"Jin Endo!"
Someone calls my name. I blink and pull my gaze off the window where the fog clings to the glass. My mind loops back to the purple envelope from this morning, the haiku inside still nagging at me.
"Twisted guard sticks to our hands."
It feels familiar, like I've heard it before. It tugs at something buried. I'm trying to drag it up when something soft taps my shoulder—an eraser.
I turn and catch Hanni's quick grin from the seat next to mine. She switched spots this morning, claiming the back row has a "better view of the board." Sure—like her blurred eyesight doesn't blur everything from back here. Though her eyes carry that old spark from when we were kids, when she'd jolt me with a tease or a challenge.
ES1 still feels wrong under my shoes. The talk in here isn't normal. It's SAT percentiles, international lists, "scouts in November," and "Olympiad camp this summer."
Ms. Song's voice sharpens. She taps the board, exasperation and expectation mixing on her face.
"Alright, since you're back with us, answer the problem on the board."
I glance at the board.
The problem reads: "How many two-digit prime numbers have a units digit greater than the tens digit?"
Everyone started writing fast. Pencils scratched loud.
I didn't move. The list of two-digit primes—11 to 97—flashed in my head. There's no shortcut on primes—just methods. I counted the ones that went up, not down.
Done.
I knew the answer already. My new classmates were still working. They loved showing off in this new section.
I hated that. I stayed quiet.
Hanni's sneaker bumps my foot. A little code we used in grade school: You good?
I tilt my head half a degree: Yeah. But I'm not saying it. Not here.
Ms. Song turns to Hanni—the one she expects to nail it.
"Eleven," Hanni says, flat and fast, taking the heat like it's nothing. She doesn't even glance at me, but her left hand drums the desk once—You had it.
Whispers ripple through the room. A guy up front twists around, eyebrows up. "How'd you get that so quick?"
Ms. Song nods, a faint approval in her eyes that makes my skin itch.
"Correct, Hanni. Impressive. That was quick." She pauses, her gaze sliding back to me. "That's what happens when you don't daydream during class."
A few heads through the room turns my way, turning me into a punchline. The spotlight I dodged swings right back, scorching, and my face burns under the unwanted attention. Hanni takes Ms. Song's praise with a small smile, but her quick look my way flickers as if she's read my hold-back clear.
I twist the Rubik's cube under the desk; the clicks steady me as the lesson drags. Across the aisle, two students start arguing about a proofs and their answers from a quiz. I slump deeper into the chair, willing it to swallow me.
—
Fog smears the window, gray and stubborn as class grinds on. Hanni doesn't hesitate in recitations; she's sharp as ever. The final bell echoes through the halls—a cue to scatter. I grab my bag and weave through the thinning crowd, Hanni beside me.
"You dodged it," she says, not accusing, more amused.
"Dodged what?"
"That question Ms. Song threw at you earlier. You didn't even look at your notebook. You get that stare when you're solving things, like how we were cracking mysteries back then." She shrugs, like it's no big deal. "That's not a clueless look. I knew you had it."
I shrug. "I hate the spotlight. It gets messy."
She laughs it off, but it rings a bit hollow. "That's not the Jin I knew before. Whenever you came up with a solution, you never hesitated to show it off."
"Not when the school turns this place into a pressure cooker."
"Yeah, well, I'm feeling a bit drained myself with all this. Rankings, scouts—it's like the school's turning us into machines."
Her words matched what I felt. This elite pressure was wearing us both down. There might be something bad hiding behind all the fancy talk.
I looked at her face. Dark circles under her eyes—she wasn't sleeping enough. She smiled and waved it off, but I saw how tired she really was. Her shoulders sagged a little.
"You remember we planned to hit the club, right?" she asks, light but expectant—we wanted to see what Minji had lined up.
Before I can nod, her phone buzzes. She frowns at the screen.
"Ms. Song," she says, showing me the text. "Needs help grading quizzes—top-student perks, huh?" The sarcasm is thin, and it pulls her shoulders down.
She shoots me an apologetic look. "Catch you later? Go without me if you have to."
"Yeah," I mutter, watching her veer toward the faculty wing.
—
I walked to the Mystery Club room. Yesterday's dice game still pulled at me.
The foggy hallways felt quiet. The haiku from the purple envelope kept repeating in my head. Those words felt like someone watching me.
I thought I saw a shadow move at the corner of my eye—someone turning away fast. I stopped and looked back.
Nothing. Just fog against the windows.
I shook it off and kept going, but the weird feeling stayed.
Minji paces in front of Room 722, her usual confidence frayed at the edges as she fidgets with her hair tie. She spots me and exhales.
"Jin, thank goodness you came. I need your help."
She stops as I approach, eyes flicking to the door. A heavy padlock hangs from the handle, gleaming under the dim lights like a taunt. It wasn't there yesterday. I freeze.
A riddle is taped to the lock, crisp paper with bold print:
Three unique primes.
First two sum to 42.
Last two differ by two.
Product is your key.
Primes again? Just like Ms. Song's problem this morning. Too coincidental.
"Is this a prank or a test?" I ask, keeping my voice low. My fingers find the Rubik's cube in my pocket. The clicks ground me.
Minji shakes her head, a crack in her poise. "It's not like that. The club's application form is inside. I have ten minutes to get it to the Student's Affairs Office or the Mystery Club's done. No restarts. No appeals. Someone locked it right after I left to grab signatures."
It mirrors the topic from class. The advanced curriculum's all over Number theory right now—who else would have made this?
Who's watching us?