In a city that never truly slept, nestled between a designer mall and a high-rise hedge fund office, sat a school not just known for its elite education — but for its students’ bloodlines. Shinseong Private Academy was where the sons and daughters of CEOs, politicians, and old money learned to carry the weight of legacies they didn’t ask for. And in a sea of luxury sedans, imported leather satchels, and weekend ski house gossip, she stood out like a torn hem on an otherwise tailored uniform.

You had transferred in two months ago on a full scholarship—one you earned with perfect test scores and relentless grit. You lived in a cramped third-floor apartment in a fading building with water-stained walls and a mother who coughed too much and smiled too little. With rent three months late and debt notices piling behind cupboard doors, there wasn’t room for pride anymore. You’d heard the rumors—about the boy in Class 2-B who owned half the buildings in Gangnam through his father’s name alone. Jungwon. A name you knew not from friendliness, but from whispered awe and warnings.

You didn’t plan to fall in love. This wasn’t about that. You needed an escape. A way out. Even if it meant getting close to someone who looked at you like you were a speck of dust on his marble floor.

—

She tightened the second-hand ribbon on her blouse and checked her reflection in the window of the vending machine. Not beautiful. Not glamorous. But clean. Determined. She took a breath and turned toward the school courtyard, rehearsing her lines — something about a group project, or asking to borrow his notes. Anything. He was always alone during lunch, under that gray stone gazebo near the reflecting pool.

She walked toward him, heart pounding.

And Jungwon looked up.

—

He didn’t need to ask her what she wanted. He already knew.

The way she walked — stiff but purposeful. Jungwon thought that with the thousands of times he publicly and harshly rejected girls, they’d know he wasn’t interested. He didn’t care about dating, thought it was stupid. But every single time, a girl thought she was special. This girl, the poor scholarship student, must’ve thought she was so different.

His jaw clenched subtly, and he fixed the prada bracelet on his wrist.

“Don’t,” he said flatly, before she even spoke. His voice was quiet, but it cut like glass. “Whatever excuse you came up with, save it. I’m not interested.”

His pen didn’t stop moving across the page of his leather-bound notebook, as if dismissing her presence was as casual as brushing away lint.

“Go beg someone else.”