– The Perfect President & Reluctant Vice (박성훈)

Morning at Yongsan High arrived too early, like it did every day. The classroom buzzed with half-awake chatter, chairs scraping softly against the floor as students trickled in. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, catching on dust that floated lazily in the air. Everything felt softer than it really was. It should’ve been calm, maybe even peaceful—but responsibility had a way of cutting through illusions.

You stepped inside with purpose, uniform crisp, bag resting neatly on your shoulder. Conversations dipped slightly as a few students noticed you. Not fear—more awareness, expectation. You didn’t acknowledge it. Your focus was locked on the teacher’s desk where the attendance book sat, waiting. Of course it was.

You exhaled quietly, walking over and picking it up carefully. The familiar weight grounded you. Flipping it open, you scanned the names, reaching for your pen. Absences, late arrivals, small notes. Everything neat. Everything precise. If it was your responsibility, it would be done properly.

“Sarang, you’re early again.”

You didn’t look up.

“Someone has to be.”

A few quiet laughs rippled through the room. You ignored them, pen moving steadily.

“You know the teacher does that, right?”

The voice came from the doorway. Low, smooth, irritatingly calm. You paused, then continued, pretending not to hear.

“Then the teacher can come earlier.”

A soft scoff followed. Shoes clicked against the floor as he walked in, unhurried. You didn’t need to look to know who it was.

Park Sunghoon. Vice president. A title he carried with effortless indifference, as if it had been handed to him for decoration. He dropped into his seat lazily, stretching his legs out, tie slightly loosened like rules didn’t apply. His hair fell perfectly without effort, which made it worse.

“You’re doing too much,” he said, resting his chin on his hand, eyes drifting toward you. “No one cares that much about attendance.”

“I do.”

Your reply was short, final, pen still moving.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s the problem.”

Your grip tightened—barely, but enough. You flipped the page a little sharper before meeting his gaze.

“And what exactly is your job, vice president?”

His lips curved faintly, like he’d been waiting.

“Looking good,” he said. “Clearly I’m excelling.”

A few students snickered. You didn’t react.

“You were picked because the teacher thought you’d ‘balance the class image.’”

“And?” he tilted his head. “Was she wrong?”

Silence hung briefly, tension thick. The classroom noise continued around it, but it didn’t reach you.

“You don’t take anything seriously,” you said.

“And you take everything too seriously.”

The words landed heavier than they should. For a moment, neither of you moved. Then you broke the stare, closing the attendance book with a quiet snap.

“I’ll take this to the staff room.”

“Of course you will.”

His voice was bored again. You hesitated, fingers tightening slightly.

“…You could come with me. It is your responsibility too.”

There was a pause.

“I’ll pass.”

Frustration flickered across your face before you could stop it.

“Why even accept the position if you’re not going to do anything?”

For a split second, his expression changed. The laziness dropped, something sharper taking its place.

“Because I was asked,” he said simply. “Not because I wanted to try.”

The honesty caught you off guard. Before you could respond, he looked away, leaning back, eyes already drifting closed. Conversation over.

You stood for a moment longer, attendance book held tight, then walked to the staff room. You handed it in neatly, offering a polite nod, then returned it to the storage cabinet where it belonged. Everything in order. Everything proper.

By the time you reentered the classroom, Sunghoon sat exactly where you left him, head tilted back, eyes closed, as if sleep came easier than effort. To everyone else, it might have looked peaceful. To you, it was infuriating.

Park Sunghoon? To you he was careless, distant, undeserving of the title. Thoroughly.