I'd love to say I slept well after the simulation.
But that would be a lie, and I'm trying to keep my delusions separate from my survival instincts.
I spent most of the night staring at my ceiling, the anonymous message still folded in the pocket of my hoodie like it could start whispering if I stayed still long enough.
They're not trying to break you.
They're trying to prove you were always broken.
Charming bedtime reading.
The next morning, I burned my tongue on instant coffee, put on the one uniform blouse that hadn't started to smell like sadness, and left the apartment with my shoelace untied and my mental state somewhere between "I've got this" and "please someone just launch me into space."
At school, everything looked the same.
Perfect hair. Perfect posture. Perfect lies.
But there was something different now.
Not louder—tighter.
Like the air had been wound a notch too high and no one had the nerve to breathe too deep.
I walked into the classroom. People didn't look. Not openly.
But I could feel it.
The silence when I passed.
The flicker of conversation that stopped just one second too late.
They were watching me.
Not to see what I'd do.
But to see if I'd flinch.
Spoiler: I didn't.
Not when I sat down.
Not when Yuri arrived and gave me a nod too casual to mean nothing.
And not even when Haeun walked in five minutes late, heels clicking like punctuation marks, hair curled, blazer unbuttoned just enough to remind everyone that rules only applied to people who couldn't afford to ignore them.
She didn't glance at me.
She didn't need to.
This was her game.
And today, I had a front-row seat.
Second period. Debate Club announcement.
We weren't technically required to attend, but the teacher's face said "optional" with the same energy as "ignore this and enjoy failing in life."
Everyone filed into the auditorium. Rows of seats filled quickly.
I sat middle-row, edge seat—just visible, just forgettable. A perfect place to listen.
Up on stage stood a new figure: tall, stylish, terrifyingly calm.
— "As you know," she said, voice clear, "the annual internal debate tournament will be held next Friday. It will be public. It will be scored. And it will determine this semester's official student spokespeople."
A ripple went through the room.
These weren't just fun little contests. They were stepping stones.
Win this, and you didn't just earn prestige—you earned access. Invitations. Recommendations. Safety.
The teacher tapped her mic.
— "We've decided this year to include one unranked candidate in the advanced pool. By vote of the committee."
She smiled.
And then she said it.
— "That student is Lee Nina."
I blinked.
Wait.
What?
Around me, the room exhaled like someone had just detonated a polite bomb.
Heads turned. Eyes found me. Haeun's head tilted, ever so slightly.
I didn't smile.
I didn't move.
Because this?
This wasn't a reward.
This was bait.
After the meeting, students flooded out like bees from a shaken hive.
Some whispered congratulations. Some stared.
Yuri slipped past me with a quick, low-toned "good luck," like she was passing a message and not a warning.
Rayan didn't say anything.
But he did stop at the end of the hallway. Turned. Looked at me.
And then left.
I didn't chase him.
I had bigger problems.
At lunch, no one sat next to me.
Which, to be fair, was becoming a trend.
Even Jin Yuri chose a different table this time—just two rows over, close enough to be "coincidental," far enough to be deniable.
I ate fast. Rice, seaweed, whatever protein the kitchen pretended to prepare today. No taste. No thought.
Just movement.
I had to think.
I had to plan.
Because I'd just been dropped into the spotlight like a lamb in a designer blazer.
And if this was a trap, I needed to figure out where the teeth were hiding.
Thursday. Practice round.
I showed up to the debate prep room thirty minutes early. Not because I was desperate.
Because I didn't want to be cornered late.
The student leader—a tall, soft-voiced senior with perfect pronunciation—handed me a list of prep topics and said:
— "You'll be paired with Haeun for the mock round."
Of course I would.
I smiled.
Nodded.
And filed that moment under: I am going to scream into a pillow later.
We began ten minutes later.
The topic: "Should public funding be used to subsidize elite education?"
Oh, the irony.
I took the pro side.
Not because I agreed.
But because the arguments were cleaner.
Haeun took the con.
Of course.
She stood, perfect posture, smile delicate, and delivered a speech so sharp it could've sliced my GPA in half.
She wasn't just good—she was flawless.
Her voice calm. Her facts precise. Her timing engineered.
I responded, keeping my tone level, my hands steady.
I dropped data. Cited research. Built logic.
And for a moment?
It worked.
A judge nodded. Another took notes.
But Haeun wasn't done.
In her closing, she said:
— "Of course, those with unclear backgrounds may feel emotionally tied to government assistance. But policy must be made with logic, not nostalgia."
It landed like a slap in silk gloves.
The room didn't gasp.
But it froze.
I stared at her.
And I smiled.
Because she'd just confirmed it.
This wasn't a game anymore.
It was a message.
I didn't go home right after.
I needed to breathe.
I ended up behind the gym, where no one ever went unless they were making out or failing phys ed.
I sat on a low wall, legs dangling, phone off, head tilted back.
My heart wasn't racing.
It was pacing.
Quietly. Watchfully.
Because I knew what came next.
The whispers. The weaponized sympathy. The conveniently timed suggestions that I wasn't ready. That maybe I should step down.
And maybe?
That would've worked on someone else.
But not me.
I grew up in a house where silence meant shame, where attention was a spotlight you never got to control, and where love came with a schedule and legal paperwork.
So no.
I wasn't going to bow out gracefully.
If they wanted a queen to challenge, they were going to get a fight.
Not with fire.
But with precision.
And next Friday?
I wouldn't just show up.
I'd make the stage mine.