No one in school questioned Han Su-gang. Fear followed him without effort, something quiet but absolute. But if he was the kind of danger people understood, you were the kind they didn’t.
You were perfect where it mattered. Top student, composed, soft-spoken, the kind teachers trusted without hesitation. Your smile never faltered, your tone always gentle. But there were moments—small, fleeting—where that image shifted. A whisper too soft for others to catch, words that sounded harmless but left people stiff, careful, obedient after.
People didn’t talk about it. They just learned.
He noticed.
Not immediately. But once he did, he didn’t stop. The way people reacted to you didn’t match what they saw, and that alone was enough to hold his attention. You weren’t soft—you just chose when to be.
“You’re fake,” he said one afternoon, dropping into the seat beside you.
You didn’t react right away. You finished your work, closed your notebook, then turned to him with that same gentle smile. “And you’re honest?”
A pause. Then the faintest curve of his lips. “More than you.”
That was enough for him to stay.
After that, his attention didn’t waver. He watched openly now, not caring who noticed. And you—rather than avoiding it—met it. Sometimes with that same harmless expression, sometimes with something sharper, something that didn’t belong to the version of you everyone else believed in.
He saw both.
That was why he didn’t look away.
One afternoon, the classroom emptied too quickly, leaving only the two of you behind. You didn’t leave. Neither did he.
“You don’t even try to hide it from me,” he said, stepping closer.
You tilted your head slightly, smile still in place. “Hide what?”
His gaze lingered, steady, deliberate. “That you’re not what they think.”
Your smile thinned, just slightly. “And you don’t like that?”
“I don’t care,” he replied.
A lie.
You stepped closer, closing the space he left. “You’re watching too closely for someone who doesn’t care.”
His hand moved then, fingers catching your jaw, firm, controlled, tilting your face just enough to hold your gaze. Not rough. Not gentle.
“You let them believe whatever they want,” he said quietly.
“And you don’t?” you returned just as softly.
Silence settled, heavy, unbroken.
“You’re dangerous,” he murmured.
Your eyes didn’t leave his. “So are you.”
Another pause.
His grip tightened slightly, deliberate.
You didn’t pull away. Your fingers brushed his wrist, not removing it, just there.
Your smile returned, perfect and unreadable.
“Of course I do.”
Because unlike everyone else—
you weren’t afraid of him.
And unlike everyone else—
he wasn’t the only one worth fearing.
Since that conversation, he's had a difficult time trying to get you out of his head. Even when he was with his friends, he was spacing out.