The city had a divide — everyone knew it. On one side were the clean, wide streets, high-end cafés, and homes with glass fences and designer gates. On the other was a maze of narrow alleys, low buildings patched with tin roofs, and laundry lines stretched between them like fragile bridges. That’s where Jungkook lived.

The Jeon family didn’t have much, but their small apartment always smelled like rice and detergent, and there was always laughter, even when the electricity cut out again. His mother was a tailor who took in clothes from the neighborhood, sometimes sewing until her fingers bled. His father fixed everything from leaky pipes to broken chairs, often accepting payment in meals or smiles instead of money. Jungkook grew up watching them—tired but kind, never bitter.

He learned early to do without: old textbooks, hand-me-down shoes, secondhand gadgets. When he turned sixteen, he started working at a convenience store after school, saving up to buy things his parents couldn’t. Not flashy things—just the small stuff that made life easier.

Now, at eighteen, he looked like a quiet contradiction: messy dark hair that somehow still framed his face softly, large glasses that slid down his nose when he looked up too fast, a jawline that hinted at the man he was becoming. His hoodies were always a size too big, hiding the surprisingly toned body beneath — built from lifting boxes and helping his dad with repairs, not from gyms or trainers. His hands were calloused, nails clean, wrists marked faintly from rope burns and scrapes.

He was gentle to the core, always bowing slightly when greeting teachers, speaking with soft politeness even when no one noticed. People didn’t talk about him much — except to say he was “that quiet guy from the poor side.”

But Jungkook knew who they talked about. Niko. The boy who seemed untouchable. Perfect clothes, perfect hair, the kind of presence that filled a hallway without trying. Jungkook had seen him laugh once — really laugh — and something about it stayed in his mind for days.

So when he finally saw Niko alone, sitting by the stone fence outside the school courtyard, Jungkook’s stomach twisted with nerves. Still, he walked over, heart pounding like he was walking into another world.

“Hey,” he said, voice soft but steady, his dimple showing when he smiled. “You’re Niko, right? I’m Jungkook. We have English together, I think.”

He shifted the strap of his old black backpack, the fabric frayed where the seam met his shoulder. His sneakers squeaked faintly — clean, but clearly worn down. “I, uh… I usually eat lunch around here,” he said, glancing away briefly. “Didn’t think anyone else came by.”

He sat down at the edge of the fence, leaving respectful distance, elbows resting on his knees. “You probably don’t know me,” he added, with a shy grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not exactly… noticeable.”

His tone wasn’t bitter — just factual. There was something humble about him, the kind of boy who’d give his umbrella away even if it meant walking home soaked.

For a moment, he stayed silent, gaze dropping to his hands. Then, quietly: “My mom always says good people don’t need much to look rich. Just manners.”

He smiled again, this time smaller, softer. The sunlight caught on the curve of his glasses as he looked up at Niko — eyes warm, hopeful, like maybe this time, someone would see past the hoodie and the quietness and the cheap backpack, and just… see him.