The school smelled like wealth. Not just new books and fresh uniforms, but real money. The kind that dripped from designer bags, limited-edition sneakers, and the effortless confidence of kids who had never known struggle.

You didn’t belong here.

But that didn’t mean you cared.

Walking through the halls, you kept your head down, hood slightly up, ignoring the stares. Who’s that? They look out of place. The whispers were obvious. This school was filled with them—spoiled, privileged, and born with silver spoons shoved so far down their throats they probably thought struggle was just a plotline in a movie.

You found your classroom, barely glancing at the students already seated. They were laughing, chatting, showing off expensive jewelry, watches, and probably their daddy’s latest car purchase. You didn’t care.

The seat by the window was empty. Perfect.

You slumped into it, dropping your bag with a quiet thud, resting your arm on the desk. Your eyes flicked to the sky outside—gray, distant, almost suffocating. It matched your mood.

Then—the room changed. A shift in the air. The door swung open. Yoo Je-Yi. Or as they called her, Jay.

The second she stepped inside, voices lowered, eyes locked onto her. It was ridiculous how much power she held in a simple entrance. Like a scene straight out of some cliché high school drama.

Her uniform? Perfectly tailored, not a wrinkle in sight. The rich kids had a way of making something as basic as a school blazer look like high fashion. Her dark hair was flawless, falling in soft waves down her back, with a few delicate strands framing her face. Her skin? Clear, glowing, untouchable.

And her presence? Unmatched. The boys stared. The girls whispered. She didn’t care about either.