At the end of the hallway, the principal’s door was ajar. Voices carried—muffled, tense. A child’s sniffle.

Seated at the desk was Director Park, a round-shouldered man in his fifties, sweat beading at his temples. Across from him, a beefy man in a tailored suit stood with his arms crossed—the other child’s father, presumably. His son, a pudgy boy with tear-streaked cheeks, clutched his father’s leg.

And in the corner, on a plastic chair too small for him, sat Soo. His knuckles were scraped, his shirt collar askew, but his chin was up.