By the time lunch rolls around, my stomach is tight enough that hunger feels like another sense.
The morning drains me in pieces.
Zero Period always does, even when nothing happens. Especially when nothing happens. The tension has nowhere to go, so it settles into my muscles and stays there. My shoulders ache like I've been carrying weight I never put down.
My jaw feels locked, teeth pressing together whenever the hallway gets too loud. The cafeteria doors are open, and noise pours out like heat.
Laughter. Shouting. Chairs scraping. The smell of food, fried, salty, too strong, hits me all at once. My senses spike automatically. Too many people. Too many moving parts. Too many blind angles.
I slow my steps without stopping.
Stopping makes you a target.
I enter with the crowd, letting myself be carried just enough that I don't stand out. Tray line to the left, tables stretching out in long rows, windows on the far side letting in washed-out daylight.
Fluorescent lights overhead hum faintly, flattening everything beneath them. I keep my eyes moving.
Strong students claim space without effort. You can see it in how they sit, backs against the wall, legs stretched out, bags dropped wide like territory markers. No one asks them to move.
No one needs to. Their tables are already understood.
Mid-tier groups cluster near the center. Louder. More reactive. Always checking their surroundings, always laughing a little too hard. They test boundaries because they don't have fixed ones yet.
The weakest eat at the edges. Near the exits. Near the trash cans. Close to teachers, pretending that proximity equals safety.
I don't belong to any of those categories yet.
That's dangerous too.
I grab a tray and move through the line. Rice, soup, and something fried I don't recognize. I don't rush, but I don't hesitate either. The woman behind the counter barely looks at me. To her, I'm just another uniform.
I scan while I move.
Near the windows, Kang Dae-Hyun's table is already half full. Seniors. Broad shoulders. Loud voices that don't bother lowering themselves.
People skirt around them instinctively, adjusting paths without conscious thought.
That's authority without permission.
Two tables down, a group of second-years argued about something stupid, shoving each other lightly. Posturing. None of them looks relaxed. They keep glancing sideways, checking
If anyone stronger is watching. At the far end, near the vending machines, Ri-Ah sits with one other girl.
They're not eating yet. Just talking. Her posture is loose, one leg crossed over the other, elbow resting on the table like she's got all the time in the world. No one encroaches on that space.
I note it and move on.
Choosing a table is as important as choosing a route during Zero Period. You want lines of sight. Escape options. Witnesses, but not too many.
I settled at a table near the middle edge. Not isolated. Not central. Two empty seats across from me, one beside me. My back isn't to the room, but it's not fully exposed either.
I sit.
The chair is hard plastic, slightly warped. I place my tray down carefully, hands steady. My appetite doesn't kick in right away. My body doesn't relax just because food is in front of me.
I eat slowly.
Chew. Swallow. Scan.
A group of first-years walks past, laughing too loudly, bumping shoulders. One of them glances at me, then looks away quickly. His friend says something under his breath, and they all laugh again.
Not about me. Not yet.
Two tables over, someone stands up too fast, chair screeching against the floor. Heads turn. Nothing happens. The moment dissolves. That's how most conflicts start here. Not with fists. With sound. With attention. I'm halfway through my meal when it happens.
A shoulder slams into my back—not hard enough to knock me forward, but hard enough to be deliberate. My tray rattles. Soup sloshes close to the edge.
I don't spill.
I don't turn around immediately.
Control first.
I straighten slightly, adjusting my balance, then look up.
The guy standing there is taller than average, stockier than me. Thick neck. Short hair. He's wearing his uniform loose, tie undone. His eyes flick down to my tray, then back up to my face.
No apology.
"Watch it." He says.
The words are casual. The tone isn't.
A few people nearby go quiet. Not fully silent, just attentive enough to hear what happens next.
I breathe in through my nose.
This isn't Zero Period. No one's allowed to start something here. But rules bend when people think they can get away with it. I stand up slowly, enough that I'm not looking up at him anymore. I don't step closer. I don't step back.
Distance is information.
"Hall's crowded. Happens." I say. My voice stays even.
I don't accuse. I don't submit. His eyes narrow slightly. He wasn't expecting that. "You saying it's my fault?" He asks. His fists aren't clenched. That tells me something. He's posturing, not committed. Testing how much resistance he'll get.
I tilt my head, just a fraction. "I'm saying it's crowded."
A couple of students exchange looks. Someone snorts quietly, then shuts up. The guy studies me more carefully now. Tall. Calm. No visible fear. No visible challenge either.
Unpredictable. He scoffs, shaking his head. "Whatever." He steps around me, deliberately brushing past again, lighter this time—a reminder. I sit back down. My heart rate takes a few seconds to return to normal. I keep eating like nothing happened.
Inside, I replay it already.
His strength: moderate. His center of gravity is low. Likely used to pushing people who flinch. Ego is bigger than his actual reach.
I file him away.
Name unknown. Face remembered.
I didn't win. I didn't lose. I stayed intact. Across the room, someone else isn't as careful. A boy near the drink machines bumps into Ri-Ah's table. Harder than mine. Her cup tips, liquid spilling across the surface.
The room shifts.
This time, people really pay attention.
Ri-Ah looks down at the spill first. Not at him. She sets the cup upright calmly and reaches for a napkin. Her friend freezes, eyes darting between them. The boy laughs nervously. "My bad."
He doesn't sound sorry.
Ri-Ah finally looks up.
Her gaze is sharp, but her face is relaxed. Almost bored. "Careful." She says. One word. Not loud. Not soft. Placed exactly where it needs to be. The boy grins, emboldened. "You okay? Didn't mean to scare you."
He leans in slightly. Too close.
I notice his shoulders tense. His breathing quickens. He's excited now. This is a story he wants to tell later.
Ri-Ah doesn't move back.
She stands. Not fast. Not slow. Just enough that she's eye level with him. "I said, careful." She repeats. There's a pause.
Something shifts in the air. I can't name it, but everyone feels it. The boy's grin falters. His eyes flick sideways—to her friend, to the surrounding tables, to the windows. Witnesses. He swallows.
"Relax. I said my bad." He mutters.
Ri-Ah steps to the side instead of forward, forcing him to turn slightly to keep facing her. She's controlling his position without touching him. Cutting off his exit while making it look like she's giving him space.
Smart.
"Then clean it." She says, nodding at the spill. He hesitates. Half a second too long. That's all it takes. Someone laughs—not mocking, but amused. Another student shakes their head. The balance tips.
The boy grabs napkins, wiping the table roughly. His movements are jerky now. Embarrassed.
Ri-Ah sits back down before he finishes. Conversation around her resumes almost immediately, like a switch flipped. The boy backs away, face red. He doesn't look at anyone as he leaves.
I exhale slowly.
No violence. No raised voices. Total control. I didn't realize I was watching so intently until my eyes ached slightly. I force myself to look back at my tray.
Timing. Positioning. Pressure.
She never escalated. She let him defeat himself. I take another bite, chewing thoughtfully. Patience isn't passive. It's an active restraint. That's the lesson.
The rest of lunch passes without incident, but the atmosphere stays tight. People glance at Ri-Ah's table more often now. Not openly. Just enough.
I finish eating and stand, tray in hand. As I dump my trash, I catch the stocky guy's reflection in the metal bin. He's watching me from across the room. I don't look back. When I leave the cafeteria, the hallway feels cooler.
Quieter.
Like stepping out of a crowded room into a narrow alley.
My shoulders drop a fraction.
—
The afternoon drags.
Classes blur together. My body is present, but my mind keeps circling back to the cafeteria. To the bump. To Ri-Ah's timing.
In history class, my thigh aches faintly where the chair presses into it. Probably from tensing too long. I adjust my posture carefully, keeping movements small. The teacher drones on about something distant and irrelevant. Empires. Systems. Collapse.
I take notes anyway.
Around me, students whisper. Pass notes. Pretend the morning never happened. They're good at that. Compartmentalizing.
I wonder how many of them flinch internally when someone moves too fast. How many of them track exits without realizing it?
At the end of the day, as I pack my bag, Seok-Jin leans over from the next row. "Lunch was interesting?" He asks quietly. I pause, then zip my bag. "A little." He smiles like that confirms something. "Yeah. Thought so."
He doesn't push. He never does.
As we walk out together, I notice the stocky guy again near the stairwell. He's with two friends now, laughing loudly. When he sees me, his laughter stutters.
He doesn't say anything.
I keep walking.
—
The next morning starts the same way.
Early arrival. Quiet campus. Dew on concrete. My breath fogs faintly in the cool air. Zero Period looms like a countdown I don't need to check a clock for. My body knows when it's close. My awareness sharpens. Sounds feel closer. Edges clearer.
Inside, the gym doors are open.
That's new.
I slow as I pass, glancing in.
A few students are already inside. Not exercising. Standing in a loose semicircle. A man I don't recognize—older, muscular, expression blank—paces slowly in front of them.
Loser's Gym. I keep walking. Not my time yet. In the Zero Period classroom, seats fill as usual. Ri-Ah isn't there. Seok-Jin isn't either. The stocky guy is, though. He sits two rows up, back straight, jaw tight.
He glances over his shoulder at me.
This time, I meet his eyes. Just for a second. Then I look away. The bell rings. Zero Period begins. I don't move. Neither does he.
Minutes pass. The tension in the room thickens. Someone shifts in their seat too loudly. Another student stands abruptly and leaves.
I track the time mentally. Count breaths. Count heartbeats. The stocky guy exhales sharply, stands, and walks out without looking back.
I stay.
When the bell ends Zero Period, nothing has happened. But something has changed. In class afterward, the stocky guy doesn't look at me. Not once. He answers questions too quickly, voice is a little too loud. Overcompensating.
I sit quietly, hands folded, listening. At lunch, he chooses a different table. Ri-Ah eats with her friend like always, unbothered. As I finish my meal, I realize my appetite feels different now. Less urgent. Less sharp. Patience isn't just waiting.
It's choosing when to let time do the work for you. I carry my tray to the trash, aware of eyes on my back, of the invisible lines shifting subtly around me.
Next time won't be the same. And next time, I won't need to react.
I'll set the pace.