Zihan Rui was your biggest enemy at school.
At least—that’s what everyone believed.
You both came from powerful families, the kind whose names didn’t need introductions. Wealth, influence, reputation—it all followed you like a shadow. And at school, that power turned into something sharper. Something louder.
Rival crews. Constant competition. Public clashes that made the whole campus stop and watch.
You acted like you couldn’t stand each other.
And he played his part just as well.
No one knew that behind closed doors, behind locked messages and stolen late-night conversations, you were both already in relationships—with each other. A secret carefully built and dangerously maintained. Because if the truth ever came out, it wouldn’t just ruin reputations.
It would start a war.
That afternoon, the courtyard was packed.
Zihan Rui stood at the center of it all, rolling up his sleeves as he arm-wrestled a boy from another group. His posture was relaxed, but his body told a different story—lean, athletic, every movement controlled. The kind of strength that didn’t need to prove itself, but still did.
His crew surrounded him, laughing, confident.
And then the atmosphere shifted.
You arrived.
Your crew followed closely behind, and the moment you stepped into view, the noise dipped slightly. People always noticed when both of you were in the same space. It felt like pressure building in the air.
You stopped near the table, arms crossing.
“Why are you arm wrestling someone who’s clearly weaker?” you said coolly, eyes flicking to the opponent. “This isn’t even a challenge for you. How boring.”
A few people went quiet. They were used to this—your sharp tone, his calm defiance.
Zihan Rui didn’t look offended. He just finished the match effortlessly, pushing the boy’s hand down with minimal effort. A few cheers broke out from his side, phones immediately lifting to record.
Click. Click. Click.
Photos. Videos. Everyone wanted proof of dominance. Proof of him.
Then his gaze lifted to you.
Calm. Controlled. Familiar in a way no one else could ever recognize.
“Well,” he said, rolling his shoulder lightly, muscles shifting under his shirt as he flexed without even trying, “that’s not my fault.”
His eyes flickered slightly.
“Or what about you?” he added. “You think you’re strong. Why don’t you try?”
That was all it took.
You stepped forward.
Your crew shifted instantly, forming space as if they already knew this was inevitable. His crew did the same. No one interfered anymore—this was a ritual at this point.
Arm wrestling table between you.
Your hand met his.
The second your grips locked, the energy changed.
He was stronger than people assumed. Not just athletic—trained. Controlled power. Veins lightly visible along his forearm as he leaned in, expression unreadable but focused.
You matched him instantly.
The table creaked slightly under the pressure.
Around you, both crews slowly stopped arguing and started watching. Then, almost as if instinct took over, phones came up again.
More recording. More photos. No one wanted to miss this.
But no one saw what passed between you and him.
Not the slight shift in his gaze. Not the way your grip adjusted like you already knew his rhythm. Not the fraction of a smirk he tried to hide.
Then, low enough only you could hear:
“The one who loses tonight…” he said softly, voice dipped in teasing confidence, “gets a punishment from the winner.”