Around him stood an array of stone buildings, adorned with heavy Greek columns, intricate entablatures, and some even embellished with copper statues. The early December snow covered the campus in a blanket of stark, glistening white.Â
Anywhere his gaze fell looked like a winter postcard of a classical European university — save for the red and blue lights of a police car flashing luridly against the stone walls, and sharply disrupting the picturesque view.
The usually deserted hallways overlooking the field were crowded with students huddled against marble balustrades, whispering amongst themselves, all looking down on him.
To bid tearful goodbyes maybe, the boy thought grimly.
Even hunched into his threadbare backpack, he was taller than most of the kids in his class. And yet, under the voracious gazes of the entire student body, he felt very small: a prey among a sea of predators.Â
But that thought was his first mistake.
His grip tightened around the papers in his hand: his school records, certificates, merits. – proof of his life’s proudest work, proof of the only wealth he had, proof of his only worth. Now, all just wrinkled pieces of paper, as useful as yesterday’s newspaper.
One winter ago, it was easy enough to believe the odds had finally favored him; that he was finally going to get the break he so longed for. Stepping into this auspicious campus was his ticket to places that were once only in his dreams; his gateway to finally become something far greater than what a public school scholarship and three part-time jobs allowed.Â
He walked the polished floors proudly in his battered leather shoes, confident that his academic merits outshone the wrinkles plaguing his clothes; that his hard work earned him a shot to compete.
And that was where his second mistake lied. The boy could only laugh at his folly now.
A collective gasp bounced against the polished stone and marble. The murmurs grew louder. Two officers had come to take him away.
Three hundred pairs of eyes watched — some in horror, few in curiosity, and others, six to be exact, in delight — as if his arrest was a spectacle, some drama come to life. The boy tipped his head up, daring everyone to watch.Â
He scanned the crowd, eyes searching, until his gaze landed on them — the six; the rulers of this kingdom, the authors of his demise. One of them had an unmistakable triumphant smirk that marked her features, fluttering her fingers goodbye, as he was escorted through the towering stone arch and out of the campus gate.Â
Right then, the boy understood just how foolishly naive he had been all this time.
This was Shinhwa High School — where sons and daughters of businessmen, politicians, bankers, lawyers, and doctors from prominent families were raised; where the pioneers and leaders of the future were made.
perfection belonged only to the gods, he read once. yet, the strive for perfection has always been a quiet devotion so religiously lived in the slightest of his habits. in every precise stroke of his pen across the rumpled page, every straightened valley of his wrinkled shirt, every proud, calculated step in his battered shoes — almost dignified, nearly perfect in every right. to appease the gods or to become them? appease, he whispered. become, it echoed.
living has always been like this for him — with raised fists and a ready strike. every glance was a warning, every single word, a threat. neither unguarded nor weak in the pursuit of higher advantage. he wore his strength like armor; commanded like a ruthless weapon to the weak, presented as a humble offering to those in greater power. for he knew no greater safety than living among the gods, and in their grace, he will fight to stay. even if it meant being reduced to nothing more than a pawn.
hair brushed up neatly and chin tipped in a subtle challenge, he was the epitome of pride and strength. the slightest step earned him praise, the smallest smile elicited admiration. the roar of the crowd hung over him like a shadow – an heir blessed with the crown, a mighty king-to-be granted the fortune of an empire. but alone in the stillness, the mirror showed nothing more than a boy cursed with its weight.
long has she accepted the circumstance of her birth – always second to her brother, spared nothing more than an afterthought. so she spent her days in the quiet, rigorously building, creating something worthy of so much as a second glance. heavy is the head that wears the crown, thank the heavens she does not bear it. but when the night echoes a deafening silence, she heard nothing else but the faintest whisper wishing that she did.
head up, shoulders back, and a charming smile freely given to anyone she would pass. every resounding step brimmed with confidence, like the world was her runway, and everyone else was simply there to watch. and watch they did. for she was beautiful in the way that sirens were — beguiling, ensnaring, and impossible to wake from.
fingers gliding across the ivory, she let her hands tell the story; let a dead man’s cadence substitute the words caught between her teeth — a soft quivering melody, a frail whisper of another language only known to her. for she knew the words engraved within a thousand symphonies, but not the power to speak her own.
how does a girl become a king? never, the gods answer. a boy born into nobility becomes a king with time, but a girl could never wield such power. but she only laughed in the gods’ faces and defiantly wore the conviction that belonged only to the greatest kings, maybe even gods who mastered the earth — proud, dignified, and commanding. the gait of someone who knew exactly what she wanted and how she was going to get it.
where sons and daughters of businessmen, politicians, bankers, lawyers, and doctors from prominent families were raised; where the pioneers and leaders of the future were made; where the only things that mattered were wealth and power.
