The green chalk squeaks against the blackboard with the kind of persistence that drills itself into the skull.
The literature teacher stands beneath the fading portrait of Ho Chi Minh with sweat gathering around her collar despite the air conditioners humming overhead. One unit rattles every few seconds like it is about to die. The other leaks water into a blue plastic bucket placed beneath it. Neither manages to erase the heavy heat trapped inside the yellow-painted classroom.
"Argumentative essays," the teacher says passionately, tapping the board with chalk dust still coating her fingers, "are not just about proving your point. They reflect your logical structure, your understanding of social issues, your—"
Half the class is already dead inside.
One boy in the back has his cheek flattened against the wooden desk, drool nearly touching his open notebook. Another girl keeps blinking slowly, her pen still moving automatically across the page without actually writing coherent words. Somewhere near the windows, a stomach growls loudly enough to make three students laugh under their breath.
Outside, cicadas scream into the noon heat.
The flimsy green ceiling fan rotates with painful slowness.
Cạch. Cạch. Cạch. (Scritch. Scritch. Scritch)
Its blades wobble like they might detach and decapitate someone.
The rusty iron-framed windows are pushed fully open, but all they allow inside is white sunlight and hot wind carrying the smell of concrete, dust, and food vendors from beyond the school gate.
At the center of the first row sits Phạm Văn Minh.
White uniform.
Short black hair.
Thin fingers holding a pen with almost mechanical discipline.
Unlike everyone else, Minh still writes every sentence from the board carefully into his notebook, underlining keywords, organizing margins, numbering arguments. His glasses slide slightly down his nose, and he pushes them back up without even looking away from the lesson.
A typical quiet bookworm.
The kind teachers adore and classmates barely notice.
The literature teacher glances toward him and visibly softens a little.
"At least someone here still cares."
A few students groan dramatically.
"Minh học nhiều vậy làm gì…" someone mutters in the back.
("What is Minh studying so much for")
Another whispers, "Bro thinks Văn is gonna save his future."
Small laughter spreads.
Minh hears it.
Of course he hears it.
But his pen keeps moving anyway.
["Just finish the notes. There's still the chemistry homework tonight."]
His stomach twists painfully.
He ignores it too.
The classroom clock ticks toward 11:20.
The final minutes before freedom.
The atmosphere changes subtly.
Students begin packing before the bell even rings. Rulers disappear into pencil cases. Pens are capped rapidly. Bags unzip across the room like synchronized machinery.
The teacher notices immediately.
"Ê, cô chưa cho nghỉ—"
("Hey, I'm not finished—")
The bell rings.
Everything explodes.
Wooden chairs scrape violently against the floor.
BANG.
Students launch upward like prisoners escaping confinement. Pencil cases are thrown into bags. Water bottles vanish. Somebody nearly trips over a backpack while sprinting toward the door.
The teacher sighs in defeat as thirty teenagers flood out into the corridor.
"Nhớ làm bài tập đó!"
("Make sure that homework gets done!")
Nobody listens.
Minh closes his notebook calmly.
Unlike the others, he does not rush.
He stacks his books neatly.
Puts away his pen carefully.
Adjusts the zipper on his bag.
Then he finally stands and walks out into the blazing midday heat.
The school corridors echo with overlapping voices, footsteps, and laughter. Downstairs, students flood toward the bike sheds like a river of white uniforms.
Outside, the sunlight is merciless.
The bicycle parking area is little more than a rusty steel skeleton with patched corrugated iron sheets hanging overhead. Heat radiates from the metal roof in visible waves. The smell of rust and hot rubber lingers heavily in the air.
Bicycles clatter endlessly.
Chains rattle.
Kickstands snap upward.
Students yell goodbye to one another while rushing home for lunch.
Minh steps between tightly packed bicycles until he reaches his old blue bike wedged near one of the support beams.
He grips the handlebars and begins pulling it backward carefully.
Then—
Something glows beneath him.
A circle.
Perfectly round.
Thin lines of white light rapidly spreading across the concrete near his feet like burning cracks.
Minh freezes.
His eyebrows knit together.
"What…?"
The light intensifies instantly.
His instincts scream before his brain catches up.
He jerks backward violently, letting go of the bike.
The bicycle crashes sideways into another row.
CLANG CLANG CLANG.
Several students turn briefly.
The glowing circle suddenly erupts upward.
A pillar of pale light slams into Minh's body.
His eyes widen in pure panic.
"What the hell—?!"
The force yanks him backward.
Not physically.
More like reality itself grabbing his spine.
Minh slams both hands onto the ground desperately, fingernails scraping concrete as the light drags him toward its center.
"No—!"
His voice cracks.
The world around him distorts strangely.
The sounds of cicadas stretch unnaturally.
Bicycle chains rattle in warped echoes.
His chest tightens with absolute terror.
["Move. MOVE."]
He tries crawling away.
The beam pulls harder.
His body suddenly lifts slightly off the ground.
A scream tears from his throat.
"CỨU—!"
("HELP—!")
The light engulfs him completely.
Then—
Nothing.
Gone.
The bicycles continue clattering.
One student pauses.
Looks around briefly.
"…Hả?"
("...What?")
Another already shrugs.
"Đi ăn thôi."
("Let's eat now.")
And they leave.
The parking shed returns to normal beneath the screaming cicadas.
Only Minh's fallen bicycle remains on the concrete.
…
Thousands of kilometers away, cold artificial air floods a completely different classroom.
The contrast is almost violent.
Bright white lighting reflects cleanly across polished floors and modern desks. A massive television screen hangs beside the whiteboard at the front of the room. The air conditioner mounted above the windows operates at full power, humming steadily while exhaling freezing air into the classroom.
Rows of students sit silently.
Not sleepy.
Not relaxed.
Exhausted in a different way.
Their desks are filled with tutoring worksheets, practice exams, highlighted formulas, and correction notes. Lockers line the back wall neatly. The giant glass door reflects sterile white light from the hallway outside.
Mounted cameras stare down from the corners of the room.
Watching.
Always watching.
At the center-right row sits Choi Joon-soo.
Deep blue gyobok.
Tall frame.
Athletic shoulders slightly hunched forward.
His chin rests against both hands as he stretches his neck slowly, trying to relieve stiffness crawling through his spine.
The math teacher continues writing equations rapidly across the board.
"Remember, if the derivative approaches infinity under these conditions—"
Pens scratch nonstop.
Pages flip.
Nobody truly stops working.
Not even during class.
The boy beside Joon-soo quietly slides tutoring homework beneath his textbook.
The student behind him does the same.
The girl diagonally ahead is solving entirely different academy worksheets while pretending to follow the lecture.
Joon-soo watches them silently.
His jaw tightens slightly.
["Again. More tutoring. More rankings. More scores."]
His eyes drift toward the camera in the classroom corner.
Watching everyone.
Watching him too.
["Study. Compete. Enter university. Become useful. Repeat until death."]
The math teacher's voice is a relentless drone, a flatline of formulas and variables that grates against the air. Tap. Tap. Tap. The chalk hits the board like a hammer, marking time in a prison cell. Joon-soo doesn't even pretend to listen anymore. The numbers are just noise, a distraction from the real mechanics grinding outside these walls.
His mind wanders, tracing the jagged edges of a society built on scripts he never signed up for. He sees the hierarchy for what it actually is—a ladder with broken rungs, designed to keep people exactly where they were born. It's that suffocating Confucian ghost again, demanding a "respect" that's really just a polite word for silence and submission.
He's sick of the expectations, the relentless pressure to be a high-achieving carbon copy. Being Korean shouldn't feel like a life sentence to a desk, yet here he is, expected to perform like a machine just to satisfy some outdated sense of family honor. He looks around at the rows of students with their heads down, terrified of the chalk-duster, and clenches his jaw. This isn't just about a math grade. It's about his own place in a system that wants him to stay small, quiet, and predictable.
But Joon-soo isn't interested in playing his part.
["Respect elders. Respect authority. Endure pressure quietly. Become successful for your family."]
His fingers tap lightly against the desk.
["And if you fail?"]
He exhales slowly through his nose.
Then something catches his eye.
Light.
Downward.
Near his shoes.
A glowing circle forms beneath his desk.
His body reacts instantly before logic does.
Joon-soo launches backward violently.
BANG.
His chair crashes onto the floor.
The entire classroom jolts.
Every head snaps toward him.
The math teacher spins around furiously.
"야! 최준수!"
("YA! Student Joon-soo!")
Joon-soo stares downward in shock as the glowing lines rapidly expand across the floor beneath him.
"What the fuck—"
"Why are you jumping around?!" the teacher yells. "Are you crazy?! Focus on the class!"
The nearby students stare in confusion.
One boy half-rises from his chair to look closer.
The glowing circle brightens sharply.
Joon-soo's eyes widen.
"DON'T TOUCH IT!"
The boy freezes immediately.
Then the light erupts upward.
A beam slams into Joon-soo's body.
The room gasps collectively.
"What the hell?!"
Joon-soo grabs the edge of his desk instantly as the force begins dragging him downward toward the circle.
"SHIT—!"
The desk screeches across the floor.
Metal legs grind violently against tile.
Students begin shouting over one another.
The teacher stumbles backward in horror.
"What is happening?!"
Joon-soo grits his teeth, muscles bulging in his arms as he clings desperately to the desk.
"FUCKING HELP ME!"
The beam intensifies.
The papers around him scatter upward into the air.
A nearby girl suddenly stands.
Too fast.
Too emotional.
She rushes forward without hesitation.
"Joon-soo!"
The hidden phone in her sleeve slips free briefly, revealing dozens of saved photos of him before falling against the floor.
Several students notice instantly.
She ignores them completely.
Her hands grab onto his shoulder desperately.
"Hold on! HOLD ON!"
Joon-soo curses nonstop between strained breaths.
"WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?!"
The force drags harder.
The desk begins lifting.
The girl nearly loses footing while trying to pull him back.
"Somebody help!"
Nobody moves.
They are too stunned.
The teacher himself looks frozen in place.
Joon-soo's fingers begin slipping.
Sweat pours down his face.
"FUCK!"
The light suddenly surges.
A violent pulse bursts outward.
FWOOOM.
A gentle but powerful breeze sweeps through the classroom, lifting papers and tossing everyone's hair backward.
And then—
Joon-soo disappears.
Gone instantly.
The girl collapses onto the floor clutching empty air.
Silence.
Complete silence.
Only loose papers drift slowly back downward.
The math teacher stares blankly at the empty space.
Students breathe shakily.
One boy whispers quietly,
"…What the fuck…"
Elsewhere in the building, inside the principal's office, security footage plays across multiple monitors.
The principal stands frozen.
The camera clearly shows everything.
The glowing circle.
The struggle.
The disappearance.
His face drains of color.
"Call his parents."
His voice shakes slightly.
"And call the police. Inform the authorities ! Right now."
…
Another classroom.
Another school.
Another life carrying quiet suffering beneath polished surfaces.
Gong Yae-hwa lowers her eyes carefully as she reviews her essay one final time.
Her classroom resembles Joon-soo's in many ways—modern, digitized, immaculate. Electronic whiteboards replace traditional chalkboards. Tablets rest beside textbooks. White LED lights illuminate everything evenly without warmth.
Students type softly across keyboards.
Teachers navigate digital documents effortlessly.
Everything feels efficient.
Controlled.
Yae-hwa sits near the window with perfect posture despite exhaustion lingering beneath her calm appearance.
Long sleeves conceal her arms completely despite the comfortable indoor temperature.
Her hair partially covers the side of her face.
She rarely looks directly at anyone.
Especially boys.
Her fingers grip the edge of her essay paper tightly as she rereads the final paragraph.
No mistakes.
No imperfections.
She rises quietly from her chair and walks toward the teacher's desk.
The literature teacher accepts the paper with a gentle smile.
"Well done again, student Gong."
Yae-hwa bows politely.
"Thank you, teacher."
"Are you leaving early for the counseling appointment?"
A tiny hesitation crosses her expression.
Then she nods softly.
"Yes, teacher."
The teacher's face softens with visible understanding.
"Take care of yourself."
Yae-hwa bows once more before returning quickly to her desk.
She grabs several items from her bag hurriedly and exits the classroom with light footsteps.
The hallway feels quieter here.
Cleaner.
Almost too clean.
She enters the restroom and locks herself inside one of the stalls immediately.
Only then does her composure crack slightly.
She rolls up her sleeve slowly.
Purple bruises spread across her arm.
Old ones.
New ones.
Her breathing trembles faintly.
From her bag, she removes ointment carefully and applies it gently onto the bruised skin.
Pain flashes across her face instantly.
She bites her lip to suppress any sound.
["It's ending now."]
Her fingers shake slightly.
["Mom filed the lawsuit."]
She exhales slowly.
["The court ruled already."]
Another layer of ointment spreads across darkened bruises.
["Mother and my sister are safe now."]
Her eyes lower toward the floor.
["A new page. For me. For my big sis. For my dear mama."]
For the first time in a long while, something fragile resembling hope exists inside her chest.
Then the restroom light flickers.
She pauses.
A strange glow appears against the tiled wall behind her.
Yae-hwa turns slowly.
A glowing circle forms silently across the floor outside the stall.
Her pupils shrink instantly.
Fear grips her body.
"What…?"
The light expands rapidly.
Unlike panic, her reaction comes from caution.
She immediately steps aside away from the center.
The beam erupts anyway.
White light floods the restroom violently.
Yae-hwa gasps as invisible force wraps around her waist.
"No—!"
Her fingers slam against the stall door desperately.
The metal bends slightly beneath her grip.
The light drags her backward across the tiles.
Her bag falls sideways.
Bottles scatter across the floor.
"HELP—!"
The restroom door suddenly opens.
The literature teacher steps inside.
"Yae-hwa?"
Then she sees it.
The glowing beam.
The terrified girl being dragged into impossible light.
The teacher's eyes widen in absolute horror.
"OH MY GOD—"
Yae-hwa reaches outward desperately.
Their fingertips nearly touch.
Then—
She disappears.
The beam collapses instantly.
Silence crashes into the restroom.
Only scattered ointment, fallen supplies, and trembling fluorescent lights remain.
The teacher stands frozen for barely half a second.
Then survival instinct kicks in.
She spins around and sprints out of the restroom immediately.
"PRINCIPAL!"
Her footsteps echo violently through the hallway.
"PRINCIPAL!"