The sky that morning looked washed out, like a sheet soaked one too many times in cold water. Aiko stood at the school gate and waited for her heartbeat to settle into something normal. It refused. It kept its own uneven rhythm, as if her body already understood something her mind stubbornly refused to name.
Her fourth day at this school. Only four days, yet her feet already hesitated at the entrance as though it had been months. The buildings were ordinary, the students ordinary, the hallways painted in soft colors meant to calm anxious minds. She had seen nothing monstrous. Nothing dangerous. Nothing that should have frightened her.
But her body reacted as if the walls remembered something she did not.
She tightened her grip on her bag and stepped inside.
The morning noise rose around her. Laughter. A few sleepy complaints. Chairs scraping against the floor. Textbooks opening. Her classmates behaved as though this were the safest place in the world.
Her name had already traveled through the room before she took her seat.
"Why does she always look like she is lost."
"Transfer students are supposed to try harder."
"She is so quiet it is creepy."
The comments came softly, shared behind hands, disguised as observations instead of insults. No one said them to her face. No one needed to. The words slid toward her and settled under her skin. They stung in a way that made it hard to breathe evenly.
On her first three days, she had hoped this was nothing more than curiosity. Students getting used to a new presence. A normal adjustment.
By the fourth day she had run out of excuses to give them.
Her classmates did not want to know her. They wanted something to prod. Something to bend. Something to use as a boundary for their own comfort.
She sat down and kept her gaze on her desk. Her hands lay still, almost too still, like the hands of someone waiting for a blow they knew would come sooner or later.
The bell rang. Her body jerked at the sound.
Mrs. Sato entered, warm and familiar as always, her voice gentle enough to soothe anyone who wanted to be soothed. She smiled at Aiko in that same polite way she smiled at every student. Aiko returned it, even though the muscles in her face resisted.
They began the lesson. Notes. Examples. Reading aloud.
Then came the moment that shifted the balance.
Mrs. Sato called on Aiko to read a passage. The words sat clearly on the page. She knew how to read them. But her tongue trembled, and for a breath she could not remember how to shape the sounds. The room waited. Silence stretched long enough to feel like exposure.
When she finally spoke, her voice cracked halfway through the first sentence.
The class laughed.
A small laugh. Not cruel in volume, but sharp in timing. It struck cleanly.
She lowered the book an inch, enough for her to see the blur of faces watching her like she had confirmed something they already believed.
Mrs. Sato redirected the attention gently, calling on another student, but the damage had already spread through the room like a quiet, satisfied ripple.
Aiko finished the reading. She moved her lips with care, as though each syllable were a shard of glass she had to swallow without flinching.
When the class ended, she packed her things slowly. She kept her head down. The moment she stood, three girls blocked her path with smiles that did not reach their eyes.
"You read like a baby," one said.
"You look like you are going to cry. Are you going to cry?"
"Maybe she does not know Japanese well. Maybe she is pretending."
They laughed at the last part. The kind of laugh that invited confirmation.
Aiko swallowed once, twice, but her throat remained painfully tight. She wanted to move past them. She wanted to say excuse me and walk away. But her legs froze. Words refused to come.
Then she noticed Min-Jun approaching.
His expression was unreadable at first. He walked with the calmness of someone who never feared crowds, someone who never had to defend his place. Aiko looked at him with a flicker of hope she regretted the moment it appeared.
He stopped near the group. One of the girls shrugged playfully at him.
"We are just helping the new girl learn how to speak."
Aiko hoped, foolishly, impossibly, that he would say something different. Anything different.
Instead he smirked.
"Maybe she should start by learning how to exist properly."
The words landed like a strike she had not prepared for. Clean. Effortless. Delivered with the confidence of someone who had never been the target of a room's curiosity.
The girls burst into laughter. Even the quiet students nearby smiled. His participation shifted the atmosphere. His approval made their cruelty legitimate.
Aiko felt something in her chest pull inward. Not break. Breaking was loud and final. This was a quieter wound, a tightening, a shrinking. Something folding inside her as if her body wanted to become smaller, invisible, safe.
She tried to pass them, but one girl moved into her way again.
"Say something," she teased. "You cannot just breathe and expect everyone to guess what you want."
Aiko forced herself to speak.
"I just want to go to my seat."
Her voice sounded wrong. Too thin. Too easily dismissed.
One girl tapped her notebook against Aiko's shoulder, not hard, but with enough pressure to assert ownership of the moment.
"Then go."
Aiko brushed past them. The hallway felt brighter, louder, too open. Every eye felt like a hand on her back. Every whisper felt like an echo of the same judgment.
She kept walking. She did not look back.
Inside her, the wound pulsed.
Min-Jun leaned against the lockers and watched her leave. There was no remorse on his face. There was only something unreadable, something that did not soften even after the group dispersed. He looked at his hands as if surprised by how easily the words had come out.
And for the rest of the morning, Aiko kept replaying the single sentence he had said. Over and over, as if her mind needed to understand why it hurt more than everything else combined.
Maybe she should learn how to exist properly.
The cruelty of it came from its simplicity. Its precision. It targeted something fundamental. It did not insult her intelligence or her behavior. It questioned her right to stand in that hallway, to breathe in that space, to take up air someone else might prefer.
She sat at her desk for the next class, her fingers curled tightly under the table. The familiar dread settled into her ribs, warm and spreading, as if her body had decided this place was no longer safe.
During lunch, she walked to the courtyard hoping for silence. Instead, she found two boys snickering as she opened her bento. They whispered about her food being strange. They asked her if she took it from the garbage dump. They asked if her family was poor. Each question delivered with a smile that pretended innocence.
The day continued like this. A drip of humiliation, steady and patient.
By the last period, she felt hollow enough that even the smallest sound startled her. The softness in her eyes had drained into something flat, almost glassy.
When the final bell rang, she lingered behind as everyone rushed to leave. Her legs refused to move. Her hands felt cold.
She waited until the hallway emptied completely before she finally stood up and collected her things. She took the long route home, avoiding the main exits, even though she had never used them before.
She did not want to see anyone. Especially him.
Min-Jun.
His voice followed her like a shadow.
Maybe she should start by learning how to exist properly.
She whispered once, under her breath, without meaning to.
"What did I do to them."
Her question did not seek an answer. It was the kind of question people asked when they felt the beginnings of a storm that had no reason, no shape, no face.
Her fourth day at school ended quietly.
But the quiet was the wrong kind.
It was the kind that comes right before something breaks.
The morning air was sharp, almost brittle, as Aiko trudged through the gates. Her legs felt heavy, weighted by dread and the memory of yesterday's invisible wounds. She kept her head down, bag clutched tightly, as though the strap itself could anchor her against the currents of scrutiny that awaited her inside.
The school smelled the same as always—clean, polished, faintly of chalk and disinfectant—but the familiarity brought no comfort. Every step toward her classroom felt like crossing a line she had no permission to tread.
As she entered the hall, she noticed them immediately. Kumi and her clique leaned against the lockers, their smirks sharp, predatory. Min-Jun was there, too, calm as ever, arms crossed, eyes all over the hallway as though it were his chessboard and every student a piece in motion.
Her chest tightened, breath shallow. She considered turning around, retreating, but even that small thought felt futile. Today was Friday. It would not pass quietly.
The bell rang. She moved toward her seat. The classroom was no sanctuary—never had been. The whispers began almost instantly.
"Did you see her yesterday?" one girl said, barely loud enough for others to hear. "She looked like she wanted to die already."
Kumi remarked" I desire if I could fulfill this wish of hers".
Aiko pressed her palms against her desk, the edges biting into her skin. She wanted to disappear, yet she remained visible, tethered by fear and the inevitability of their attention.
Min-Jun leaned slightly forward from his seat, eyes never leaving her. His smirk was casual, effortless, but beneath it, she felt the cold edge of intent. He didn't need to speak to command the room; the silence around her had already done half the work.
By mid-morning, the whispers grew sharper, bolder. A notebook fell from Aiko's desk—an accident, yet every eye followed its descent, and every head turned as if waiting for a reaction. She froze. Min-Jun's gaze found her instantly.
"Careful," he murmured, voice smooth, almost lazy, "or everyone will notice just how fragile you are."
The word *fragile* struck harder than a punch. Her hands shook. Her stomach coiled. She wanted to respond, to argue, but her voice lodged somewhere between throat and chest.
At lunch, the courtyard offered no escape. The group had circled, forming a ring around her like a cage as if she had become their toy. Min-Jun approached from the edge, his presence folding the space tighter with every step.
"Alone again?" he asked, casually plopping onto the bench beside her. His voice carried a lethal calm. "Predictable."
Aiko's hands gripped the edges of her bag. "I… I just want to eat," she whispered.
"Of course," he said, leaning closer, tone intimate and punishing. "But you're not just eating, are you? You're surviving. And survival in here… well, it's noticed. By everyone."
The surrounding students laughed lightly, encouragement hiding in every glance. Each movement Aiko made felt magnified, her existence rendered transparent by the precise attention of those around her.
"Maybe," Min-Jun continued, voice low, "you'll learn to be less… fragile. Or maybe you'll break completely. Either outcome will be fascinating to watch."
Her stomach knotted. The weight of his observation was suffocating. She wanted to scream, to run, to vanish into the cracks between the tiles, yet every instinct told her it was impossible.
And then it happened.
A shove from behind—gentle, calculated—sent her into Mun-jin. The collision was minor, but it was enough. Enough for Kumi to step forward, her expression a mask of faux concern.
"Watch where you're going," she said, voice sharp. "Don't you know how to walk properly?"
The surrounding laughter increased. Every glance, every movement, was a weapon. The courtyard itself had become an arena.
Aiko tried to regain balance, but it was no longer about her control. Min-Jun's eyes caught hers. Calm. Precise. Dominant. His smirk told her she could not escape, not today, not tomorrow.
Her hands grabbed at the first object near her—a small, metallic water bottle—and swung it, clumsy, desperate. It grazed one of the girls, enough to startle them but not enough to wound.
Min-Jun reacted instantly. He stepped in, blocking her next swing, calm as if swatting aside a fly. "Careful," he said, low, close to her ear. "You only make it worse."
Her heart hammered. Breath caught. She tried to pull away. Her bag swung wildly, the strap snapping against her wrist. Panic became physical.
"You can't hide," Min-Jun said quietly, voice smooth, controlled. "Not from me. Not here. Not anywhere.I sometimes think I know u better than anyone."
Her legs gave a slight tremble. A sob threatened her chest. She swung again, desperate. Again, blocked. Each failed attempt drained her, each counterstrike measured, effortless, erasing any hope of escape.
"You're visible now," he whispered, closer than ever. "And visible means observed."
The courtyard blurred. Her surroundings became a haze of faces, laughter, light, and shadow. The fight was no longer about survival in a physical sense—it was about her presence, her very being, scrutinized and dissected until she shrank inside herself.
Aiko's last coherent thought before the teachers finally intervened was of humiliation and helplessness. Her body shook, bag slipping from her shoulder, hands trembling, cheeks wet with tears she had tried to deny.
When the staff arrived, Min-Jun stepped back, composed, smirk intact, watching with faint curiosity as the situation defused. He had not needed to act to dominate; his presence alone had orchestrated the chaos.
Aiko left the courtyard trembling, each step toward the safety of the nearest restroom carrying the weight of every whisper, every laugh, every sharp word.
The fight had ended, but the victory was not his alone. It was a victory for fear, for observation, for the unspoken rule that she would always be the one measured, analyzed, and found wanting.
By the end of the day, Aiko's uniform was disheveled, her hands rough from clutching the bag, and her mind spun endlessly with every word, every smirk, every moment of exposure. She returned home, silent, shaking, already anticipating what awaited her tomorrow.
When the staff finally intervened, Min-Jun stepped back, expression unreadable, calm, smirk intact. His dominance was not in brute force but in the quiet orchestration of fear, observation, and humiliation.
The apartment was quiet, almost too quiet. Saturday had no obligations, no corridors to navigate, no eyes to weigh her down—but the absence of observation did not bring relief. It brought a different kind of pressure, one that settled in her chest and coiled like a living thing.
Aiko had barely slept. The memories of Friday—the smirks, the whispers, Min-Jun's calm dominance—played on loop behind her eyelids. Even in solitude, she felt observed, her own thoughts accusing, dissecting, cataloging every perceived flaw.
She moved through the Saturday morning mechanically, brushing her teeth, tugging on clothes, each motion a control that failed the moment she allowed herself to pause. By noon, she needed air, space, any semblance of freedom.
The restroom she frequented was nearly empty, a dull hum of plumbing and distant sounds of ongoing classes. She entered, key in hand, seeking a moment of anonymity. But anonymity, it seemed, was a fragile concept, easily shattered.
As soon as she went inside someone locked the door behind her, leaning against the cool metal with cold fingers. Only a laugh could be heard followed by only the echo of her own heartbeat filled the room, loud, accusing. Panic surged without warning. Aiko pressed herself against the tiles, knees drawn up, and tried to ground herself with deep breaths. But the day's events clung to her, a second skin of humiliation and fear.
Time passed slowly almost as if it has stopped his course for the first time in eternity just to humiliate a poor little girl. Each sound—the drip of a faucet, a distant footstep, a rustle outside—felt magnified, invasive, threatening. Her reflection in the mirror was a stranger: pale, eyes wide, trembling lips. The girl staring back seemed incapable of confronting the world.
She tried to compose herself, whispering assurances into the cold air: "It's just a bathroom. Just a room. You're safe here." But the words faltered under the weight of accumulated terror. Her hands trembling she could not longer keep herself composed. For one instance she wanted as if desperately wished for
Mun-jin to come save her.
She started repeating herself again and again trying to console her "No worries someone will come and help me, Mun-jin will save me, he cannot stay away from me for much time afterall... someone please come and sav-" .
Before she could finish her sentence she fainted. Not getting any help until a staff found her eventually sending her home.
A sudden knock on the door made her flinch violently. "Aiko? Are you in there?" Her mother's voice, ordinary, concerned, cut through the silence like a knife. Her pulse raced. She didn't respond immediately, afraid that any sound would betray the chaos roiling inside her.
Minutes passed in suspended panic. She traced patterns on the tile with her finger, small gestures to impose order on the spiral of fear threatening to engulf her. Each movement, each breath,felt measured against the unrelenting memory of scrutiny—Min-Jun's gaze, the whispers, the laughter.
Finally, she allowed herself to collapse fully against the door, knees drawn to her chest, sobs wracking her body in quiet, stifled bursts. It was a release, messy and unpolished, a surrender to the accumulated pressure that no apology, no rehearsal, no careful gesture could dissipate.
Time blurred. The cold tile beneath her legs, the metallic scent of the restroom, the distant hum of the city—they merged into a landscape of isolation. She did not care how long she stayed. She only knew that for now, she could hide, could shrink, could exist without judgment.
And yet, even in this self-imposed sanctuary, the edges of her mind remained sharp. She rehearsed every misstep, every glance, every comment, turning them over in an endless loop, unable to fully let go. Fear had become a constant companion, loyal and insidious, whispering that the outside world would punish her again.
By evening, when the apartment lights flickered on, Aiko remained in the bathroom, reluctant to leave. The world outside waited—relentless, impatient, unforgiving—but she was not ready. Not yet. She had learned that surrender was temporary, observation unyielding, and her own body a vessel for the weight of days spent under scrutiny.
Locked in that small, impersonal room, she discovered the raw edges of herself, fragile and aching. The fight from Friday had left marks invisible to others, but indelible in memory. And she understood, painfully, that tomorrow would demand she face it all again.
Sunday arrived like a weight pressing against her chest, a day without movement but filled with relentless reflection. The apartment was silent, the kind of silence that echoed back every thought, every mistake, every humiliation. The world outside existed in vague outlines through the curtains, indifferent, unreachable.
Aiko remained in her room, cocooned beneath layers of blankets, the pale light from the window filtering softly over her. She did not eat, did not move except to adjust her position for comfort that never came. The memories of the past four days played like a cruel slideshow: the fourth day at school, the laughter and whispers, Min-Jun's calculated observations; Friday's confrontation, the alley, the suffocating dominance; Saturday's confinement, the bathroom, the stifled sobs.
Each recollection pressed against her like a physical force. Her body felt heavy, her limbs unwilling to respond to commands. Panic lingered just beneath the surface, coiling in her stomach and chest, a persistent ache she could not soothe. She tried reading, tried scrolling through her phone, tried music—but nothing reached her. The world felt distant, muted, irrelevant.
Time lost meaning. Minutes stretched into hours, and she counted none of them. She lay still, staring at the ceiling, hearing only her own shallow breathing and the irregular thump of her heart. Every shadow in the room seemed to stretch toward her, a reminder that the outside would demand attention, confrontation, and exposure.
She thought of school, of Min-Jun, of Kumi, of every whispered joke, every scrutinizing glance. The fear that had stalked her all week had seeped into her bones. Her mind ran wild with scenarios of tomorrow: humiliation, failure, confrontation, exposure. She tried to tell herself she was safe here, but safety was a fragile illusion. The anxiety she carried had no walls, no doors, no locks.
Hours passed. She drifted between sleep and wakefulness, never fully resting, never fully alert. Her body ached, her eyes stung, and her thoughts circled endlessly, consuming themselves in loops of self-recrimination and imagined threats. The isolation magnified everything: every fear, every memory, every pang of shame.
When her phone buzzed softly with a message from her mother, she did not respond. The effort of interaction, even minimal, seemed impossible. Every movement felt monumental, every decision draining. She realized she had been shut in, not by walls, but by her own spiraling mind, her own body's reluctance to move, her own consciousness turned inward, a cage with no key.
By nightfall, the room had grown dark. Aiko remained where she had been, curled beneath blankets, eyes wide, thoughts fraying but unbroken. The week's events had carved into her a fragile, tremulous self. She understood now, with painful clarity, that the ordeal had been as much internal as external.
And in the quiet, oppressive dark, she allowed herself one small truth: she had survived. Not unscathed, not whole, but still here. Still breathing. Still alive.
The apartment held its quiet, indifferent vigil. Outside, the city continued, unaware of the fragile girl shut in her room, who had endured four days of cruelty, dominance, and fear. And yet, somewhere deep in her chest, a tiny ember of awareness persisted—a seed of recognition that she had been tested, and that survival, however tenuous, was still hers to claim.
She finally became what no one had expected a living corpse. The night embraced the city with her coldness which maybe be felt as warmth to many. Different people different perspectives. Yet no perspective in this world can deny what Aiko has become...
The pain of Shutting yourself in your own room can maybe only be understood by those who have faced it. Afterall we all can just imagine how deep a wound is but how truly deep it is can only be known by the person suffering from it. It's not easy to become a bird who is in search of a cage to be precise well not in actual search but already creating a cage in the depth of their own heart.
Even though the night passed, even though she slept, even though the day passed, but there are things which changed forever maybe. Was Aiko able to sleep with ease of mind or is Mun-jin even repenting after what he has condemned. Will he ever repent or will Aiko be able to sleep with ease of mind again ever ?