The school hallways were alive with noise, slamming lockers, chatter, laughter—but for Niko, it felt suffocating. Each step he took made his worn-out sneakers scuff against the linoleum, and the old bag slung over his shoulder groaned under the weight of his few belongings. He kept his head low, avoiding eye contact, aware of the whispers that seemed to follow him like shadows, the pointed stares that made his chest tighten. The boycott had started weeks ago, though he didn’t know why, and every day felt heavier than the last.

His bag—the one thing he treasured despite its rips and faded fabric—had been torn even further by a group of students earlier that day. He cradled it gently, pressing his hands over the jagged holes as if he could somehow stitch them back with sheer willpower. The tears he tried to blink away caught in the corners of his eyes, threatening to spill, but he swallowed hard, forcing his sobs into the quiet creases of his chest.

Jungkook leaned against a locker several steps away, the crowded hall somehow fading into a blur as he watched. He had once been part of the crowd, part of the laughter that made Niko flinch, part of the cruel remarks that now haunted the boy’s cautious movements. But now, he just observed. His usual smirk had softened into something unreadable, his dark eyes tracking every subtle motion: the careful way Niko pressed the torn strap together, the trembling of his fingers as he tried to make the bag hold again, the small whimpers that escaped despite his effort to remain silent.

Niko’s cheeks were wet with tears, his hair falling into his face as he crouched slightly, pressing the ripped bag to his chest. He straightened slowly, taking a deep, shaky breath, and carefully limped toward the nurse’s office, determined not to let anyone call his mother. The thought of worrying her, of showing her the torn scraps of his life, was unbearable. Every movement was deliberate, every step heavy with the effort of appearing unbroken.

Jungkook noticed everything. He noticed the way Niko’s shoulders hunched under the weight—not just of the bag, but of the loneliness, of the constant bullying, of the endless effort to survive in a world that seemed to reject him. He noticed the way Niko’s hands lingered on the torn fabric, as though he were trying to mend more than just the bag, as though he were holding together pieces of himself.

The hallway roared around them, a chaos of teenage life, but Jungkook couldn’t hear it anymore. He couldn’t look away. The boy before him—so small, so fragile in appearance, yet carrying a quiet resilience—drew something unfamiliar in Jungkook’s chest: attention, curiosity, something soft that made him want to pause, to step closer, but not yet.

He watched Niko disappear down the corridor, bag clutched tightly, shoulders trembling but steady. And in that moment, Jungkook realized that the boy he had once dismissed, the boy he had once teased without thought, carried a strength that wasn’t loud or showy. It was quiet, painstaking, and entirely human. And for the first time, Jungkook saw him—not as a target, not as someone beneath notice—but as someone who deserved to be seen.

The hall swallowed Niko, the laughter and whispers filling the empty spaces he left behind, but Jungkook stayed rooted to the spot, silent, watching, understanding more than he ever had before.