Chapter 13: Painted Tables, Masked Smiles
1187 Words
Chapter 13: Painted Tables, Masked Smiles
Hana was late.
Ten minutes late.
But in Haneul Elite Academy, ten minutes wasn’t a minor offense—it was an invitation to war.
She stood outside Class 1-S’s towering wooden door, her heart thudding—not with fear, but irritation. Her hoodie was slightly askew, hair wind-tousled, one sock pulled higher than the other. She looked like rebellion packaged in human skin.
Inside, silence. The kind that builds statues out of students.
She opened the door.
The teacher turned. Ms. Eom Hyerin—thin lips, thin patience, and thinner tolerance for “lowborn charity cases.” A hawk in a blouse, perched and ready to strike.
"What makes you think you can come to school at this time?" she said.
Hana stared back with deadpan eyes. “Don't tell me the teachers here also bully? I came late, so what?”
A few students choked on their air.
Ms. Eom raised a brow. “Did you just insult me?”
“Wow, answering questions with questions, I'm good at that too,” Hana said, “ who else is in front of me? Are you deaf or blind?”
Let us not forget that Hana was a split child, but she wouldn't dare behave like this in the presence of Sunwoo.
Last night, she slept late while watching a K-drama movie, knowing fully well that she was to be in school before 8 am the next day. She didn't care. After all, what was the worst thing they could do to her?
Now she acts like she's getting bullied when clearly she is at fault.
Laughter danced like nervous children on the edge of a cliff. Ms. Eom’s expression didn’t crack.
“You may kneel outside. One hour.”
Hana blinked. “Kneel? As in… knees on floor, like I’m repenting to the gods?”
“Yes.”
“I thought this was an elite academy? Oh, I forgot, I'm an orphan, that makes more sense.”
"Are you planning to disobey?"
The room held its breath.
Hana’s fists clenched. Her pride screamed. Every bone in her body rebelled.
She stood there like a mountain. Then cursed under her breath—“ you will pay for this, I promise”—and walked out.
She knelt.
Cold floor. Cold stares. Cold dignity cracking beneath her knees.
She was surely going to avenge this humiliation, trust her.
Five minutes in: pins and needles.
Ten minutes in: legs screaming.
Fifteen: internal monologue kicks in.
I have to maintain composure, I shouldn't lose face in my first week; I will surely avenge this later, she thought inwardly.
At minute thirty-five, she began mentally composing a.
You can do this!
Few minutes remaining,
You can do this
After an hour, Ms. Eom appeared like the grim reaper with a watch.
“You may come in.”
Hana rose, legs cracking like ancient wood.
She walked back into class slowly, brushing imaginary dust off her uniform like royalty. Passing her teacher, she muttered—loud enough to be heard:
“You may reap what you sow.”
Someone snorted. Ms. Eom turned, but Hana was already seated, grinning like a war criminal.
Lunch.
The newly reopened dining hall was bright, too clean, like someone had tried to bleach out the sins of the past semester. Long rows of tables gleamed with polish. Each table sat eight students. Eight tightly-knit, pre-sorted cliques.
Hana entered and saw it instantly: the segmentation.
Elites with their designer bags and fake-laugh diplomacy.
Orphans huddled with hardened eyes and sharp jokes.
Scholarship students. Celebrities. Athletes.
Everyone belonged somewhere.
Except her.
She walked past them all like a ghost no one wanted to see.
She moved to the far edge, near a window.
Fine, she thought. I eat alone, like a tragic protagonist.
Then—
“HANA!”
A girl stood up. Stunning. Ribbon in her hair. Eyeliner like wings. Confidence that didn’t come from attention, but from being ignored and surviving it.
“Yoon Seri,” someone whispered. “Assemblyman Yoon’s daughter, why does she like mingling with lowly people?”
The girl who got all the brains, while her sister got all the magazine covers.
“Sit here,” Seri said, gesturing at the empty seat beside her.
Hana paused.
“Come on. We need one more girl in our group to complete eight.”
“Sigh, you think I'm interested in stuff like this?”
“Come on, just sit, you argue a lot.”
Hana smirked, walked over, and sat. The group around Seri stared.
Some offered stiff smiles. Others just stared, calculating.
She felt it—the weight of judgment, of invisible rules and social ledgers.
Still, she sat.
"A lone flower in a garden of clones has no obligation to wilt."
Hana's main reason for being here, in school, was to escape that prison they happily call home. School was her best option, but Chairman Lee ruined half of her plan. Naturally, she was planning to run away, somewhere far away, far from all those messes, but now her plan was shattered. Although the memories of her past are gone, she didn't care anymore; she was moving with the flow, well, for now.
She ate silently.
Then—buzz.
Her phone lit up.
Wacko.
New number. Old chaos.
“Encyclopedia Pop Quiz: What metal is liquid at room temperature?”
...Is he okay? she thought. Still, her fingers moved.
Mercury.
✅ Thumbs up emoji.
“Who proposed the heliocentric model?”
Copernicus.
✅
“Tabula Rasa?”
John Locke.
✅
A girl beside her peeked. “You texting your sponsor?”
Hana tilted the screen.
The table leaned in. Seri’s eyes gleamed.
Another ping.
“DNA stands for?”
Deoxyribonucleic acid.
“Who the hell quizzes their ward during lunch?” one girl said.
“A control freak,” said another.
“But like… a fun one,” Seri grinned.
Then—
“Which planet spins backwards?”
They debated. Seri guessed right: Venus.
Another win.
Then it got harder.
“Rarest blood type?”
They answered AB Positive.
Wrong. AB Negative. Fools. 😒
The group gasped.
“Did he just—?”
“Call us fools?”
“First Law of Thermodynamics?”
They fumbled.
Wrong. Energy can’t be created or destroyed, morons. 😐
Hana laughed so hard she nearly choked on rice.
By the end, Wacko sent 12 questions.
They got 6 right.
They got roasted 8 times.
And they laughed. Hard.
“You know,” one girl said, wiping her eyes, “your sponsor sure is funny.”
“Your sponsor’s deranged,” Seri said, “but he’s got style.”
If only they knew his name, they wouldn't dare say such words.
Other tables stared at them like they were contagious.
Whispers started.
“She’s not even an elite.”
“Why does she get a sponsor like that?”
“Isn’t she a nobody?”
But at their table, they didn’t care.
For once, Hana felt something warm.
Not safety.
Not trust.
But something closer to possibility.
And that… was enough.
- Writer
