Morning arrives without ceremony.
No ache announces it this time, just a muted soreness, like my body has accepted yesterday as the new baseline. I take that as progress, not relief. Relief makes people sloppy.
I wake before the alarm again, stare at the ceiling, and listen to the building breathe. Pipes tick. A neighbor's door closes somewhere above me. The city is already awake, even if the light hasn't decided what it wants to be yet.
Neutral.
Attentive.
That's the state I aim for as I get dressed.
The bruise along my ribs has settled into a dark, even spread. It doesn't look angry anymore. Just there. I press it lightly, then stop before it tells me more than I need to know.
I eat standing up. Habit now. Sitting still feels optional; readiness doesn't. On the bus, I take my usual seat. Back. Window. Wall. I watch reflections more than faces. People reveal more when they think they're not being observed.
Nothing follows me off the bus.
At school, the gate funnels students into an order that only looks accidental. Seniors drift in first, unbothered. Juniors cluster. Freshmen hover near the edges, trying not to look lost.
I pass through without friction.
Inside, the hallway is louder than it should be for this hour. That happens when tension hasn't decided where to go yet. Voices overlap. Someone laughs too long. Someone else doesn't laugh at all.
I keep my pace even.
Eyes glance. Then look away.
Still interesting. Still undefined.
In homeroom, I take my seat and set my bag down with care. Zipper closed once. Strap adjusted once. I align my notebook parallel to the desk edge.
Order creates invisibility. Sometimes.
The bell rings.
Ms. Kwon doesn't teach homeroom, but she monitors it today. She stands at the front, clipboard in hand, eyes scanning the room like she's counting exits instead of students.
"Announcements will be brief. Then we'll assign additional class responsibilities." She says. A murmur ripples through the room. Responsibilities mean work. Work means exposure. I stay still.
The class president stands.
Yoon Se-yeon doesn't rush. She never does. She stands like the floor is solid because she expects it to be. Her uniform is immaculate. Not flashy. Just correct. Hair tied back, posture straight, gaze level.
She takes the clipboard from Ms. Kwon without a word.
"Cleaning rotation has been updated. Some schedules have changed." She says. Clear. Calm. Her eyes move across the room, stopping briefly on a few faces. Mine is one of them. I don't react.
"Additionally, there will be two students assigned to help with after-class materials this week. Attendance sheets, equipment returns." She continues. She looks directly at me now.
"Joon-seok."
I meet her gaze for exactly as long as it takes to acknowledge that she's speaking to me. Not a challenge. Not avoidance.
"Yes." I say. "You'll assist. And Han Jae-min." She says. No explanation. No justification. Jae-min groans quietly from the front row. Se-yeon doesn't look at him. "Any questions?" She asks.
No one speaks.
"Good." She says and sits.
Ms. Kwon resumes control of the room, but the shift lingers. Assignments like that aren't random. Everyone knows it. No one says it. Extra duties are a form of pressure. I note it without comment.
During the first period, I performed the tasks as instructed. I collect worksheets, stack them neatly, and align edges. I return chalk to the tray in the correct order—white first, then colored. I don't rush. I don't linger.
Se-yeon watches.
Not obviously. Not constantly.
But I feel it when she looks up from her notes and tracks my movement instead of the board. I feel it when she pauses half a second longer than necessary before returning to her writing. She's not checking my work. She's checking me.
Compliance is easy. That's the problem.
Between classes, I carry a box of materials down the hallway to the storage room. The box isn't heavy, but it blocks part of my view. I adjust my grip to keep my peripheral clear. Corners first.
Reflections in glass cabinets. Stairwells avoided.
Jae-min walks beside me, complaining under his breath. "Why do we have to do this? It's not even our week." He mutters. I don't answer. He glances at me. "You hear me?"
"Yes."
"That's it?"
"I'm listening."
He snorts. "You're weird." He's not wrong. In the storage room, we set the box down. Jae-min slaps dust off his hands and leaves immediately. I take an extra moment to organize the shelves the way they're supposed to be.
Labels facing out. Items grouped correctly.
Order matters.
When I return to class, Se-yeon's eyes flick up again. Her expression doesn't change. That bothers her. In civics, she assigns group work. I'm placed with students who usually do fine on their own. No obvious friction. No obvious alliance.
As we work, I contribute only when necessary. Short answers. Clear points. No dominance. No retreat.
One of the boys keeps glancing at me, like he's waiting for something—approval, maybe. Or conflict. He gets neither. At lunch, Se-yeon doesn't approach me.
Instead, she assigns another task through the vice president. "Tell Joon-seok to bring the attendance logs to the office."
No please. No explanation.
I comply.
The office hallway is quiet. Too quiet. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, the sound flattening everything beneath it. I walk on the right side, keeping a distance from doors that might open suddenly.
Inside the office, a teacher takes the logs without looking at me. I sign where indicated. No one asks questions.
Institutional silence.
On the way back, I feel eyes on me from the stairwell above. I don't look up. Looking up invites acknowledgment. Acknowledgment invites escalation. I return to class.
Se-yeon is writing when I enter. She doesn't look up this time.
That's deliberate too.
By afternoon, the pattern is clear.
She keeps assigning me small, additional responsibilities. Nothing unreasonable. Nothing that can be refused without looking defiant.
Wipe the board.
Distribute handouts.
Carry equipment.
Each task is a nudge. A test. I accept them all. No argument. No hesitation. But also no eagerness. I do what's required. Nothing more. Her frustration becomes visible in small ways. A tighter grip on her pen.
A pause that lasts a beat too long when I finish something and return to my seat. She isn't angry at my behavior. She's irritated by my lack of resistance. In the last period, she finally addresses me directly.
"Joon-seok. Can you stay after class to help organize the cabinet?" She asks, standing at the front. The room quiets slightly. After-class tasks are more visible. They imply scrutiny. "Yes." I say.
No change in tone.
The bell rings.
Chairs scrape. Bags zip. Students file out, some glancing back at me with curiosity. Others avoid looking entirely. I remain seated until the room clears. Se-yeon closes the door herself. The click echoes.
"Come here." She says, gesturing to the cabinet near the windows.
I stand, adjusting my jacket as I do, and walk over. Each step is measured. The cabinet is old, metal dented, paint chipped. It smells faintly of dust and paper. She opens it and begins handing me stacks of folders.
"Sort by year." She says.
I do.
She watches my hands. Not my face. I move efficiently. No wasted motion. No rush. "You don't ask questions." She says after a moment. "About what?"
"About why I keep assigning you things."
I consider my answer carefully. "Because you're allowed to." I say. That makes her look up. "And if I weren't?"
"Then it would be different."
"How?"
"I'd ask questions."
She studies me now, really studies me. Her gaze is steady, searching for something she can name. "You know what rules are for?" She asks. "To create structure." I say.
She shakes her head slightly. "Rules exist to provoke reactions. To show who resists, who complies, who bends."
"And what do you see?" I ask. She doesn't answer immediately.
"That's the problem. I can't tell." She says, finally. I finish sorting the last folder and place it neatly on the shelf. "That's my job." I say. Her eyes narrow, not in anger, but in thought. "You're cooperative. But you're not submissive." She says. "I follow instructions." I reply.
"Without hesitation."
"Because hesitation would be dishonest." She exhales softly, like she didn't realize she was holding her breath. "You're hiding something." She says.
"Everyone is."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only honest one."
Silence stretches between us. Outside the window, the sky has darkened slightly. Clouds gathering. The light is flat, unforgiving. She closes the cabinet. "You can go." She says.
I pick up my bag and turn to leave.
At the door, I pause, not because she asks me to, but because timing feels right.
"I don't resist. Because resistance has a cost. I pay attention to costs." I say, without turning around. She doesn't respond. I leave.
In the hallway, the building feels different. Like it's recalibrating around a new variable it hasn't fully processed.
On the walk home, I replay the exchange. Se-yeon wasn't asserting authority. She was pushing order. Order pushes back when it doesn't get the reaction it expects.
At home, I sit on the floor again, back against the bed, legs stretched out carefully. The bruise throbs faintly, synchronized with my pulse. I think about rules. About how they're designed to sort people.
About how compliance without submission confuses systems built on hierarchy.
My phone buzzes once.
No message.
Just a notification from the school app, updated responsibilities for the week. My name appears again. No explanation. I lock the screen. Rules exist to provoke reactions. And today, mine didn't fit.