Hard Knocks: B-Side (Lookism-like, Original)

[Leekz01]

Here's some more original SFW content commissioned from NMR-3 over from SB.

If you find this interesting please check out A-Side over on SB which is a on-going quest.​

 

[Leekz01]

Sometimes you wish you didn't stand out.

In most ways you don't, really. You're taller than the average Korean boy of your age, but not by a lot, so in itself that's not so rare. You're a little thicker at the shoulders, your hair doesn't fall neatly into shape but instead is a wild tangle. You're not slender, but you're not built or fat either. In most respects, you're not that different from the norm.

No, what really sets you apart is you're half black. Mixed, multiracial, whatever you want to call it, your skin's dark enough that it's obvious from a glance.

You walk onto the Busan metro, looking straight ahead, and after finding a seat you set your bag down next to you and close your eyes for a moment. The metro lurches into motion, and you reopen your eyes to stare outside the window, thinking.

You're distracted by someone, maybe a few moments after the metro doors close, running up to the metro, trying to press the button to open the doors again. He looks about your age, so you're guessing he's another student, except he must've overslept on his first day. That's rough.

Then the metro departs, ignoring him pressing the button, and you watch him stand there, heartbroken, before he passes into the distance and you don't see him anymore.

After that, Busan passes by at an ever-varying pace. You live in the Haeun district - a name that means Sea and Clouds, given to it by a poet from roughly a thousand years ago. Sometimes the metro slows and a digital voice announces the stop, first in Korean and then in English. Then in languages less immediately relevant to you, Japanese, Mandarin.

The metro passes by Dalmaji Hill, one of the city's foremost attractions since ancient times, and the beach, famous throughout Korea. In the early morning light the sea looks calm, and there's not many people out at the moment. A few stops later, the metro also passes by Centrum City and Marine City, a complex of ludicrously expensive high-rises built a couple of years ago that stab at the sky with all the confidence money can buy. There's lights on everywhere, reflected in the water.

In short, Busan's kind of a city that's having difficulty deciding between the old and the new, the local, the national and the international. Maybe that's just your perspective talking, though. You'll admit to some bias there.

You get off at Dongnae, check the GPS app on your phone, and stretch your legs to walk to your new school. Mentally, you review what you know. The school's called Shinil High. The motto is "Excellence, Wisdom, Virtue". Exciting stuff.

The school itself, which is maybe fifteen minutes away from the station, looks... fine? It's definitely a school, is your first thought. There's a big banner hanging from the roof announcing the school's name and that today is the first day.

Your first few steps in your school are with your head held high, and you walk up to one of the adults wearing pins, who you presume is a teacher.

The teacher's a woman in her early thirties, with frizzy hair and wearing jeans. She's of normal height, which means she's a little taller than you are for the moment. She also, you note, has all the enthusiasm of someone who needs five cups of coffee to start her day off but has found herself having only two.

She's currently standing there, having handed out something to one of the other students who just passed by. Wearing an expression that identifies her as an unwilling volunteer who's been told to greet the newbies, she sees you walk up to her and raises an eyebrow.

"Hey," you say. "I'm here for orientation?"

She nods wearily, rummages around in a bag she's carrying with her, and hands you a brochure.

"I'm Ms. Yoo," she says brusquely. Her voice is low for a woman. "Gwen Yoo. Which class you're in is listed on the board set up in the front hall of the school. Classrooms for the first years are on the third floor. The rest of the info you'll need is in the brochure."

"Cool," you say, not really sure what else to say. You walk past her and hear her repeat the same spiel to the next student who walks up to her before they're out of ear shot.

You find your way to class pretty easily. There's three class groups for first year: 1-1, 1-2, and 1-3. You're in 1-2. If that means anything, you don't know.

Picking out a desk's not that hard, because there's some people already present. You pick a desk by the window near the back and settle in. No one comes up to talk to you and you catch a few glances here and there, but you're used to all that, unfortunate as that is.

Ms. Yoo walks in somewhere between five and ten minutes later and starts going through the rules and whatnot. Nothing there you didn't already know and definitely nothing exciting or anything. She looks about as enthusiastic about starting introductions as you feel.

The first guy mumbles something you didn't quite catch and then sits back down. There's a momentary stare-off as everyone waits to see how Ms. Yoo will react, but she just winds up shrugging and motioning for the next one to stand up.

When it's your turn, you stand up as well.

"My name's Lee Kyungseok," you say. "Or Ken, if you prefer."

You say it in flawless Korean, which people still don't seem to expect. There's a couple of expressions of surprise, but at least there's no outright exclamations or anything.

"I speak Korean," you say, having expected the reaction. "And, yes, I'm half American. Please don't make an issue out of it, thanks."

And, even though you say that, sometimes it's gonna be an issue anyway.

You're willing to admit your life story's kind of rare, though. Your mom was a black American who came to Korea to staff the military base nearby but wound up settling down with a civilian here. She's raised you with all the structure, discipline, and focus on physical and moral excellence that implies. Your dad runs a dojo.

You sit back down and wait for a reaction, but none seems to be forthcoming for the moment. Good.

While you ignore most of the introductions, there's a couple you do take note of.

There's a tall guy called Ethan Baek, for instance. He's got a honest sort of face and a sturdy kind of physique. He introduced himself simply by saying that he's here for the Taekwondo team, then sat down again. There's something to be said for simplicity, you suppose.

Second is a girl named Layla Moon. In a word, she's a goth. Through her long black hair you catch glimpses of big earrings dangling from her ears, she's got a couple of arm bands on, and an inverted cross dangles from her neck. You'll admit that she's not unattractive, though. Her introduction's something about Saturn being in retrograde, which might well be the case.

Third is a guy named Isaac Goh. It took him only moments to establish himself as the class clown - he's got a distinctive laugh that's audible from a mile away and seems happy enough to put it to use. Combined with a big sunny smile on his face and the fact that he looks a bit pudgy, he's almost a little too cheerful.

You shrug. You'll find out more about their personalities soon, you suppose, as well as the other classmates'. You're kinda looking forward to it, but first you've got school to get through.

The next couple of hours are taken up by a series of lectures: first history, then maths, then ethics and finally Korean. Each teacher comes in, introduces themselves shortly, and then goes into what topics they'll be covering this year and what they expect - which is mostly just that you do the homework and do the learning.

The school doesn't really seem to expect much in the way of academics from its students, you note.

When it's time for lunch, you run a hand through your hair while the teacher leaves, sagging back in your chair. Alright, you think. Now the hard part - socializing.

"Oi," someone says as you're grabbing your books, so you look up.

That someone is standing near the door. He's got a wide forehead, a shock of blonde hair and two piercings in his left ear. There's a tattoo of a dragon - you think - that's inked on his chest, the head of which pokes out near the hem of his shirt and the tail of which curls around his left arm.

"The boys here, come with me," he orders.

You see a couple of other students trade looks.

"Why?" Isaac asks, too thrown to even joke.

"Shut the fuck up," the guy barks in response. "Don't ask questions."

After exchanging more glances, Isaac finally forces a smile and shrugs his shoulders. "Let's do as the gentleman says," he jokes.

The group follows, and since you're curious what this is about, you follow as well. You don't have a good feeling about it, though, which soon pays off. The guy you're following leads you to a corridor where a shitty wooden chair's been set up. There's a bunch of people standing behind the chair - second years, you think.

Lounging on that chair is a bully. He fits the stereotype to a ridiculous T. He's got short-shaved hair at the sides, long at the top, and a lit cigarette in his hand, which he stamps out on the dirty tile at his foot when your group arrives. He's wearing the school uniform, but he's unbuttoned the top button and popped his collar for maximal douchebaggery.

When you arrive, maybe half of the male first-years in the school in the first year is there. That's about 15 people, more or less. It's not a giant crowd, but it feels like a mass of people in the narrow confines of the corridor.

"You mighta gotten a few lessons from your teachers," the guy in charge says. He was already talking before you got here, it seems, and he's got a pretty thick accent. "But this ain't that kinda lesson. My name is Quentin Choi, but you can call me your professor, because I'm in charge of teaching you what your place is in the hierarchy."

Some of his goons chuckle, until Quentin holds up a hand lazily. "Now, I know how this goes. There's gonna be a couple of you who think that this is bullshit, that maybe I'm just kidding. Nope. You're wrong, and this is why I've thought of a good exercise to try and make my point clear, right?"

Quentin picks at his teeth. "See, anyone who thinks they're someone can walk up and challenge me, right here, right now, to a fight. We don't go to the teachers or any of that weak-sauce shit, we don't back down and we don't pussy out."

He grins. "And when the lot of you are down and I'm still standing, we'll know who's who, and why. You feel me?"

You do not, in fact, feel him. You don't feel this motherfucker at all. No one else really seems to be itching to get started, either, and it's clear Quentin picks up on it.

"No one?" Quentin says. He tries to sound disappointed but it's betrayed by the shit-eating grin on his face. "Cowards, the lot of you? Come on. I ain't gonna be able to make the lesson stick, am I?"

He squints his eyes to look out into the crowd of silent boys.

"You," he says, pointing at one pasty nerd-looking dude, and then at a couple more people in the crowd. When he's got four people who all look about as threatening as tomato cans picked out, he looks around for a final time.

Then his eyes land on you and he brightens. Fuck.

Sometimes you really wish you didn't stand out.

"Hey, you," he says loudly, and points. A few heads turn to see if he's pointing at them, but he makes it obvious a moment later.

"Listen," Quentin says, and cracks his knuckles. "Black dude. You're gonna be the first one up. How's about I show you the law of the jungle?"

 

[Leekz01]

Main character of B-Side:

To be updated later...​

 

[Leekz01]

You sigh.

Well, if he wants it, he's gonna get it.

You step forward and bring your fists up, squaring up silently.

For a moment, you make sure to judge the distance. There's maybe ten feet between the two of you, with a bunch of students thronging to the sides of the hallway. Quentin's arms are shorter than yours despite him being a year older - he's not a big guy, despite his energy that makes him seem taller than he is.

Quentin's eyes brighten.

"That's more like it," he says, and swaggers forwards. "So, what did it? What made you move, huh? Didn't like it when I called you black?"

One of his lackeys smirks.

Quentin struts forward. You watch him step closer, and while you get tenser with every step, he doesn't. He must be confident. His mistake.

"Listen here, motherfucker," he states. His voice is loud, as he's making sure that he's heard.

You've heard enough, though. One foot shifts backwards a little bit. You lower yourself down on your hips a little, make sure that you're anchoring your centerline right so that it becomes unshakable.

Quentin's eyes flicker down and his smirk grows just a little bit more malicious, thinking you're stepping back or stepping down. He continues: "I'm going to beat you back to where you -"

The distance is right, so you twist your hips and set yourself against the floor. Your sneakers squeak a little against the dusty tile.

Your fist slams straight into the spot just below Quentin's ribs and his little speech cuts off with a sudden, wheezing gasp as he experiences the feeling of being slugged in the solar plexus without bracing for it at all.

With the breath driven out of his lungs, he bends very nearly double. Still, you regard him carefully. Not quite done, you think.

There's a sudden murmur of confusion from the audience while everyone watches Quentin's confidence get blasted out of him. He grunts like a wounded animal and tries to force himself back up.

So you hit him again, this time slamming a hammer fist into the center of his back.

Quentin gasps again, then collapses on the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.

"Anyone else?" you ask, the first time you've spoken while they're all watching.

Quentin's goons gape at you, but neither of them goes to help Quentin.

A silence falls. Just as you're thinking you've managed to break their spirit enough that it's over, one of the first-year students behind you utters a tentative whoop of joy. Unfortunately, that forces the second years into confronting the realization that they're losing control of the situation.

"Quentin, get up," one of them mutters, and tries to haul Quentin up by the arm. Quentin wheezes and forces himself back to his feet.

He tries to give you a death glare, the effect of which is destroyed by the fact that his eyes are just slightly red.

"Coward," Quentin whispers. He'd have shouted but he doesn't really have the breath for it yet. "You hit me with a sucker punch!"

That's not how you remember it. You raise your fists again and return his glare unflinchingly.

Quentin throws you a final withering glare, then hobbles away.

"Take him," he mutters to several of his year-mates. "I'm going to tell Danny."

There's a few hesitant looks, before three of them muster up the courage to charge.

You raise your fists again. Fighting three guys is a little harder than beating up one guy, but you've committed now, and there's no way you're backing down.

Breathing in deep and narrowing your eyes, you watch for the moment the first of the three crosses that boundary line. It happens to be one of the bigger boys who's brandishing a fist while he runs at you.

The instant he's close enough, you step forward and slam your fist into his chin with a ramrod straight punch. You don't block his wild haymaker; blocking is a waste of time that you could better use by counter-attacking.

Not that it seems necessary right now. You can practically see the guy's brain rattling around in his skull, and he drops a moment later, fist still hanging in mid-air. You pivot to the next guy, caught in the middle of a loud battle-cry, who tries to tackle you while you're still turning.

While he slams into you, you exhale and ensure your centerline remains steady, and when his legs slip out from underneath him in a slipshod two-leg tackle, you simply sprawl on top of him, getting your legs out of the way and pressing your chest to the top of his head so it slams into the unforgiving floor below.

There's the rushed sound of footsteps approaching as the last guy approaches you while you're still down on the floor.

Fortunately, that's what you were banking on. You roll to the side, arm slipping under the arms of the guy who just tackled you and hefting him up to essentially make him the wall to blunt the inevitable football kick that you're certain is coming.

That prediction goes slightly awry when Ethan steps out of the crowd and delivers a brutal side kick to the final second year's stomach that sends him careening away. With one leg still raised in mid-step, the second-year stands no chance of regaining his balance, and swiftly slams his head into the nearest wall instead.

You raise yourself up again, relinquishing your hold on the groaning second-year still laying on his side, and survey the scene.

There's a couple of second-years left, but they don't dare move. Everyone's eyes are glued to the three boys, each down or out, and to Quentin, whose stumbling gait has sped up a little bit and is very deliberately not looking behind him.

"Anyone else?" you ask again, making sure to stare every second-year all in the eyes one by one. Not a single one dares meet your eyes.

Yeah, that's what you thought.

You turn in the silent hallway and stride away before people remember to pick their jaws off the floor. Slowly but surely, a bunch of other first-years follow after you in stunned silence, which soon fades into excited whispering and discussions of what just happened.

"Well done," Ethan says, jogging just a little bit to catch up to you.

"Thanks. Nice kick," you say, looking at him with your head tilted.

"Thanks. Good punch," he responds.

"I've had better," you say.

Ethan raises an eyebrow. "Not sure Quentin agrees."

You grin, and so does he.

"Lunch?" you ask, taking this as an offer of friendship.

"Yeah. Let's go."

He's not much of a talker, but you can respect that. Seems like a decent dude, as far as you can judge. The both of you are men, and that means it's equally valid to have friendships based on talking as it is to have friendships based on not talking at all.

"I got my own lunch," you say. "I'll go grab it, you go get a seat."

"Sure."

You head back to the classroom, which is mostly empty. If that's normal or because the whole mess with Quentin earlier, you have no idea.

Having retrieved your lunch and stepped out of the classroom again, you realize that you're actually not sure where the cafeteria is. Fortunately, there's a bunch of other students still trickling their way down the stairs anyway and you can just follow them, which you proceed to do.

The wait line for the food's kind of clogged, so you actually have to wait on Ethan for a moment and check out the room.

You don't really know what you expected from the cafeteria, but it looks basically exactly like any school cafeteria you've ever seen. There's a long line set up near a bunch of serving stations, which you try not to think of as feeding troughs. There's tables set around the room, most of them square.

While most of those tables have people at them, they haven't really filled up with any sort of recognizable clique yet. Still, there's also a couple of empty tables, so you're just gonna head for those for now.

You pick out a table that seats four, figure it should do, and head over. Maybe a few seconds after you sit down with your lunch and start unpacking your sandwich, Ethan announces his arrival by setting his plate on the table and scraping the chair backwards.

While he sits, you check out his meal. There's rice, there's vegetables, there's meat, and there's some sort of sauce-looking thing that you can't readily identify.

"What's that?" you ask.

"Gochujang jjigae," Ethan explains. "Chili pepper stew. You never had any?"

"Not looking like that, no," you say, scratching the back of your neck. At your home, your mom is the supreme authority when it comes to the kitchen, and she treats deviation from Grandma's recipe book like it's heresy. As a result, you're mostly familiar with American cooking.

For example: your own lunch is a sandwich that your mother packed you. You're not complaining, she's a good cook. Also she'd beat your ass for trying to refuse her food, anyway.

"Is it good?" you ask, deciding to not dwell on those thoughts.

Ethan shrugs and helps some more food into his mouth. "I've had better."

That's not a compliment, but alright.

There's two open places left at the table and more than enough space to sit, but you see a couple of people pass you by and head to other tables after giving the seat next to you a nervous look.

When someone finally does sit at the table, next to Ethan and across from you, it's Isaac, the pudgy kid from class. He's got a plate with him also, with similarly small portions as Ethan.

"Hey," he says.

"Yo," you say, after swallowing the last bite of your sandwich. "What's up?"

"I just wanted to say, you really saved my bacon," Isaac says, lifting up his fork with some mystery meat on top.

"That's chicken," Ethan says, not looking particularly impressed.

Isaac looks dismayed for a moment. "Shit," he says. "Uh."

"Think fast," you say, grinning.

"You, uh," he says in response, and throws you a pleading look. "Yeah, I've got nothing, man. Don't do this to me."

You snort, and Isaac smiles back at you.

"Anyway, all of that's not the reason I'm here," he says. "I wanted to say thanks for, you know, beating up Quentin before he beat all of us up. Me in particular, for obvious reasons."

"No problem," you say.

"Yeah," Ethan says. "If he didn't, I would've."

"What was that about, anyway?" Isaac asks. "Either of you two got any idea?"

You shrug. "No clue. We'll probably learn more, I figure."

"Yeah," Ethan says again. "Don't worry about it."

"Well, anyway, I've got an offer for you," Isaac says. "My older brother went here too, so I know a little bit of how this school runs. The clubs, the school layout, who the teachers are that you can piss off and who you can get away with screwing around in front of."

He leans forward. "I can give you the lowdown, if you would. The skinny."

Isaac makes his tone almost conspiratorial, but you're pretty sure that there's little he can tell you that you can't just find out on your own.

You rub your chin. Still, might be interesting to learn a little bit. If nothing else, it'll keep the conversation alive.

 

[Leekz01]

"Tell me about the sports clubs," you say, leaning your chin on your hand. "Anything interesting?"

"We've got a basketball club," Isaac says. "That your thing?"

"Mostly big leagues," you tell him. "From time to time. NBA."

"Yeah, well, that's not what this is," he agrees. "I think our team is like, regional, at best. Moving on...

"There's a swimming club. Not on the premises, but they've worked out a deal with a pool nearby that they get to go for free. They're expected to swim four days out of the week before and after school."

"That's pretty intense," you say.

"Right?" Isaac says. "Definitely too intense for me, I can tell you that much. Getting up early is insane enough, but doing it to go swimming? I'd drown, and I probably wouldn't even mind drowning at that point, to be honest."

You snort.

"You'd float," Ethan says, smirking to himself.

"Hey," Isaac says, grinning along. "I'm only human. It's not my fault that the food here's too good."

He looks down at his plate, then back up. "And by here, I mean the food in the restaurants nearby. Not this mystery meat mix... thing."

"No, we got that," you respond wryly. "Fun as all this is, I was mostly wondering about martial arts clubs. I know there's apparently a Taekwondo club."

"There is," Ethan says, folding his arms. "It's why I'm here."

You blink. "Hold on. I thought there was a lottery system or something to decide who goes to which school?"

"I was joking," Ethan admits. "Yeah, it was random."

"Sometimes it works out, I guess?" you say.

"I don't feel like it worked out for me," Isaac grumbles, pushing his fork through his meat again. "But, anyway, Taekwondo, right. It's true, there's a club here, they've got one of the side halls that's basically theirs full time."

Ethan nods.

Isaac looks around twice cautiously before continuing, which you think is weird.

"But, uh, they're a little... notorious," he says. "Think infamous, not famous."

"Give me an example," you say. "How bad is it? Like, what kind of infamy are we talking about? Drinking? Doping? Points shaving? Did a coach try something?"

Ethan frowns deeper with every possibility, as if wondering what he's got himself into.

"Uh, none of those," Isaac says. "It's not that bad. I mean, as far as I know. Just tempers running high, I guess."

That causes Ethan to relax.

"That all?" he says, a little dismissively.

"Look, I don't really know the details," Isaac admits. "But I hear a judge got kicked in the mouth one time during a tournament match. That's usually not ideal, right?"

"Accident, maybe," Ethan says. He doesn't sound so sure of himself.

"Mm," you say. "I've got to admit, I'm kinda curious to hear what the story is there."

Isaac shrugs. "I don't know any more than that, so you're gonna have to ask the people from the Taekwondo club."

"Why the interest?" Ethan asks you.

"My dad runs a dojang," you say.

"That explains a lot," Isaac says. "So, your moves are from Taekwondo, huh?"

"No, not really," you say. "That was Jeet Kune Do."

"Jeet Kune Do," Isaac repeats, scrunching up his face. "Never heard of it before. Is it, like, Chinese?"

"Bruce Lee," Ethan says, thoughtfully.

Isaac stares at him, baffled. "The actor? From, like the 60s? What's he got to do with anything?"

"He was a lot more than that," you say. "Really gifted martial artist, too. What I do is based on what he practiced, which is based on a whole bunch of other martial arts."

"Cool," Isaac says. It's clear he doesn't fully understand it, but that's fine. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Based on Taekwondo?" Ethan asks.

"Yeah. My dad teaches taekwondo, actually," you say.

"And he's not disappointed that you practice a different style?"

You shrug. "As long as I hold to the Taekwondo philosophy, he doesn't mind. Besides, Jeet Kune Do is partially based on Taekwondo, anyway, so I train with him sometimes."

"And you're thinking you might do that at school too, huh?" Isaac says. "Seems to me that you've trained pretty hard already, with how easily you took down Quentin. That was his name, right? Quentin?"

"Yes to the name thing, otherwise, nah," you explain. "You can never have too much training, right?"

Ethan nods. "There's training this afternoon. You in?"

"I don't think I am, actually," Isaac says, pushing his plate away. It's empty, even if he didn't exactly look enthused to eat it all. You'll be kind and chalk that up to politeness. "If you don't mind?"

Ethan shrugs.

"Yeah, no, fair," you say. "Doesn't exactly look like your type of thing."

"No clue what you mean by that," he laughs. You're not sure if he's making his belly shake with his laughter on purpose, but it makes his sarcasm clear, in any case.

"I think I'm gonna go, actually," you say. "Might not train together with you, but I figure I might as well have a quick look around, right?"

"No problem," Ethan says. "Well, probably."

The lunch bell rings not too long after that, and after ditching your various lunch remnants in the bins nearby, you head back up to class.

In the back of your mind, you've got to admit to believing that after the excitement of your lunch break, the rest of your school day would be equally exciting. Unfortunately, your expectations are betrayed. Every teacher after the lunch follows the same routine: introduce themselves while trying hard not to show any personality traits or anything memorable, tell you all the things you'll be seeing this year, and then finish up by starting a lesson.

The only one to really deviate from that script in any meaningful way is the last one you've got that day: the English teacher.

He's a man with thinning but not greying hair, a habit of clasping his hands when he talks, and the most animated demeanor you've seen from a teacher ever since you arrived in Korea.

"My name is Mr. Goh," he says. "Korean name Goh Kwangjin, English name Grover Goh, to be clear. I'll be the one to teach you English this coming year, and if we're lucky for the next two years as well. "

So far, so good, but then it gets worse.

"I hear that we've got an American in the room!" he says like a bad standup comedian, pantomiming looking around. Every other head in the room swivels towards you as if magnetically drawn there. Great.

He points at you and you stand up from your seat, trying to school your face into the expression of someone eager to be called on.

"Stand up, stand up," he says. "Now, you'll have to forgive me. I don't quite know every name yet, though I'm working on it. Could you give me a short little introduction?"

"Kenneth Lee," you say, standing up from your chair. "I'm half-American."

"Well, that's a half more than the rest of us," Mr. Goh jokes. "You speak English at home?"

"Half," you say, and at his inquisitive look, you explain further: "English to my mom, Korean to my dad. Both with my sisters."

"Fascinating," he says. "You know, I've been to America myself."

It's clear that he takes an enormous pride in this, because he starts preening. You're not all that impressed for obvious reasons, but the rest of the class does seem kind of enthused by the thought of going to America.

"Where, sir?" you ask, since he's not given you permission to sit down just yet.

"A little town," he says coyly. "A couple of you may have heard of it. New York, does that ring any bells?"

He's making a big show of humility, but what he really wants is praise for this monumental achievement. There's a few impressed looks thrown his way, and he basks in them.

Mr. Goh allows you to sit back down at that point and you do so gratefully. You catch a few impressed looks, which you presume are going to lead to more questions to tutor someone in English. For whatever reason, English is considered vital to success here, and so the most common reaction to overhearing someone speak English or seeing a foreigner is either racism or asking if they can tutor someone's kids, off the books.

Your sisters have done it a few times, and you're not opposed to it. It's fairly easy money, for not much work. The job can suck sometimes, but your sisters don't really have any horror stories or anything.

The rest of the English lesson passes without further incident. You know all of this stuff already, and you're pretty sure you can speak better English than Mr. Goh himself.

When school ends, Ethan stands up and stretches. Isaac, too, stands up, and tiptoes over to the door connecting your classroom to the hallway, the motion exaggerated like he's in a cartoon, all high knees. He attracts some attention from the other classmates too, and as a result he starts exaggerating it even more, to quiet grins and some giggling. Isaac quietly tugs open the sliding door and peers outside.

"Coast is clear," he announces. "No Quentin."

You and Ethan exchange an amused look.

"We're heading to the dojang," you tell Isaac. "See you tomorrow."

"Sure," he says, and returns to his desk to grab his bag. "Have fun, or whatever."

You head down the stairs and, following the plan that you were given earlier this morning, take a left to head through a glass door, across a bit of paved garden and heading up to the PE hall.

From the moment you step inside, it's clear that this is only a part-time Taekwondo dojang. In most dojangs, including your father's, there's a Korean flag hanging up on one of the walls, for instance. Taekwondo isn't a grappling martial art, but sometimes there's mats, just to practice being able to fall right.

On the other hand, this was clearly more intended to be a basketball court. The lines are painted on the floor and there's two retractable hoops, both currently retracted at the moment to give you just a little more space. There's a cabinet set to the side of the court where the benches would be, and you can tell it's meant to display trophies, due to the glass front. It's empty of everything except what looks to be participation trophies.

You stand off to the side, roughly near the free throw line, and wonder where everyone else is. So far it's you and Ethan and you mill around for a bit, until five minutes later other people start arriving.

A few other students walk in, fellow first-years. There's maybe five of you in total, including you and Ethan. Two of them are clumped together, the other comes alone. You don't really speak to each other, though you can't really name a reason why you wouldn't.

There's three people who arrive already in their white Taekwondo uniforms. They've got various belts - two blue, one red. Normally, the blue belts are one step below the red, and the red belt is one step below the black belt. You say normally because more or less every Taekwondo federation has different rules about belts, and then there's additional intermediary belts introduced by specific dojangs in an absolute riot of colors.

The first, with the red belt, is the biggest of the three. He's got a blocky sort of physique, with wide shoulders and a certain sense of solidity to him. You wouldn't call him handsome, because he's got heavy eyebrows, small eyes, and a sizable cleft chin, all of which contribute to making his face look curiously old even though he's probably seventeen.

As a matter of fact, on first seeing him you were pretty convinced that he was going to be the sunsengnim here.

The other two have blue belts, and it's easier to tell they're fellow students. There's one boy and one girl. Twins, you think - they've both got brown hair, with the boy's being short-cropped and the girl's being tied into two pigtails. They're about the same height, too. They both have more or less the same facial features, which you suppose makes sense, even if you don't know if either would take that as a compliment.

They turn to you, arrayed in a neat little triangle - the red belt in front, the blue belts behind him, one to each side.

"Welcome," the red belt says, folding his arms behind his back in a parade rest position. "My name is Grant Choi. These are Morgan and Robin Huang."

Which is which, Grant doesn't say. With both having gender-neutral names it's not easy to guess, either.

"I'm currently the leader of the Taekwondo club," he says. "That means I'm a third year. You'll address me as hyung. Clear?"

You and the others nod, at which Grant relaxes. Not relaxed enough to smile, though.

"So," he says. "Normally we'd ease into things at this point in the training, but to make sure that I know what we're dealing with, we'll start off with some sparring. If you've never done Taekwondo before, just stand off to the side, or if you're partnered with one of us, just tell us and we'll show you some basics. That clear?"

Hmm. Not the normal call to jump straight into sparring. Normally there's stretching, or

Still, the others nod.

"Line up," Grant instructs you. "Just say who we want to spar with."

You and the other three move into a line with minimal fuss. You end up at the right end of the line, standing next to Ethan.

"Right," Grant says, and turns to you. "Pick who you want to spar with, and -"

He freezes when he catches proper sight of you, with the deer-in-headlights expression of someone who's just realized that only paying vague attention to his English classes is about to monumentally backfire.

"I, uh, am Grant Choi," he begins, in halting English. "This is, uh. Taekwondo dojang. Yes?"

"I speak Korean," you say. It's not the first time you're getting this reaction, and the humor of it's mostly worn off for you, at this point.

"Oh thank God," he mutters. "So, you got all of that?"

"Yeah," you say. "Sparring. I got it."

"Alright then," Grant says. "Who do you wanna spar with?"

You consider it for a moment.

"Morgan and Robin."