The uniform fits wrong.
The skirt is too long—hits below my knee instead of above it like the pictures I saw online. The blazer is stiff, the fabric scratchy against my neck. The tie took me fifteen minutes and three YouTube tutorials, and it still looks crooked in the mirror.
My mother fussed over me this morning. Smoothed my collar. Tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. Told me I looked beautiful, which we both knew was a lie.
The car is waiting at 7:15.
A different driver today. Same black sedan. I slide in and find Min-jun already there, pressed against the opposite window, earbuds in, eyes on his phone. He doesn't look up when I enter.
I might as well be air.
The drive takes twenty-five minutes. I spend it watching Seoul wake up—street vendors setting up carts, businessmen rushing into subway stations. Everything moves fast here. Everyone has somewhere to be.
The car slows.
Haneul Elite Academy sits behind iron gates, brick walls covered in ivy that looks too perfect to be real. The buildings are old—European style, all arches and columns and tall windows. A bell tower rises above the main hall, and students stream through the entrance in clusters of two and three and five.
The driver stops at the front gate.
Min-jun is out before the car fully stops, bag over his shoulder, moving through the crowd without looking back. Students part for him. Actually part—stepping aside, lowering their voices, watching him pass with a mixture of fear and admiration.
I get out slower.
The whispers start immediately.
I don't understand the words, but I understand the tone. The sideways glances. The way a group of girls near the entrance stops talking when I walk past, then starts again the second I'm three steps away. One of them laughs. High and sharp.
The main hall is chaos. Hundreds of students, all of them moving with purpose, all of them knowing exactly where to go. Bulletin boards line the walls—announcements in Korean .A trophy case stretches the length of one corridor, filled with gold and silver, names engraved on plaques.
I have a schedule in my bag. Homeroom 3-B. I don't know where that is.
A teacher passes me without a glance. Two boys nearly knock me over, too busy shoving each other to notice I exist. A girl with perfectly curled hair looks me up and down, whispers something to her friend, and they both giggle.
I keep walking.
The second floor is quieter. Fewer students, more classrooms. I check door numbers—3-F, 3-E, 3-D. Getting closer. My shoes squeak against the polished floor, too loud in the silence.
And then I see them.
At the end of the hallway, near a window that overlooks the courtyard. Su-ho and Min-jun. Surrounded.
Girls mostly. Pretty ones, with skirts hemmed shorter than mine, makeup done in ways the dress code probably doesn't allow. They're laughing at something Su-ho said, leaning in, touching his arm. One of them is practically draped over him, her hand on his chest, her smile too wide.
Min-jun stands slightly apart, scrolling through his phone, ignoring the girl trying to get his attention. She's talking at him—I can see her lips moving, her hand gesturing—but he doesn't respond.
Su-ho spots me first.
His grin spreads slow. He says something to the group—I catch the word "American"—and suddenly every head turns my direction.
I don't stop walking.
I pass them with my eyes straight ahead, counting doors until I reach 3-B. My hand is on the handle when Su-ho's voice carries down the hall.
"Wrong uniform length. Someone should tell her this isn't a convent."
Laughter.
I open the door and step inside.
The teacher—a woman with glasses and a voice that never rises above a murmur—speaks too fast, writes too fast, moves on too fast. I catch fragments. Numbers. Dates. What might be instructions about a test next week. Around me, students take notes without looking up, pens moving in sync.
I stare at my blank notebook and pretend I'm not drowning.
By third period, I've developed a system. Sit in the back. Copy what the person next to me writes. Nod when the teacher looks my direction. Don't speak unless absolutely necessary.
It works until History.
The teacher is older, male, with a thin mustache and an obvious dislike for disruption. He's mid-sentence when I slip through the door—two minutes late because I got lost in the east wing—and stops like I've personally insulted his ancestors.
He says something. A question, maybe.
I freeze.
"I'm sorry," I say. "I don't—my Korean isn't—"
More Korean. Faster this time. Irritated.
A few students snicker.
"She's new." A voice from the middle of the room. It was a male . "Transfer from America. She doesn't understand yet."
I look.
The boy is tall even sitting down, with messy hair that falls across his forehead and a face that might be handsome if he wasn't so obviously bored. He's leaning back in his chair, pen balanced between two fingers, watching the exchange like it's mildly entertaining.
The teacher grunts. Gestures at an empty seat. I take it, keeping my head down.
The boy doesn't look at me again for the rest of class.
But when the bell rings, he appears at my desk.
"You should learn Korean," he says. His English is good. Slightly accented, but natural. "Fast. Teachers here don't repeat themselves."
"I'm working on it."
"Work harder." He tilts his head, studying me. "You're the Kang stepsister, right? Everyone's been talking about you."
"Great."
"Not great, actually. Most of it isn't kind." He grins, and it changes his whole face—makes him look younger. "I'm Joon. Park Joon-woo. But just Joon is fine."
"Amara."
"I know." He falls into step beside me as I leave the classroom. "Where's your next class?"
I check my schedule. "Literature. Room 2-A."
"Wrong direction. Come on."
He leads me through the halls, pointing out landmarks—the bathroom that's always out of soap, the vending machine that steals your money, the corner where couples sneak off to make out between periods. He talks easily, like we've known each other for years, and I find myself almost relaxing.
"So what's it like?" he asks. "Living with the Kang twins?"
The relaxation evaporates. "Why do you want to know?"
"Curiosity. They're not exactly known for being welcoming."
"They're not."
"Shocking." He stops at a door marked 2-A. "This is you. I've got Calculus on the other side of campus, so—"
"Thanks. For the help."
"Don't mention it." He pauses. "Listen, the twins... just be careful. They're not like normal people. They don't play by the same rules."
Before I can ask what that means, he's gone.
Lunch is a disaster.
The cafeteria is massive—high ceilings, long tables, stations serving everything from bibimbap to pasta. I grab a tray, pick things at random, and search for an empty corner.
I find one near the windows. Sit with my back to the wall. Start eating.
Three bites in, a shadow falls over my table.
"You're sitting in my seat."
I look up.
The girl is beautiful. That's the first thing I notice. Perfect skin, perfect hair, perfect uniform tailored to show off perfect proportions. Her smile is sweet, almost friendly.
Her eyes are not.
"Sorry." I start to gather my tray. "I didn't know—"
"I'm kidding." She laughs, sliding into the seat across from me. "Relax. I'm Seo-yeon. Yoon Seo-yeon."
She extends a hand. I shake it. Her grip is light, her fingers cold.
"Amara," I say.
"I know. Everyone knows." She props her chin on her hand, studying me. "The American stepsister. Living with Chairman Kang. Attending Haneul on a family transfer. It's all very dramatic."
"It's really not."
"Humble too. I like that." She picks up her chopsticks, starts eating from her own tray with effortless grace. "So tell me. How are you finding Seoul? The school? The family?"
Something about the way she says family makes my skin prickle.
"It's fine."
"Just fine? The Kang estate is supposed to be stunning. And the twins—" She sighs, dramatic. "Every girl in this school would kill to be in your position."
"They can have it."
Her smile flickers. Just for a second. Then it's back, brighter than before.
"You're funny. We should be friends. It's hard being new, and I know everyone. I could help you."
"That's... nice. But I'm okay."
"Are you?" She tilts her head. "Because from what I can see, you're sitting alone, you don't speak the language, and the twins have already made you a target. That's a lot to handle without backup."
She's not wrong.
"I'll think about it," I say.
"Do." She stands, tray in hand. "I'll find you tomorrow. We can eat together."
She leaves before I can respond.
I watch her cross the cafeteria, sliding into a seat with a group of girls who greet her like royalty. She says something, and they all look my direction.
I turn back to my food.
Two minutes later, another shadow.
"Don't."
I look up.
This girl is different. No makeup. Hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. Uniform regulation length, shoes scuffed at the toes. She's carrying a tray piled with food and a stack of textbooks, and she's looking at me like I'm a problem she's been asked to solve.
"Don't what?"
"Seo-yeon." She drops into the seat across from me—the same one Seo-yeon just left. "Whatever she offered, don't take it. Whatever she said, don't believe it."
"Who are you?"
"Yuna. Cha Yuna." She starts eating, fast and efficient. "Scholarship student. No status. No connections. No reason to lie to you."
"And she has a reason?"
Yuna snorts. "She's Yoon Seo-yeon. She always has a reason."
I process this. "Why are you telling me?"
"Because you're new and you don't know any better." She shrugs. "And because I was new once too. Someone should've warned me."
We eat in silence for a while. It's not uncomfortable.
"So what's her deal?" I finally ask. "With Seo-yeon?"
"Long story. Short version—she wants the twins. Always has. You living with them makes you either a threat or a tool. She's figuring out which."
"I'm neither."
"She doesn't know that yet." Yuna finishes her rice, stacks her empty bowls. "Watch your back. That's all I'm saying."
She stands, grabs her textbooks.
"Thanks," I say. "I think."
"Don't thank me. I didn't do anything." She pauses. "Your Korean is bad, by the way. Like, painful to listen to. There's a language lab on the third floor. Open until six. Use it."
She's gone before I can respond.
The final bell rings at 4:15.
I make my way to the front gate slowly, letting the crowd thin. Students pour out in groups—climbing into waiting cars, heading toward the bus stop, lingering to gossip. The twins are nowhere in sight.
Good.
I start walking toward the bus stop.
The black sedan passes me three steps later.
I see Min-jun in the backseat, earbuds in, eyes on his phone. Same position as this morning.
The car doesn't slow down.
ASSHOLES.