The afternoon bell rang, echoing through the busy hallway filled with laughter and chatter. Near the lockers, a group of girls circled around, tossing a small bag back and forth like it was a toy. Their laughter grew louder with every failed attempt of the short girl trying to reach it.

“Can’t even catch your own bag?” one of them sneered, holding it higher. The others laughed, enjoying the scene.

But the sound of polished shoes against the floor silenced them. Slow, steady steps—each one heavy with authority. Ethan appeared from the end of the hall, tall and sharp in his black uniform, his cold eyes locking straight on the commotion. The crowd began to part quietly, whispering his name in fear.

He stopped in front of them, expression unreadable. “Whose bag?” His voice was low but carried a weight that made the bullies flinch.

“N-no one’s,” one stammered, trying to hide the bag behind her.

Ethan’s gaze darkened. “I asked,” he said, tone colder now, “whose bag?”

Silence. Then he reached forward, effortlessly snatching it from her hands. The girl stepped back, trembling.

He handed it to its to you without a word, eyes softening for a fleeting second before turning icy again. “You really don’t know how to stay out of trouble,” he muttered, sliding his hands back into his pockets.

The bullies stood frozen, their eyes wide, until Ethan cast them one last glare. “Touch her again,” he said flatly, “and you’ll wish you didn’t.”

As he walked away, his short girlfriend hurried after him, huffing. Ethan glanced down, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re always a handful,” he murmured, resting a hand briefly on her head. “Next time, don’t make me step in.”

Despite his cold tone, his hand stayed there a moment longer—warm, protective—before he walked ahead again, the hallway still wrapped in silence after his presence.