"Sur?" I whispered. The word floated in the stale cafeteria air, a strange echo in the silence Zen had left behind.
I stood there, paralyzed, the image of a piece of cilantro falling from his fingers burned into my mind.
The stares were no longer just mockery; now they held a layer of confusion and awe. The Ice Prince, who never got involved with anyone, had made it a point to intervene.
But the world of thoughts is momentary, and humiliation soon returned with full force. I was soaked, covered in food, and now the center of a new kind of spectacle.
I had to get out of here.
With an effort that felt superhuman, I stood up. The sound of water in my shoes scraped against the floor—and my eardrums in the process.
Without looking back at anyone, I began to walk toward the exit. Every step was torture; I felt everyone's eyes pinned to my back, my dripping hair, and the pasta stain on my skirt.
I ended up back in the restroom, my only sanctuary in this marble hell. I locked myself in the last stall and, finally, I collapsed.
I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the cold floor, hugging my knees.
Inhale... exhale... inhale... exhale. For a moment, that was all I could think.
But a tear managed to slip down my cheek—the first warning of a tsunami. All the pain I had been holding back finally erupted in muffled sobs that shook my entire body. I bit my hand to stay quiet, my teeth pressing into my skin until it hurt.
Mom... I remembered. I saw her in my mind, waving goodbye at the door. Those hands, rough from work, wiping themselves on her apron. Those eyes, shining with tears of pride she wouldn't let fall.
"My girl at Hathor!" she had shouted excitedly. What would she think now?
What would I tell her?
Mom, I couldn't do it. They threw water on me. They rubbed food on me. They despised me for not having nine zeros to the right of a one.
I could leave. I could take the train back, go home, and tell them Hathor wasn't for me. They would understand. Dad would put his hand on my shoulder and say, "You did your best, and that's enough." Mom would cook my favorite meal and ask no questions.
But then... what?
I would go back to the same life. The same tiny apartment. The same limited opportunities. Mom would keep cleaning other people's houses, Dad would keep working double shifts, and I... I would still be the talented girl who almost made it.
The illusion would fade. That spark in their eyes when they saw me leave, that hope that their daughter would have something better, something more... it would go out.
And it would never come back.
I squeezed my knees tighter against my chest, feeling the air escape me.
The sobbing intensified. My forehead pressed against my knees, the sound escaping louder, more desperate.
I don't know how much time passed. Maybe five minutes. Maybe eight. Time had become liquid, spilling away meaninglessly.
Slowly, very slowly, the crying began to subside. The sobs spaced out. My breathing stabilized. Tears were still falling, but softer now, almost by inertia.
I stayed there, exhausted, empty.
Only a chill remained. A frozen void filled the space where the pain had been.
"How will I make it...?" my lips muttered.
I was trying to find the strength to stand up when I heard the sound of the door opening, followed by light footsteps.
I held my breath. Had Mary come back? With every click of a heel, my arms tightened harder around my knees, crushing my chest. The footsteps stopped right in front of my stall.
I waited for the insult, the mockery. But instead, I heard a clear voice with a sharp accent that rolled its Rs and hardened its consonants.
"Are you okay in there? I can hear you breathing, you know."
The voice was unfamiliar. It wasn't Mary or one of her copies.
"Go away," I replied hoarsely, my throat aching from crying.
There was a pause. I expected her to leave, but instead, I heard a soft rustling.
"Look, I know you don't know me, but I saw what happened. It was disgusting," she declared, her foreign accent giving a cutting tone to her words. "You can't stay in there forever. And you definitely can't go home looking like that."
Suddenly, a set of folded clothes appeared over the door, held by a hand with nails painted an elegant burgundy.
"Take it. It's a spare. It should fit you well," she continued, rhythmically tapping the door with her index finger—an impatient tap-tap-tap.
I stared at the clothes, stunned. It was an elite uniform, clean and perfect. Who was this person? Was it another trap?
"Why?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
"Why, what? Just take it; it's a gift," the voice replied, in a tone that sounded genuine.
Slowly, I stood up and took the clothes. The fabric was soft and heavy, nothing like my second-hand uniform. It smelled of lavender and some expensive detergent I didn't recognize.
"Open up," the voice said with a hint of impatience. "I won't bite. Well, unless you ask me to."
A muffled laugh escaped me. With trembling fingers, I slid the bolt and opened the door.
Leaning against the opposite wall was the owner of the voice. It was the girl with the wolf cut. Her hazel eyes scanned me from head to toe, showing a hint of worry. She wore a uniform, but her blue jacket was open, revealing her shoulder, where a designer backpack hung.
When she saw me, she instantly regained her posture, adjusting her jacket and lowering the backpack to hold it carefully between her hands.
"Nice to meet you," she extended her hand. "Pariz Langner."
Instinctively, I stepped back. I noticed her face lose its expression. Genuine sadness? That thought encouraged me to step forward and take her hand.
"Su-Suri Kang," I replied, maintaining a safe distance.
She seemed to notice, as she let go and moved to the sink, starting to organize the washroom items almost out of habit.
"I know. You're the talk of the school right now," she mentioned with a smile, though the smile vanished as if she had reflected on her own words. "Sorry, I didn't mean to put it like that!"
Her hands seemed to move faster as she organized, even rearranging items that were already tidy. It made me let out a small giggle.
"And how does everyone know me?"
When I said that, she seemed to stop, perhaps surprised by my response.
"As the scholarship girl who stood up to NEON7 and survived the harpy attack. If you think about it, it sounds like it has K-drama potential."
Before I could respond, the bathroom door burst open. We both tensed. Pariz moved quickly, placing herself between the door and me. But it was just a girl in a gold uniform; upon seeing us, she muttered an apology and hurried out.
"Coward!" Pariz called out, waving her hand haphazardly before returning to her position. "Probably one of Marmar's spies—I mean, Mary's."
I examined the uniform cautiously, looking for any hidden traps. I smelled it, shook it, even checked the seams.
"What are you doing?" Pariz asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Checking that it doesn't have itching powder or something worse."
She let out a laugh—a sound that bounced off the tiled walls.
"You're smart. I like that. But no, there's no itching powder or gas bombs. I don't waste my money on petty stupidity." With her hand, she made a finger gesture, beckoning me closer. She placed her hand on my shoulders, speaking directly into my ear. "Don't you think it would be more efficient to throw it over the top of the stalls? That way you wouldn't even see me."
"What?!" I said, watching as she began to laugh out loud.
"It's a joke; not all of us here want to show off superiority." Her laughter continued until it reached me, infectious and warm.
"Yes, you're right."
I changed right there in the stall, with my back to her. The uniform slid over my skin like a caress, so different from the coarseness I was used to. The fabric had weight. Quality. Presence.
"Does it fit? Any discomfort?" Pariz asked from outside.
I stepped out of the stall and approached the mirror.
And I stopped.
The girl staring back at me wasn't me. Or maybe she was, but a version I had never seen before. The uniform fit perfectly, the seams clean, the impeccable fabric falling with elegant weight over my shoulders. There was no tag scratching my neck. No coffee stain. No trace of the girl who had entered crying.
For a second—just a second—I felt like a goddess.
This is how they always feel, I thought, touching the fabric with reverence. This is what it means to belong. This is what it means to have power.
The transformation was almost magical. As if the uniform had given me not just a second skin, but a second identity.
But then my eyes met mine in the reflection.
Red. Swollen. Defeated.
The illusion shattered like glass.
The uniform was beautiful. But I was still the same girl underneath it.
"To be honest, my chest feels a bit tight, but I'm used to it," I said, looking away, though I noticed Pariz glancing at her own chest.
"Well, it's my spare uniform, but if it bothers you, I can fix it." Out of nowhere, she pulled a needle and thread from her backpack. "Just give me a minute."
When she finished sewing, I noticed my body relax slightly.
"Thank you," I said, adjusting the uniform. "Really."
"You're welcome," she replied with a genuine smile, precisely stowing the thread and needle into a clear plastic case. "Now, what do we do with this?"
She pointed to the crumpled, dirty pile of my old uniform. I picked it up with my fingertips, putting it into the plastic bag as I opened my backpack, which fortunately had been spared from the massacre. My fingers brushed the thick paper envelope I had hidden earlier.
Pariz, with her hawk-like eyes, noticed it.
"Hey, what's that? Looks important."
I pulled out the envelope, the "N7" logo shimmering under the restroom lights. Pariz's face changed completely. Her eyes went wide, and she leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"No way. Suri... do you know what you have in your hands?"
"It's... from NEON7, something important, right?" I asked, unsure.
Pariz shook her head, her wolf-cut hair moving perfectly.
"It's not just from NEON7. It's an Amethyst envelope. And it has the private seal." She pointed to a small mark in the corner I hadn't noticed before. "That means it's internal correspondence, from a member or the management. Highly confidential." She looked at me with a mix of awe and concern. "Where did you get it?"
"It fell out of Jhin's pocket when... well, during the coffee disaster."
Pariz whistled low, a sharp sound that echoed off the bathroom walls.
"You're lucky to still be alive," she said, only half-joking. "NEON7 aren't just students here; they're practically royalty. They have their own building, their own schedules, their own privileges. No one touches them, no one contradicts them."
She began nervously rearranging the paper towels, aligning them with millimetric precision.
"And why would someone with that power help me?"
"Zen... well, Zen is the most untouchable of them all. The fact that he intervened for you is unheard of, to say the least."
"Why would he do it?"
Pariz shrugged.
"Who knows. Zen is... different. He was the last member to join the group. Rumors say he didn't always have such high status. Maybe he saw himself in you, but it's rare; there have been many other scholarship students in your situation who didn't have the same luck."
She looked at me with renewed curiosity.
"He must have seen something in you."
A silence fell between us, heavy with unanswered questions. Finally, Pariz broke it with a short laugh.
"You know, you're the first person in years who hasn't asked me why I talk 'like this' or where I'm from," she said, mimicking a mocking tone on the words "like this."
"Oh, I'm sorry, I..."
"No, no," she interrupted with a smile. "It's refreshing. Most people here just hear my accent and my last name and think 'Mary's weird cousin'."
"Mary is your cousin?" I asked, unable to help myself.
Pariz made a face, as if she had bitten into something bitter.
"Unfortunately. The family favorite, the perfect heiress. I'm just the black sheep who prefers learning to sew over being a good wife." Between her fingers, she started playing with a small paper ball. "It's silly; I wasted all that training."
"Let it go," I said firmly.
"What? It's just a paper ball."
"That's the worst part." I felt my stomach churn, but I continued. "It's not silly to be you."
My statement froze her; she looked genuinely confused, but then a smile formed on her face, and she tossed the paper in a perfect arc into the trash can.
"Anyway," she continued, abruptly changing the subject. "That envelope. You should get rid of it."
"What? Why?"
"Because if someone finds out you have it, you'll be in big trouble. That kind of correspondence could contain contracts, confidential information, anything. And if Jhin realizes he lost it..."
She didn't finish the sentence. Her face said it all.
"But..." I began, not knowing exactly what I wanted to say.
"Look," Pariz said. "I don't know what you plan to do with that envelope, but whatever it is, be careful. NEON7 has eyes and ears everywhere."
She checked her watch, a discreet but obviously expensive model.
"We have to get back to class. Are you ready?"
"No..." I replied, but I nodded anyway. As I tucked the envelope back into my backpack, I felt a shiver run down my spine. What was I getting myself into?
Pariz was waiting for me at the door, her posture perfectly upright, like a ballet dancer. When I reached her side, she offered me a crooked smile.
"By the way," she said, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "If anyone asks, that uniform is yours and it always has been. It'll be our little secret. And about the jacket; go to the administration office, they'll give you a replacement."
And with that, she pushed the door open, and we walked out into the hallway together—two lone figures against the bright and cruel world of Hathor.