The chip comes first. There are six new students—five others and me. I don’t have a chance to learn their names or commit their faces to memory. We’re met at the academy’s entrance and immediately ushered downstairs.

I’ll admit it’s a bit of a shock. I wasn’t aware that there was a downstairs. It wasn’t on the tour I was given. I start to wonder what else Jungyeop didn’t tell me.

But then I remind myself that it doesn’t make any difference. The only thing that matters is that he has proof that Myungsoo’s death was no accident.

I’ll go wherever Jungyeop wants me to go, as long as I get it.

Three stories underground, we enter a long hallway. A sign reads infirmary. To our right is a white wall with six doors. The left wall is raw bedrock. The hall ends at a pair of steel doors that are secured by a biometric lock. There’s an unlabeled buzzer beside it.

I’d love to find out if anyone’s home.

One by one, the five kids ahead of me disappear to the right. The white doors close before I can figure out what lies beyond them. Finally it’s my turn. The room I enter looks like a doctor’s office.

A man in a lab coat and surgical mask is scrolling through a file on the computer screen that’s anchored to the wall. “Take off everything from the waist up and sit here,” he orders, pointing to an examination table. Then he disappears, and a woman enters carrying a metal tray. It holds a scalpel, a computer chip, a needle and thread, and a few other instruments I don’t recognize.

She straps on a pair of plastic goggles and begins to swab my forearm with iodine. The operation can’t be as simple as Jungyeop made it sound if the lady’s worried she’ll get blood in her eyes.

“Are you allergic to lidocaine?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” I say.

“We’ll find out soon,” she responds.

The anesthesia numbs my left arm from the elbow down. I watch as she chooses a scalpel from the tray. I plan to observe the entire operation.

“You’re not squeamish?” the woman asks before she makes the first incision.

“No,” I tell her, and she pauses to make a note on the office computer.

It takes about ten minutes to insert the chip. When she’s finished, I examine the three stitches in my forearm and the small, square bump beneath them.

“Keep it clean. Don’t try to remove the chip. You could rupture an artery and bleed to death.”

“Okay.” I guess that I didn’t hide the hollowness in my voice, because she raised her eyebrow by a margin. I wouldn’t be very bothered if I did bleed to death, to be honest.

After Myungsoo’s death, I had debated over the prospect of suicide a few times. I had lived before only for the sole purpose of escaping with my mother and brother. But before I left, I decided I would kill my father.

As for death – well, maybe afterwards.

She leaves the tray and instruments in the sink. As soon as she washes her hands, she passes me a paper gown. “Take off your pants, shoes, and underwear.”

After the probing I receive, I half expect the doctor to climb onto the table and cuddle up beside me. But she’s not done yet. The first thing I thought she’d check, she seems to have left for last.

She peels the filthy bandage off my cheekbone and begins to clean the gunk from my wound.

“Didn’t the doctor at the hospital warn you about infection?” she asks. 

“I hate doctors. I always stitch myself up,” I lie.

“How long ago did you graduate from medical school?” There’s a subtle sneer in her voice. I pretend not to hear it.

“Are you trying to say that I did a great job?” I smile as if I am proud.

“I’m saying you’re rather young to have been trained as a surgeon.”

“Yes, well, I’m full of surprises. I’m shocked you didn’t find more during the rectal exam.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t,” the doctor replies humorlessly. “We don’t like surprises.”

I don’t get a new bandage. My stitches are left exposed. The doctor pulls a white box from a drawer. The typed label on top bears a six-digit number. Inside are four empty vials, some plastic tubing, and a blood-drawing needle. But she chooses a long swab with a ball of cotton on its end.

“Open your mouth,” she orders.

“Do most schools require a DNA test?” I ask.

“This will go much faster if you remain silent,” she says, jamming the swab into the lining of my cheek.

Anything for the proof, I remind myself. You have to do anything.

After I’ve dressed, I’m loaded back onto the elevator. It travels one floor up. According to the sign that greets us as the gates open, we’re now entering the Incubation Suites. I wonder what they’re incubating as I follow my guide down an unusually wide corridor.

It’s at least fifteen feet from side to side, and the ceiling must be twenty feet high. I’m left in a room with six desks arranged to face an enormous movie screen. Four of the desks are already filled with my fellow newbies. There’s no other furniture. And it has one rather unsettling feature.

There’s a glass-encased catwalk suspended from the ceiling. It runs the entire length of the room and appears to continue into the room next door. I’m pretty sure we’re being observed. But the glass is frosted, and I can’t see through.

There’s no way to tell who might be watching us from above.

“Take a seat.” I see a woman standing next to the movie screen, a stack of papers in one hand and a half-dozen No. 2 pencils clutched in the other. Everyone glances at me as I sit. The sixth desk remains empty. While we wait for its future occupant, I get my first real look at the other students.

There’s a boy with a long build that is evident even while he is sitting down. With a tight, sleeveless attire, his lean body is on full display. He sees me looking and meets it with a piercing stare and smirk. When he blows me a menacing kiss, I see a slight glimmer of several diamonds on his hand.

The boy beside him is from a far less fabulous planet. Stringy brown hair and watery eyes that stare off into space. He looks like an extra from Deliverance.

The kid to his left smiles and waves at me. He seems a little hurt when I don’t wave back. He’s handsome, in a bit more feminine way. His clothes are expensive. The sugar daddy e who bought them clearly had good taste.

The guy to my immediate right doesn’t look full-Korean, and could pass for twenty-five. He’s blond, burly, and wearing the kind of leather jacket that you only see in Eastern Europe. He turns slowly to face me. His eyes are dark and cold. He takes me in, then rotates his head just as slowly back toward the movie screen.

A man in a lab coat enters and has a quick word with the woman in charge. She nods, then strides to center stage.

“It seems we’re beginning this semester with a smaller class than usual. The sixth student has a medical condition that renders her ineligible for the academy’s program. So only the five of you will be moving forward. The next stage of your assessment focuses on personality.” As the woman passes a booklet and pencil to each of us, I try to recall the sixth student’s face. All I can remember is the back of her head.

“The booklet you’ve been given contains the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator assessment. It is not a test,” the woman continues, interrupting my thoughts. “There are no right or wrong answers. Please feel free to begin as soon as you’re ready.”

Whenever someone insists that there are no right or wrong answers, I immediately assume that there are. It doesn’t hurt that I know all about the MBTI. You answer a bunch of questions that seem like total bull, and then it assigns you a personality “type” with a four-letter label.

My father’s bank administers the test to every single person who applies for a job. The company claims the MBTI helps identify people who will “fit” with its culture.

What it really wants to do is weed out the weaklings. I’m guessing that the Woollim Academy isn’t looking for warm, fuzzy, “feeling” types either. They must want leaders, and I’m eager to please, so I decide to be an ENTJ type (Extraversion, Intuition, Thinking, Judging). Just like dear old dad.

I have no idea what I “really” am. I taught myself how to game the test back in grade school. I managed to take it twenty-five times online before my mother found out I’d been using her credit card.

So I tick all the right answers and wait for the other newbies to finish. There’s no clock in the room, but I’m pretty sure that big, blond Igor to my right has taken an hour longer than everyone else. It’s hard to believe that he’ll ever be Ivy League material.

He hands the woman his test, and I begin to slip out of my chair. My is numb.

“Please stay in your seats. There are a few videos we would like to show you,” says the woman. “You don’t need to memorize what you see. You won’t be tested on the content. We only want you to watch.”

I sigh and slump back down. The first video is a short clip of two girls dancing a waltz together. The room stays perfectly silent.

The next video is footage from the scene of a car accident. When the camera pans across the mangled victims who’ve been hauled from the wreck, The Big Blond starts to laugh. Stupid and psycho. What a fabulous combination. Jungyeop missed the mark by a mile with this kid.

Four more videos follow. A little boy lost in a shopping mall. A couple passionately kissing. A wolf catching and ripping into a rabbit. A woman screaming insults at her teenage daughter. The film festival ends, and I’d like to throw up. But I force myself to look bored instead.

Almost everyone else seems to have caught on. Only cutie boy seems shell-shocked.

The lights come on. By the time my eyes have adjusted, Lee Jungyeop has appeared.

“Excellent work!” he tells us. “You’ve all made it through the most difficult part of the assessment process! Give yourselves a big hand.”

A few halfhearted claps echo around the room. If our lack of enthusiasm disturbs him, Jungyeop doesn’t show it. He’s too wrapped up in his own performance. Today, he appears to be playing the role of everyone’s favorite uncle.

“My name is Lee Jungyeop. My family has run this academy for over one hundred years. Since the very beginning, we have devoted our lives to helping talented but disadvantaged young people enjoy new beginnings. Each of you has come here to make a fresh start. After lunch, you’ll be casting away your old clothes, and by the end of your three-week stay here in the Incubation Suites, you’ll have cast away your old lives as well.”

My hand shoots up. Three f—ing weeks?

Jungyeop ignores me.

“The first step toward assuming your new identity is answering to a new name. We have chosen first names for everyone. New surnames and government ID will be distributed at graduation.” The female proctor hands Jungyeop her tablet computer. He glances down at the screen. When he looks up, his eyes fall on the diamond boy.

“You’re Sungyeol,” he says.

Deliverance boy is now Key. The cutie boy is Sungjong. Big Blond becomes Alex.

When Jungyeop reaches me, I speak for him.

“Flick,” I say. “My name is Flick.”

He pauses. I can see the irritation concealed beneath his smile. “You must have psychic abilities. That’s exactly what it says here.”

He passes the tablet back to the woman. “The next step of the process may be a bit painful for some of you. But it’s critical that you don’t drag any ghosts from your pasts into the Woollim Academy. We have no secrets inside this building.”

“Each and every one of you has led a difficult life. We didn’t choose you despite the things you’ve seen and done. We chose you because we believe that such experiences can make people stronger. At other schools, you might feel the need to keep your skeletons tucked away in a closet. At the Woollim Academy, we want you to bring them all out and embrace them.”

Once again, he starts with Sungyeol. He’s watching him with eyebrow raised and arms crossed.

“We’re very fortunate to have Sungyeol with us. Despite his lack of formal training, Sungyeol was an accomplished businessman long before he was accepted into our program. He has a pragmatic mind and a gift for mathematics.

“To this day, law enforcement officials remain unaware that he was once a major player in a drug empire that controlled most of the South Side of Uido. His mother’s only brother was the face of the organization—but Sungyeol was the brains.” I look and try to see this kid leading a drug empire in the ghettos – I can’t. If I saw him on the street, I would have thought he was a normal high schooler.

“As he got older, his uncle began to view him as a threat. When he tried to diminish his role, Sungyeol lured the man into a distant park one night and shot him four times in the head. The assassination was captured by a wildlife camera, and that is how he came to be with us today. Did I leave anything out?” he asks the boy.

“I’m a Virgo,” he quips with a large smile.

“That wit will come in handy,” Jungyeop remarks. I agree—Sungyeol will do well.

He saunters up to the basket case sitting beside Sungyeol and takes one of the boy’s limp hands. “We’re hoping Key snaps out of his funk sometime soon, but we’re going to give him a little more leeway than most during the Incubation Stage.

“We checked him out of rehab a bit earlier than recommended so that he wouldn’t need to miss another semester here. By the end of this three-week period, he’ll have had ample time to physically recover from his methamphetamine addiction. If his mind mends as quickly, Key will be a valuable addition to our student body.” He then shakes his head as if deeply regretful.

“He too was once a budding entrepreneur, but he made two mistakes that Sungyeol wisely avoided. Key sampled his own product. And he brought his work home with him. He and his boyfriend built a meth lab in his basement bedroom. When it exploded, both of his parents died in the blaze.” He gives the boy’s hand a tender squeeze, then places it back on his desk.

“Here at the Woollim Academy, we believe that the lessons one learns from such tragedies can inspire personal triumphs.” Key doesn’t look like he’s heard a single word. He’s still gazing into the distance when Jungyeop moves on.

“Sungjong is a e.” The cutie boy gasps.

“I’m sorry,” Jungyeop says. “Have I been misinformed?”

“I was a . . . a . . .” The boy can’t finish the sentence.

“You’re right, of course,” Jungyeop concedes. “You no longer are. But you must understand, there is absolutely no cause for embarrassment. That’s one of the reasons we have this exercise. So that no one wastes his or her time on useless emotions like shame. You slept with men for money. You’re hardly the first student here who has done so. What makes you special, Sungjong, is how successful you were.” He smiles as if encouraging a student to take more AP classes rather than telling him ion was encouraged.

“Your charm, that charming, handsome face. People line up to give you whatever you want. That’s a real gift. The Woollim Academy can teach you how to make the most of it. All we ask is that you set your sights on something a bit higher than a closet full of flashy clothing.”

Sungjong nods with enthusiasm. He’s bought every ounce of Jungyeop’s bull. I bet he doesn’t make it to the end of the semester.

“Alex,” Jungyeop says. The guy grunts in response. “You are a very impressive specimen.”

I can feel my head jerk back with surprise. He’s got to be kidding. “Your father was a remarkable man as well. The Butcher of Youngsan River. He taught you everything he knew about the protection game. I’m not sure how much of it managed to sink in, but I do know that you became one of his enforcers two years ago at age fifteen. How many people have you disposed of since then, may I ask?”

“Nine.” Nine? If that’s true, the guy’s a serial killer.

Jungyeop addresses the rest of us. “If we hadn’t found him, Alex would have become a ward of the state. His parents are now serving life sentences, and his uncles and aunts refused to take him in.”

“I will thank them soon,” Alex says. I detect a slight accent, but there’s no hint of emotion in his voice.

“You should,” Jungyeop agrees as though he missed the kid’s meaning. “They did you a very big favor.”

He finally turns to me, and his smile broadens.

“Last, but not least, we have Flick. Flick is academically gifted. A master thief. And a champion boxer. I won’t bother listing his many other talents and achievements. But he too has known tragedy.

“The state of his face should tell you as much. However, unlike the rest of you, he isn’t here as a last resort. Flick is our only volunteer this semester. In time, you will realize just how meaningful that is. His personality profile tells us he’s a born leader. His physical exam revealed he’s in peak condition. We expect great things from Flick. He could be what we call a natural.” Jungyeop holds his arms out, as if to wrap us all in a great big hug, and I realize that’s it. He’s let my skeletons stay in their closets.

But my relief is followed by a terrible thought that spins me around in my seat.

Whose secrets was he protecting? Mine—or my father’s? Could my dad be one of the people watching us from the catwalk? I turn back and scour his face for answers. He isn’t giving any away.

“So there you have it,” he says. “Welcome again to the Woollim Academy. Spend the next three weeks getting acclimated to your new home. You’ll learn a few fundamental skills and be groomed to take your place among the student body.” He checks his watch.

“It’s one o’clock now. Go grab some lunch. This afternoon you’ll be taking another important step toward assuming your new identity. And remember—if you have any questions or concerns, you can always come to me.” I raise my hand, but he pretends not to see it.

Next time, I swear to myself, I won’t bother being polite.

• • •

I’m dying for a change of atmosphere, but the cafeteria is no different. What it does have is another stretch of glass- enclosed catwalk hanging high above our heads. The catwalk glass is clear. There are no spectators inside. But there will be.

Every room in the Incubation Suites must be designed to administer some sort of test. We’re just lab rats being ushered from one cage to the next. They’ve kept the rooms featureless because they’re controlling the variables.

They wouldn’t want any distractions interfering with the results of their human experiments.

There’s a long, stainless steel food bar at one end of the room. Far too much to feed five people. What’s the test here? I wonder. Will they be rating our impulse control? Gauging our risk of obesity? Watching to see if we chew with our mouths closed? Then I figure it out.

They want to see us interacting. There’s only one table in the room. And five chairs. Someone has already hauled the sixth away. I glance up at the catwalk. It must be enclosed in electronic smart glass because in less than two seconds, it shifts from clear to opaque. Which means our guests have arrived at last. I just hope someone up there is paying attention to Alex. The guy has some serious issues.

I’m the last to get my lunch. Key is the only one who hasn’t worked up an appetite. He’s sitting at the table between Sungjong and Sungyeol, who are chatting around him. Alex is folding beef patties in half and shoving them into his maw. He doesn’t even bother to examine what he’s eating. He’s staring at Key, and I can’t quite interpret the look in his eyes.

I take the only seat left. It’s next to him. If we weren’t under surveillance, I might be up for a little lunchtime conversation. But this feels dangerous. I haven’t been here long enough to know when I’ve said the wrong thing. Apparently the others don’t share my concern.

“The natural has finally joined us for lunch,” Sungjong says. “He kinda looks like that movie star. You know the one I’m talking about?” he asks Sungyeol.

“Frankenstein?” Sungyeol points at my stitches.

It’s interesting to see how they operate. Sungjong flatters those he believes may have power. Sungyeol takes potshots to prove he’s their equal. I ignore them both. At this point I’ll learn more by listening.

“He must be the strong, silent type,” Sungjong tells Sungyeol in a stage whisper. “So who’s your jeweler up there in Uido?”

While they discuss diamonds and dealers, I dig into lunch. My hamburger is remarkably good. I’m trying to remember when I last ate anything quite like it when I notice that Alex is muttering to himself. Apparently his lips move when he thinks. He’s still fixated on poor, lifeless Key.

I stop chewing to listen. The few words I catch tell me Alex has a crush. And he’s not the kind of guy who sends flowers. He’s the kind who kicks down doors in the middle of the night.

Key is in some serious .

“He’s mine,” I announce in a casual voice. “Touch him and I’ll neuter you with a butter knife.”

Why am I doing this? Why am I risking everything for some brain-dead meth addict?

Sungjong and Sungyeol stop yammering. Alex slowly swivels around to face me. “What did you say?”

I’ve already opened my big mouth, so I give him my toothiest smile. “I told you he’s mine, you f—ing Neanderthal. So are the other two. I have a huge appetite.”

“Excuse me?” Sungyeol jumps in. “I am not—”

“Shut your face,” I growl. Sungyeol glares at me but obeys. He’ll hate me for a while, but laying claim to his body is the only sure way to keep Alex off it, regardless of how well he might be able to defend it.

“If you mark your territory, you must be prepared to defend it,” Alex says. The guy may be a brute, but he’s not quite as stupid as I thought.

“This school is my territory. Everyone in it belongs to me now. Including you.”

As a rule, I never punch first. Even in the ring, I let the other guy have the first go. It’s the best way to find out what you’re up against.

The first punch says everything. But Alex doesn’t punch. He grabs me by the throat instead.

I feel the chair give way beneath me. In less than a second, I’ve been slammed up against the wall of the lunchroom. My brain reels from the impact. But I keep my neck bent forward so my skull doesn’t crack.

The move would have killed another opponent. Alex is unbelievably strong. His fingers are on the verge of crushing my windpipe. And what’s really impressive is that he doesn’t seem to care.

Most guys I’ve fought have an internal alarm that goes off when they’re about to inflict serious damage. You can see a flicker of fear in their eyes. Alex’s remain dull and dark.

I grab his wrist with one hand and ram my knee into his jaw. He lurches backward, and his grip loosens. I rip his hand from my throat, keeping hold of his wrist. I lock his elbow and use the arm to spin him around and force him down to the floor. Then I grab a hunk of hair and slam his head twice into the hard concrete.

The splatter of blood even reaches the walls. I should have worn goggles.

I know Jungyeop’s people must be watching. But no one has come to Alex’s rescue. I could end his miserable life with one more blow. Instead I climb off his carcass and return to the table.

Sungyeol and Sungjong practically cringe as I sit back down, wipe the blood off my hands, and take another bite of my burger. Key is the only one who doesn’t seem shaken. The battle has brought him back to life. He doesn’t dare say a word, but I can see it on his face.

He knows exactly what I just did. I saved him.

Two men in lab coats and surgical masks rush into the room and load Alex onto a steel stretcher. Lee Jungyeop holds the door open for them as they leave. “Flick?” he says. “Would you mind coming with me for a moment?”

We stroll along the wide hallway, which appears to be a giant square. The glass catwalk crosses the corridor at one point. But once you’re around the next corner, it’s out of sight. There’s a sense of privacy here, though I know not to trust it. The cafeteria door remains ajar, and we walk right past it and start a new lap. Jungyeop still hasn’t uttered a word.

The silence has given me a chance to think. At first, I was worried I’d screwed everything up. All I had to do was play along. Instead, I nearly killed a fellow recruit. I figured Jungyeop would be furious.

Now I can see he’s not angry at all. Not even close.

“Key doesn’t seem like your type,” Jungyeop finally says.

“I’m not a necrophiliac,” I respond.

He laughs. “So you have no romantic interest in him?”

“No.” It would be ludicrous to pretend that I did.

“Still, you protected him. Did it ever occur to you that he might need to learn how to fend for herself? Key can’t expect a white knight to come to his rescue every time he’s in trouble.”

I just demolished Alex’s face, but that doesn’t appear to bother Jungyeop. He seems much more concerned that I tried to help Key.

“I wasn’t protecting anyone,” I lie.

“Then why did you choose to make Alex an enemy?”

“We would have ended up enemies anyway. I figured I’d make the first move and teach him a lesson. The great Chinese general Sun Tzu said that the victorious warrior wins first and then goes to war.”

“You’ve read Sun Tzu’s Art of War.” He’s impressed, I can tell.

“I’ve memorized it.” I’m sure that sounds great, but I hope he doesn’t decide to test me. I don’t know how many more quotes I could pull out of my .

Jungyeop seems to buy it. “We both know that your war could have ended this afternoon. You had a chance to destroy Alex. You showed restraint by walking away. But Alex should recover quickly, and when he does, he’ll want his revenge.”

“That’s what I’m counting on. Alex is my only competition. The next three weeks would be a real bore without him.”

“What a fascinating young man you are,” Jungyeop says. I have no clue if he’s satisfied with the explanation I’ve given him. “I’m looking forward to seeing what you do next.”

“Thank you, sir,” I respond. “I hope it will be entertaining.”

This morning, there were a hundred questions I was eager to ask him. I’m finally learning to keep my mouth shut.