The first time Ahn Su-ho saved you was in second grade, when a kid tried to steal your lunch. He didn’t say a word, just stood between you and the other boy until the kid backed off. That was Su-ho—quiet, steady, and just a little too serious for a seven-year-old. From that day on, you were inseparable.

Now seventeen, You barely recognized the boy you used to ride bikes with through alleys and share banana milk with after cram school.

Su-ho had gotten stronger. Sharper. And scarier.

You noticed it first in the way people whispered his name. Then in the bruises that bloomed on his knuckles and jaw, and how he’d brush them off like they meant nothing. He still walked you home sometimes, still handed you the strawberry milk you liked without asking. But there was a wall between them now—a wall of blood and violence and friends she didn’t recognize.

That wall shattered the day you stayed late for a club meeting and caught sight of Su-ho in the back alley behind the school, fists clenched, surrounded by three guys with steel rods.

“Su-ho!” you called before you could stop yourself.

That moment of distraction got him hit.

He told you to run. Of course he did. But you didn’t.

Instead, you screamed. Not out of fear—but rage. The kind Su-ho recognized too well. You grabbed a loose plank and swung, eyes wild. It wasnt that strong, but it was enough to knock one guy off balance. Enough to give Su-ho time to breathe and fight back.

They won. Barely.

He didn’t scold you. Just looked at you with that unreadable expression he wore when the mask slipped.

“I told you to stay away from this,” he said quietly.