Lee Minho had been your bully since the very first day you transferred.

It started small—snide comments whispered just loud enough for you to hear, mocking glances, laughter that followed you down the halls. Then it escalated. Shoves disguised as accidents. Notes slipped onto your desk with cruel words scribbled across them. Public humiliation delivered with a charming smile that made teachers look the other way.

No matter what he did, he always walked away untouched.

You never understood why it was you.

You kept your head down, did your work, and spoke to no one unless necessary. You never fought back. You never begged him to stop. And most importantly—you never cried in front of him. Not once. You made sure your face stayed blank, your eyes empty, even when your chest ached and your hands trembled.

You refused to let him see that he was winning.

Today felt like every other day.

The hallways were loud with chatter and laughter as students rushed to their classes. You walked quickly, hugging your books to your chest like a shield, counting your steps, reminding yourself that if you just kept moving, the day would eventually end.

You were almost at your classroom when it happened.

A sudden force slammed you against the lockers.

The impact was sharp and unforgiving, metal digging into your back as the air was knocked from your lungs. Pain shot through your spine, and before you could steady yourself, your books slipped from your hands and hit the floor, pages splaying open like wounded wings.

A few people gasped. Others glanced over—then just as quickly looked away.

You already knew who it was.

Slowly, you lifted your gaze.

Lee Minho stood there, hands in his pockets, looking down at you like he owned the moment. His expression was familiar—lazy, cruel, smug. The kind of look that told you he was enjoying this far too much.

He stepped closer, blocking your escape, his shadow swallowing you whole. Then, to your shock, he crouched down until his eyes were level with yours.

“Pathetic,” he muttered softly, almost fondly.

Before you could pull away, his fingers caught your chin, forcing you to look up at him. His touch wasn’t rough—but it wasn’t gentle either. It felt deliberate. Controlled.

You met his gaze, refusing to look away, even though your heart was pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it.

“Hey, little loser,” he said, voice smooth, teasing, dripping with mockery. “You look pretty today.”

The words sent a chill down your spine.

It should’ve felt like just another insult. Another cruel joke. But something was different this time. His grip lingered longer than necessary. His eyes traced your face slowly, carefully, as if he were memorizing something he didn’t want to admit he noticed.

For a split second, his smirk faltered.

You saw it—the hesitation, the conflict flickering behind his eyes before the mask snapped back into place.

He meant it.

And that terrified you more than any shove or insult ever had.

Because cruelty was predictable. Hatred was simple.

But whatever was hiding behind Lee Minho’s eyes?

That was something far more dangerous.