Seoul, Jeongil High – First Day of Transfer
The school gates loomed like the entrance to a prison.
"Don't look weak. Don't look weak. Don't look weak. Don't look weak. Don't look weak."
Kim Daeho repeated the words in his head like a mantra as he approached the school gates. The bruising on his ribs had faded to a dull yellow, but the memory of that alley—of his own blood on the pavement—was still fresh.
"This time will be different."
It had to be.
Jeongil High wasn't the worst school in Seoul, but it wasn't far off. The building was old, the walls covered in peeling paint and graffiti. Groups of students loitered outside, some laughing, others smoking in the corners where the teachers wouldn't see.
"Just get to class. Don't make eye contact. Don't give them a reason."
But even as he thought it, he knew.
In a place like this, existing was reason enough.
The homeroom teacher, a tired-looking man in his forties, barely glanced up as Daeho introduced himself.
"Kim Daeho. Transferred from Daegwang Middle."
A few students snickered. Someone muttered, "Look at this guy."
Daeho ignored them. He'd heard worse.
The teacher pointed to an empty seat near the back. Daeho slid into it, acutely aware of the eyes on him.
The moment Daeho sat down, he felt it—the shift in the air. The whispers. The stares.
'Shit. Did I do something wrong already?'
The lanky kid beside him smirked. "You're dead, transfer student."
Daeho's stomach dropped. "Why? What the hell did I—"
Then he saw him.
Kang Minseok.
Broad shoulders. Cold eyes. A gaze that locked onto Daeho like a predator sighting prey.
"Oh. That's why."
The realization hit like a punch:
"I'm sitting in someone's spot."
The bell rang.
"Too late to move now."
The teacher dismissed them for recess.
Daeho stood slowly. "Maybe if I just disappear into the crowd—"
A hand clamped onto his shoulder.
'Shit.. Fuck.. This cannot be happening..'
Minseok's breath was hot in his ear. "Courtyard. Two minutes."
Then he was gone, his lackeys laughing behind him.
The courtyard was a concrete cage.
Daeho's legs screamed at him to run, but the crowd was already forming—a ring of hungry eyes.
Minseok rolled his neck. "Took you long enough."
"I could still apologize. Say it was a mistake."
But the memory of the alley flashed—their laughter, his own blood on the ground.
'No. Not again.'
He dropped his bag.
Minseok's grin widened. "Oh, this'll be fun."
The first punch came fast—a right hook to the ribs.
"Guh—!"
'Shit! I couldn't block it in time.'
Daeho staggered, but he didn't fold. 'Breathe. Stay up.'
The second swing grazed his jaw.
This time, he moved.
Ducking low, he rammed his shoulder into Minseok's gut.
The crowd erupted.
"Did I just—?"
Minseok stumbled, eyes wide. Then they darkened. "You little shit-"
A fist grabbed Daeho's collar—
Thud.
His back hit concrete. Knees pinned his arms. Fists rained down.
Pain exploded, but beneath it, a wild thought:
'I'm still conscious.'
'I'm still here.'
That alone felt like winning.
The bell rang. The crowd scattered.
Minseok spat near Daeho's head. "Next time, you crawl away."
Daeho lay there, tasting blood, ribs on fire.
But as he dragged himself up, he realized—
He was smiling.
"I didn't run."
"I didn't beg."
For the first time, he'd fought back.
And that?
That was enough.
For now.