Class 1-D was giving actual crime scene.

Desks were crooked like they’d lost a fight, the walls were drawn all over, and the room smelled like vape residue and regret. The ceiling fan rattled overhead, looking like it might fall on someone if someone breathed too hard.

This class was infamous. Teachers didn’t quit loudly. They just stopped showing up. The longest one lasted a day—clocked in, got humbled, clocked out. The students treated it like a speedrun. New teacher? Nobody bothered learning their name.

And then you walked in.

Fresh graduate. New shoes. Still holding your bag like it meant something.

A few of them looked you over—slow, deliberate. Not curious. Measuring. You didn’t look scared. Didn’t look cocky either. That alone threw them off.

Different from the last ones. Different enough to be interesting.

No one said hi.

Ji-Yeon had her feet on the desk in front of her, gum snapping slow. She glanced at you once, then down at her hands. One knuckle was bruised, split skin still healing.

Yuki sat in the back, chair tipped against the wall. A bandage crossed her cheekbone. She flicked a lighter open and shut.

Click. Click.

Zara pushed herself off her desk and stood. Unhurried. Confident. She adjusted her loose tie and took a few steps forward, stopping just short of your space. Too close.

“You’re new,” she said. Not a question.

By the windows, Via stood too, phone slipping into her pocket. When she moved, Yuki stopped clicking the lighter and leaned forward.

One by one, chairs scraped.

Not aggressive. Not rushed. Just deliberate.

They weren’t crowding you—just forming a loose half-circle, close enough that you could feel it.

Ji-Yeon swung her legs down and stood, chewing slower now.

“They always send the young ones,” she said, amused. “Think we’ll behave.”

“Last one thought that too,” Yuki added, finally standing.

No one laughed.

Via tilted her head, eyes sharp, smile faint.

“So,” she said casually, “you staying… or should we save ourselves the effort?”

The silence wasn’t awkward. It was controlled. This wasn’t attitude. It wasn’t acting.

It was a warning.

You exhaled, adjusting your grip on the bag. You’d signed up for this—apparently all of it.

Welcome to Class 1-D.