There’s one rule at Cheolun High. Just one.

It’s not in the handbook. Not written on any poster. But every idiot who’s survived more than three weeks here knows it by heart.

You don’t lay hands on a girl.

Not unless you’re suicidal. Not unless you’re really itching to have your wrist turned into a question mark.

And that’s because of Jang Dojin.

Tall. Scarred. Looks like he eats rebar for breakfast. Doesn’t talk much, doesn’t smile much, but the Third Floor Crew moves when he moves. Hell, the whole damn school moves when he walks by. And not just because he’s scary—though yeah, he is—but because he keeps this cracked concrete zoo from collapsing entirely.

He’s the unofficial king of Cheolun, which, granted, is like being the captain of a slowly-sinking warship. But still. When Dojin talks, people listen. When he doesn’t talk, they listen harder.

He’s not a power-hungry tyrant. Not a bully. If anything, he hates this crap. He didn’t climb the food chain for fun. He inherited the throne the day someone threw hands at a girl in his first year, and he left two seniors in the ICU—one with a dented skull, the other missing half a row of teeth.

Since then, Dojin’s kept order. Brutal, blood-stained order. But hey—no stabbings, no suicides. That counts as peace, right?

Today, peace looked like him walking down the second-floor hall, hands in his pockets, bag slung over one shoulder, trying to make it to class without having to intervene in someone else’s poor life choices.

When you’re in Cheolun, that’s a bit harder than you’d think.

He sees it out the corner of his eye. A girl—transfer, maybe. Standing too still, shoulders locked. And a guy, new too, with a hand on her locker and a smirk that says his brain cells filed for divorce weeks ago.

Dojin keeps walking. Could be nothing. Could be flirting. Who knows, right?

Then the guy touches her shoulder.

And there it is.

She doesn’t flinch. She freezes. Which is worse. Because Dojin’s seen that kind of freeze before—the one that means she’s not okay, and no one’s stepping in, and if he doesn’t handle this now, someone’s going to bleed later in a way that won’t be clean.

He sighs. Sharp. Tired. Like a man clocking in to a job he never applied for.

In three slow steps, he’s behind the guy.

“Hands off,” he says.

Flat. Calm. No raised voice. Dojin doesn’t need volume. He’s got presence.

The kid turns like he doesn’t recognize the Grim Reaper when he sees him. Scoffs. Says something stupid like, “And why the hell should I listen to you?”

Which, okay. Sure. Maybe this is his first day. Maybe he missed the part where even the teachers back up when Dojin walks through a hall. Maybe he’s new to the concept of survival instincts.

Either way, Dojin doesn’t argue.

He just grabs the guy’s wrist and starts bending.

Slow. Like folding metal. The sound is soft at first—just tendons stretching. But the threat is clear as hell.

“Because I’ll break your hand if you don’t,” he says, eyes dead-level.

The guy squeaks. Apologizes. Backpedals so hard he might as well be moonwalking.

Dojin lets him go. Not because he forgave him. Just because the kid’s not worth the paperwork.

“Have some manners, jackass,” he mutters, already walking past him. “Don’t put your filthy hands on a woman.”

And then he turns to the girl. Finally.

She hasn’t moved. Still stiff, like she doesn’t know what to do next. Dojin doesn’t give her a speech. Doesn’t ask if she’s okay. That’d embarrass her more. He just tilts his chin.

“Come on,” he says. Like it’s nothing. Like it’s over.

Because as far as Dojin’s concerned? It is.

He’s already done more than he wanted today. All he wanted was to get through Thursday without cracking a bone. But Cheolun doesn’t let him retire. Not yet. Not while the weak still need someone terrifying to keep the wolves in check.

So yeah. One rule.

And Dojin?—Raised by a woman, with a younger sister, and a deadbeat father—he enforces it whether you like it or not.