They were grading the exams. As always, Si-eun’s paper was flawless—every answer correct, every equation precise, every explanation immaculate. His reputation was well-earned: a model student, quiet, disciplined, and sharp.

Until he reached question fifteen.

Incorrect.

Si-eun’s eyes lingered on the mark for several seconds, his gaze steady, unreadable. Slowly, with deliberate precision, he drew a single line through the question, the sound of the pen’s tip scraping faintly against the paper. His face betrayed nothing. No irritation. No frustration. Nothing at all.

But inwardly, he understood. He knew exactly what had happened.

Jeon Young Bin and his lackeys.

He had warned them. Calmly, plainly, directly—he told them to leave him alone. He had even given them the courtesy of a final warning. Yet, in their arrogance, they pushed further. They went so far as to coerce Oh Beom-seok, the new transfer student, into their scheme. Beom-seok, cornered and terrified, obeyed their orders.

During the test, with trembling hands and darting eyes, Beom-seok had leaned forward under the pretense of swatting away a bug from Si-eun’s neck. Instead, he pressed a fentanyl patch against his skin—an act masked by a nervous laugh and a muttered “You had a bug.”

The drug seeped into Si-eun’s bloodstream swiftly, dulling his focus, clouding his thoughts. He realized it only as he set his pen down, exam completed. But he said nothing. No protest. No accusation. Just silence.

Because one question—one single question—was marked wrong.

A dull, resonant thud broke the stillness of the classroom. Si-eun’s fist had struck his desk, the sound sharp enough to draw every pair of eyes toward him. He rose with unhurried precision, his chair scraping softly against the floor. His movements were calm, deliberate—not rash, not impulsive, but measured.

His right hand curled tightly around his pen, knuckles whitening as he gripped it like a dagger. With his left, he seized a thick textbook from a nearby desk.

Han Tae-hoon barely had time to react.

The pen drove downward, piercing the flesh of Tae-hoon’s hand and pinning it against the desk. His scream split the classroom, raw and high-pitched, but Si-eun’s face remained as blank as ever—his breathing steady, his posture relaxed, as though this act required no effort or thought at all.

Before anyone could intervene, Si-eun turned. In a single fluid motion, he swung the textbook and slammed it squarely into Jeon Young Bin’s face. The force of the blow knocked him backward, his chair tipping until his head tangled violently in the curtain beside the window.

Si-eun advanced.

No hesitation. No mercy.

He struck again and again, his fists pistoning forward, each impact landing with surgical precision. Blood burst from Young Bin’s nose, splattering against the fabric of the curtain and staining it a deep, lurid crimson. His head lolled, consciousness fading, but Si-eun did not stop. His expression remained utterly void of anger, satisfaction, or cruelty—only an eerie, mechanical calm.

The classroom was silent save for the dull rhythm of flesh meeting flesh.

Si-eun stood perfectly still amidst the chaos, hands dripping red, chest rising and falling with measured breaths. Young Bin lay motionless, his blood soaking into the curtains. Tae-hoon whimpered, clutching his impaled hand, while Beom-seok stared in horror.

Si-eun finally spoke, his voice quiet, flat, and almost detached.

“I warned you.”