Laughter bursts and fades. A group blocks part of the hall ahead. I adjust my path early, slipping through a gap before it closes.
No one stops me.
Third period. English. The classroom is colder. The window doesn't close all the way, letting in a thin line of winter air. I sit in the same relative position, back row, edge seat. Consistency matters. Changing patterns draws eyes.
As the day moves on, the initial tension settles into something duller. People relax. Jokes get louder. Teachers get tired. That's when mistakes happen.
I stay sharp.
At lunch, I don't go to the cafeteria. Too many people. Too much noise. Too many chances for someone to decide they're bored.
I eat in an empty classroom on the third floor. The windows look out over the parking lot and the low buildings beyond. Cars move slowly. Normal life, at a distance.
My lunch is simple. Rice, eggs, and kimchi. I eat steadily, not rushing. I listen to the building. Footsteps in the hall. Doors opening and closing. Voices passing by. No one comes in.
After lunch, my body feels heavier. The early adrenaline wears off, leaving behind the ache I try not to acknowledge. My knuckles are stiff when I flex them under the desk. Old bruises, yellowing. Nothing fresh.
I keep my hands still.
Afternoon classes blur together. History. Science. More notes, more lectures. I answer when called on, once. Short. Correct. The teacher nods and moves on. I don't want to be called again.
By the last period, the room is restless. Chairs shift constantly. Bags rustle as people pack early. Eyes drift to the clock.
I watch Shin Hye-rin again. She's laughing quietly with the girl next to her, head tilted just enough to listen. When the teacher looks her way, she straightens, attentive. When the teacher turns back, she relaxes.
Control without effort.
The bell rings.
The sound releases the room like a held breath. Everyone stands at once. The noise spikes. Desks scrape. Someone bumps into my chair, mutters an apology without meaning it.
I stand when there's space.
Leaving is always more dangerous than arriving. People are tired. Guards are down. They're thinking about home, about food, about anything but consequences.
In the hallway, I position myself near the edge again.
I let groups pass. I don't get trapped between walls of bodies. I watch reflections in the glass cases as much as faces ahead.
Near the stairwell, two boys argue in low voices. Shoulders squared. Hands flexing. I take the longer route around them.
No need to be nearby when it escalates. Outside, the air is colder. The sky is pale, washed out. Students spill onto the street, breaking into smaller groups as they head home or to academies.
I walk alone.
The walk to the bus stop is familiar. I know where the sidewalk narrows, where the convenience store's camera doesn't quite reach, where the alley stays shadowed even in daylight. Nothing happens. That's success.
On the bus, I take a seat near the back, window side. Same logic. Wall to one side. Clear view of the aisle. I keep my bag on my lap, hands resting on it.
As the bus lurches forward, I watch the school recede. A concrete block full of quiet rules and unspoken threats. Tomorrow will be the same. Or it won't. Either way, I'll be there early. Invisible.
At home, I set my bag down carefully. Shoes off, lined up. The apartment is quiet. My mother won't be back until late. I heat leftovers and eat standing up. The news murmurs from the TV, talking about things that feel far away.
In my room, I sit on the edge of the bed and finally let my shoulders drop. The tension leaks out slowly, like air from a valve you don't open all the way.
I flex my fingers again.
They still ache. I welcome it.
Pain is information. It reminds me of where I've been careful and where I haven't. I lie back and stare at the ceiling. Cracks form a map I've memorized. I trace the lines with my eyes, planning routes that don't exist.
In that classroom, attention is currency. Every glance spent is a debt. Every word spoken is an investment that might not pay off.
Today, I spend nothing.
Tomorrow, I might not have that choice.
The thought settles in my chest, quiet and heavy. I don't push it away. I let it sit there, reminding me to stay small, stay sharp, and keep choosing the back row.