The Bottom

According to researchers Jim Sidanius and Felicia Pratto, the most stable societies are those built around group-based dominance hierarchies.

Hierarchy.

It’s a word older than language, older than fire—woven into the bones of life on Earth. Millions of years ago, the dinosaurs that roamed the world were governed by three apex predators so brutal and dominant that even a modern-day revival of them would be treated as a global crisis. Then came the monkeys. Even they, in all their screeching simplicity, had alphas—the strongest ones. The ones with the best food, the best tree, the best… well, hoes, as we’d say now.

Fast-forward.

Human beings crawl out of the mud and build kingdoms. We crown bloodlines and convince ourselves their birth entitles them to rule over thousands. Knights die in wars because someone sitting on a shiny chair said they should. Then we invent democracy—because nothing screams progress like letting everyone mutually agree on who gets to sit on the new, shinier chair.

At some point during this whole lecture I was giving myself, I blinked and realized I had no idea where I was going with it.

I do that a lot. Just start thinking so hard I lose the thread entirely.

My hand moved on autopilot as I placed a can of green tea on Reina Nishimura’s desk. Right label facing forward, condensation still fresh. She gets bitchy if it’s warm. And if Reina’s in a mood, everyone else makes it my problem.

Then it hit me again—why I started this mental spiral in the first place.

Hierarchy.

It exists in every culture, every system, even religion. Every pantheon, every book—there’s always one supreme being perched above the rest. A god among gods. That, too, is hierarchy.

I dropped a pack of limited edition artist pencils on Aya’s desk. The really good ones—the ones she chews through like bubblegum. She never says thanks. None of them do.

I hate hierarchy.

Because it’s the root of why my life has been complete and utter garbage since the day I walked into this school.

See, when you earn a scholarship into a prestigious academy filled with the descendants of ancient bloodlines, trust fund brats, future politicians, and kids who get company shares as birthday gifts, there’s an unspoken order. And it doesn’t give a damn about your test scores. The only numbers that matter are the ones on your bank statement—or the ones sitting next to the names in your contact list.

Money.
Connections.
That’s the real exam.

And me? I’m the kid who didn’t belong. A scholarship student. A transfer. Got in not because of whose dick my mom sucked, but because I actually had a brain.

Not that it matters.

Dropped four energy drinks on Jin’s desk. One rolled slightly, but I didn’t fix it.

Imagine how that made them feel—people who had always believed this world was theirs, now forced to share air with someone like me. A nobody with no name, no money, and a mother who probably couldn’t spell “career” without slurring it.

They hate me for existing.

The result? Relentless bullying.

Threats in and out of class.
“I can get you kicked out.”
“My dad donates millions to this place.”
“One word and you’re outta here.”
“Go get me some lunch.”
“Hey, bring that to me.”
“Are you fucking stupid?”
“You don’t belong here, peasant.”

And my personal favorite:

“I guess this is why slavery was so popular. Having one really does make life easier. Right, Mailboy?”

That one stuck.

“Mailboy.”
“Mika Mail.”
“Delivery dog.”

It’s like they forget I have a name.

I finished the rounds—green tea, pencils, energy drinks, gum, breath mints, protein bars. My daily routine. A checklist of offerings to the gods.

Then I pulled my chair out and sat at my desk in the back corner, just in time.

The door slid open.

I didn’t turn to look. I didn’t have to.

I could feel their presence before the light even changed. Could hear the fake laughs and the designer footsteps. Could smell the perfume and overpriced hair product.

And I could feel the smirk.

That smug little smile that said, We own you.

My owners were here.

Reina—whatever the hell her last name is—is the school’s Queen Bee. I call her Daddy’s little bitch.

She struts into class every morning with the latest designer garbage that probably had a release date twenty minutes ago. Seriously, there are preorders that haven’t even shipped yet, and she’s already flaunting them like she personally signed off on the production. Her dad’s some high-profile politician. I’m talking scary-high. The kind of man who could reroute public school funding with a shrug and a golf swing.

She gets everything.
Everything except a good brain.

And me?

I’m her favorite toy.

She acts like she bought me at auction. Like I’m hers—some sad accessory she gets to bark commands at for fun. Every morning, she demands a can of green tea on her desk. Not to drink it. No, that would suggest she needed something from someone like me. She just likes proving that she can make me do it. Her words, not mine.

And the threats?

“Oh, do you know who my father is? I could ruin you before you even blink.”

She drops that line twice an hour, minimum. If she’s not in control, she spirals. She needs obedience like plants need sunlight—no, scratch that. Like leeches need blood.

And right beside her is her knight in moderately polished armor: Kenta.

Tall, athletic, square-jawed golden boy with a trust fund that smells like blood money and corruption. He’s the boyfriend, obviously. There’s always a boyfriend. He’s built like a protagonist and acts like a background character. Muscles for days, brain for maybe fifteen minutes. He doesn’t say much, but when Reina wants a dog to bark, he growls on cue.

All she needs is the slightest whiff of what she calls “disrespect” from me, and boom—here comes Kenta, puffed up and flexing like I’m worth the calories it’d take to flatten me.

And then there’s Jin.
Fucking Jin.

Loud. Crude. Dumb as sin and proud of it. The walking embodiment of a group chat nobody asked to join. He’s somehow both the class clown and the class tyrant. Thinks being the son of a high-ranking official in Reina’s father’s circle makes him some kind of nobility. Bullies me the most out of anyone—and don’t ask me why. I don’t even think he knows.

If anyone ever discovers the reason behind Jin’s hatred for me, they’ll probably unlock the secret to cold fusion or some shit. Maybe even cure cancer. That’s how unexplainable it is.

Those three? They’re the banes of my existence. My unholy trinity. Every day, they make my life a highlight reel of humiliation.

Then there’s Aya.

Artsy, gorgeous, chaotic. A walking contradiction. Rumor is she could speedrun the football team if she wanted to—but maybe, just maybe, she’s saving her completionist badge for someone unlucky.

Like me.

Yeah, I know. Makes no sense.

You’d think someone like her would ignore me entirely. But no. She teases me. Relentlessly. And not in that school-crush, tsundere nonsense way. No—she pokes at the worst parts of me. And here’s where it gets worse.

Remember how I mentioned my alcoholic mother?

Yeah. She… did things to me. Things I never consented to. Things I don’t want to think about. Things I wish I could scrub out of my memory with bleach and fire. Because of that, I developed a very rational, very earned fear of women.

Not dislike. Fear.

So when Aya corners me, touches me, whispers shit in my ear just to watch me shrink? When she laughs as I physically shake from the discomfort?

That’s not flirtation. That’s sadism.

And she calls it adorable.

Humans shouldn’t be able to hold this much hate inside. Not without imploding. But they do. And they focus it all on me.

That’s the upper crust.

The rest of the class is a mixed bag.

Mei: Aya’s loud-mouthed bestie. Petty, sharp-tongued, and always looking for a fight. Yui: Emotionally explosive. You never know if she’ll hug you or throw a chair. Chiaki & Sora: Quiet friends. Keep to themselves. Not bullies, not saviors. Just… background static. Toru: Tries to be funny. Mostly fails. Hangs around Aya like a stray cat hoping for scraps. Nao: Another quiet one. I think he and Toru bond over being semi-invisible. Sena: Mute energy. Sits alone. Doesn’t speak unless necessary. Could probably kill someone in their sleep. Haruka: The shy girl™. Never seen with friends. Eyes always on the floor. Yuki: Possibly in the Yakuza. Possibly just goth. No one wants to test him. Akari: Resident nerd. Probably already solved every equation the teachers plan to give this year. Kasumi: Leech. Social parasite. Sucks up to the strongest and jumps ship the moment the tide changes. Riku: Class clown. Used to be my best friend until he realized friendship wasn’t worth his place on the social ladder. Still looks at me like he regrets it. Doesn’t say it, though. Coward. Sho: He’s the quiet kid. Like, the quiet kid. If anyone brings a gun to school, it’s him. That’s not a joke. That’s just instinct.

And then there's me.

Mikaela.

The lowest on the totem pole. The class errand boy. Mailboy. Punching bag. Shadow. Ghost. The cautionary tale.

This is Class 3C.

My class.
My hell.
My prison.

So yeah—that’s it. Class 3C.

The bane of my existence. The twisted little kingdom I’ve been assigned to rule over as the court jester. And maybe, just maybe… the most interesting part of my life. Which says more about how depressing my life is than anything else.

Oh, and I almost forgot the final boss of our little ecosystem.

Our teacher.

Ms. Hoshino.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

I’m pretty sure every guy in our class—hell, every male lifeform within a hundred-meter radius—has a crush on her. And I get it. I do. Tall. Professional. Rocks that tailored suit-shirt-skinny-tie-long-sleeve-tights combo like she’s leading a black-ops mission disguised as a math lecture. It’s like she was grown in a lab specifically for "intimidating sexy authority figure". I swear, sometimes it feels deliberate. The way she moves. The way her voice drops just low enough to make people second-guess whether they’re scared or turned on.

And yet—she gives off this vibe.

Like if you ever said the wrong thing, suddenly you’d be staring down the barrel of a Glock from the ankle holster you didn’t know she had.

War veteran energy. No question.

She glances at me sometimes. Subtle. Quiet. Not often. Not obvious. But I notice. I'm the only one who does. I’ve tried to figure out why. Maybe she knows how fucked my life is. Maybe she doesn’t care. Maybe she’s just watching, waiting for the day I finally snap and bring a machete to school. Or maybe she’s looking at Shion.

Yeah. I forgot to mention her.

Shion's basically the ghost of Class 3C. She exists. Technically. She sits right in front of me. Quiet. Distant. Brilliant. Like, top-of-the-grade-by-double-digits brilliant. I’m always second place behind her, and not by a hair. By a whole damn haircut.

She’s the only girl in this class I actually respect. Probably because she’s the only one who hasn’t tried to ruin my life for sport.

Anyway.

Ms. Hoshino walks into class like the goddamn Reaper of Period One, slams a book down on the podium, and the room falls into silence like someone flipped a mute switch.

Her eyes sweep the classroom.

Just once.

No talking. No instructions. One look. That’s all it takes.

Then she gives a sharp nod and begins roll call like she’s naming the chosen for some ancient gladiator tournament.

After that, she dives into Math like we didn’t all just mentally kneel before her. I try not to draw attention to myself. I never do. I only speak when called on, and even then, I keep my answers as dull and forgettable as possible. I’ve learned not to shine in a room that punishes light.

Three periods later, the bell rings.

Break time.

And the classroom transforms. From cold, rigid silence into a blooming social garden of glittering cliques and curated chaos. Designer lunchboxes open like briefcases. Dishes that could earn Michelin stars are laid out on tiny, perfectly folded napkins. There’s always at least one bento that makes me question what country I’m in.

I unwrap my handmade lunch—rice and egg and some kind of sad vegetable. Not bad. Not great. But mine.

I just want to eat in peace.

But of course—because the universe hates me—that’s when Jin walks over.

His hand lands on my shoulder like a curse.

“Yo, Mika~”

The way he drags my name out always makes me want to peel my own ears off.

“You mind hittin’ up the vending machines in the west wing for me?” he says. “Y’know, the one alllll the way at the back of the school?”

I let out the tiniest sigh. One breath.

Big mistake.

His fingers tighten. “You tired or something? Sounded like you just sighed at me.”

I shake my head immediately, eyes down.

He stares for a beat longer, then lets go with a scoff.

From across the class, Reina calls out like royalty summoning a servant.

“Apple juice.”

And as if that wasn’t enough—

“Monster,” Kenta adds, barely looking up from his phone.

I nod.

Of course.

I take off my bag and dump it on the table, flipping it open. Gotta make room for the tribute, right?

Jin ruffles my hair like I’m a golden retriever. “Good boy.”

I swear. I felt a vein in my forehead pop.

Then he slaps a wad of cash into my palm. Notes. Coins. It jingles like treasure in a fantasy RPG.

I glance down. A rough estimate says this could fund a small country’s military for a week.

“You can keep the change,” he says, already turning away. “Figured you could use it. Y’know. Since your life sucks.”

I force a smile. Or something close enough to pass as one.

“Thanks.”

And I leave the classroom.

Unaware that by the time I make it back, everything about my life will be different.

So different that I’ll start questioning if God ever really gave a shit to begin with.