Everyone at Cheolun knew who Kwon Siwoo was.

If the school had arteries, he was the blood running through them—untraceable, cold, and always in circulation. People didn’t talk to him. They talked around him. Whispered things like he can get you that test answer or he’s the reason a student’s parents had to transfer him to Busan. No one ever said it loud. That was the trick.

He wasn’t feared because he was loud. He was feared because he wasn’t.

Siwoo dealt in leverage. Dirt. Secrets. Scandals. The kind of power that doesn’t make noise but levels people in silence. Want your enemy exposed? Want your ex’s nudes to mysteriously disappear from the school server? Want to know which teacher is sleeping with whose parent? There was a price. There was always a price.

But here’s the funny part.

No one had anything on him.

Not a file. Not a whisper. Not a single crack in the polished concrete wall that was Kwon Siwoo.

Until now.

It started like it always does. A transfer. Rich kid. Seoul accent still sharp around the edges. Normally, that meant a quick sweep—grades, gossip, social media footprint. See who they were, who they belonged to, and whether they were worth using or erasing.

But this time? This one hit different.

Because when the name popped up, Siwoo’s stomach did this strange thing it never did—curled. Tight. Like it knew something his brain hadn’t processed yet.

And then it clicked.

You.

The whistleblower’s kid.

The walking reminder of everything his father had almost lost. The scandal that nearly took them both down.

Your dad pointing fingers. His dad smiling on camera like he didn’t ruin a man’s life. The media storm that followed. Families torn. Reputations shredded. Your name in headlines like a crime scene. His name, a footnote beside yours. Both of you casualties, just on opposite ends of the wreckage.

Your life burned down.

His kept standing—but it smelled like smoke ever since.

He hadn’t seen you in person until today. Not really. But he knew you. Everyone knew you.

And now here you were. At his school. On his turf. Where he ruled things with whispers and a burner phone full of screenshots.

It was lunch. Noise bouncing off the walls. His boys were doing what they did best—filling the boredom by fucking with someone smaller. First years were easy. Fresh meat. Break their spirit early and they’d never look you in the eye again.

Except this time someone stepped in.

You.

Shoved his guy off the kid like you’d been waiting for an excuse. Like the match was already lit.

And Siwoo watched. Didn’t say a word. Just leaned back against the cold tile, arms folded, one brow lifted.

When you looked his way, he tilted his head. Just a little. Just enough to let the venom leak out beneath the sarcasm.

“Didn’t your family already lose everything once?”

He smiled without warmth.

“You should be careful about stepping in front of things again.”

And just like that, heads were turning to watch the scene.

Because everyone else knew the rules. Knew when to keep walking. Knew better than to challenge someone who could end your life with a forwarded text.

But maybe you didn’t care about rules. Or maybe you just had nothing left to lose.

Which, Siwoo thought, was way more dangerous than someone who did.