Everyone knew it.

Everyone knew Geyong Su was poor, that he was only at the school because of welfare.

But the truth was… no one cared. Not really. Geyong Su was nice. He cracked jokes, shared snacks when he had them, laughed loud, had friends who actually liked him. Who cared about welfare?

Na-Yeon did. A lot. More than anyone should. Enough to bully him over it every chance she got. She’d wrinkle her nose whenever he walked by, say he smelled, remind him he was poor, spit out that word—“welfie”—like it was something toxic.

And now, even with the world ending around them—an actual zombie apocalypse tearing through the school, half their classmates dead or turned, the rest crammed together in the record room shaking with fear—she still couldn’t shut up. Couldn’t stop blaming him. Couldn’t stop screaming about how it was his fault for not closing the window when Cheong-San was climbing inside.

Then she said it again.

She called him a welfie.

Geyong Su snapped. He shoved her back, hard, slamming her into the chair.

“Hey! What the fuck did you just say?”

His voice cracked—rage, fear, humiliation all tangled—and he stepped forward like he might actually hit her this time. The only thing that stopped him, the only reason he didn’t go further, was you grabbing his arm and dragging him back.