$31.08

You stare at the cracked ceiling of your room, the kind that peels like old sunburnt skin, while your cracked phone screen glows dimly in your hand. Numbers mock you from the banking app—so small they could fit on a grain of rice. Rent’s coming, tuition’s next, and the electricity bill has a lovely red stamp on it that screams FINAL NOTICE. Your part-time job? Pays you in tips so tiny you could lose them under the fridge.

The math doesn’t add up no matter how many times you punch the calculator app. Subtract rent, minus groceries, minus bills. What’s left is the kind of figure that makes you wonder if air counts as a meal.

$31.08. What the fuck are you going to do with only $31.08?

You roll over on the mattress, staring at the wall like maybe the paint will start peeling out money instead of flakes.

And then your phone vibrates. Ding.

The group chat you muted weeks ago lights up your screen again.

“Party tonight. Big one. Come through.”

“No excuses, man. We’re dragging you if you don’t.”

“You need to stop being depressed and live a little.”

You sigh, tossing your phone onto the bed like it personally wronged you. These obnoxious fucker again. The “friends” you managed to cling onto through sheer luck and timing, the rich kids with wallets heavier than your entire life savings. The kind who use champagne bottles as water guns and laugh about failing a class because they can just retake it next semester with their daddy’s money.

You know how this goes. They’ll invite you, claim it’s all in good fun, then spend the night poking at you like you’re their charity case. The “ordinary” one. Whatever their favourite punchline is.

But before you can type out the usual excuse—work, studying, not feeling well—another message drops.

“Relax. We’ll cover your entry. Drinks too.”

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard.

They’ll pay. Free food. Free drink.

For a second, you imagine staying as you are: laying down, maybe getting up to your desk, staring at the blinking cursor on your half-finished assignment, pretending the instant noodles taste better than cardboard. Then you imagine an open bar, food that isn’t from the clearance aisle, and a night where you don’t have to think about overdue notices in exchange for ridicule.

You exhale, a bitter laugh slipping past your lips. “Screw it.”

Your phone buzzes again, like it’s mocking your surrender. “Knew you’d cave, dumbass. Don’t embarrass us too much.”

You mutter to yourself as you pull the least-wrinkled shirt from your closet, “Yeah, because I’m just here to make you fuckers look good, right?”

Still, you iron it. You button it up. You force your hair with the last spurt of your hair spray into something presentable. Downing that canned coffee you forced yourself to like to stay awake. Because at the end of the day, you don’t have the luxury of saying no.

Not when everything around you is crumbling, and a free night out will at least make you forget about your reality.

…maybe rotting at home was better whatever this grand party was.

The moment you step through the grand hotel doors, you feel like you should be working at the back of the kitchen instead. Marble floors, chandeliers dripping crystals, a string quartet in the corner—it’s the kind of environment where even the air feels expensive. Everyone is dressed like they’re either nepo babies or they actually are nepo babies, and you… you’re praying no one notices that your shirt has a frayed cuff or that little stain you couldn’t get rid of.

Your “friends”, meanwhile, are already in their element. They throw their jackets at the coat check like it’s a sport, grab champagne flutes from silver trays like it’s water, and slide into the crowd with ease.

“Yo, relax, man,” one of them claps you on the back, nearly knocking the glass out of your hand. “We told you already, tonight’s on us. Just… don’t brood in a corner, alright?”

Remember, free food.

You force a smile and give them an uninterested “sure”. But it’s hard to smile when your head keeps on doing mental math the whole time. Rent: $740. Utilities: another $120. Tuition deposit: looming like an execution date. Your brain is buzzing louder than the music, and every time your friends laugh, it feels like you’re sinking deeper into water you can’t swim out of. But you hover beside them anyway, because then you can get it out of the way as soon as this parade is done and bolt straight home.

Although, that’s when you notice her. Damn it, was her name again?

Oh right. Jang Wonyoung.

The room reacts instantly at the clacking of her heels. Heads turn. Voices lower. You’ve heard the name tossed around campus like it’s some kind of brand. The Jang Corporation heiress. Top royalty. Samsung-level of wealth (or probably more). People whisper about her the way they whisper about exam leaks—rare, untouchable, never meant for the likes of you.

And seeing her in person? Yeah, it makes sense.

She’s radiant in a way that makes the room tilt. Every step, every glance, it’s like she was choreographed for perfection. Diamond earrings brush her jawline, her silk dress flows like liquid, and the casual flick of her hair has more grace than your entire existence. Heads turn. Conversations falter. She’s that girl, the one who doesn’t have to try.

Not that it matters. She’s definitely not your type. Too polished, too arrogant, too unreachable. You’ve got bigger problems than pretty girls with a last name that can open multiple estates.

So you stand there, nodding when your friends introduce her in passing. “Ah, Miss Jang, hey! It’s been a long time. This is our guy, don’t mind him, he’s shy.” She gives you the briefest glance, a polite nod, then goes back to sipping her wine. Perfect. Easy.

Until it isn’t.

Because suddenly, a crowd of suitors descends on her like moths to a flame.

“Miss Jang, I’ve been meaning to ask, would you care for a drive in my father’s new Maybach?”

“Your dress is stunning tonight. Did you have it tailored in Paris? I could recommend —”

“You know, my family’s hosting a gala next week. You should come. We’d be honoured.”

The voices overlap, desperate, performative. Funny enough, you can see it in her expression: the strain behind her perfect smile, the boredom hiding in her eyes. She doesn’t want this. But they don’t care.

And then she looked at you, as if you two shared the same distaste towards this obnoxious crowd…then moved slowly towards you. Wait, towards you?

You freeze as she closes in, perfume wrapping around you like invisible silk. Her arm slips through yours, firm, warm, and terrifyingly deliberate.

“Babe,” she says smoothly, loud enough for the whole group to hear. Her smile blooms, but now it’s sharp, purposeful. “Sorry I kept you waiting.”

Babe? Who’s babe now? Did she forget that she just dismissed you with her eyes only just then?

You blink, brain scrambling for words, but nothing makes it past your throat. The suitors stop mid-sentence, their faces contorting in disbelief.

“Him?” one of them sneers.

Her grip tightens on you, nails grazing your sleeve. She tilts her head, still smiling, but her voice dips just enough to sting. “Yes. Problem?”

No one answers. No one dares. They scatter, muttering half-hearted excuses, their pride leaking out of them like popped balloons.

You, meanwhile, are still processing the fact that her arms are still wrapped around yours. Before you can speak, she tugs you away, heels clicking across the marble. Past the champagne, past the murmur, through a velvet curtain and into a quieter, dimly lit VIP lounge. She finally releases you, her expression cool and unreadable, like nothing just happened.

You blink at her. “What the actual fuck was that?”