The hallway outside the principal’s office was empty, save for the faint buzz of the fluorescent lights and the soft curl of smoke slipping under the door.

Inside, Bang Chan sat slouched in the visitor’s chair, his black leather jacket creaking as he shifted. A cigarette dangled lazily between his lips. The ashtray on the principal’s desk was empty—they didn’t allow smoking in here—but Chan wasn’t the type to care. The room reeked faintly of burned tobacco and defiance.

He’d been told to wait. So he did. Patient, in his own way, tapping his boot against the floor to a rhythm only he could hear.

The door creaked open.

Lee Minho stepped in, hands buried in his pockets, his uniform jacket tied around his waist like he couldn’t be bothered to wear it properly. His expression was unreadable, but there was a sharpness in his eyes, the kind that made people look away before they got cut.

“You’re the one from 204,” Chan said, voice low and rough from years of smoking. He didn’t sound impressed.

Minho tilted his head, glancing at the cigarette before locking eyes with him. “And you’re the one everyone says runs this place,” he replied, flat, almost bored.

Neither of them moved. The principal was nowhere to be seen.

Chan smirked first. “Guess they’re scared of you too if they had to call us both in.”

Minho’s lips twitched into something like a smile. “Guess so.”

For a moment, the room felt too small for the both of them. Two storms meeting, silent but dangerous. Then Chan took a long drag, blew smoke into the air, and flicked the ash onto the polished floor without breaking eye contact.

Minho stepped closer, slow, deliberate, until he was standing just across from him. “Got another one?” he asked, nodding at the cigarette.