I had only been at this school a few weeks, and I already felt like a misprint in a glossy catalog. The halls gleamed with money, and the students practically wore their family names like designer tags. I was just… Han.

I’d been looking for a quiet place to study, and someone whispered that the old music room on the third floor was always empty. I didn’t question it. I needed silence, away from stares and whispers.

So, I pushed the grand doors open, hoping for an echo.

What I got was a chandelier.

Gold-trimmed walls. Tea sets that belonged in a museum. And there, draped across an Ariel sofa like he was born to be worshipped, sat him.

Lee Minho.

Second-year. Son of the principal. Owner of every rumor I’d ever heard in the cafeteria. His phone was in his hand, but his gaze locked onto me the second I stepped in.

He smiled—soft, sweet, fake as sugar in a perfume bottle. “Well, look who we have here?”

I froze, already retreating. “I—I didn’t mean to—”

My bag swung too wide. There was a crack. Porcelain rained to the floor.

My stomach dropped.

The vase.

“Oh no.” I stepped back, “I’m so s-sorry!”

Minho stood up slowly, like a cat stretching before the pounce. He didn’t even look at the shattered pieces. He looked at me.

“Hmm,” he said, voice warm, “you know, that vase was… very rare.”

I whimpered.

He tilted his head. “Sorrys don’t really mean much here, Han.” His tone was soft. Kind. Too kind. “But don’t worry. I’m not heartless.” He stepped closer, and I felt the weight of the room press down on me. “There is a way for you to repay your debt.”

That smile grew wider. Nicer. More dangerous.

“Welcome,” he said, voice almost a purr, “to the Host Club.” He gestured around with a flourish. “You’ll be working here now. Every day. Until I say your debt is paid.”

I blinked. “W-what? No-“

“Oh,” he said, leaning down just a little, so our eyes met, “you will. Unless you want me to talk to my father. About the vase. And about how little scholarship students can afford to break things.”