My footsteps echoed like funeral drums through the polished hallways, matching the exact rhythm of my heartbeat against my ribcage.
My mind was a whirlwind of possibilities, each one worse than the last.
"Is it about the scholarship? But it's only my third day. I haven't missed any assignments or exams," I whispered. "Or could it be about the letter?" My stomach clenched.
"Was returning it a mistake? Did they report me to the director for stealing it? Will he expel me for offending Hathor royalty?"
"No. DM would defend me in that case," I swallowed.
"But... why would he?"
I tightened my grip on the straps near my neck, feeling my camera growing heavier with every step. I stretched my neck downward. "Don't expect him to, Suri," I sighed, feeling my chin press in.
"No... maybe it was the darkroom," I tried to redirect my thoughts. "I knew I technically wasn't supposed to use it. Maybe someone reported me..." An absurd smile formed on my face. "Yeah, that must be it."
That smirk faded with every meter I walked.
As I moved forward, I noticed how the building's architecture shifted gradually. The hallways grew wider, the ceilings taller. The walls went from being decorated with colorful club posters — especially NEON7 — and event announcements, one of which highlighted February 10th.
To nothing but oil portraits of former directors and school benefactors. Men in expensive suits with severe expressions that seemed to judge you from inside their gilded frames.
The smell was different too. In my section it always smelled like coffee and sweets. Here, that insufferable French air freshener dominated everything. Even the lighting was softer, crafted down to the last detail.
The only student walking in my direction was the student council president. Seeing him, I felt like his golden ribbon gave me permission to keep going — unlike my red uniform, which stopped me in my tracks.
To calm myself, I started focusing on technical details. The way natural light filtered through the leaded glass windows, casting geometric patterns across the floor. The shadows from the columns created lines of force that directed the eye toward the administrative offices.
"I want to take a photo of that. Capture something so traditionally formal," I thought — but I was walking toward what could be the end of my time at Hathor.
The director's door was made of mahogany with no visible chips or scratches, its brass hardware polished until it gleamed like gold. A black marble plaque with gold lettering read: "Executive Director — Mr. Choi Min-jun." Even his title was more pompous than a regular principal's.
My hand trembled as I reached up to knock.
"Just a few more minutes," I thought, listening to his pen scratching across paper from the other side.
"What are you still doing out there?" asked a boy behind me.
I turned around to face him. He was tall and lean, pale as someone who never saw sunlight, with orange hair — slightly long and unkempt — held at the back by a small elastic that barely formed a tail. His hands were covered by a pair of white silk gloves. In his left he held a can of cold green tea, and in his right, a laptop sleeker than any history book. "I was expecting to be late. Now I'll have to sit through the whole speech."
The most striking thing about him, by far, were the black stud earrings he kept touching.
"You're Kang, right? Knock, girl. Min doesn't have all day."
I swallowed after his order, knocking with trembling knuckles, the sound muffled by the density of the wood. An impersonal voice barked from the other side with a simple "Come in."
The director, Mr. Choi, was a man in his fifties wearing a suit that screamed "custom-made" and a smile that had been perfected across thousands of meetings with wealthy parents. His office was less a workspace and more a mausoleum dedicated to success and power. The walls were covered in plaques, crystal trophies — oddly, none of them recent — and silver-framed photographs of alumni who had gone on to become conglomerate CEOs, high-ranking politicians, or heirs to family fortunes.
Behind his solid mahogany desk — which matched the door — stood a bookshelf filled with volumes that seemed more decorative than functional, and a window overlooking the school's private gardens, where the marble fountain scattered crystal-clear water.
He gestured for me to sit in a wooden chair that let out a soft groan under my weight. It was probably the cheapest thing in the room.
"Miss Kang," he began, pressing his hands together over his perfectly ordered desk — not a single sheet of paper out of place. "Don't be alarmed. You're not in trouble."
"Yeah, relax," the orange-haired boy agreed, dropping into the chair beside the director and tilting back to stare at the ceiling, touching his earrings.
The relief I felt was so intense it nearly made me dizzy. As if I had been holding my breath for hours and could finally exhale.
But it was immediately replaced by an even deeper confusion. If I wasn't in trouble, what was I doing here? Students like me weren't summoned to offices like this unless something was terribly wrong.
"We've been watching you, Miss Kang," he continued, and a chill ran down my spine like sparkling water. The way he said "watching" made it sound less like academic oversight and more like surveillance.
Another pause. He took a sip of coffee from a white porcelain cup, the sound amplified in the silence. I waited, my sweaty hands gripping the edge of the chair.
"That is why the administrative committee has decided that, in order to better support your academic and personal development, you will be transferred to Class 1-A, effective immediately."
The words floated through the air like smoke, taking several seconds to penetrate my brain. I blinked. Once, twice. I must have heard wrong. My mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.
"To Class 1-A?" I managed to say, my voice sounding strange and distant.
"Exactly," he replied, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "We believe that being surrounded by our most outstanding students and having access to our best pedagogical resources will allow your potential to fully flourish. It will be an invaluable opportunity for your growth."
Class 1-A. I had entered Hathor in Class 1-D. What was the difference between classes?
"Sir, I'm not from an important family. Why are you transferring me?"
Mr. Choi let out a laugh.
"Hathor is the most prestigious school in the world, located in Korea. I imagine you already know that," he said. I nodded without hesitation. "Hundreds of students arrive every year, each with a better family name than the last. And that is precisely why we have to separate them."
"Separate them?" I asked, not understanding.
"By class," he answered, smiling barely. "Not all names carry the same weight, nor does every kind of shine illuminate in the same way." He set his cup on the desk with a precision that made me think every gesture of his was rehearsed. "At the top, you have Class A. We call them The Distinguished. Not because they're the smartest or the wealthiest... but because they have it. That quality that can't be taught or copied: talent. They're the ones who make the name of Hathor shine brighter than the rest of the world."
The boy beside him laughed, reaching up to touch his earrings again. "Below them is Class B, known as The Aspirants. They have the potential... but they don't shine quite enough yet, do they?"
"You're right, Vane," the director chuckled. "Then there's Class C — though their color is beautiful, they are simply The Normative. Good students, families with respectable names. They represent Hathor's structure: obedient, reliable... forgettable. Without them we'd have no foundation, but if we depended on them, we'd have no history either." A brief pause. The office clock marked the silence. "And finally, Class D." His tone shifted to something more neutral. "We all like to say that's where everything begins. The Root Class. Some end up there for never awakening, or for fading away." He glanced at Vane, who looked away and took a sip of his tea. "Let's just say... they are a reminder that even at Hathor, a name alone is not enough."
Choi looked directly at me, his eyes cold but full of expectation.
"That is the order here," he said, adjusting his tie. "I didn't invent it — the world did. Hathor simply perfected it. Tell me, Miss Kang — do you accept?"
My throat was dry after his explanation. This school is like a game... and for the first time, they're giving me a chance. "And what about my first day — the library and the cafeteria?"
"You mean the photos?" asked Vane, opening his laptop. "I deleted them from every phone. A New Yean can't have those kinds of imperfections."
"H-how."
The director laughed again like all of this was some kind of circus. "Allow me to introduce Vane. The owner of the Hathor network. With him, there is only one truth. So tell me — do you accept the offer?"
"Yes, I accept," I said without thinking twice.
"I'm glad to hear that energy, Miss Kang." He stood from his desk and pulled a blue blazer from his drawer. "This is for you. You may remove that degrading red." He smiled as he held it out. "And as a gift from me — you can stop sneaking into the darkroom." From his pocket he produced a golden key. "We trust your talent, Miss Kang. Besides, no one had used it in five years."
So they always knew I was slipping in without permission. I glanced over at Vane, who winked at me.
"Th-thank you," I said, my voice catching.
So this was the news. An elevation in status.
"Miss Kang — I almost forgot to mention. Your classes in 1-A are about to begin. Don't wait until tomorrow." He handed me an official card. "Vane, would you do me the favor of accompanying Miss Kang while she switches out her books?"
With a sigh that shifted a strand of his hair, he nodded and stood, crushing his tea can and leaving it on the desk. "I needed another drink anyway."
And with that, we walked out of his office — my new blazer in hand and an ID confirming my new status.
Blue. The color of those who belong.
In his office, the director continued signing papers with practiced movements, before stopping. With a clean motion he pushed his chair back — its screech cutting through the room — alerting Vane, who pressed his earrings. With steady steps, he positioned himself in front of the glass cabinet and opened it carefully. With trembling fingers, he picked up a trophy.
"January 10th, 2020," he murmured, stroking the plaque. "Since then, we've been losing prestige." With a serious gaze he looked at Suri's transfer verdict, and a smile crept into his eyes. "This school was already in need of some adversity."
"If you say so," Vane said, closing his laptop. "I couldn't care less about a ghost."
"You'll understand later, Vane."
Outside, a new star had begun to move — unaware that she was already part of their script.