The Class President Election
Our class was packed with the offspring of wealthy tycoons. My desk mate Min-su, the loyal troublemaker who always forgot his homework and stood in the hallway with me as punishment, was the son of a major hospital director. Su-jin in the front row was the daughter of the CEO of a famous French bakery franchise. According to Ji-ah, Jun-seok sitting behind us came from a solid construction company family—I wasn’t sure about the details. Tae-sung, already acting like a school gang leader by the window in the back, had a father who was the representative lawyer at one of Korea’s top law firms, Jo & Jang. Hye-rin, stuck in perpetual second place because of Ji-ah, had a mother who owned six buildings in Gangnam alone. Then there were the sons of venture CEOs, sons of corporate executives, daughters of luxury brand Korean branch managers, daughters of art gallery directors, and so on. This school was the true face of the prestigious Gangnam Eighth School District. And our class? It was something special. A “golden roster,” if you will. Just gathering our classmates meant you no longer needed school or regional connections. Ji-ah had poured her blood, sweat, and tears into ensuring we were embedded in their networks from a young age—because in Korea, school ties and regional ties were everything.
When we first entered the Gangnam Eighth School District, I’d expected something like the dramas Sky Castle, Cheongdam International High, or Penthouse—kids turning into sociopaths under pressure and control. After all, this was the era when private education was exploding. I thought it would be exactly that. But maybe it was still just in its growth phase. It couldn’t compare to the extreme, top-tier educational intensity of 2025, both in quantity and quality. The kids’ school life felt surprisingly relaxed. The atmosphere favored building social skills and gaining experience by mingling with children from diverse backgrounds. It seemed like connections mattered more than studying. For today’s upper-class children, academics were optional. Naturally, the title of class president carried even more weight. Leading a class full of elite kids, mingling with everyone, and naturally developing leadership—that was the real value. In this era, being class president was valued more than good grades. That’s why the election wasn’t just about the students anymore. Today was the day when parents’ wealth would truly shine. But honestly, I didn’t care who became president. As long as pizza, chicken, or burgers ended up in my mouth, it was all good.
“Alright! Anyone running for class president, raise your hands!”
The moment the teacher finished speaking, hands shot up. Half were driven by personal ambition. The other half by their parents’. All these rich kids. At the very least, they’ll promise premium burgers with extra cheese and cheese crust, right? I prayed fervently as I waited for the candidates to step forward.
My desk mate Min-su, the great Korean man forged through my constant nagging, stood up first without hesitation, drawing the teacher’s attention.
“Me! I’ll be class president! If I become class president, I’ll buy hamburgers every week! Full sets, of course!”
Cheers erupted in the classroom. Back in my previous life’s ordinary school, elections started with tiny snacks like sour gummies. Here, it began with full burger sets. As expected of the Gangnam Eighth School District.
Class president promises were like an endless game of one-upmanship. They had to be bigger than before, but not excessive.
“Hey! Don’t lie! You never even do your homework, so how are you gonna buy burgers every week?!”
“What are you talking about?! I don’t do homework, but my mom buys the burgers! Are you badmouthing my mom right now?!”
“No… that’s not what I meant. Ugh, just vote for him already!”
“Fine. Vote for me and I’ll forgive you.”
Min-su perfectly deflected the negative attack and countered with a threat. …He’s got the makings of a politician.
Seeing Min-su quickly win over the voters, Su-jin stood up, clearly unwilling to lose.
“I’ll bring bread! The best cakes and pastries from my dad’s store!”
Franchises definitely had an advantage. Unlike Min-su’s family, who’d have to spend money at a burger place every week, she could just have them delivered straight from the factory. Oh, right. That chain requires stores to bake bread on-site. Well, she could just bring them from her family’s own store. Either way, it was basically at cost.
Then Jun-seok hesitantly stood up too.
“My mom said I should run for president too… She said chicken would be fine.”
“Haha, mama’s boy!”
“If I become president, you’re not getting any chicken.”
“…Huh?”
Burgers. Bread and cake. Chicken. The promises were definitely escalating. Good job, kids. Just a little more!
“Kids, kids? Class president isn’t about who brings the best food. You need to make promises that actually help the class and your friends!”
While the flustered teacher tried to steer things back, I was already lost in happy deliberation. Who should I vote for to get the tastiest… I mean, most helpful outcome? Burgers? Bread and cake? Chicken? After chicken, we at least needed pizza. And after that—what next?! In my past life, elections ended at pizza and chicken. Just how far could these rich kids go?
Then, at that moment, Ji-ah raised her hand.
The usually quiet and cold Ji-ah was running for class president? Everyone looked surprised. I was shocked too. What the hell is she doing now? I shot her a glare, but she casually ignored it and pointed straight at me with her raised hand.
…She’s insane.
“I nominate Yoon Seo-ah.”
Ji-ah’s clear voice echoed through the classroom. Every pair of eyes turned to me at once.
This bitch…?
Yoon Seo-ah, pointed out by Ji-ah, couldn’t hide her surprise and widened her eyes. She’d planned to just mooch off whoever won—pizza, chicken, whatever—and enjoy the benefits from the sidelines. Suddenly she’d been thrust to the front lines of politics. Even the teacher blinked in surprise.
“You’re not running, Ji-ah? You’re nominating Seo-ah instead?”
“Yes. The class president is the face of our class. Is there anyone more suited to represent us than Yoon Seo-ah?”
Ji-ah walked up to the teacher’s desk. There was an intimidating presence in her stride, as if she were announcing a CEO appointment at an annual shareholders’ meeting. If it had been Seo-ah or Min-su stepping forward, the homeroom teacher would’ve been rubbing their temples saying, “Please go back to your seat. You can do this from there.” But this was Ji-ah—the girl rumored to have already surpassed sixth-grade material and was studying middle school curriculum. The most well-behaved, calm, and mature student in class. There had to be a reason she’d come forward. So the teacher stayed quiet and let her speak.
“Just because Min-su, Su-jin, and Jun-seok don’t become president, does that mean they won’t bring hamburgers and chicken? Do you think their parents would say, ‘Our kid lost, so none of you get anything’?”
The kids murmured among themselves. Oh, that’s true, they nodded. But this was exactly Ji-ah’s trap. By saying it out loud at the teacher’s desk, she’d ensured that every parent would have to provide snacks at least once. Now that it was out there, they wouldn’t hold back—they’d bring even more to prove a point.
Ji-ah paused briefly, meeting each child’s eyes one by one. The silence that followed felt far too businesslike for a first-grade class president election.
“Haven’t people been asking you for Yoon Seo-ah’s autograph lately?”
The kids nodded. Inside Cheongdam Elementary, it was just normal. But the impact of Kkureogi Tamheomdae was enormous. Seo-ah, who only moved between school, home, the comic book store, and filming sets, hadn’t realized it. Her classmates were envied just for being her friends.
“We’ll introduce a system where you collect praise stickers and exchange them for meals or Yoon Seo-ah’s autograph once you’ve gathered enough.”
“Ooooh!”
The kids didn’t fully understand the sentence, but the impressive-sounding words made cheers burst out naturally.
“And most importantly… Seo-ah is busy. She has filming and has to memorize scripts. That means even if she becomes president, she won’t have time to run errands for the teacher.”
The teacher, who needed a class president to help manage the kids, looked flustered. The students, on the other hand, cheered again at the thought of no president to tattle on them or control their noise.
“But she’s still the president. We can’t have issues with class operations. I’ll handle all of that as vice president. Seo-ah just needs to be the face of our class. She’ll be our mascot—the one who makes our class the most famous in Cheongdam Elementary? No, in the entire Gangnam Eighth School District? No, in the whole country.”
Ji-ah’s logic was flawless. The competitors’ food promises were things they could get anyway without voting. With one line—“If the candidates don’t bring snacks, I’ll buy them myself”—she’d devalued their promises. She highlighted the fame and rarity only Seo-ah could offer, creating a clear differentiator. And on top of that, the sweet temptation that there would be no annoying control. She’d said she’d handle the actual management herself, but the kids’ minds were already overloaded and they didn’t catch it.
Ji-ah tapped the desk to get everyone’s attention.
“So choose, everyone. Do you want to stuff yourselves with burgers, pizza, and chicken and end up as full pigs? Or do you want to be part of the coolest, freest class led by a superstar—eating delicious food, getting autographs, and maybe even visiting filming sets if you’re lucky? An experience you’ll never get again, where broadcasting stations might even come film our class?”
It was a heavily biased either-or question created by Ji-ah’s gaslighting. After a brief silence, Min-su, Seo-ah’s desk mate, jumped up.
“I’m voting for Yoon Seo-ah!”
Then Su-jin.
“I’ll vote for Seo-ah too!”
Jun-seok and Tae-sung followed.
“Well, if the gangster’s wife becomes president… no one will mess with our class.”
Before long, every hand in the room was raised.
“Me too! Me too, I want Seo-ah!”
“Give me ten autographs! I’m gonna brag to my cousin!”
“Is our class gonna be on TV?! Will there be interviews?!”
“Yoon Seo-ah! You’re the best!”
“She’s a celebrity! Whoa!”
The kids moved exactly as Ji-ah intended. Having a celebrity as president made them feel special too. She’d perfectly tapped into their vanity, sense of belonging, and desire for attention.
Seo-ah sat there the entire time with her mouth hanging open, staring blankly at the scene.
She’s not human…
Not only had Ji-ah nominated her without consent, she’d essentially declared herself the shadow ruler. Even the homeroom teacher, who should’ve understood everything, just watched with interest. From the teacher’s perspective, with parents starting to meddle, having a child actress as president wasn’t a bad way to set the mood. And since the capable Ji-ah would handle all the actual work, there was no need to worry about class management.
Ji-ah returned to her seat with a satisfied expression.
More students ran after that. Eventually pizza was promised, and even the cheese crust and extra cheese Seo-ah had wanted so badly. But food alone couldn’t surpass Ji-ah’s performance.
“Alright, shall we vote now?”
The result was overwhelming.
Class President: Yoon Seo-ah.
Vice President: Yoon Ji-ah.
Unanimous.