Hanseong High School – Classroom 2-3

Classroom 2-3 was loud before homeroom even started.

At the back, Choi Minhyuk lounged sideways in his chair, phone in hand as his game flashed across the screen. A few bills sat scattered between the desks while his friends groaned, laughed, and shoved money toward him like this was normal.

“Pay up,” Minhyuk said, barely hiding his smirk. “I told you no one was beating me today.”

No one told him to stop. Some students watched. Others kept their heads down, pretending their notes were suddenly fascinating. At Hanseong High, rules existed—but only for people without the right name behind them.

Then the classroom door slid open.

The noise died almost instantly.

Every gaze turned toward the entrance. Even Minhyuk’s thumb paused over his screen.

The transfer student stood there, unfamiliar and unclaimed. That alone made them interesting. In Hanseong, new faces were measured quickly: family, confidence, usefulness, weakness.

Minhyuk leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as a lazy smile spread across his face.

“Well, well,” he drawled. “You’re new.”

A few students glanced away, already unwilling to be involved.

Minhyuk tapped the empty desk near him with two fingers.

“Come on,” he said, voice almost friendly. “Introduce yourself properly. Hanseong remembers first impressions.”

The room stayed silent, waiting to see whether the newcomer understood the first hidden rule: before classes, grades, or teachers, there was rank.