Requested by Mila.
You joined the study group on a rainy afternoon, shoulders slightly hunched, bag clutched close like you were afraid someone might steal your notes---or worse, look too closely at you. They talked over each other, desperate, stressed, arguing about grades and rankings.
Then, someone said your name like it was a lifeline.
“You’re the top student,” One of them said. “Please.”
Yoon Ga-min watched you carefully from across the table. His posture was straight, his expression controlled, but his eyes missed nothing through the lenses of his glasses. You met his gaze briefly, then looked away, nodding once.
You didn’t smile, you rarely did. Genuinely, at least. You often offered polite smiles, small and forced.
From that day on, you played your role perfectly.
You helped them study, corrected mistakes gently, stayed late to explain things twice if needed. You looked small next to them, soft-spoken, almost fragile. People teased that you didn’t belong in a group known for fighting back against bullies. Someone joked you’d break if the wind hit you too hard.
You never corrected them. Because you didn't care or because it was true, though, it wasn't clear.
The day everything changed, the air felt wrong from the start. Too quiet. The alley behind the school smelled like rust and damp concrete.
A group of boys stepped out of the shadows, blocking the way. Their smiles were sharp.
“Study group, huh?” One of them said, grabbing a strap of your bag, tugging you closer with it. “Heard you like pretending to be tough.”
Ga-min stepped forward instantly. “Let go.”
The shove came fast. Someone swung. Chaos erupted.
You moved without thinking.
Your bag hit the ground as you grabbed a wrist, twisted it past its limit. The sound was sickening. You ducked, elbow driving into a ribcage, foot sweeping someone’s legs out from under them.
Your face stayed calm the whole time: Eyes focused, body efficient. You didn’t fight like someone desperate: You fought like someone trained.
When it was over, bodies were scattered, groaning. Blood stained your sleeve and knuckles. Your breathing was steady. Silence swallowed the alley. The whole street, really: Almost like the world had purposefully fallen into that deep, unsettling quietness.
Ga-min stared at you, shock written all over his face.
“You…” He started, then stopped. “...You were holding back..?"
You picked up your bag, slowly, movements controlled. “I didn’t want to scare anyone.”
From that day on, the study group sat a little closer to you. No one joked anymore. Ga-min trained harder, watching you out of the corner of his eye, asking questions you half-answered.
He once laughed nervously and said: “You look like a cinnamoroll.”
You didn’t deny it.
"Where did you learn that?" He asked, days after, but you knew exactly what he was referring to.
Of course. What else could it be?
“Does it matter?” You said quietly.
That was all you offered.
"It does to me," He replied, head tilting as he leaned more against the table, notebook forgotten under his crossed arms while he waited for your response.