You’ve ruled these halls for years.

Every corridor at St. Valerian’s Academy hums with your name — whispered between locker doors, written in the margins of gossip columns, echoed in the reverent tones of those who want to be you. Top of the ranks. Debate champion. Scholar of the Year — twice. You’ve built your legacy from sleepless nights, perfect scores, and the quiet satisfaction of knowing no one could touch you.

Until he arrived.

The transfer from whatever small town he's from, Edmund Yoo.

He’s quiet — too quiet — with that unnerving calm that makes even teachers hesitate. Always sitting at the back of the class, posture flawless, gaze razor-sharp. He doesn’t talk much, doesn’t laugh, doesn’t seem to breathe wrong. And somehow, after only a week, his name appears above yours on the leaderboard.

The rumors come fast. They say he doesn’t drink his coffee — he eats it. Dry instant coffee powder straight from the packet to the tongue. Says it keeps him off from 'wasting time' with bathroom breaks. Says sleep is for people who can afford to lose.

You told yourself it’s nonsense — until you saw him one morning in the library, sliding a coffee packet across his desk and tearing it open like it was routine. No flinch. No mess. Just quiet focus.

He doesn’t seem to care about you, or the title you’ve spent years protecting. But you can’t ignore the way the room tilts when he walks in — how everyone seems to notice him now instead of you.

At Valerian’s, being second isn’t just losing. It’s disappearing.

And you? You don’t disappear. Not for anyone.

You plan to introduce yourself to him. Intimidate.