Red Thread season 1

The alarm didn't just ring. It screamed. It had been screaming for fifteen minutes straight, a digital shriek that sounded like a dying robot. I was currently buried under my duvet like a mummy in a very expensive, very gray coffin, my brain refusing to process the concept of reality. No. No. No. I didn't move. I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the universe to magically fix itself. 7:30 AM. My eyes snapped open. 7:30 AM?! The alarm was still blaring. I slapped it with the force of a thousand suns. Silence. Finally. I looked at the clock again, and my stomach dropped. “Oh. My. God.” I hissed, throwing the blanket off. “Thirty minutes until class starts!” I didn't get out of bed. I didn't stretch. I didn't even think about brushing my teeth. I just panicked. “Okay, Yoo-ra,” I told myself, my voice cracking. “You are a professional. You are a grown woman. You are not going to die if you're late. You are not. You are NOT.” But the voice in my head clearly had other plans. “Professor Kim is going to kill you! He’s going to look at your paper and say, ‘Yoo-ra, you are a disaster!’ He’s going to give me a zero! A ZERO!” I scrambled up, tripping over my own feet. I grabbed the nearest thing—a faded, oversized gray hoodie that smelled a little like old laundry and a pair of loose black slacks that definitely had a stain on the knee from last week. “Five minutes to shower. Five minutes to look human. Five minutes to not die.” I sprinted into the bathroom, grabbing my toothbrush like it was a weapon. I brushed my teeth with the precision of a bomb disposal expert. I pulled on the hoodie. It was oversized, gray, and smelled like yesterday's coffee. Perfect. I pulled my hair into a bun. Not a pretty bun. Not a “hair salon” bun. Just a greasy, messy bun that looked like I was hiding a secret terrorist cell. “Please, please, please,” I whispered, checking my reflection. “Don't let me be late.” I grabbed my bag. Textbooks. Laptop. Water bottle. Everything thrown in with the grace of a hurricane. 7:45 AM. I burst out the door of The Old Pine Building, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. The morning air in Hongdae was crisp, biting at my exposed skin. The streets were already waking up. Vendors were setting up their stalls, selling tteokbokki and coffee. The city was loud, chaotic, and full of life. “I'm late. I'm late. I'm late.” My brain was looping like a broken record. I didn't care who looked at me. I didn't care that my slacks were wrinkled or that my hair was sticking to my forehead. I just ran. The bus stop was just around the corner. The bus was coming. I could see it—a green bus, looking lazy and slow, like it didn't care if anyone lived or died. “Please, please, please,” I begged, waving my arms. “Come on! Don't you dare leave me!” The bus screeched to a halt. The doors hissed open. “YES!” I jumped on. I slid into a seat, my chest heaving, my heart still racing. I leaned my head against the window, staring out at the city. “Okay. You made it. You're safe. You're here. You're... alive.” I took a deep breath. The bus started moving. Seoul rushed past me, a blur of neon and concrete. But then, a strange feeling prickled at the back of my neck. Did the bus driver just look at me? Did that shadow on the corner move? Did I just forget to lock my door? I shook my head. “No. No. No. You're just tired. You're just stressed. You're just... Yoo-ra.” I smiled at myself in the reflection of the window. “You're a disaster. But you're a surviving disaster.” The bus turned a corner. The sun came out from behind the clouds. Life was hard. Life was messy. Life was late. But for now, I was just a girl in a gray hoodie, running late to class, trying to survive one more day. --- The Arrival: Seoul Horizon University I burst through the sliding glass doors of the lecture hall, my lungs burning like I had just run a marathon. The air inside was cool and smelled like old textbooks, floor wax, and stale coffee. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, flickering slightly and casting long, dancing shadows on the walls. The room was a sea of tired students, some slumped in their seats, others frantically writing notes. The chairs were hard, the desks were scratched, and the air felt heavy with the tension of a thousand students waiting for the bell. “I'M HERE! I'M HERE!” I didn't stop to catch my breath. I didn't stop to fix my hair. I didn't stop to say good morning. I just sprinted down the aisle, my slacks flapping, my hoodie bouncing with every step. The room went silent. Every single head turned. “Oh no.” They're all looking at me. They think I'm a crazy person. They think I'm a thief. They think I'm... late. I scrambled to the last empty seat in the back just as the professor was walking in. “Phew.” I collapsed into the chair. Safe. Just... safe. Suddenly, a hand slapped my shoulder. Hard. “Yoo-ra! You actually came!” I jumped and spun around. Mika was standing there, her arms crossed, a huge grin on her face. She looked perfectly put together, with her hair in a perfect ponytail and her uniform crisp. “Mika!” I hissed. “Don't yell! You're going to get me killed!” Mika leaned in, her eyes wide. “But I thought you were never coming! I was about to call your mom! I was about to call the police! I was about to call... an exorcist!” I groaned, burying my face in my hands. “Please, Mika. Don't say ‘exorcist.’ I don't need that kind of attention.” Mika laughed, loud and infectious. “You ran like you were being chased by a zombie! Seriously, Yoo-ra. Did you run from your house? Did you run from the bus? Did you run from me?” I rolled my eyes. “Shut up! You're impossible! You run like you are the one chasing me!” Mika grinned, poking my arm. “Maybe I am! Maybe I'm the zombie. Brains!” I groaned. “Ugh. You're terrifying.” Just then, the door at the front of the room slammed shut. Professor Kim walked in. He was a tall man, with sharp eyes and a suit that looked like it was tailored specifically to make students nervous. He didn't smile. He didn't say good morning. He just walked to the front, placed his stack of papers on the desk, and looked at the class. “Good morning,” he said, his voice deep and cold. “Today, we will discuss the complexities of International Trade Law and the impact of tariffs on small businesses.” He turned to the whiteboard and started writing, his marker squeaking loudly against the surface. My stomach dropped. “Oh no. I was so busy running, I didn't even check my notes.” He walked down the aisle, his eyes scanning the room. They stopped at me. “Yoo-ra,” he said, his voice cutting through the silence. “Yes, Professor?” I squeaked. “You are late. Again,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “And you look like you just ran a marathon. Did you run from the bus? Or did you run from reality?” The class giggled. I felt my face turn red. “I... I just... I woke up late...” “Wake up early,” he said, turning back to the front. “Or next time, you will be late forever.” He turned around and started writing on the board again. “Okay,” he said. “Let's begin.” I let out a breath I didn't know I wa s holding. “Okay,” I whispered to myself. You survived. Mika leaned in again, whispering, “You were so dramatic. ‘Zombie run!’” “Shut up, Mika,” I whispered back, a small smile forming. “Just... shut up.”