Spring had arrived, the streets awash in pale pink as sakura petals fluttered down like confetti. They gathered along the roadside in soft, careless heaps, brightening the gray pavement. For most, it was a scene to savor—a fleeting burst of beauty. For Hoon, it was just another reminder of how little the world interested him.
He trudged along the familiar route to school, shoulders slumped, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. The soft rustle of petals underfoot barely registered. His eyes, darkened by sleepless nights, carried a hollow glaze, and he walked as though the weight of the day had already crushed him.
"Late again," he muttered under his breath. "Baldy's going to lose it."
The thought didn't bother him much. He'd endured the teacher's rants so many times that they'd become background noise, like the hum of the classroom fan or the scratch of chalk on the board. He glanced at his watch, confirmed he'd missed the bell, and kept walking at the same unhurried pace.
Hoon's life, as far as he was concerned, was one endless repetition. Wake up, drag himself through the day, rinse, repeat. Nothing changed. He wished it would. Some days, he entertained wild, impossible fantasies—a meteor, an alien invasion, anything to break the monotony. He even wondered, darkly, if he'd care much about the aftermath. Would the destruction feel more real than this endless, stifling sameness?
When he reached the school gates, his teacher's voice greeted him like a slap.
"You! Hoon! Late again!" The man's face flushed red, a mix of rage and frustration.
Hoon scratched the back of his neck, feigning a sheepish smile. "Yeah, my bad."
"Ten jumping jacks, now!" the teacher barked.
He sighed but complied, dropping his bag by his desk before starting the laziest jumping jacks anyone had ever seen. The room buzzed with muffled giggles, though a few of his classmates rolled their eyes. Hoon couldn't be bothered to care.
When the ordeal ended, he slouched into his seat, eyes wandering to the window. Outside, petals swirled in the breeze, catching the sunlight. He watched them for a while, wishing, absurdly, that he could float away with them.
"Morning, Hoonie!" The bright, singsong voice snapped him out of his thoughts.
He turned, already bracing himself. "Don't call me that," he said flatly.
Sakura, the class president, perched on the edge of his desk, her ever-present smile radiant as the spring morning. Her golden hair framed a face that most people found beautiful, though Hoon saw only endless cheerfulness that grated on his nerves.
"Why not? It's cute!" she teased, leaning closer. "Lighten up a little, will you?"
"Lighten up?" He raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. "Sure. I'll do that when you stop acting like everything's perfect."
Her smile faltered—just for a second. Then it was back, but softer, less confident. "You're such a downer," she said, looking away. "I don't know why I even bother with you."
He didn't answer. He didn't know why she bothered, either.
The day passed in the usual blur—lectures, scribbled notes, the hum of idle conversation. By lunch, Hoon had wandered into the cafeteria, hoping to find a quiet corner away from the chatter. The room was packed as usual, the air thick with the smell of curry bread and noodles.
In one corner, a small crowd had gathered. Hoon slowed, curiosity piqued. At the center stood the class treasurer, a girl with silver hair and glasses that caught the light. She clutched the class ledger to her chest like a shield, her expression calm despite the boy looming over her.
"Come on, just a hundred yen," the boy demanded. "You've got class funds, don't you? What's the big deal?"
"The funds aren't for personal use," she said evenly, her voice steady.
The boy's scowl deepened. "You're such a stickler. Just give it to me, or—"
"Or what?" Her tone was sharp now, cutting through his bluster. "You'll hit me? Go ahead. I'll make sure my father hears about it."
The boy hesitated, muttered something under his breath, and stalked off. The crowd dispersed quickly, their interest already fading. Hoon lingered, watching as the treasurer adjusted her glasses and resumed eating, as though nothing had happened.
He sauntered over, hands still in his pockets. "Nice move," he said.
She looked up, meeting his gaze without a hint of surprise. "Hello, Hoon."
"Think you could spare me a hundred yen?" he asked with a faint smirk.
To his surprise, she reached into her pocket and handed him a coin without hesitation. "Here."
"Seriously?" He turned the coin over in his hand, unsure how to respond.
"Consider it a reward," she said, her lips twitching into the faintest smile.
Before he could reply, the floor trembled beneath them. The lights flickered, and a low rumble filled the air. Screams erupted as students clutched their trays and chairs. Then, everything went black.
When Hoon opened his eyes, he was in the school assembly hall. His head ached, and the world felt off—like the colors were too sharp, the air too thick. Around him, students murmured in confusion, fear spreading like wildfire.
On the stage stood a girl, flanked by two tall, masked figures. She couldn't have been older than them, but the way she carried herself demanded attention. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, swept over the room.
"Everyone awake?" she said, her voice smooth and cold.
The room fell silent.
"Good. Let me make this simple. You're not in your normal world anymore. Think of this as… an alternate dimension. A trial, if you will."
The murmurs rose again, panic taking hold. Someone shouted, "What's going on? Who are you?"
The girl smiled—a thin, cruel curve of her lips. "You can call me Instructor A. And this? This is a survival game."
Hoon watched her, his heart pounding. Around him, students screamed as shadowy figures appeared, their forms twisting into grotesque shapes. He should have felt fear, but instead, something else stirred—a flicker of excitement.
Finally, he thought. Something worth staying awake for.