The cheap plastic alarm clock screamed at precisely 5:30 AM, its tinny sound a daily invasion of the brief peace sleep offered. My eyelids felt glued shut, heavy with a weariness that seeped into my bones. Another day. Another loop. I dragged myself out of bed, the cold linoleum floor a shock against my bare feet. The small room, barely big enough for the bed and a narrow desk crammed with textbooks, offered no solace. It was less a sanctuary, more a cage I was expected to maintain. Downstairs, the air was already thick with unspoken tension. My mother was in the kitchen, the clatter of ceramic against the counter sharp and unforgiving. She didn't look up as I entered, her gaze fixed on the boiling water. Her posture was ramrod straight, every movement economical, precise. There was a cold, detached efficiency to everything she did, including raising me. "You're running late," she stated, her voice flat, devoid of warmth. It wasn't a question. It was a judgment. Every moment not dedicated to being productive, to being "perfect", was a waste. And I, in her eyes, wasted a lot of moments. "Only a few minutes," I murmured, pouring myself a glass of water. My hands trembled slightly. They always did in the morning. My father emerged from the living room, suit jacket already on, tie meticulously knotted. He glanced at me, his expression critical. "Still not studying an extra hour before school?" he asked, his voice carrying the same undertone of disappointment my mother's did. "I finished the math assignments last night, Father," I replied, keeping my voice even. I had stayed up until past midnight, my eyes burning, the numbers blurring on the page. It was never enough. "Finished them, or understood them?" he pressed, adjusting his cufflink. "There's a difference, Y/N. This isn't the time for mediocrity. The exams are critical. Your future depends on these next few months." "My future." Their future. Their carefully constructed plan for my life, one that involved prestigious universities, respectable careers, and probably some equally respectable, emotionally sterile marriage to secure a favourable social standing. My desires, my fears, my suffocating anxiety - none of that factored into their calculations. I was a project, an investment they expected a high return on. And I was failing. Not just in grades, but in being the person they wanted me to be. The pressure felt like a physical weight on my chest, making it hard to breathe. I choked down a piece of toast I didn't want, the dry bread scraping against my throat. Every meal felt like another performance, another chance to be found wanting. "I'll review the material on the bus," I promised, a hollow offering I knew they didn't believe. They never believed I was doing enough. Because I wasn't. Not for them. Not for anyone. I escaped the apartment building and stepped out into the grey morning air. The city was already a symphony of noise - traffic, distant sirens, the low hum of a thousand lives in motion. Each sound was a fresh assault on my frayed nerves. I pulled my backpack tighter around my shoulders, the weight of the books nothing compared to the internal burden I carried. The bus ride was a blur of jostling bodies and the dull ache in my head. I stared out the window,watching the buildings pass, feeling utterly disconnected from the world outside. My mind replayed conversations, criticisms, moments of perceived failure. The memory of a particularly brutal science class yesterday clawed at me. Mr. Seo, our teacher, had a way of making me feel small, stupid, and utterly worthless. He didn't just teach the subject; he seemed to revel in highlighting students' weaknesses, and mine, it seemed, were his favourite targets. Walking into the school felt like entering a battleground. The noise of lockers slamming, students laughing, the shrill ring of the first bell - it all grated on me. I went through the motions of the morning classes, my concentration fractured, my thoughts circling like vultures. The impending science class loomed large, a dark cloud on the horizon of my day. Lunch was a solitary affair in a corner of the cafeteria. Even amidst the crowd, I felt utterly alone. My parents had ingrained in me that socializing was a distraction, a waste of time better spent studying. So I ate quickly, trying to make myself invisible, the knot in my stomach tightening with every passing minute. By the time the bell rang for afternoon classes, my hands were clammy, my heart hammering against my ribs. Science. Room 304. The air in the hallway seemed to thicken as I approached the classroom door. Mr. Seo stood by his desk, a thin man with thinning hair and eyes that seemed to gleam with perpetual dissatisfaction. He liked to pace, hands clasped behind his back, dispensing facts and insults with equal measure. Today, he seemed particularly energized. The lesson was on chemical reactions, a topic I actually found interesting, despite my struggles with the subject. But Mr. Seo quickly veered off-topic, his gaze sweeping over the class before landing on me. "Some students," he began, his voice dripping with condescension, "seem to think that simply showing up is enough. They occupy a desk, take up space, but contribute nothing. Like inert gases. Unreactive. Useless." He paused, letting his words hang in the air. The silence in the room was palpable. Everyone knew who he was talking about. He always made sure they did. My cheeks burned. I focused on the textbook on my desk, trying to disappear into the diagram of a molecule. My fingers traced the lines, a desperate attempt to ground myself. Don't react, I told myself. Don't give him the satisfaction. "Y/N," he said, my name a sharp shard of glass in the quiet. "Perhaps you can explain why your recent test scores resemble a random scattering of bird droppings rather than a graph of progress?" A few snickers rippled through the class. My blood ran cold. He hadn't just criticized my grades; he had publicly humiliated me, reducing my efforts to something dirty, chaotic, meaningless. It was the casual cruelty, the deliberate attempt to strip away my dignity, that broke something inside me. The pressure I had been carrying for so long, the weight of expectations, the fear of failure, the deep-seated anger at my parents, at myself, at the world it all coalesced into a sudden, blinding rage. The diagram in my textbook blurred. The classroom seemed to shrink, the faces of my classmates twisting into mocking caricatures. Mr. Seo's sneering face was the only thing in focus. My chair scraped back with a violent noise. I stood up, my legs shaky but propelled by a force I barely recognized. My hands, the hands that always trembled with anxiety, felt strangely steady.My gaze locked onto Mr. Seo. He looked surprised, then annoyed. "Do you have something to add, Y/N?" he asked, his tone shifting to one of mock patience. "Perhaps an excuse for your... inertia?" I didn't answer. My eyes scanned his desk. A metal letter opener lay among the scattered papers, its silver surface catching the fluorescent light. It seemed to hum with a strange energy, drawing my focus. Without conscious thought, I lunged forward. The movement was swift, fueled by years of suppressed fury. I snatched the letter opener from his desk before he could react. His eyes widened in alarm, the condescending smirk vanishing instantly, replaced by fear. Students cried out, chairs scraping back as they scrambled away. He stumbled back, bumping into his desk. "Y/N! What are you doing?!" His voice was no longer mocking; it was laced with genuine terror. But I couldn't stop. The rage had consumed me, turning my vision red. His face, contorted in fear, was the embodiment of every critic, every disappointment, every person who had ever made me feel less than. I struck. The metal slipped easily through his thin shirt, piercing something soft and yielding beneath. He gasped, a choked, gurgling sound, and crumpled to the floor. The letter opener clattered beside him, stained red. Silence. Absolute, deafening silence descended upon the classroom. The students stared, their faces pale, eyes wide with horror. And then, the rage began to recede, leaving behind a cold, empty void. The red haze lifted. I saw Mr. Seo lying on the floor, a dark stain spreading across his chest. I saw the fear in the eyes of my classmates, the open mouths, the trembling hands covering faces. What had I done? The question echoed in the sudden, terrible stillness, a whisper in the storm of my own making. My hands were shaking violently now. I looked down at them, at the faint tremor that was always there, but now seemed amplified a thousand times. I had snapped. And the world had fundamentally, irrevocably, changed.
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