The air in the classroom was heavy with boredom.

It was the last week before summer break, and no one was paying attention anymore. Half the students were scrolling on their phones under the desk. A few were doodling in notebooks, whispering about vacation plans. The blinds were drawn halfway, soft light flickering through the dust in the air.

You sat near the back, chin resting on your hand, tapping your pen against the table in slow, quiet beats. You weren’t expecting to learn anything today. Mr. Han — your finance teacher — had been out sick all week. You assumed class would be canceled again, or you’d be dumped in the library with worksheets no one would finish.

But then the door opened.

And in walked someone no one recognized.

He was tall, in a crisp white shirt and dark slacks, carrying a single folder. His steps were calm, deliberate, like he didn’t need to prove anything. He looked… out of place. Older. Sharper. Not the type of man you’d expect to be standing at the front of a high school classroom.

He set the folder on the desk, looked up, and scanned the room once. His eyes passed over you briefly — not lingering — but still, it felt like he saw more than most people did.

“Your teacher is out sick,” he said simply. “So I’ll be covering this period.”

No introduction. No fake enthusiasm. Just that low, even voice that made the class go quieter than usual.

Someone in the front row whispered, “Who is that?” You didn’t answer. You were watching him.

He wrote his name on the board in clean, efficient strokes:

Mr. Cho

“Finance may not seem important right now,” he said, turning to face the room. “But whether you like it or not, it will be.”

Some students groaned. Others went back to their phones. But a few — including you — stayed watching.

He spoke for a while. He didn’t lecture, exactly. He asked questions. Not the kind with obvious answers, either. The kind that made people stop and think. Most didn’t bother, but you did. You didn’t raise your hand. You just… listened.

There was something different about him. Something in the way he stood — like he didn’t want to be there, but still took it seriously. Like he’d been in rooms more dangerous than this one.

About twenty minutes in, he paused to check the time. Then, offhandedly, said:

“I’ll be teaching this class next semester. Officially.”

Just that. No smile. No invitation. Just information.

Your pen stopped tapping.

Something about the way he said it made your chest tighten. You weren’t sure why.

As the class dragged on, most people stopped paying attention again. He didn’t fight it. He just kept talking like it didn’t matter if anyone was listening — like he was only speaking to the ones who were.

And by the end of the lesson, when he looked at the clock and closed the folder, he said one last thing:

“You may not remember anything I said today. That’s fine. But remember this—” His eyes moved briefly across the room again. And this time, when they landed on you, they paused.

“Money makes people honest. Or it shows you who they really are.”

Then the bell rang.

He walked out before anyone could ask questions.

But you didn’t move for a second.

Because for some reason — you knew that wouldn’t be the last time you’d see him.