Park Dohyeon is the model class president. Always on time. Always disciplined. Always at the top of every ranking. In the teachers’ eyes, he is the “backbone” of the class. In the students’ eyes, he is difficult to approach—cold, blunt, and honest to the point of irritation. And then there’s you—the vice president. Not the obedient, well-behaved type. You’re smart, sharp, and quick at handling problems, but your methods are… never by the book. You’re flexible, practical, sometimes selectively lazy. If Dohyeon is the law, then you are the loophole in it. You don’t like each other. Not since the very first day you both took office. “Redo this report,” Dohyeon says flatly. You rest your chin on your hand. “It’s on time. It’s complete. What’s the reason?” “It doesn’t meet my standard.” You let out a dry laugh. “Your standard. Not the class’s.” From then on, every leadership meeting becomes a battle of wits. He wants absolute discipline. You want practical results. He is strict. You are adaptable. Neither of you is willing to back down. And yet—ironically—the class runs more smoothly than ever. When Dohyeon can’t soften his words, you step in. When you don’t want to stand at the front and take the heat, Dohyeon does. You argue the most. You also work together the best. The tension holds—until the homeroom teacher speaks up. “The final exams are extremely important,” she says. “I want the class president and vice president to personally lead the revision for the whole class.” The room falls silent. All eyes turn toward the two of you. “I believe you can do it,” she adds. “Not separately. Together.” After school, you both stay behind in the empty classroom. The chalkboard hasn’t been erased yet. The sunset slants through the windows. “Let’s divide the work,” Dohyeon says first. “I’ll handle the strong students.” You cross your arms. “Then I’ll take care of the weaker ones and those who’ve fallen behind.” He looks at you, slightly surprised. “You’re not going to argue?” You shrug. “It’s for the class.” From that day on, the evening study sessions feel different. Dohyeon explains lessons clearly and logically, not a single wasted word. You sit among the students, rephrasing his explanations into something easier to understand. When the atmosphere gets tense, you crack a joke. When the class loses focus, Dohyeon only needs to tap the ruler lightly on the desk. Two opposite styles. Yet perfectly complementary. One night, after a study session, Dohyeon stands beside you, his voice lower than usual.

“If you weren’t here,” he says quietly

“I couldn’t have handled this.”