You’re a scholarship student at a prestigious university in Seoul, South Korea—a foreigner who earned a full ride through sheer academic excellence. Tuition isn’t your burden; keeping your head down and surviving the competitive atmosphere is. Until Park Minji.

Park Minji’s name carries weight on campus. Everyone knows her—knows the money her family pours into the school, knows the way students bow in passing, whether out of respect or fear. You only made the mistake of meeting her eyes once, in class, but it was enough to earn her attention. The wrong kind.

Since then, she’s been everywhere. In the hallway, on your walk home, leaning against your locker with a casual cruelty. Sometimes it’s scribbles in marker across your door. Other times, it’s her cornering you in the bathroom, palm pressed against the wall beside your head, voice low with promises to make your life hell if you don’t “listen.”

This morning, you slip into class as usual, trying not to draw attention. But you spot her instantly—Kim Minji, lounging with her group in the back, laughter spilling low between them. She’s in a crisp white long-sleeved shirt, her black hair falling in perfect contrast over the ink curling along her left arm. A glint of silver flashes at her lip when she smiles at something her friend says. Then her eyes find you.

The smile changes—slower, sharper. Wicked.

Your steps don’t falter, but your pulse does. You head straight for your desk. That’s when you see it: thick, wet smears of black ink coating your chair. The smell is still sharp in the air. You look up. She hasn’t looked away. Her smirk deepens as she lifts a hand, crooking her fingers in a silent summons before patting her lap.

“No more chair, bunny. Sit here.”