I was busy having my existential crisis, slumping so low in the back-row seat that my spine was officially protesting. Up on stage, Park Jun-seo was gliding through his speech. His Korean was flawless, charismatic, and probably made poetry sound boring by comparison. He was thanking the teachers, encouraging the first-years, and reminding the seniors to study hard. I'd already tuned him out, mentally calculating how many hours it was until I could go to my new room and hide.
Then, Jun-seo paused. He looked up from his notes, that million-dollar smile flashing again.
"This semester is also a very special one for Kirin," he announced, his voice echoing through the silent hall. "It marks a new chapter in our school's global outreach. For the first time in our history, we are incredibly proud to welcome a scholarship student from Ukraine."
I froze. My blood turned to ice. Oh, no. No, no, no.
Beside me, I felt Ms. Choi shift. I didn't dare look at her.
My eyes were glued to Jun-seo. Every student in the auditorium was hanging on his every word.
"This is a wonderful opportunity for all of us to learn about a new culture," Jun-seo continued, his tone sincere and welcoming. "And to help our new friend adjust to life at Kirin, the faculty has decided to appoint him as this year's official Representative of Foreign Students."
The auditorium remained silent, but I could feel the energy change. A thousand pairs of eyes were no longer on Jun-seo. They were scanning the room. They were hunting.
Representative of Foreign Students? What did that even mean? Was I the only foreign student? Was I now in charge of... other people? I wanted to slide out of my chair and onto the floor.
"He just arrived today, so he doesn't have his uniform yet," Jun-seo said, his eyes scanning the back rows. He was looking for me. "But I'm sure we'll all give him a warm Kirin welcome. Oleksandr Motuzenko-ssi, where are you? Would you please stand up?"
My heart stopped. This was it. This was my nightmare. A spotlight—a literal, actual spotlight—swung away from the stage and began sweeping the back of the auditorium.
"San-ssi," Ms. Choi whispered, giving me a gentle, encouraging nudge. "You have to stand up."
My legs felt like they were full of wet concrete. I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe.
The spotlight beam hit the staff row. It passed over a few teachers, and then it found me. It landed. Bright, white, and inescapable.
I was suddenly the only thing visible in the darkness. A single, terrified guy in a wrinkled white t-shirt and jeans, with a plastic "Mountain" tag pinned to his chest.
A thousand heads turned in unison. A wave of whispers erupted. "...geog-ida!..." (There he is!) "...jeo saram...?" (That guy...?) "...eotteokhae, ot jom bwa..." (Oh no, look at his clothes...)
I saw Ha-neul, way down in the front section. Even from this distance, I could see her slowly sliding down in her own seat, her hand covering her face.
Up on stage, Jun-seo's smile didn't waver. He beamed at me, the perfect host. "Everyone, let's please give a huge round of applause for our new Representative, San-ssi!"
He began to clap. Following his lead, the entire student body burst into a wave of polite, unified applause. It was the loudest, most horrifying sound I had ever heard.
I managed to get to my feet. I felt like a newborn deer. I gave a short, jerky bow to the sea of darkness and clapping hands—a move that was half-Ukrainian head-nod, half-Korean bow, and 100% awkward disaster.
"Welcome to Kirin, San-ssi!" Jun-seo called out, his voice booming over the speakers.
The spotlight clicked off. The applause died. The principal walked back to the podium. I fell back into my seat, my entire body shaking.
Ms. Choi leaned over, her expression a mix of sympathy and amusement. "Well," she whispered, "you're not inconspicuous anymore."