WRONG NUMBER | NIKI

2 - One New Message

HANA'S POV

The drive home blurs into a procession of red taillights and rain-speckled windows, the city stretching past me in streaks of gray and gold while my phone sits face-down in my lap like an unexploded bomb. Every few seconds, my hand twitches toward it before retreating again, my imagination inventing increasingly impossible scenarios in which the stranger somehow pieces together my identity before tomorrow morning. 

By the time our driver pulls through the wrought-iron gates of our house, I've convinced myself he's already memorized every face on campus and is waiting around every corner solely to witness my humiliation. Rationally, I know that's absurd. Anxiety, however, has never once introduced itself as a rational emotion. It simply settles into your chest, rearranges the furniture, and starts paying rent.

Home greets me exactly the way it always does: immaculate, silent, and strangely cold despite the warm lighting spilling from every room. Marble floors gleam without a single footprint, fresh lilies decorate the entryway with military precision, and framed magazine covers featuring my parents line the hallway like trophies in a museum dedicated to other people's accomplishments. 

Anyone walking through these doors would call it beautiful. They'd probably imagine family dinners filled with laughter, movie nights on oversized couches, and parents who asked about your day because they genuinely wanted to know the answer. 

They'd be wrong. This house has mastered the art of looking warm while feeling entirely incapable of it.

"You're eight minutes late." 

I freeze before I've even taken my shoes off.

My father doesn't bother looking up from the financial report spread across the dining table, his glasses resting low on the bridge of his nose as though my arrival is merely another interruption to his schedule. His voice isn't angry. It never is. It's measured, composed, polished into something almost gentle, which somehow makes the criticism sink deeper. 

"Traffic," I answer quietly, though we both know he isn't asking for an explanation. He simply likes acknowledging the mistake before moving on.

"Time management is part of professionalism," He replies, turning another page. "Successful people account for delays before they happen."

"I understand."

"I know you do."

That should feel reassuring. Instead, it feels like a performance review.

My mother appears from the kitchen moments later, still dressed in the tailored cream suit she'd worn to today's board meeting, a leather portfolio tucked effortlessly beneath one arm. She kisses the air beside my cheek without actually touching me before her eyes drift toward the notebook peeking from my backpack. 

"You had your math exam today," She says, removing her watch with practiced elegance. "How did it go?" For one hopeful, embarrassingly childish second, I think she's asking because she's curious. Then she follows it with, "Professor Choi is known for being difficult. Did anyone score higher than you?"

I swallow. "It went well."

"That's not what I asked."

"...I don't know."

"You didn't ask?"

"The marks are not out yet."

She hums softly, setting her watch on the counter. "You should start paying attention to your competition." Competition. Not classmates. Not friends. Competition. Everything is a race in this family.

Dinner is served with the same quiet efficiency as every other evening, each dish arranged with restaurant-level precision by the house staff while conversation revolves around quarterly projections, investor meetings, and expansion plans for the company. My parents discuss hotel acquisitions in Singapore, staffing restructures, and next month's shareholder conference without once asking whether I enjoyed my classes or laughed today or made a new friend.