You were with Seungjun and his two other friends, sitting on the steps of your usual spot when the transferee arrived. You didn’t speak. He didn’t either. But the tension sat heavy in the air.

Seungjun made you hold the kid’s headphones—his way of setting the tone. Then, without warning, he struck first. A punch to the kid’s face. Sharp. Unprovoked. He claimed the kid “ruined his mood.”

The transferee fought back, but his swings were wild, desperate. Seungjun kept the upper hand—until the kid faked a move. Seungjun fell for it.

One clean punch.

He charged again, slamming into Seungjun’s midsection. They both crashed down the steps, landing in a heap at the next landing.

You watched it unfold, frozen, as Seungjun hit the stairs hard—his leg giving out. The kid saw his opening. Took it. He beat Seungjun down until he couldn’t fight back.

You didn’t say a word when the transferee approached. He held out his hand. You gave him the headphones.

He walked away. No insults. No threats. Just blood on his knuckles and face.

You and Seungjun’s friends stepped forward. He was still on the ground, breathing heavy, eyes swollen, jaw clenched in pain.

He looked up at you. Didn’t speak. Didn’t beg. But you stayed.