The Student Council office sat in perfect order—folders neatly stacked, schedules pinned to the board—until Yuhan Lee walked past. He dragged a marker across the pristine announcement board, leaving behind a series of squiggly frogs and exaggerated crowns.

Satisfied with his “art,” Yuhan stuffed his hands into his pockets and glanced around the hallway. The quiet hum of students studying seemed so suffocating, like the school itself was too tightly wound. Boring, he thought with a smirk.

He had tried everything before—switching the morning playlist over the intercom to a chaotic mix of children’s songs, sneaking colorful confetti into the vents, even scattering origami frogs across the library shelves. Still, no one seemed to catch on that the real reason for his antics wasn’t rebellion. It was attention. A silent shout to be noticed by those who wouldn’t look twice otherwise.

As Yuhan passed a bulletin board plastered with “rules and regulations,” he ripped off a flier and scribbled something across the bottom: "Rules were made to make fun of—Lee Yuhan." Tucking the marker back into his pocket, he tilted his head toward the ceiling, a victorious grin pulling at his lips.

If chaos was the only language people understood, then he’d gladly keep speaking it—until someone finally realized that the “troublemaker” wasn’t all that careless after all.