The taxi screeched to a halt in front of a gate that looked disappointingly similar to the one I had just vaulted over twenty minutes ago.
"We're here," the driver said, eyeing the meter. "Hanyeong Arts High."
I looked out the window. If Kirin was a sprawling university campus disguised as a high school, Hanyeong was a fortress. The territory was noticeably smaller, denser. The buildings were taller, shoved closer together, less concerned with aesthetic gardens and more with maximizing space. The surrounding walls seemed higher, topped with aggressive-looking spikes.
"Ajusshi, listen," I said, breathless, leaning forward. "I need you to wait. Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen."
The driver frowned. "Student, I have other fares..."
I ripped off my navy Kirin blazer. It was practically brand new, tailored, and probably worth more than the fare itself. I tossed it into the front passenger seat.
I panted. "I'll pay you double for the waiting time. Just don't leave. My life depends on it."
Before he could argue, I opened the door and bolted.
I reached the Hanyeong main gate. Closed. Of course. A security guard was visible in the gatehouse, watching a small TV.
Déjà vu, I thought bitterly. Parkour part two. Here we go.
I didn't have time for finesse. I scrambled up the stone siding of the gate pillar, ignoring the scrape of rough concrete against my palms. I hooked a leg over the top spikes—thankfully duller than Kirin's—and dropped onto the Hanyeong pavement.
I landed in a crouch, my white shirt already sticking to my back with sweat.
"HEY! WHICH BASTARD IS JUMPING THE GATE?!"
The shout was deeper, louder, and significantly more terrifying than back at Kirin.
I looked up. Charging toward me from the side entrance of the main building was a man built like a refrigerator, wearing a bright orange tracksuit and holding a bamboo shinai sword instead of a ruler.
A PE teacher. A Hanyeong PE teacher.
"Kurva," I whispered in Polish.
I ran.
I didn't know the layout of Hanyeong at all. I just ran away from the orange refrigerator. I ducked under an archway, sprinted across a paved courtyard filled with abstract sculptures that looked suspiciously like torture devices, and took a sharp left down a narrow path lined with tall hedges.
The footsteps behind me were heavy and fast. The guy was an athlete.
"STOP RIGHT THERE, YOU KIRIN PUNK! I SEE THAT UNIFORM!" he roared.
I wasn't wearing the blazer, but the Kirin tie and the specific cut of the shirt were dead giveaways in enemy territory.
I saw a sign pointing toward "Aquatic Center." I veered toward it.
The path opened up onto a large outdoor pool area, currently empty. The water was still and blue. The PE teacher was closing in. I could hear his ragged breathing.
I needed to vanish. Now.
My eyes darted around. Bleachers? Too open. Changing rooms? Too far.
Then I saw it. Near the lifeguard tower, there was a stack of enormous, bright red and white lifebuoys threaded onto a metal pole, looking like a giant, rubberized donut stack.
It was ridiculous. It was desperate.
I dove behind the stack. I squeezed myself into the hollow center of the bottom three buoys, pulling my knees up to my chest, turning myself into a human buoy filling. The smell of old rubber and chlorine filled my nose.
A second later, heavy footsteps thundered onto the pool deck.
"WHERE DID HE GO?!" the teacher bellowed, his voice echoing off the water.
Through the small gap between the orange rubber, I saw his tracksuit legs stomp past my hiding spot. He ran toward the changing rooms, swinging the bamboo sword angrily.
I held my breath until my lungs burned. I waited until the footsteps faded completely, and then waited another thirty seconds for good measure.
Slowly, painfully, I untangled myself from the rubber donut and crawled out.
I was sweaty, I smelled like a swimming pool, and my tie was askew. But I was uncalculated.
I crept toward the side door of the main building. It was unlocked.
I slipped inside.
The contrast was immediate. The hallways of Hanyeong were narrower than Kirin's, the lockers metal instead of wood.
It was the middle of a period. The hallways were deathly silent, save for the muffled sounds of lectures and music coming through closed doors.
I felt terribly exposed in my white shirt and Kirin tie. Every step on the linoleum floor sounded like a gunshot. If a student or teacher came out now, I was finished.
Class 3-A. Find Class 3-A.
I speed-walked down the first floor hallway, scanning the signs above the doors. 1-A, 1-B, Office...
I went up the stairs to the second floor. 2-A, 2-B...
Third floor. My heart was pounding against my ribs.
3-C... 3-B...
And there it was, at the end of the long, quiet corridor. A plaque above a heavy wooden door read: 3-A.
I stopped outside the door. I could hear faint music coming from inside—someone playing a complex piano piece.
I took a deep breath, wiped my sweaty palms on my trousers, and raised my fist.
I knocked three times. Hard.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The piano music stopped abruptly. The silence that followed was terrifying.