The humidity in Seoul always seemed to cling to the classroom walls just a little tighter on Monday mornings. I adjusted the collar of my blazer, feeling the slight weight of the grading folder in my hand. Being the new English teacher at a prestigious private academy came with expectations, but three months in, I was starting to realize that some students were harder to reach than others.
I walked down the aisles, the familiar scent of floor wax and expensive cologne filling the air as I handed back the mid-term essays.
"Good job, Min-hee. Watch your verb tenses," I said with a small, encouraging smile.
"Thank you, Teacher," she chirped, tucking her perfectly highlighted hair behind her ear.
I kept moving until I reached the very back of the room. It felt colder here, or maybe it was just the aura of the boy sitting by the window.
Ji-hoon.
He didn't look up when I approached. He never did. His head was propped up by one hand, his gaze fixed on the grey Seoul skyline through the glass. His black hair was slightly overgrown, casting shadows over eyes that always looked like they were miles away. He was the only student who didn't wear the school sweater, opting instead for a plain black hoodie that made him look like a dark stain on a white canvas.
I placed his paper on his desk, face down.
"Ji-hoon," I said softly.
He didn't blink. He didn't even shift his weight. It was as if I were a ghost haunting his peripheral vision.
"I need you to look at the feedback," I continued, my voice steady but firm. "We can't keep doing this."
Finally, he turned his head. His eyes were dark, sharp, and entirely unreadable. There was no defiance in them, just a profound, chilling lack of interest. It was the kind of look that made you feel like you were wasting your breath before you even started speaking.
He flipped the paper over with one long, pale finger.
0%
The red ink screamed against the white page. He hadn't even attempted the essay. He'd simply written his name at the top in neat, surprisingly elegant script and left the rest blank.
"Is there a reason you didn't write anything?" I asked, leaning slightly against the desk next to his.
Ji-hoon leaned back, his chair creaking in the silent room. A few students in the front row whispered, their eyes darting back to us. In a school obsessed with rankings and grades, a zero was a death sentence. To him, it looked like a badge of honor.
"I had nothing to say, Teacher," he replied. His English was accented but low and smooth, vibrating in a way that made the hair on my arms stand up.
"Everyone has something to say about their future goals," I challenged. "That was the prompt."
A ghost of a smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. It was not a happy one, but something bitter and private.
"Maybe I don't have a future," he muttered, turning his gaze back to the window.
The conversation was over. Or so he thought.
I felt a surge of frustration, but beneath it, a spark of genuine curiosity. Who was this boy who sat in a room full of overachievers and chose to be invisible? I opened my mouth to say more, but the sharp chime of the bell cut me off.
As the students scrambled to pack their bags, I caught sight of his hand as he reached for his backpack.
Across his knuckles, there was a fresh, jagged scuff, the skin raw and purple. It wasn't the kind of injury you got from a sports game or a clumsy fall. It looked like he had hit something or someone very hard.
"Ji-hoon," I called out as he stood up, his tall frame towering over the desk.
He paused, his back to me.
"The Headmaster wants to see me about your progress after school," I said. "You might want to start caring, because I'm the only one standing between you and expulsion."
He didn't turn around. He just adjusted the strap of his bag and walked out of the classroom without a single word, leaving me staring at the empty seat and the red ink on his desk.