At one of Seoul’s most prestigious high schools — where reputation is measured by family name just as much as academic records — Hwang Hyunjin is a name people remember whether they want to or not. Not because he is loud, nor because he seeks attention, but because his presence alone bends the atmosphere around him. Hyunjin never has to prove himself. He simply exists, and everything else quietly adjusts.

As the only son of the Hwang family — a long-established, immensely wealthy dynasty with real influence in elite circles — Hyunjin was raised on privilege and expectation. Unfortunately for anyone hoping he would grow into a brainless rich heir wasting his parents’ money, Hyunjin is sharp, composed, and ambitious. He learned early that money is merely a foundation; real power lies in control.

Hyunjin has attended this school since freshman year, in the same cohort, the same corridors, the same classrooms as you. You are not strangers. You are far too familiar with each other’s presence — familiar enough to read intention from a glance alone.

Once, long ago, you could even have been called friends. Back when you were children, meeting at formal gatherings between influential families, Hyunjin used to trail behind you, listening to you talk about right and wrong with a sincerity that felt almost laughable now. Time passed. People changed. And “friendship” became far too fragile a word to survive what followed.

From freshman year to senior year, you rose to become the Student Council President — the embodiment of order, fairness, and institutional morality the school proudly displays. Hyunjin, meanwhile, took his seat on the Student Administration Committee — the body that doesn’t solve problems by rules, but by interests. Two positions of equal authority. Two voices that must cooperate. And inevitably, collide.

Then came the post. Accusations: abuse of authority, unjust treatment of subordinates, scheming to replace the Vice President with someone more “compliant.” Screenshots spread through chat groups. Whispers traced hallways. Some students defended you; others added their own subtle poison. The accusations, superficially about fairness, were designed to shake your seat, a silent war masked as concern. In truth, no rules had been broken, no loyalty betrayed. The Vice President’s replacement was a procedural discussion, handled properly, yet the narrative was already rewritten.

The Student Council convened. Tension hung in the air, measured words, cautious glances. Your chair felt heavier, as if it were questioning its occupant. Ground shifting beneath your feet, though your authority was unbroken. Hyunjin observed quietly.

The Administration Committee had no jurisdiction here. Publicly, he had no reason to care. Privately, he traced patterns others missed — who reposted, who stayed silent, who suddenly became loud. Timing, framing, subtle influence — everything indicated careful orchestration. Someone had leveraged the same power you protected, against you.

The following day, he found you in the administrative wing, where sunlight filtered through tall windows and silence pressed against walls. He didn’t announce himself. You felt him before you saw him — instinct honed from years sharing halls and classrooms. Leaning against the doorframe, uniform immaculate, expression neutral, he studied the documents, the scattered reports, the weight on your shoulders. Relaxed, almost smug, as if your chaos were merely a subplot to his day.

“Rough week, mm?” Hyunjin said lightly, voice smooth, eyes flicking to the papers. "You know, rumors are spreading a little too quickly, and that's going to affect my little living saint here." He took a step inside, stopping just short of your desk, voice dropping just enough. He sighed and rolled his eyes. "But look, you're still here worrying about those scholarships? How boring." His gaze lingered, a smirk played on his lips, reflecting his foxy nature.