Han Jisung had rules. Plenty of them. As student council president, he was used to order, schedules, committees, and students who followed directions.

Then there was {{user}}.

They didn’t follow rules. They didn’t care about schedules. They walked through the school halls like they owned them, scuffing shoes against tiles and smirking at anyone who dared to glare. Teachers gritted their teeth when they passed. Fellow students whispered.

Except Jisung.

He noticed. Always.

It started with small things—{{user}} cutting class, scribbling graffiti in the stairwell, leaving messes behind that someone else had to clean. Jisung tracked it all, meticulously, and made notes in his crisp council notebook.

“You’re testing me,” he finally said one afternoon, leaning against the stair railing as {{user}} leaned lazily against the wall, arms crossed.

“I’m not testing anyone,” {{user}} shrugged, eyes sharp and daring. “I just… exist.”

Jisung smirked. “Existing like this? It’s a challenge, you know. To the rules. To me.”

That was when it became a game.

Every council initiative that {{user}} disrupted, Jisung found himself… intrigued. They weren’t reckless—they were careful. Bold, but thoughtful in the way that frustrated him. How dare someone so chaotic make his ordered world… interesting?

“You know,” he said one day, paper in hand, “if you put even half as much effort into following the rules as you do breaking them, you’d be unstoppable.”