✸synopsis: pi han-ul, the school’s most dangerous student, finds you cornered after hours — and the fear he feels for you cracks open a part of him no one else has ever seen. on a forgotten rooftop above the city, his anger finally unravels into something raw and intimate, pulling you into a kiss that changes everything between you.
✸content warnings: mentions of harassment otherwise pretty tame
✸wc: 3k
✸an: lower case intended, no use of y/n, fem!reader / i miss study group!!!
[now playing: who am i — &team]
m.list
─────
school after dark feels like a place you were never meant to see. the classrooms are hollow silhouettes behind glass; the hall lights flicker with a low, electric hum; the distant clank of a locker door settling echoes like footsteps that aren’t really there. the air tastes faintly of chalk dust and autumn cold drifting in from cracked windows.
you’re walking fast. maybe too fast. your bag thumps lightly against your hip, the only real sound in the thick, empty corridor. you should’ve left earlier. but you stayed late — stupidly, stubbornly — finishing work in a classroom that’s now locked behind you.
the building feels abandoned. and something in your gut squeezes tight when you hear it — footsteps that aren’t yours. you slow. the footsteps don’t. they multiply — two, three, four — heavy, unhurried. like wolves who’ve already cornered their prey.
your breath turns thin. you turn the corner and freeze so abruptly that your shoes squeak against the tile. a group of boys stand in the middle of the hall — seniors. the kind who live off boredom and bruises. they look up, and the way their expressions sharpen is slow, deliberate, hungry.
one grins. “didn’t think anyone was still here.”
your throat closes. you take a step back— but another boy slides subtly to the side, blocking your retreat. the hall feels too narrow. your heartbeat feels too loud. he steps forward. “relax. we’re just—”
but he doesn’t finish. because the air shifts — someone else is here. not walking. not talking. just appearing. a shadow separates from the darker shadows at the end of the corridor, and pi han-ul steps forward like the hallway belongs to him.
his uniform is half-buttoned, tie loose, jacket hanging off one shoulder like he didn’t bother to put it on properly. there’s a thin scrape along his knuckle that catches the fluorescent light as he pushes a strand of hair off his forehead. he looks exhausted. irritated. like he’s coming down from a fight he didn’t want to stop.
but when his eyes find you — he goes still. his entire posture sharpens, focusing, grounding. like someone hit a switch inside him.
the boys notice him too late. han-ul doesn’t speak. doesn’t smile. doesn’t move fast. he just looks at them like they’re inconveniences blocking his path.
then his gaze returns to you. and when he speaks, his voice is soft enough that it shouldn’t scare anyone. but it does. “come here.”
you inhale like you’ve been underwater. the boys stiffen. “what? she mean some—”
han-ul lifts his chin a fraction — the action isn’t a threat. it’s a promise.
“move,” he demands.
just one word. the hallway holds its breath. the boys exchange glances — but there’s no bravado to save them here. something in han-ul’s eyes makes them look away first.
“whatever,” one mutters, shoulders hunching. “we were just talking.”
han-ul’s eyebrow twitches like he finds the excuse pathetic. they step aside — too fast to be nonchalant, moving as one unit.
as you pass them, han-ul shifts, placing himself slightly between you and them — a small, deliberate angle, like a shield he refuses to name. he doesn’t touch you yet. not until you’re out of their reach.
then his fingers graze your wrist. barely. but the touch is warm. steady.
“let’s get out of here,” he murmurs. you nod, even though your pulse is sprinting.
─────
outside, the evening has deepened into something colder, heavier. streetlamps cast pools of yellow light across the courtyard, and dried leaves skitter along the pavement in thin, restless spirals. you expect han-ul to say something sharp. or smug. or teasing. he doesn’t.
he walks next to you in silence — but it’s not the cold kind. it’s the type that’s tuned to you, hyper-aware of every shift in your breathing. his hands are in his pockets, but his eyes flick sideways every few seconds. checking you’re still there.
you stop at the edge of the courtyard. “i’m okay, now. really.”
he stares at you for a beat too long. “you don’t have to pretend.” the words are low, almost quiet enough to miss. but they hit directly.
“i’m not—”
“you’re shaking.” his voice is soft. but not gentle.
you look down at your hands. he’s right. he steps closer — so subtly that you barely notice the distance closing until he’s inches away. the faint smell of soap and cold air clings to his jacket. you swallow, and the sound feels too loud in the quiet courtyard.
his eyes flick down to your hands again, then up to your face — slow, deliberate, assessing. he’s not asking if you’re scared. he already knows. the wind picks up, tugging his hair across his forehead. he doesn’t move it. doesn’t break his stare. his jaw is locked tight enough that you see the muscle ticking near the hinge.
“they scared you,” he says plainly. it isn’t a question. it’s a quiet accusation against the world.
“i’m fine,” you try.
his lids lower half a millimeter. on anyone else, it would look like blinking. on han-ul, it looks like restraint.
“don’t lie,” he murmurs.
there’s no heat in his voice — not the kind that burns. it’s the kind that simmers under steel, the kind that lives in a fighter who trains himself not to explode even when every instinct tells him to.
“i’m not lying.”
“you are.”
the words land like a stone in water — heavy, certain, unshakable. he exhales through his nose, slow, controlled, like he’s trying to wrestle down something that wants to claw its way out of him. anger, maybe. fear. something sharper than both. he takes another step toward you. you don’t move.
his presence is overwhelming in the low light. tall. broad-shouldered. coiled under his skin like a storm he refuses to let break. everything about him is deliberate control — from the way he squares his shoulders to the way his boots scrape the pavement as he closes the last bit of distance.
the courtyard lamp flickers overhead, casting him in a halo of uneven gold. when he speaks again, his voice is flat and steady — but the steadiness only makes it more dangerous.
“if i hadn’t shown up,” he says, “what would they have done?”
your breath catches. he sees it. his eyes darken — not with rage. with something colder. something scarier. his hands are still in his pockets, but his shoulders tighten like he’s holding them there on purpose.
“don’t answer,” he says. “i don’t want to hear your guess.”
you swallow. “han-ul—”
“no.” the word is quiet but final.
he steps even closer, until you feel the warmth of him cut through the cold air. his shadow merges with yours on the ground. your heart is sprinting now, and he notices — you see it in the way his gaze dips to your throat, watching it work with each shallow breath.
“i’m not angry at you,” he says, voice low, roughened. “you do know that, right?”
you nod.
“good.”
he looks away for a second, jaw clenching once, hard, like he’s trying to bite down words he doesn’t trust himself to say. when he looks back, there’s something new in his eyes. not softness. not gentleness. focus.
“i’m angry because someone else thought they could touch you,” he says. “look at you. talk to you. corner you.”
the wind rushes past, lifting leaves and hair and tension all around you — but he doesn’t blink. “i don’t like that.” his voice drops an octave — quiet, razor-edged. “i don’t like anyone thinking they can get close to you.”
your breath stutters. he sees that too.
for the first time, he breaks his own rule and takes a hand out of his pocket. his knuckles are still scraped, the skin raw from some fight he probably didn’t even bother to mention. slowly — deliberately — he lifts that hand. his fingertips hover near your cheek. not touching. not quite. the heat of him brushes your skin like a warning.
“you’re still shaking,” he says again, softer now.
“because you’re scaring me,” you breathe.
that gets him. his jaw tightens, and he drops his hand instantly — as if touching you would set off something he isn’t ready to face. he steps back half an inch. not much. just enough to breathe.
“i’m not trying to scare you,” he tells you. the controlled fury is still there — banked embers under calm ash — but it shifts, cooling, redirecting. “i’m trying not to.”
you stare at him. and for a fraction of a second, you see it — the boy beneath the chaos. the one who watches every hallway you walk through. the one who gets angry when he’s worried. the one who feels safer in fights than in moments like this.
the courtyard light flickers again, then steadies. han-ul’s shoulders rise and fall with a slow breath, and his voice drops to a rumble you feel more than hear.
“come with me,” he says. not a demand. not a command. a request. quiet and taut and impossibly vulnerable beneath all the steel.
the city is a bruise-colored sprawl beneath you. han-ul didn’t say where he was taking you — he just hooked a finger in the strap of your backpack, tugged once in silent instruction, and walked. not fast. not slow. just with purpose. like if he stopped moving, the anger simmering under his skin would finally boil over.
you follow him across empty streets and past shuttered storefronts, the cold air stinging your cheeks. he doesn’t look back, but you can feel him checking on you in every sharp exhale, in the way he slows half a step when you stumble over a broken bit of pavement.
the rooftop is old — the kind of building that probably used to be something important twenty years ago. now it’s forgotten. a place no one looks at twice. perfect for someone like him.
han-ul pushes open the metal door. it groans in protest, its hinges shrieking. the air up here is colder, thinner, carrying the scent of exhaust, rain-soaked concrete, and the metallic tang of city night.
the skyline glitters in uneven lines — neon signs blinking, windows glowing like fractured stars. the wind whips at your clothes, pulling hair across your face. han-ul walks to the edge.
you hover several feet back. he braces both hands on the railing, head bowed. his shoulders rise and fall in slow, uneven breaths. he looks like a storm trying not to tear itself open.
you wait. you know better than to speak first.
his voice comes out rougher than you’ve ever heard it. “they shouldn’t have been near you.”
you swallow. “i’m all right.”
he laughs — not a real laugh. a sharp, humorless breath. “don’t say that right now.”
you blink. “han-ul—”
he turns.
the wind shoves cold air between you, but his expression makes everything inside you go still. his jaw is tight, eyes too bright under the flickering rooftop light. anger coils through every line of him — but it’s not the wild kind you’ve seen when someone pushes him in the hallway. this is quieter. heavier. almost frightening in its restraint.
“i almost hit one of them.” the words scrape out of him. “i wanted to.”
you step closer. “they didn’t touch me.”
“that doesn’t matter.” his voice cracks — barely, but it does. “the way they looked at you—”
the sentence closes in on itself. his knuckles flex.
he drags a hand through his hair, pacing once like he can’t stay still. “i’m good at fighting. that’s all i’m good at. i know that. but i—” he grits his teeth. “i lose it when it comes to you.”
your heart presses hard against your ribs. “han-ul.”
but he’s spiraling — quietly, controlled, but unraveling all the same. “i shouldn’t care this much. i shouldn’t feel—” his breath stutters on the cold air. “—this angry. this afraid.”
afraid. that word settles in the air like frost.
you walk toward him slowly, each step cautious, intentional. he doesn’t move, barely breathes, like he’s afraid he’ll snap if touched too suddenly.
you reach for his hand. at first, he doesn’t give it to you — his fingers hold tension like steel cables. but when your thumb grazes his knuckle, something in him softens. not much. just enough. his fingers curl around yours, tentative but desperate.
you squeeze his hand gently — but before you can say anything, he pulls it away and turns his back to you. not in rejection. in self-defense.
his shoulders are bunched tight beneath his jacket, muscles shifting like he’s wrestling with something you can’t see. the city wind lashes at him, tugging at his hair, his clothes, but he stands rigid, unmoving.
“don’t…” his voice breaks off, thin and ragged. “don’t look at me right now.”
you take a small step closer. “why?”
“because,” he says, breath shuddering out of him, “i’m barely holding it together.”
the confession hits harder than any shout would have. han-ul has always been the type who thrives in motion — in chaos, in adrenaline, in the wild crackle of a fight. but standing still in front of you, with no one to swing at and nothing to focus his fury on, he looks… lost. cornered.
his hands grip the railing again, knuckles pale in the cold. when he speaks, it’s a low, shaking whisper.
“when those guys had you there… when i heard them—” he swallows, voice fraying. “i saw red. i didn’t think. i didn’t even feel like myself.”
you step close enough that your coat brushes his back. “han-ul. look at me.”
he freezes. for a moment, the rooftop goes impossibly quiet — just the distant rumble of traffic far below, the hum of neon lights, the metallic rattle of a loose billboard chain shifting in the wind.
finally, slowly, he turns. and that’s when you realize he’s not angry anymore. he’s terrified. his eyes are glassy under the rooftop light, but not with tears — han-ul doesn’t cry. it’s something rawer. sharper. like he’s been stripped down to nerves and bone.
“you said i was scaring you,” he whispers. “and you were right. i could feel it. i was… too much.”
you shake your head instantly. “you weren’t—”
“i was.” he steps closer, voice quiet but fierce. “i’ve scared people my whole life. i just…” his breath catches, “…i never wanted to scare you.”
the wind curls around you both, tugging at loose strands of hair, pushing the scent of rain-soaked concrete between you.
“han-ul,” you say softly, “you’re not scaring me anymore.”
his jaw works, but he can’t seem to find an answer. so you take the risk — you reach up, gently, fingers brushing his cheek. he goes still. absolutely still. like the slightest movement would shatter him. his eyes close, lashes trembling.
his voice comes out small — too small for someone who fights the way he does. “i don’t know how to be… gentle,” he admits. “not with how i feel when it’s you.”
your thumb sweeps along his cheekbone. “then let me teach you.”
his breath leaves him in one quiet, broken exhale. he leans forward — not all the way, just enough that your foreheads nearly touch, enough that you feel the heat of him mixing with the rooftops’ cold, enough that the electric hum of the city slips away until there’s only this. only him. only you.
“don’t walk home alone,” he murmurs, voice barely there.
“then stay with me,” you breathe.
his hand comes up — slow, hesitant, like he’s afraid he’ll scare you again — and he cups the side of your neck, his thumb brushing your pulse. you feel him tremble.
“okay,” he whispers.
han-ul’s thumb is still resting against your pulse when he finally lifts his eyes to yours — dark, storm-warm, searching. the rooftop wind tugs at his hair, pushing a loose strand across his forehead. you reach up without thinking, brushing it away. your fingers skim his temple, soft, careful.
he inhales sharply. not because of the touch — but because of the tenderness in it, something he’s not used to surviving.
his hand flexes at your neck. “don’t…” he whispers, but the word dissolves before he can finish it. his gaze flickers down to your mouth. just once. just long enough.
your breath catches. he notices — of course he does — and his jaw tightens like he’s trying to swallow the urge right out of himself.
“han-ul,” you murmur.
that’s all it takes. he moves in slow, as if giving you every chance to pull away — but you don’t, and that last bit of restraint inside him finally gives. his forehead presses to yours first, a warm, quiet anchor. he breathes you in. you feel the tremor in him, subtle but real. then he tilts his head the slightest angle, brushing his nose against yours — a soft, searching nudge that makes your heart stutter.
something in him unravels. he leans in, and his lips meet yours — not rough, not wild, but careful. impossibly careful. the kind of caution that feels more intimate than any urgency could. his hand slides from your neck to your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek, as if grounding himself in every second of the kiss.
you rise onto your toes, fingers curling into the front of his jacket. he responds with a quiet inhale against your lips — like he didn’t realize he’d been starving until now.
the kiss deepens just a little, slow and warm, the city wind circling around you both while the rooftop lights flicker above. when he finally pulls back, it’s only by a breath — his lips still brushing yours, his hand still cupping your face.
you open your eyes. he’s already watching you. and the storm in him? gone. in its place is something steadier. quieter. terrifying in its honesty.
“this,” he whispers, thumb sweeping your cheekbone again. “this is what scares me.”
you lean into his touch. “it doesn’t scare me.”
his lips ghost yours once more — softer than the first time, a barely-there brush that feels like a promise he can’t yet say out loud. and for that moment, on a forgotten rooftop above the sleeping city, pi han-ul isn’t the leader of the entire school. he’s just a boy kissing you like he finally found something worth losing control for.
sypnosis: you locked yourself in the bathroom after a failed attempt at escaping pi hanwool.
wc: i dunno but its just a really short drabble 😸
cw: mentions of kidnapping, mentions of injuries, non-consensual touching (NOT SEXUAL), yandere pi hanwool.
a/n: wrote this on a roadtrip so im sorry if its bad! also we need more pi hanwool fics bruv
"y/n, just open the door." his voice was deceivingly soft and yet, you knew better.
pi han-ul might've sounded kind, gentle- but anger was seeping through his voice.
three months.
three months was the day you graduated, as well as how long pi han-ul, the top dog of your previous school, has kept you in this golden cage he calls 'your home'.
you still remember crying with your friends as you took pictures in your graduation outfits.
the taste of chloroform before you blacked out.
three sharp knocks on the white bathroom door followed after, making you flinch. your palms were soaked in sweat, your eyes and throat burning from the stress.
"do you want me to break this door down instead?" he enquired as if he was asking how the weather was.
you looked down, shrivelling up into a ball on the floor as if that would protect you. your forehead hit your knees- get me out of this nightmare.
outside the bathroom, you could hear a faint scoff and footsteps that slowly faded into underwater silence.
'is he gone?' you thought, but still not daring to look at the door.
after a beat, you decided to crawl infront of the door and press your ear against it. the cool surface squished your cheek as you tried to make out any sounds from outside. you could barely hear anything-
BANG!
the door boomed with a loud vibration, as if someone was punching it. you yelped and jumped back, but it didn't stop.
BANG! BANG! BANG-
your body flinched hard as the wood splintered against the frame, making you return back to your original curled up form. your hands flew to cover your ears.
the warm, orangey-yellow colour that crept into the bathroom conflicted with the fluorescent lighting. it brought a kind of comfort that was wrong- like you knew something was odd, yet you couldn't quite place where it was off. like an uncanny valley of a feeling.
your eyes burned a hole through the tiles of the floor, staring at the impossibly intimidating shadow that loomed over your figure- like a predator that found its prey in the dark. tears stung your eyes as your heart pounded against your ribcage like a wronged prisoner sentenced to death row.
despite your obvious displeasure, the shadow moved closer and closer until a pair of fancy, black dress shoes stopped infront of your blistered feet (your consequences of running).
you hadn't even noticed when you started shaking.
han-ul bent down to your level as if to comfort you, but the difference in authority between you two was deafeningly evident.
his hand reached out to your hair first. he stroked it, even though you almost jumped away.
"y/n, why don't you listen to me, hm?"
you stared at the blurry image of his expensive suit, unable to respond.
his fingers interlaced with your hair gently before tugging on it. not hard, but enough to snap you out of it.
finally, your eyes met his.
the impeccably dressed man gave you a small smile. his fingers travelled to your tear-stricken face, thumb tracing your cheek and wiping your tears.
"you made this hard for yourself..." his eyes wandered to your trembling hands, taking them into his bloody ones and giving your wrist a small peck, "and now you're crying over it?"
he pondered genuinely, not a single trace of mockery in his question. or maybe there was.
"either way...you understand that you have to get punished, right?"
SOOOO I WATCHED THE LAST EP OF STUDY GROUP AND I WAS SO SO SO LIKE ON THE EDGE OF MY SEAT THE WHOLE TIME LIKE THIS WAS SO FUN OMFGGGGGG SO HERE IS EVERYTHING THAT I LOVED ALL THROUGHOUT THE SHOW
[BEWARE: this will have spoilers. watch the show and then come back babes]
the introduction scenes. what i am talking about is when they introduced gamin and jun and THE PARALLELS
when gamin's mom kicked that dude in the cafe LIKE OMGGG WOMENNNN >>>>>>>>
lee jiwoo <3 loml fr
i really luvvv the way that heewon and sehyun still contribute to the group despite not being able to fight, it's rare to see characters like them done well but i luv to see it
i also really like that the women are equally involved in the violence (not that i am glorifying it) but basically in a way that they can actually fight and are not just being defended or rescued
did i say i love lee jiwoo?
the DETERMINATION that gamin and jun showcase. i absolutely love to see the way gamin does not give up at all despite their not being an improvement. similarly with jun, which shows in the fight w the kid from when they came to find the murder weapon
also the underling w the kiss tattoo on his face was so damn fine
gamin breaking through an IRON DOOR LIKE HELLO?????????????
gamin, jiwoo and geonyeop in the fight w the scouter OMG
hanwool and minhwan dream team cus they are MIGHTY FINE and also cha woomin is lit my bf like ehe
i luv that they show junghwa and hanwool but it pisses me off a lil that we don't get to know more about hanwool (i am yet to read the webtoon sooo)
i absolutely luv the final ep because that was truly AMAZING like i had so much fun watching
i rlly like that we get to see the development through the fights
i also really like that there is no magical transformation w sehyun where he learns to fight but instead a more realistic approach to it
luv the scene where all of yuseong high shows up with heewon standing right in front LIKE YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW MUCH I LOVED THAT SCENE
gamin and hanwool's fight. it really shows they are equals when it comes to fighting
I LUV LUV LUV THE SCENE WHERE HANWOOL'S DISCIPLINARY MEETING IS HELD AND HANGYEONG SWITCHES TO JUNGHWA AND THE CHANGE IN HIS EXPRESSION OH MY GOD
+ bonus: the scene where heewon first meets w sehyun and gamin and gives sehyun boba eyes to convince him and gamin mimics her LIKE AAAAA CUTIES
OFC there is so much more!!!!!!!!!! but i think yapped enough for now, i will def be posting more about all of them because i have hella thoughts
✸synopsis: you arrive at a school where survival depends on staying invisible, carrying a home life you’ve been trained never to name. the moment the most dangerous boy in the building looks at you and knows — love striking fast and uninvited — your quiet strategies begin to fail. as violence, truth, and care collide, you learn that healing means letting yourself be seen by someone who chose you at first sight and never looked away.
✸genre: one-shot, canon adjacent, love at first sight, slow burn asf, strangers-to-lovers, enemies-to-lovers
✸pairing: pi han-ul x reader
✸content warnings: mentions of family abuse, injuries including bruises and broken bones, low-key fear-play from pi han-ul
✸wc: 9.4k
✸an: lower case intended, no use of y/n, fem!reader / god i love pi han-ul
[now playing: ruin my life — boynextdoor]
m.list
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the first lesson you learned in this life is how to take up less space.
not in a tragic way; not in a poetic way. just in a practiced way. you stand a little closer to walls than necessary. you walk half a step behind people instead of beside them. you soften your footfalls without thinking about it, like your body decided long ago that being unnoticed is safer.
it’s not that you hate people — you just don’t trust what happens once they start paying attention.
─────
the school gate of yusung technical high school looms in front of you like an open mouth — wide, rusted, hungry.
the paint on the metal bars is chipped and sun-bleached, flaking in ugly curls. someone carved names into it with a key. someone else carved threats. someone else carved a heart with initials that probably don’t belong together anymore.
you can already hear shouting. not excited shouting — the kind that has weight to it. the kind that sounds like fists. metal lockers slam somewhere inside the building. loud laughter follows. not a warm laugh — sharp; the kind that circles like vultures.
this place isn’t just known for being bad. it’s known for being where you end up when nowhere else wants you. dropouts. delinquents. kids on their last warning. kids who stopped caring. kids who never had anyone care in the first place.
and now — you.
your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag. beside you stands your twin brother, kim se-hyeon. same birthday; same black hair; same dark eyes.
that’s where the similarities end. se-hyeon looks like he belongs anywhere he stands. not because he’s loud. not because he’s flashy. but because his presence has weight. he’s tall for your age, broad-shouldered without trying. his posture is relaxed in a way that says he’s aware of everything around him — and confident that he can handle it.
you learned a long time ago that your brother doesn’t look for trouble. trouble looks for him and usually regrets it.
he glances sideways at you. “you okay?”
you nod. it’s automatic. you’ve perfected the convincing nod — small, controlled, no tremble.
“remember,” he says quietly, “the girls’ building is separate. if anything feels off, text me. i’ll come.”
you nod again. you don’t tell him that everything already feels off. that the air itself feels wrong — charged, sour, brittle. that your stomach has been tight since you woke up that morning. that you wish you could become mist and drift away.
se-hyeon reaches out and lightly taps your forehead. the way he’s done since you were kids. “just survive today,” he reminds you. “that’s it.”
survive. you can do that. you always do that.
─────
inside the halls smell like old disinfectant, sweat, and something metallic you don’t want to think about. your homeroom teacher barely looks up when handing you your schedule.
“girls’ class 1-b,” she tells you. “don’t be late. don’t start problems.”
you almost laugh. as if starting problems is something you’ve ever been accused of.
the girls’ wing is quieter than the main building. not calm; just contained. voices stay low. laughter cuts off quickly when teachers pass. groups cluster together like small islands, protective and suspicious.
you take an empty seat near the back. of course you do. the desk has scratches carved into it. someone drew a skull. someone else wrote die in messy block letters. you run your thumb over the edge of the desk and keep your eyes down. the teacher introduces you.
“this is our transfer student. introduce yourself.”
your heart stutters as every head turns. thirty pairs of eyes. some bored, some curious, some openly sizing you up. you stand slowly, your hands clenched into fists at your side.
your voice comes out softer than you intend as you state your name. “i transferred today.”
that’s it. you bow politely, sit, and disappear again. there’s no applause, no welcome. just murmurs that quickly fade as the attention drifts elsewhere. perfect.
─────
by lunch, you have learned several important things.
yusung runs on hierarchy. strength is currency. and everyone is obsessed with an app. you don’t download it. you don’t need to. people talk about it openly.
“lee hyun-woo moved up again.”
“did you see that fight last night? he broke the guy’s arm!”
“check the rankings.”
you’ve also learned that the app was created by pi han-ul. a third-year; the undisputed leader of yusung. not student council president, not a class representative. something worse — owner.
the app ranks students based on their fighting ability, wins, physical stats, and influence. officially, it’s banned. unofficially, everyone uses it. the rankings decide who gets bothered, and who gets left alone. who gets targeted, and who gets protected.
your brother’s name isn’t on it. which means one of two things — he hasn’t been noticed yet, or he’s hiding. neither option lasts forever.
you sit alone at lunch. you always sit alone when your brother isn’t with you.
you eat quietly, your eyes on your food. you don’t notice the shift at first. the way voices dip. the tension rolls through the room like a wave.
you don’t look up. you should have.
─────
pi han-ul notices you the moment you walk through the cafeteria doors.
he wasn’t looking for anything. not really. he was half-listening to one of his underlings bragging about a fight. half-bored. half-irritated. then you pass — no makeup, no bright clothes, a uniform that’s slightly too big, head down. moving like you’re trying not to exist.
something in his chest catches. not a lightning strike, not fireworks. more like a slow, uncomfortable pressure. it was like someone placed a hand around his heart and squeezed.
you don’t look at him. that should make it easier. it doesn’t.
most people stare. girls try to be noticed. guys puff up. you don’t do either. you glide past, tray in hand, shoulders slightly hunched, scanning for the emptiest seat in the room.
han-ul watches you choose a table in the far corner. alone. of course you sit alone. of course you do. his jaw tightens.
“who’s that?” he asks no one in particular.
ma min-hwan squints. “new girl, i think. transfer.”
han-ul doesn’t respond. he’s already standing. already walking. each step feels deliberate. heavy. the cafeteria seems to part for him without effort. people don;t block pi han-ul’s path. they move. they always move.
he stops a few feet from your table. you feel it before you see it. that weight. that awareness. the instinct that something dangerous is nearby. your fingers curl around your chopsticks. you keep your eyes down.
han-ul studies you. your lashes are long; your hands are small. there’s a faint bruise on your wrist. that bothers him more than it should.
“you’re new,” he states the obvious. his voice isn’t loud. it doesn’t need to be. the room feels quieter anyway. you nod. still not looking up. “what’s your name?”
a pause. you consider pretending you don’t hear it. you consider lying. you consider standing up and running. none of these are practical.
you say your name instead. your voice barely carries.
something warm and ugly spreads in his chest. you sound like you’re apologizing for existing. he hates that. not you. the world. whoever taught you to be like this.
“you sit alone on purpose?” he asks, his hands deep in his pockets.
you hesitate, then nod. honest, simple, dangerous. han-ul huffs a quiet laugh. not mocking. not amused. more stunned. no one talks to him like this — no performance, no agenda. just small, quiet truths.
he crouches slightly so he’s closer to eye level. you finally glance up. for half a second. that’s all it takes.
your eyes are dark. not empty, not dull. just tired. like you’ve lived inside yourself for a long time. something inside pi han-ul breaks. he doesn’t know what. he doesn’t know why. he only knows with absolute certainty that you are his. not in a gentle way. not in a healthy way. in a slow, sinking, inevitable way.
“you shouldn’t sit alone here,” he tells you quietly.
you swallow. “i’m okay.”
another honest answer. another mistake. han-ul straightens.
“not anymore,” he warns. he turns and walks away. no explanation. no threat. no promise. but the moment he leaves — you feel it.
eyes on you. whispers starting. the air around your table feels different. he didn’t touch you. he didn’t raise his voice. he didn’t claim you out loud. but everyone understands anyway.
in the boys’ building across campus, se-hyeon feels a strange chill crawl up his spine. like something important has shifted. like a line has been crossed.
neither of you knows it yet. but your life at yusung has already changed. and pi han-ul has already decided that he will protect. he will watch you. he will own every piece of space around you. whether you want him to — or not.
─────
the apartment has always felt like a place people pass through.
not a home. not a refuge. just a stop along the way. a thin-walled, poorly lit checkpoint between one bad day and the next. you don’t remember ever thinking of it as safe. even when you were small. even before you knew words like abuse or neglect or cycle.
you only understood patterns. your father comes home. the door slams. bottles clink. voices rise. someone gets hurt. repeat.
─────
your building squats at the edge of a dying block.
concrete stained dark with years of rain and cigarettes. streetlights that flicker more often than work. the first-floor steps that have been littered with bottle caps since you were born.
you and se-yeon climb down the steps every night in silence, counting steps out of habit. not that it matters. because counting gives your mind something to hold onto. your apartment door sticks. you have to shoulder-check it to get inside.
the smell hits first. alcohol. old takeout. stale air. sometimes sweat. sometimes blood. tonight, it’s alcohol. which is better than some of the alternatives.
your father is passed out on the living room floor, one shoe still on, a bottle tipped over and spilling on the cracked linoleum. his mouth hangs open. he snores like he’s choking.
you step around him. careful. always careful. se-hyeon doesn’t look at him. he never does.
─────
you and your brother share the bedroom.
there was never a discussion about it. there was never an alternative. one small room; two narrow beds pushed against opposite walls. a single desk between them. stacks of old textbooks on se-hyeon’s side. neatly folded clothes on yours.
the bathroom door doesn’t lock. you changed behind that door anyway. you learned to dress fast. you learned to sleep lightly. you learned to listen.
se-hyeon sets his bag down between the desk and his bed.
“homework,” he says quietly. you nod. it’s what he always says. not because he thinks you care, but because routine matters. he sits at the desk. you sit on your bed. the light bulb hums overhead. you both pretend that this is normal.
─────
you don’t remember your mother’s face clearly.
just pieces. long dark hair. the smell of cheap shampoo. hands that were sometimes gentle. sometimes empty. one day she didn’t come back. no note. no goodbye. no explanation.
your father said she was useless. said she was a whore. said she was weak. you don’t know which hurts more. that she left or that she didn’t take you with her.
after she disappeared, something in your father rotted faster. he drank more. he yelled more. he stopped pretending. se-hyeon was still a kid — just minutes older than you — but he started standing between you and him anyway. too small. too skinny. too brave.
he got hit for it. a lot. your father stopped bothering you as much after a while. not because he cared but because you were nothing to him. not worth the effort. in a twisted way, being ignored kept you alive.
─────
se-hyeon is smart.
everyone who bothers to look can see it. he reads fast. remembers everything. understands things on the first try. teachers used to tell him to aim for university. your father laughed in their faces.
“sons follow their fathers,” he said. “he’ll work construction. same as me.”
it didn’t matter that se-hyeon hated construction. didn’t matter that dust made his chest tight. didn’t matter that his hands shook when he’s angry. in this family, dreams are a luxury. luxuries get crushed.
se-hyeon stopped talking about college out loud. but you’ve seen his notebooks. hidden scholarship searches. practice tests. plans written in tiny, careful handwriting. hope disguised as homework.
you never tell him you’ve seen them. some things survive better when they’re secret.
─────
no one ever asks what you want.
not at school; not at home. not anywhere. the assumptions were made for you a long time ago.
you’ll marry young. probably to someone older. probably to someone loud. you’ll move out — disappear. stop being a responsibility. a daughter is something to be handed off. a son is an investment. you learned that without anyone having to explain it.
so you don’t dream. not big ones. big dreams feel dangerous. you dream small. you dream about quiet. about a locking door and knowing that no one else has a key. about sleeping through the night. about not flinching when someone raises their voice.
that’s it. that’s the whole list.
─────
at night, the apartment creaks.
pipes knock. neighbors fight. someone down the hall cries. your father sometimes wakes and stumbles into walls. sometimes he pounds on your door. sometimes he forgets you exist. you never know which version of the night you’re getting.
you sleep on your side, facing se-hyeon’s bed. he sleeps facing yours. not sentimental. strategic. so you can see each other. so if one of you moves suddenly, the other wakes up. an unspoken pact. you don’t remember when it started. you don’t remember a time before it.
everything in your life feels temporary. good moments. calm moments. silence. they never last. so you don’t get attached. not to places. no to people. not to hope.
you move through the world like someone passing through a burning building. head down, breathing shallow, just trying to make it to the next doorway without catching fire.
you don’t know it yet, but someone at yusung has already noticed how carefully you exist. how small you make yourself. how used you are to disappearing. and for the first time in your life — that might be more dangerous than being invisible.
─────
it happens between classes, where supervision thins and sound carries just enough to draw a crowd.
you feel it before you see it — the way people slow, the way phones come out like reflexes. a boy steps into se-hyeon’s path with a smile that isn’t friendly and a voice pitched for witnesses.
“low rank,” he calls your brother, glancing pointedly at his screen. “thought i’d introduce myself.”
se-hyeon stops. he doesn’t square up. he doesn’t bristle. he tilts his head, just slightly, like he’s listening for something beneath the words. you know that look. he’s reading posture, weight, the angle of the shoulders. he’s already memorizing.
you stay where you are — two steps back, half-hidden by the lockers. your heart starts to race anyway. you press your tongue to the roof of your mouth and keep your face empty. you learned early that reactions invite attention.
the boy lunges. it’s quick. messy. a swing meant to end things fast. se-hyeon moves late on purpose — just enough to test range, just enough to feel the follow-through. he blocks wrong once. lets himself get shoved. the crowd murmurs, disappointed and pleased all at once.
you watch every second. you notice how the boy drops his guard after a miss. how he telegraphs the next move with his feet. how he favors one side. se-hyeon notices too — you can tell by the way his eyes sharpen even as he stumbles back.
he goes down on one knee. not hard. not hurt. but enough.
a whistle cuts through the air. someone laughs. a teacher’s voice echoes too late. the boy straightens, chest puffed, already refreshing his phone. the ranking ticks up. satisfaction settles into him like a reward well earned.
se-hyeon gets up without help. he dusts off his sleeve, expression calm, breathing steady. he doesn’t look at the crowd. he looks at the floor where the boy’s feet were planted, then at the angle of the hallway, then — briefly — at you.
it’s not a question. it’s a promise: i learned.
you let your breath out slowly, quietly. your hands stop shaking when you tuck them into your sleeves. around you, people buzz — commentary, speculation, hunger. some are disappointed it ended so fast. some are already scanning for the next low name to climb.
you don’t move.
down the corridor, near a bank of windows that wash the walls in pale light, pi han-ul stands apart from the noise, he doesn’t rush in. he doesn’t lift his phone. he watched the exchange like a problem being solved.
his gaze doesn’t linger on se-hyeon. it shifts — to you.
you don’t cheer. you don’t flinch. you don’t cry or rush forward or shout. you stand still, face blank, eyes empty, like this is something you’ve rehearsed. like violence is the weather and you’ve learned how to wait it out.
something in han-ul’s expression shifts — not much. just enough. most people watch fights to see who wins. he watches to see who understands.
and as the crowd disperses and the hallway breathes again, he files the moment away — a strategic loss, the quiet brother, and the girl who didn’t react like the others.
─────
the fluorescent lights of the corner store buzz like insects.
you stand in the cramped aisle, gripping the basket with both hands, counting the price in your head. every coin counts. every note. the prices have gone up again — groceries, snacks, instant noodles, the “emergency” stash of alcohol your father hides in his cabinet for when his daily dose runs out.
he doesn’t notice that it’s not for him that you do this. that it’s for survival — for keeping him from noticing you too much.
you adjust your grip on the basket, careful not to jostle anything. your fingers brush the plastic packaging of instant noodles, then the small bottles of alcohol. you know the price of each item before you even reach the register. you know exactly how much he’ll complain if he finds out.
the cashier scans everything. the beeping echoes like gunshots in the quiet store. you slide the money across the counter, hands steady. no reaction. you’ve practiced it a thousand times. no flinch, no hesitation, no panic. you can’t afford to.
─────
the moment you step through the apartment door, it’s like crossing into another dimension.
the smell hits first — as always. alcohol, stale smoke, the faint trace of vomit from last night. your father is sprawled across the couch, eyes half-lidded, bottle in hand, drool pooling at the corner of his mouth. he doesn’t even look at you, not at first.
then he glances at the plastic bag in your hands. his face tightens. something small in his eyes — disgust, angery, irriation — flares. you hear the words before they form: “how much?”
“nothing —” you pause, swallow. “just the usual.”
he snatches the bag from you and rips it open. the noodles tumble out. the alcohol rattles against the counter. the price slips from your lips before you realize you’ve said it.
he doesn’t even register your explanation.
“you paid what?” his voice is sudden, explosive. a thunderclap. the kind that rattles the cheap windows and makes your stomach curl.
before you can respond, before you can even react, his hand slams across your face — hard. shock blossoms across your cheek, a white-hot fire. your head snaps back, hair brushing against your shoulder, and you taste copper, sharp and immediate, on your tongue.
your lips splits. a warm, wet sting spreads through your mouth. you touch it instinctively. blood on your fingers. you taste it, swallow it, let it mix with the bild of recognition — this is normal. this is expected.
se-hyeon moves faster than you think he can.
“get away from her,” he says, low and dangerous, voice coiled tight. his hands grab your father’s arms. he’s not yelling. he doesn’t need to. he’s already set himself as a barrier. he’s already made himself the target.
but your father doesn’t stop. never does, never will.
the first punch lands on se-hyeon’s shoulder, the second grazes his jaw. he stumbles back, but only slightly. he’s stead, strong. he’s smart. he’s everything your father isn't, and it’s not enough.
your palms scrape the rough edge of the table as you try to move between them, to pull them apart. pain blossoms on your skin. bruises start forming instantly — hot, jutting, the kind that lingers. your lip burns with every heartbeat. your chest feels too tight.
se-hyeon shouts something, but the room swallows the words. your father swings again, fists unrestrained. there’s no thought, no reason. just habit. anger at life, at money, at the world — and you and se-hyeon are in the way.
you flinch only once. enough to catch the edge of a fist across your shoulder, but not your head. that’s the rule. that’s all you can control. everything else is chaos.
se-hyeon pushes back with everything he has in him, and yet you know the pattern. it never ends well. never. not for him. not for you. not for the room filled with tension, broken furniture, and the heavy smell of alcohol.
eventually, your father tires. or pretends to. or maybe he smily forgets what he was hitting you for. he stumbles back to the couch, muttering under his breath, leaving bruises, blood, and tension in his wake.
se-hyeon drops to his knees beside you, checking your lip, your palms, your arms. you shake your head. there’s nothing to do. you’ve already wiped the blood away, pressed a napkin to your split lip, pressed down the pain and swallowed it down like medicine.
he doesn’t argue. he doesn’t curse. he just stays there, alert. always ready. because this house is a battlefield. and regardless of what happens outside — here, survival is not optional.
you sit in silence, your lip throbbing, your palms stinging. you hear your father snore from the couch. the apartment reeks of alcohol, sweat, and old paper. every sound feels magnified — a dripping faucet, the creak of a door, your own shallow breathing.
and yet, somehow, even in the chaos, the bruises, the pain — you feel alive. you’ve survived it before. you’ll survive again. because everything in your life is dangerous and temporary — and the only thing you can trust is the quiet vigilance you’ve carried since childhood.
you lean against the wall, close to se-hyeon. he doesn’t move away. he never does. and you know, without needing to speak, that you’ll both keep surviving. together, even when it never ends well.
─────
it starts with something small. that’s how it always starts. not a confrontation. not a threat. a look that lasts half a second too long.
you’re at your locker before third period. the hallway smells of cleaning chemicals and old sweat. your split lip throbs faintly. you’d bitten your lip in your sleep. or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.
you hardly remember it now. you just remember the pressure, a sharp sound, your breath catching. memory is unreliable. pain isn’t.
you tilt your head down as you spin the lock. you don’t want anyone to see. you don’t want sympathy. you don’t want curiosity. both turn into danger eventually.
se-hyeon stands beside you, pretending to scroll on his phone. really he’s watching reflections in the locker door. a survival habit you’ve both developed.
footsteps slow behind you — not stopping, not passing. slowing. you feel it before you understand it. that pressure. that gravity. your fingers tighten around the metal dial. you don’t look. you don’t need to. you already know who it is. pi han-ul.
you haven’t spoken to him since your first day, but your body recognizes his presence the way it recognizes fire. warm, bright, and capable of burning everything.
his gaze drops. not to your eyes, not to your face. lower. your mouth. the split lip isn’t dramatic — just a thin line, a hint of blood dried red in the corner. but it doesn’t belong to the school. no swelling knuckles, no accompanying black eye, no context. it’s doesn’t fit any fight he’s seen.
han-ul’s eyes narrow slightly. not in suspicion. in calculation. he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t slow fully, doesn’t stop. he walks past. anyone watching would think that nothing happened.
you exhale only after he’s gone. se-hyeon notices.
“you okay?” he murmurs.
“yeah,” you reply. a lie — automatic. you grab your books, close your locker. you feel wrong. like something delicate inside of you has been touched. not physically. worse. noticed.
across the hallway, han-ul sits on the windowsill, one knee up, phone in hand. ma min-hwan stands in front of him.
min-hwan is lean, sharp-faced. always smiling. the kind of guy who knows everyone and belongs nowhere.
han-ul doesn’t look up when he speaks.
“the girl who walks with se-hyeon.”
min-hwan blinks, feigns ignorance. “lots of girls walk with se-hyeon.”
han-ul finally raises his eyes. min-hwan straightens up immediately.
“the quiet one,” han-ul presses, his tongue keen. “his sister. transfer.”
min-hwan thinks, then nods. “oh, yeah. ghost girl.”
han-ul doesn’t react to the nickname. “find out about her.”
min-hwan grins, teeth sharp. he snorts, “why? you adopting strays now?”
han-ul’s gaze goes flat. min-hwan’s smile fades a notch.
“i’ll look into it,” he replies.
han-ul looks back at his phone. conversation over.
─────
you don’t know any of this.
you don’t know about han-ul’s gaze still lingering on your split lip. you don’t know about min-hwan being told to look into you. you don’t know that a quiet decision has already been made somewhere above your head. you just know that by fourth period, something feels wrong.
not loudly. not obvious. the kind of wrong that slips under your skin and settles there. whispers don’t follow you. they stop when you get close. not dramatically. no one turns and stares. no one points. conversations simply trail off. like someone flipped a switch.
you pass two girls by the stairs. they’re mid-sentence. they see you. their mouths close. one of them looks at the floor. the other pretends to check her phone.
your steps don’t slow. you pretend you didn’t notice. you always pretend. down the hall, you catch ma min-hwan leaning against a locker. he isn’t talking to anyone. he isn’t on his phone. he’s just looking. not fixed. not intense. casual. like he happened to glance up at the exact moment you looked his way.
your eyes meet for half a second. he smiles. not friendly. not cruel. curious. like you’re a puzzle he hasn’t decided whether to solve yet. your stomach knots. you look away first. your pace subtly changes. not running — never running. just drifting.
when you spot se-hyeon at the end of the hall, you angle toward him without thinking. you close the distance. your shoulder almost brushes his arm. you hate how instinctive it is. how fast your body reacts. your shoulders curl inward. your chin dips. your gaze stays on the floor tiles. you make yourself smaller. you already know how. you’ve been practicing your whole life.
by lunch, your head hurts. not from hunger. from holding yourself together too tightly. today, your lunch periods line up. a small mercy. se-hyeon drops into the seat across from you with his tray. rice. soup. something fried.
you set your tray down too. you don’t touch it. he notices immediately. he always does.
“not hungry?” he asks quietly.
you shake your head.
“later.”
the lie slides out easily. you don’t want to pull the mask you’re wearing now down. you don’t want anyone to see your lip. you don’t want to see anyone notice. you don’t want to give people more pieces of you to catalog.
across the cafeteria, pi han-ul sits at his usual table. alone. like the empty seat next to him is permanent. he isn’t looking at you. not obviously. which somehow makes it worse. because you can feel it. not eyes. awareness. like standing in sunlight with your eyes closed.
you don’t see the sun. but you know exactly where it is.
you keep your head down. you pick at your rice with your chopsticks. don’t eat. just move food around so it looks like you might. se-hyeon pretends not to notice.
min-hwan passes behind your table. slow. unrushed. too deliberate to be accidental. something drops near your foot. a soft clatter. a pen. he crouches to pick it up.
your heart jumps so hard it almost hurts. min-hwan looks up at you. close. too close. “hey,” he says, as lightly as he’s capable. “you two live near the old apartments, right?”
the words feel like ice water down your spine. your brain blanks. just for a second. a fatal second. you don’t answer fast enough. se-hyeon stiffens beside you.
“why?” se-hyeon asks instead.
min-hwan straightens slowly, rolling the pen between his fingers.
“thought i recognized her,” he says casually. like he’s talking about seeing someone at a convenience store. like he didn’t just step on a landmine.
you shake your head without looking at him. “wrong people.”
your voice comes out quiet. thin. min-hwan tilts his head. studies you. not your clothes. not your tray. your face. then he smiles again. sharp. all teeth.
“yeah,” he says. “probably.”
he turns and walks away. back toward pi han-ul’s table. you feel cold. not physically cold. a hollow kind of cold. se-hyeon watches min-hwan’s back. doesn’t look at you yet.
“do you know him?” he asks.
“no.”
another lie. because knowing someone implies a relationship. you don’t have relationships. you have proximity. se-hyeon finally looks at you. searches your face. then nods.
“good,” he says. “stay away from him. seems like bad news.”
you nod too. like you have a choice. like staying away is something people like you get to decide. you stare back down at your tray. your appetite is gone. your sense of safety goes with it.
somewhere across the cafeteria, pi han-ul sits in silence. somewhere between his table and yours, ma min-hwan is smiling to himself. and you sit perfectly still. small. quiet. trying to convince the universe you are not worth noticing.
because at yusung — being noticed is never the beginning of anything good.
─────
you don’t intend to go to the roof.
you don’t even know where the roof entrance is. which means the moment ma min-hwan says, “yah, come with me,” you already feel wrong about following him.
but he doesn’t grab you. doesn’t threaten. doesn’t smile like he’s about to hurt you. he just says it casually. like it’s nothing. like you’re not a low-ranked nobody. like you’re not supposed to say no.
you don’t tell anyone where you’re going. you don’t text se-hyeon. you don’t make an excuse. you just follow ma min-hwan down the hallway, heart in your throat, pretending your legs aren’t already tired from fear.
min-hwan doesn’t look back, doesn’t rush you, doesn’t slow down. it’s like he knows you’ll come. the further you walk, the quieter the school gets. lockers disappear. posters peel off the walls. the air changes — colder, staler. you stop in front of a gray metal door.
rooftop access — authorized personnel only
min-hwan pushes it open. the wind spills inside. your stomach drops. you step out.
the rooftop is wide and empty, concrete stretching toward a low wall at the edge. the city looks dull from up here. small. far away.
pi han-ul is already there, leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets. he’s not doing anything, not talking. just waiting. min-hwan nudges your shoulder lightly, then turns back inside. the door slames shut behind you. the sound echoes loudly. you and han-ul are alone.
you don’t know what to do with your hands. you don’t know where to look. so you stare at the ground. han-ul’s eyes find you anyway. not your eyes. your mouth. your split lip.
you feel it before he moves. that subtle shift in the air. a weight settling. he steps closer, not fast, not rushed. one step. then another. your lungs forget how to work. you’re suddenly very aware of the thin black mask that stretches across your face. the lie you’re wearing. the shield.
han-ul lifts a hand. not touching you, not yet. two fingers hook gently under the edge of your mask. he pauses. like he’s giving you time to pull away. like he already knows that you won’t.
your breath stutters. a small, ugly hitch you can’t hide. his eyes flick up for half a second. they catch it. then he pulls. slow. the fabric slides down your face. your mouth is exposed. your split lip meets the cold air. you feel naked, wrong, seen.
han-ul doesn’t react. no widening eyes. no sharp inhale. no curse. which is somehow worse than if he had. he studies the injury like it’s a puzzle. like it belongs to him now.
“how’d that happen?” he asks. his voice is quieter than before. not softer. lower. closer.
“i bit it,” you say. the lie comes out too fast. too thin. your tongue presses against the cut unconsciously. han-ul’s fingers are still holding your mask. he hasn’t let go.
“you bite yourself hard enough to split skin?” he questions you again.
you nod. it’s a pathetic little movement. he tilts his head slightly. a predator assessing weakness. not cruel, not loud. intentional.
“who did it?”
“no one.”
another bad lie; you stare at the ground. your shoes, the cracks in the concrete. anything but him. silence stretches. the wind pushes against your uniform. han-ul exhales slowly.
“you’re bad at lying,” he comments instead. your eyes burn. you keep them on the concrete. if you look at him, you might say something stupid. or honest. or both.
his thumb brushes the edge of the mask’s fabric. not your skin. almost. it feels deliberate.
“you don’t have to tell me,” he says after a moment. then after a beat, he continues, “but don’t insult me.”
your breath comes out shaky. you hate that he noticed. you hate that he cares. you hate that part of you is relieved. he finally lets go of the mask; it hangs useless under your chin. the damage stays visible. so does his attention.
and you realize — he didn’t just see your injury. he claimed awareness of it. which feels like the first step toward something you don’t know how to survive.
his eyes shift to your raw palms. you pull your sleeves back over them hastily.
“if i see another mark on you,” han-ul continues, “you won’t be leaving my space so easily.”
your heart skips. you finally look up. he isn’t angry. he isn’t smiling. he isn’t threatening. he’s certain. like he’s describing gravity. like he’s describing weather.
“i’m not saying this to be nice,” he adds as an afterthought, although he’s not sure whether it’s true. “people who look breakable become problems. and i don’t like problems.”
you nod. it’s all you can do. you’re always nodding.
han-ul turns toward the door, opens it, and steps aside. you’re dismissed. you walk past him on unsteady legs. you don’t thank him. you don’t look back. you don’t run.
in the hallway, you lean against the wall for a second and try to breathe. he didn’t force you to talk. he didn’t even touch you. he didn’t hurt you. you’re grateful. and you hate that you’re grateful. because his warning still keeps replaying in your head.
if i see another mark.
there will be another mark. there always is. you odn’t have an explanation that will ever sound real. not to him. not to anyone.
you walk back toward class — confused, relieved, terrified. carrying a secret that keeps growing heavier. and now — you’re fully carrying pi han-ul’s attention. which might be the most dangerous thing of all.
─────
yusung techincal doesn’t prohibit studying.
there are no written rules. no signs on the walls that say don’t open books. no teacher announcements warning students to stop caring. but everyone knows. trying is embarrassing. wanting more is laughable. studying is a quiet way of declaring yourself weak. and weakness is blood in the water.
so when se-hyeon tells you he’s joining a study group, your first thought isn’t pride. it’s afraid.
“a study group?” you repeat, low.
“yeah,” he replies evenly. “it’s run by yoon ga-min. second year.”
you’ve heard the name. everyone has. the weird one. the one who fights like he isn't concerned about winning. the one who still brings textbooks to a place built for fists.
“why?” you ask.
se-hyeon shrugs, too casual. “i need protection. and leverage. he’s got both.”
you look at him — really look. the faint yellow bruise along his jaw, the way he stands like he’s bracing for impact.
“you already have a target,” you state the obvious. he meets your eyes. there’s determination there.
“better to have a real reason for it.”
you don’t argue. because you don’t have a better option.
the news spreads fast. it always does. by second period, people are whispering. by lunch, someone shoves se-hyeon’s shoulder harshly. by sixth period, a second-year you don’t recognize asks him if he’s trying to become a comedian.
se-hyeon ignores them. which somehow feels louder than fighting back. and loud things get noticed. which means you get noticed.
you feel it in the hallways. eyes lingering. smiles that don’t reach eyes. someone bumps into you and doesn’t apologize. someone else laughs when you flinch. you stay close to se-hyeon. closer than usual.
after school, se-hyeon doesn’t tell you to go home. that alone makes your stomach tighten. “we’re meeting in the west stairwell,” he tells you. “wait with me.”
you nod. you don’t ask questions. you never do.
the stairwell smells like dust and old mop water. paint peeling off the walls, lights flickering. three of the people are already there. one of them you recognize instantly. yoon ga-min.
he looks… normal. that’s the strangest part. messy hair. loose uniform. a backpack that looks too heavy for someone who’s supposed to survive here. he’s talking admittedly to the two girls that stand with him.
hee-won and ji-woo. they’re in your class. ji-woo is tall, sharp-eyed, and has a posture so straight it's like she’s always ready to swing. hee-won is smaller, softer-looking, but her gaze is alert in a way that doesn’t miss much.
the fourth person stands slightly apart. lee jun. you know him too. mostly because he loses fights. a lot.
he bows awkwardly when he sees se-hyeon. “you the new guy?”
“yeah,” se-hyeon replies.
ga-min’s eyes land on you. not in a creepy way. not in a judging way. just curious.
“you’re his sister?” ga-min asks.
you nod. he smiles. it’s bright. too bright for this school.
“you look like you don’t belong here,” he says. you don’t know how to respond to that. hee-won tilts her head at you. her gaze shifts, subtle. your sleeve. your collar. your lip. your split lip. she doesn’t ask.
ji-woo notices too. you can tell by the way her eyes soften. neither of them says anything. which somehow feels heavier than if they had.
“we walk home together,” ga-min explains casually. “safer that way.”
se-hyeon glances at you. a silent question. you nod again. you’re relieved. as they start talking about schedules and locations, hee-won steps closer to you. she reaches into her bag and pulls out a small makeup pouch. holds it up.
“for your lip,” she says. “concealer. and color corrector.”
you stare at it. “i —”
“no pressure,” she adds. “just in case.”
ji-woo slips something into your hand next. a pair of thin black arm sleeves.
“they cover bruises better than hoodies,” she says quietly. you don’t know what to say. no one has ever handed you tools before. advice maybe. pity, sometimes. silence, usually. but this? this feels different.
you nod. it’s become your default response. lee jun watches the exchange.
“uh,” he says. “we’re not like… forcing you to talk about stuff. or anything.”
ga-min scratches the back of his head. “yeah. you don’t have to explain.”
he says it like it’s obvious. like it’s a rule. something in your chest aches. not sharp. not explosive. slow. heavy. something loosening that you didn’t realize was locked.
se-hyeon notices. he doesn’t say anything, but his shoulders drop a fraction.
on the walk home, you’re surrounded. not boxed in, not trapped. just included. for the first time in a long time. it doesn’t make you feel safe. yusung doesn’t allow that. but it makes you feel less alone.
and in a place like this — that’s dangerous. that’s rare. that’s everything.
─────
you don’t get summoned at yusung. not officially.
no one taps you on the shoulder and politely asks you to come with them. they just appear. ma min-hwan is leaning against the wall outside your classroom when the bell rings. like he’s been there the whole period. like he belongs.
your stomach drops. he looks at you. hooks a finger, casual.
“rooftop,” he says. no explanation. no tone. just a direction. you glance back at ji-woo and hee-won. they're packing their bags and haven’t noticed yet. you don’t want them to notice.
so you stand. you follow. again. the walk feels longer this time. your hands are cold. your mouth is dry. you keep thinking about your sleeves. about the concealer that hee-won helped you apply earlier in the bathroom. about whether you missed a spot. about whether han-ul will notice anyway.
the rooftop door is already open. the wind greets you. so does pi han-ul. same place as before. leaning against the wall. like he never moved. min-hwan stays by the door this time. doesn’t leave. doesn’t speak. just watches.
han-ul looks at you. doesn’t say anything — not at first. his gaze moves, slow, deliberate. your hair. your collar. your sleeves. your mouth. you feel stripped. like your uniform isn’t doing its job. like he can see through the fabric. through makeup. through intention.
you hold still. you don’t ask why you’re here. you don’t fill the silence. you’ve learned that silence makes people uncomfortable. han-ul doesn’t seem uncomfortable at all. he finally speaks.
“you been waiting for your brother after school?”
your heart stutters. “yes.”
“every day?”
you nod. there’s a pause.
“you a part of that study group?”
“no.”
the word comes out clean, fast. too fast. han-ul’s eyes narrow a fraction. not angry, not surprised. processing.
“then why do you hang around them?”
you swallow. “i don’t hang around them. i just… wait. for se-hyeon.”
true. and not true. han-ul looks at you like he’s deciding whether to pull on a loose thread. he doesn’t.
“why don’t you go home?”
your throat tightens.
“i like waiting,” you mutter. bad answer. you know it. he knows it. silence stretches again. the wind tugs at your sleeves. han-ul steps closer. not close enough to touch, but enough that you feel his presence in your lungs.
“you don’t like your house,” he notes. it isn’t phrased as a question this time. your fingers curl into your sleeves.
“i didn’t say that,” your voice comes out shaky.
“you didn’t have to.”
you shake your head. small. automatic. he watches you carefully. like he’s mapping where you fold. where you break. where you refuse. min-hwan shifts his weight near the door. even he’s quiet. han-ul exhales slowly.
“you’re not in the study group,” he confirms. you nod.
“you don’t want to go home,” he continues. you don’t respond. “that’s all i needed to know.”
your heart sinks. you don’t know why. he turns away.
“go,” han-ul tells you. min-hwan opens the door wider. you hesitate. just a second. like you’re waiting for something else. another question. another warning. another threat. none comes.
you walk past them. back into the stairwell. your legs feel weak. he didn’t get a confession. he didn’t get proof. he didn’t get details. but you know, deep down. pi han-ul learned something anyway. and that feels worse than if you’d told him everything.
─────
you don’t tell anyone you’re not going to school.
you don’t send a message; you don’t leave a note. you just stop showing up.
monday becomes empty. your desk stays untouched. your chair stays pushed in. your name never gets called, because teachers at yusung don’t learn names — they learn threats. and you’ve always been quiet enough to fade.
at home, time loses shape. day. night. day again.
your arm throbs constantly, but you don’t complain. complaining invites attention. attention invites him. your father’s footsteps decide the temperature of the apartment. heavy translates into danger. unsteady amounts to something far worse.
you learn to breathe without sound. you learn to sleep on your other side so your broken arm doesn’t touch anything. you learn to swallow pain like it’s food. you don’t think about pi han-ul. you try not to. but you remember his voice.
if i see another mark on you…
you picture his eyes on a cast. you picture the question that you won’t be able to dodge. and your chest locks up. so you stay home. not because you’re sick. because you’re terrified.
se-hyeon leaves for school every morning. he stops in the doorway. looks back. “you coming today?”
you face the wall. “later.”
by the second day, you reply, “tomorrow.”
by the third, you respond with silence. he doesn’t push. because pushing would mean forcing you to explain. and he already knows there’s something you’re not telling him.
at yusung, se-hyeon feels wrong all day. your empty seat is loud. people notice.
“she drop out?”
“she scared?”
“figures.”
someone laughs. se-hyeon nearly punches them. he doesn’t. because fighting could get him suspended. suspended means staying home. and staying home means construction work with his father. so he swallows it.
the study group notices. hee-won notices the missing second set of footsteps behind se-hyeon after school. ji-woo notices the way he keeps checking his phone. ga-min notices the way se-hyeon studies harder than usual. none of them ask. but they understand enough.
across campus, pi han-ul notices too. not because he tracks attendance. because patterns break. you waited after school. every day. you stood near the stairwell. quiet. steady. still. and then suddenly — nothing.
three days. no whispers, no accidental glimpses in the hallway. that kind of disappearance doesn’t happen naturally at yusung. han-ul calls min-hwan over.
“find out where the girl is.”
min-hwan doesn’t ask which girl this time. he already knows. he approaches se-hyeon near the lockers. casual posture. easy tone.
“yah. your sister transfer or something?”
se-hyeon stiffens. “no.”
min-hwan tilts his head. “then what? she ghost school now?”
“she’s sick.”
min-hwan studies him. “like… flu sick?”
se-hyeon doesn’t answer. his jaw is locked. min-hwan takes that silence and files it away.
“got it,” he says. he walks back to han-ul.
“she didn’t transfer,” min-hwan reports. “she just hasn’t shown up. her brother said she’s sick.”
han-ul doesn’t react. no expression change. no comment. but something settles behind his eyes. sick doesn’t explain the disappearance. sick doesn’t explain fear. sick doesn’t explain why the girl who avoids home suddenly chose to stay there.
han-ul looks toward the school gates. toward the route you normally take. toward nothing.
you think you’re hiding. you think you’re buying time. you don’t know that your absence has already become loud. you don’t know that pi han-ul doesn't forget patterns.
and you definitely don’t know — that fear, to him, is an invitation.
─────
you don’t come back to school because you’re ready. you come back because staying home has started to feel more dangerous than leaving.
your arm is heavy. not just physically. the cast is thick, white, and unmistakable. a permanent announcement that you never agree to make. the doctor called it a simple fracture. your father didn’t call it anything — just a waste of money.
you pull on your biggest hoodie anyway. one that’s a few sizes too large. the sleeves droop past your fingers. you wedge the cast inside, forcing your arm into an unnatural angle. it hurts. you accept it. pain you choose feels safer than pain you don’t.
se-hyeon sees you in the doorway. he freezes. for a full second he stares, then his eyes drop. then his face changes. “what happened.”
it’s not a question. you keep tying your shoes. “fell.”
he steps closer. grabs your wrist carefully. pushes the sleeve back. the cast is exposed. his breath catches. “you were gone from school for days; you slept on the other side of your bed. you’ve been hiding this, haven’t you?”
“i was sick,” you say instead. your voice doesn’t shake. practice pays off.
“you didn’t fall,” he grits his teeth. you don’t answer him. his hands start to tremble. he mutters, “i should’ve stayed home.”
“you couldn’t,” you shake your head. you don’t say i didn’t want you to see. you don’t say i didn’t want him to aim at you too.
se-hyeon turns away. runs a hand through his hair. anger radiates off him in waves. but there’s nowhere to put it. he can’t hit your father. he can’t report without losing your housing. he can’t drag you somewhere safer.
yusung has taught him one thing very well — power belongs to people with reach. he doesn’t have any. on the walk to school, he positions himself slightly in front of you. like a shield. it doesn’t feel convincing.
at yusung, people notice immediately. a cast is loud. louder than bruises. louder than flinching. you keep your arm pressed to your side. you walk fast. you don’t look around. you don’t want to know who’s staring. you don’t want to know if pi han-ul is staring.
you fail. you feel it — the familiar pressure. like standing too close to a flame. you glance sideways. han-ul is near the stairwell talking to min-hwan. smiling at something the other boy says.
then his eyes move. they land on you. on the stiff sleeve. on the way your arm doesn’t swing when you walk. the smile disappears. instantly.
your stomach drops. you turn — immediately. you change directions, ducking into a different hallway. you pretend you remembered something. your heart is pounding too loudly.
you spend the entire day avoiding landmarks. certain corners, certain staircases, certain routes. you walk the long way between classes. you leave early; you arrive late. you hide in bathrooms. you sit near exits. you don’t breathe until the bell rings.
se-hyeon doesn’t stop thinking about you. he barely hears the teachers. barely writes anything down. every time you wince, he notices. every time you shift your arm, he notices.
hee-won notices too. her jaw tightens when she sees the cast. ji-woo presses a juice box into your good hand. ga-min pretends not to see, which you’re grateful for. you don’t want concern. concern leads to questions. questions lead to lies.
by last period you start to believe you’ve succeeded. you haven’t crossed han-ul’s path. you haven’t heard his voice. you haven’t felt that pressure again. maybe he lost interest. maybe he’s busy.
you turn a corner. and nearly collide with him. you stop so fast you stumble. han-ul doesn’t move. doesn’t step back. his eyes go straight to your arm. you try to hide it. you pull the sleeve further down. it’s pointless.
he looks at your face. then back at the cast. “who did that.”
not loud, not calm. controlled.
“i fell.”
it’s automatic. he steps closer. you smell soap and something sharper underneath it.
“you’re terrible at lying,” he sighs as he repeats himself.
your throat tightens. “i have to go.”
he doesn’t move.
“this is what you were hiding from,” he says instead. you shake your head.
“i didn’t hide.”
he tilts his head slightly. “you disappeared.”
silence.
“you don’t want to go home,” he continues.
silence.
“you don’t want people asking questions,” he adds.
your breath starts to hitch. small. ugly. uncontrollable. han-ul watches it happen.
“you think avoiding me fixes that?” he asks. you don’t answer. he steps aside. just enough. “go.”
not gentle. not cruel. final. you walk past him. your legs feel weak.
se-hyeon is waiting at the end of the hallway. he saw enough — not everything. but enough. his hands are clenched into fists. his eyes are shiny. he doesn’t say anything. because there is nothing he can do. and that might be the worst part.
─────
you’re not supposed to be alone. that’s the rule now.
study group ends. you wait near the west stairwell. se-hyeon comes out. you walk home together. simple. safe.
except today, ga-min keeps them late. some arguments about test questions. some explanations that won’t matter in ten minutes. you tell se-hyeon you’ll wait. he hesitates. “i’ll be quick.”
you nod. you always nod.
so you sit on the cold concrete steps. cast tucked into your hoodie, back against the wall, eyes on the floor. you count footsteps. most past. some linger. none stop. until one pair does. you know who it is before you look.
the air changes. pressure. the familiar sense of being under a shadow. you don’t lift your head. you don’t move. pi han-ul stands a few feet away. not blocking you. not towering. just there. you’re already shaking. you hate yourself for it. he notices anyway.
“hey,” he says — one word, low, careful. not what you expected.
you swallow. “i’m waiting for my brother.”
“i know.”
that alone makes your chest tighten. silence follows. not heavy or sharp. awkward. human. he shifts slightly. then crouches so that he’s not above you. that shouldn’t mean anything. it means everything.
“you disappear for days,” he starts. “you come back broken. you avoid me like i’m going to hit you.”
he pauses. then, “i’m not him.”
your breath stutters. you don’t know who him is. you do.
“i don’t need details,” han-ul continues. “i don’t need names.”
he reaches to the side. pulls a folded chair from where it’s stacked against the wall. sets it a small distance from you. not too close. “sit there if you want.”
you stare at it. like it’s a trap. he places a bottled water next to it, twists the cap loose, slides it towards you. then takes a step back. gives you space. real space.
“i’m not going to touch you,” he says plainly. “i’m not going to force anything out of you.”
your hands are shaking so badly your fingers feel numb. your throat burns. this isn’t what you prepared for. you prepared for anger. threats. interrogation. punishment. not this. not options. not gentleness.
han-ul crouches again. keeps his distance.
“just don’t lie to me anymore,” he says. something inside you cracks — small, quiet, but real. you open your mouth. nothing comes out. you try again.
“i’m… not fine.”
your voice breaks on not. the words feel illegal. dangerous. you clamp your mouth shut — too late. tears spill. you don’t sob. you don’t wail. you shake. your shoulders hitch. your breath comes in unpleasant, uneven pulls.
han-ul freezes. you can tell he didn’t plan for this either. for a second, he looks like he’s deciding something. then he moves. slow. careful. he sits beside you on the step. not touching. not yet.
“you don’t have to say anything else,” he tells you. you shake your head. hard.
“i — i don’t — “
you don’t even know what you're trying to say. that you’re scared? that you’re tired? that home hurts? that you don’t know how to survive differently?
han-ul hesitates. then, awkwardly, he reaches out. not confident. not smooth. he wraps one arm around your shoulders. loose. like he’ll pull away if you ask. your body reacts before your brain. you lean into him. just a little. then more.
your forehead presses into his chest. he stiffens. you feel it. you both freeze. then his arm tightens. just slightly. enough to hold. enough to mean something.
neither of you speaks. the hallway hums. voices echo faintly in the distance. the world keeps moving. you don’t. for the first time in a long time — you’re not alone in your fear. and pi han-ul, the boy everyone fears, is holding you like he doesn’t want you to break.
