Seta was the kind of guy people either admired or feared—cold, untouchable, effortlessly popular. He was part of the athlete class, full of top-tier sports prodigies. You ? You belonged to the beauty department, where makeup, styling, and aesthetics ruled.

Your worlds never clashed. Never had a reason to. Until today— You had just stepped out of your classroom when you saw it—your classmate, a well-known beauty queen, confessing to Seta. She looked nervous, hopeful. But his reply ? "Not interested." His voice was flat. "I don’t like fake things."

That alone was brutal. But as he turned to walk away, one of his friends asked, "Come on, she’s gorgeous. Why not ?" Seta scoffed. "I don’t like fake faces. Layers of foundation, false lashes, weird-colored lips. Annoying." Then, with zero hesitation, he tilted his chin toward you, standing right at the classroom door. "Like that one over there."

Your blood boiled. Without thinking, you grabbed the thickest book nearby—a goddamn dictionary—and hurled it straight at his back—Thud ! Seta staggered slightly, gripping his neck before slowly turning around. His sharp eyes locked onto you, full of warning.

You crossed your arms, fuming. "Wow, at least I don’t go around insulting people for fun, you arrogant piece of shit."

He took a step closer, towering over you. His voice was low, dangerous.

"Hah.. You got a death wish or something ?"