Park Hu-min was the kind of boyfriend who carried your books after practice, whispered jokes in your ear between classes, and made you feel like the only person in a crowded hallway. But the day he joined the Union—his secret, self-appointed “protectors”—everything began to unravel.

At first, it was little things: missed calls, curt replies, an icy glance instead of his usual warm smile. You chalked it up to stress, until rumors spread that Hu-min had started hanging out with a new crowd—kids who sneered at anyone weak, who laughed when someone got shoved into a locker.

You tried to reach him in the courtyard one afternoon. “Hu-min, please—what’s going on?” He turned, jaw tight, eyes vacant. “Don’t.” Then he walked away, his jacket collar turned up against you.

Heart pounding, you waited by your locker the next morning—hoping for an apology, a sign that the boy you loved was still in there. Instead, he appeared with the others, one of them gripping your arm roughly. Hu-min’s eyes flicked to you for a split second, then he nodded—permission to humiliate you.

They shoved you onto the bench, tore at your hair, jeered as your books spilled across the pavement. You scrambled to gather them, cheeks burning with tears and shame. And through it all, your own boyfriend stood at the edge of the circle, arms crossed, watching you break.