There was no announcement. No bell. No dramatic shift in lighting. But somehow, by the time I stepped into the main hallway that morning, everyone had already seen it. The rankings. Updated. Visible. Glowing on the screen above the office like scripture. My name was there now. Not bold. Not glowing. But real. Rank 63. Out of 187. Not high enough to be envied. Not low enough to be ignored. Just enough to raise questions. And draw eyes. Some looked surprised. Others, disappointed. A few already seemed to be calculating what it meant for them. I didn't stop walking. I'd spent too long being unranked, erased, denied. Now I existed. And that meant something different to everyone.
Yuri met me by the lockers with a black coffee in one hand and a face like she'd read three different gossip threads before sunrise.
– Congratulations, you're officially average, she said.
– I aim for mediocrity. It keeps expectations manageable.
– Don't get comfortable. The middle's where the knives come out.
She handed me the coffee. I took it, grateful but pretending not to be.
– So who looks nervous?
– Everyone below you. And about five people above who weren't expecting competition from a nobody with red hair and no record.
– And Haeun?
Yuri smiled grimly.
– She hasn't looked at the board once. Which means she's already planning her next move.
First period was Advanced Lit. Jisoo was in my row again. Her presence didn't feel accidental anymore. She didn't speak. Didn't look at me. But she existed beside me like a warning. The teacher assigned group analysis. We were put in pairs. Jisoo didn't flinch when my name was called with hers. She just opened her textbook like this was routine. I slid my chair a little closer.
– You okay working with a social contaminant?
– I don't mind germs, she said without looking up.
I smiled. That was more than I expected.
We worked in silence for a few minutes. Our task was to analyze a speech from a postwar political drama. The text was about power, and who deserved to wield it.
– What do you think the subtext is? I asked.
– That power isn't inherited. It's stolen, then repackaged as virtue.
I looked at her.
– That's… actually smart.
– I've had practice.
She turned a page. Her nails were perfect. Her handwriting even better.
– People think you're dangerous, she added.
– Because I climbed thirty spots overnight?
– No. Because you weren't supposed to be able to.
She didn't say more. And she didn't need to. When the teacher collected our papers, she didn't smile. But she didn't distance herself either. And in this school, neutrality was a statement.
The cafeteria was louder than usual. Not in volume—just in energy. Conversations were sharper. Movements quicker. A few students glanced at me, then glanced away with the same speed people use when they check prices they can't afford. I took my tray and walked past the center tables, past the club reps and honor students and inner-circle sycophants. Hyunwoo was already seated near the windows, headphones in, textbook open but untouched.
– You planning to read that or absorb it telepathically?
He looked up slowly.
– Bit of both.
I sat across from him without asking.
– I met someone. Off campus. She showed me things.
– Yena?
– You know her?
– I know who she used to be.
I took a bite of rice. Chewed. Swallowed.
– She warned me about the system. About the erasure.
– She would.
– You sound skeptical.
– I'm cautious. That's not the same thing.
He finally closed his book.
– Whatever you're planning, just know this: the school doesn't punish ambition. It punishes visibility.
– I'm already visible.
– Then be careful who sees you next.
After lunch, I found myself walking past the old auditorium—the one nobody used anymore. The doors were locked, the lights off, but I knew Yena would be there. She had that kind of pattern. Predictable in ways that made her dangerous. I knocked once. Pause. Then twice. The door creaked open.
Inside, it smelled like dust and varnish. Rows of empty seats. A stage too clean for anything recent. Yena stood in the center, arms crossed.
– You showed up.
– I'm not here to play games.
– Good. Because this isn't a game. It's a system. And systems don't collapse when they're attacked. They adapt.
She tossed me a folder. I caught it. Inside: profiles. Photos. Records. Handwritten notes.
– These are the cracks, she said. The ones who aren't loyal, who have something to lose. Start here.
– And what do you want in return?
– Just one thing. Don't waste the opportunity.
I looked at the stage. Empty. Lit by a broken skylight.
– What happens when I step out there?
– Depends on whether you're ready to be seen.
Her voice echoed against the walls. I didn't answer. I just opened the folder and started reading.