Chapter 4: New Faces

The auditorium of Hankuk Elite Academy breathed wealth and prestige from every surface—from the polished hardwood stage to the plush velvet seats that put most theater venues to shame. Crystal chandeliers hung from a ceiling adorned with hand-painted scenes of scholarly achievement, illuminating the space with a soft, golden glow. Even the air seemed different here, filtered and perfumed to remove any trace of the outside world.

Finding her assigned seat in the middle section, Soo-jin paused momentarily. The boy already sitting there was impossible to miss—his regulation uniform partially obscured by a blindingly vibrant jacket in shades of orange, teal, and purple that seemed deliberately designed to violate every dress code in existence. His dark hair was styled in an artfully messy way that suggested either significant money spent at an exclusive salon or a natural dishevelment that somehow looked intentional.

He was tapping away at an expensive smartphone, legs sprawled comfortably as though the auditorium were his living room. When he glanced up and spotted Soo-jin hovering near the row, his face split into a grin so immediate and genuine it was almost disarming.

"Hey! You must be sitting here!" he exclaimed, jumping up and gesturing enthusiastically to the empty seat beside him. His voice carried enough that several nearby students turned to look. "I was wondering when my row-mate would show up. I'm Hee-chul. Kim Hee-chul. Just transferred in mid-year like you, I'm guessing?"

Soo-jin slid into her assigned seat with minimal fuss, her movements economical compared to Hee-chul's animated gestures. "Song Soo-jin," she replied, offering nothing beyond her name.

If Hee-chul noticed her reticence, it didn't deter him in the slightest. "Song Soo-jin! Great name. Easy to remember. You from Seoul? I'm from Busan originally, but my dad got transferred here for work. He's in shipping—boring stuff, but it pays the bills." He spoke at a rapid-fire pace that reminded Soo-jin painfully of someone from her past—a childhood friend whose name and face she deliberately pushed from her mind. "Anyway, this place is something else, right? Did you see the swimming pool? Olympic-sized! And they have actual Picasso sketches in the art wing. Sketches! Not even the finished paintings!"

Soo-jin kept her expression neutral as she assessed the boy beside her. His uniform was high quality but not customized like some of the others she'd observed. His watch, while expensive, wasn't ostentatiously so. New money, perhaps, or upper-middle-class rather than truly elite. The flashy jacket might be compensating for that relative deficiency in status.

"I'm here on partial scholarship," she said finally, deciding that offering some information might stop the barrage of questions.

"Scholarship! Wow, you must be smart then. What's your specialty? Science? Literature? I'm decent at most subjects but exceptional at none," he laughed, seeming entirely comfortable with this self-assessment. "Though I did captain my debate team at my old school, so they let me in on that basis. Plus, you know, the usual application stuff and my dad's company is one of the school's smaller donors."

His easy admission of his family's financial contribution to the school confirmed Soo-jin's initial categorization: comfortable but not powerful. Not likely to be directly connected to whoever had harmed Min-ah, but potentially useful as a source of information about the school's social structure.

Still, she had no intention of forming attachments here. Every relationship was a potential vulnerability, every friendship a distraction from her purpose. Min-ah lay motionless in a hospital bed while her attackers walked these hallowed halls freely. Social niceties were a luxury Soo-jin couldn't afford.

"What about you? Where'd you transfer from?" Hee-chul continued, seemingly unbothered by her minimal responses.

"Gangnam Public," she answered truthfully. No need to lie about verifiable facts.

Hee-chul's eyebrows rose slightly. "Gangnam Public to here? That's quite a jump. You must have really impressed them with your entrance exams."

Before Soo-jin could formulate a response that would satisfy his curiosity without revealing too much, the auditorium lights dimmed twice in quick succession. On stage, a woman in her early forties with a severe bun and equally severe expression approached the podium.

"New students, please take your seats immediately," she announced, her voice carrying effortlessly through the space without seeming to raise it. "The welcoming ceremony is about to begin."

A hush fell over the auditorium as latecomers rushed to find their places. Hee-chul straightened in his seat slightly but made no move to remove his colorful jacket, despite the obvious dress code violation it represented.

"That's Vice Principal Yoon," he whispered to Soo-jin. "Dad says she's been here forever and knows where all the bodies are buried. Figuratively speaking, of course."

Soo-jin's gaze sharpened on the woman. Vice Principal Yoon—a name she filed away for future investigation. If she had been at the school during Min-ah's time, she might have information about what had happened.

"Distinguished new students," Vice Principal Yoon began, her tone suggesting that 'distinguished' was a title they would need to earn rather than one automatically granted, "welcome to Hankuk Elite Academy. For over seventy years, this institution has shaped the minds that have, in turn, shaped our nation. The opportunity before you is not merely educational—it is transformative."

As the vice principal continued outlining the school's prestigious history and expectations, Soo-jin scanned the stage, noting the row of faculty seated behind the podium. Each wore an expression of appropriate gravitas, yet none seemed particularly engaged with the proceedings. Ritual rather than substance, she surmised.

"And now," Vice Principal Yoon concluded after several minutes of increasingly grandiose rhetoric, "I present our esteemed principal, Dr. Park Sung-ho."

A distinguished-looking man in his sixties took the podium with practiced ease. His tailored suit and perfectly groomed silver hair spoke of old money and established power. When he smiled at the assembled students, the expression didn't quite reach his eyes.

"New blood," he began, his deep voice resonating through the auditorium. "That's what you represent to our venerable institution. New blood to invigorate our traditions, new minds to carry forward our legacy of excellence."

As Dr. Park launched into his address, Soo-jin found her attention drifting to the details he wasn't saying—the careful emphasis on tradition, the subtle reinforcement of hierarchy, the veiled warnings about maintaining the school's reputation. Between his polished phrases lay the unspoken message: conform or suffer.

"The remarkable opportunity you have been given comes with equally remarkable responsibilities," he continued. "Hankuk's reputation rests on your shoulders. Your actions, your achievements, your conduct—all reflect upon centuries of excellence."

Beside her, Hee-chul leaned in to whisper, "Is it just me, or is he basically saying 'don't mess this up or else'?"

Soo-jin didn't respond, but she silently acknowledged the accuracy of his assessment. Dr. Park's speech was as much threat as welcome.

"And now," the principal concluded, "I am pleased to introduce this year's new student representative, selected based on exemplary entrance examination scores and demonstrated leadership potential. Please welcome to the stage, Park Ji-hoon."

A tall boy in the front row stood gracefully and made his way to the stage. Even from a distance, Soo-jin could see that everything about him was immaculate—from his perfectly styled hair to his flawlessly tailored uniform. He moved with the easy confidence of someone who had never questioned his place in the world.

"Park?" Hee-chul whispered. "As in, related to the principal?"

"His grandson," came a whispered response from the row behind them. "Everyone knows that's how he got the spot."

Soo-jin filed away this information as well. Nepotism would hardly be surprising in an institution like this, but the openness with which it was acknowledged suggested a system where such advantages were expected rather than hidden.

Park Ji-hoon took the podium with practiced ease, his smile revealing perfect teeth. "Fellow new students," he began, his voice carrying a practiced warmth, "today marks not only our entrance into Hankuk Elite Academy but our first step toward shaping Korea's future. The relationships we form here, the knowledge we gain, the connections we establish—these will define not only our individual success but our collective impact on society."

His speech continued in a similar vein, hitting all the expected notes about excellence, opportunity, and tradition. Yet beneath the polished delivery, Soo-jin detected something calculated in his gaze as it swept across the audience—an assessment of resources rather than a connection with peers.

"He's good," Hee-chul murmured appreciatively. "Bet he's been practicing that since birth."

When the ceremony finally concluded with a rigidly choreographed school anthem, students began filing out row by row toward the lobby, where class assignments had been posted on massive electronic bulletin boards.

"Want to check our assignments together?" Hee-chul asked, falling into step beside Soo-jin as they exited their row. "I'm hoping for Class 1-A. That's where they put all the top students and the kids with the most important parents."

"You seem to know a lot about the school for someone who just transferred in," Soo-jin observed, finally engaging with his chatter.

Hee-chul grinned, not the least bit self-conscious. "Research, my friend! My dad made me memorize the entire student handbook, plus I've been on every school forum and social media group for the past month. Knowledge is power, especially in a shark tank like this."

As they approached the crowded lobby, Soo-jin could see students already clustering around the bulletin boards, reactions ranging from satisfaction to disappointment evident on their faces. A clear hierarchy was establishing itself even in this simple act of checking class assignments—some students pushing forward confidently while others waited at the periphery.

"Moment of truth," Hee-chul said dramatically as they neared the boards. "Let's see where they've put us in the feeding chain."

The electronic displays glowed with student names arranged by class, the information temporarily freezing Soo-jin in place as she scanned for her own placement. This was it—the first concrete step in her infiltration of Hankuk Elite Academy. Somewhere on these lists was her assignment, and with it, her first real opportunity to begin unraveling the mystery of what had happened to Min-ah.

Around her, the chattering, jostling crowd of students seemed to fade into background noise as she focused on the glowing names before her, searching for her place in this deceptive place.