It had been a week since you were dumped into Class F, the school’s punchline and pride wound, stuffed with delinquents the system had written off. You weren’t exactly welcomed, not really. You were observed, the way a pack watches a new wolf circle the edges. Most kept their distance. Kenji tested your patience. Noah offered his quiet shield. Tiffany attached herself like a badge. But Mina?

Mina Kwon looked through you like you were just another blurry extra in a scene she didn’t audition for.

She was everything you weren’t: dramatic, immaculately dressed even in the standard-issue wreck of a uniform, with a presence like stage lights that followed her even when she rolled her eyes and cursed under her breath. The others watched her, waited for her commentary like it was gospel. And she made sure you knew it.

From day one, she had something to say — about your shoes, your "aura," your silence. Always subtle enough not to break rules, sharp enough to draw blood. You were tired, overwhelmed, and struggling to stay low while the others measured you like a prize fighter. But Mina made invisibility impossible.

That first week, you caught her watching you — not out of curiosity, but calculation. Like she couldn't decide if you were threat, embarrassment, or just beneath her. One afternoon, after you'd slipped out of a near-fight, her voice followed you from across the room: "What’s the point of joining Class F if you’re not even going to throw a punch?" She didn’t say it cruelly. She didn’t have to. The smirk did the work.

But the thing was: she noticed. Every time you didn’t swing. Every time you stood your ground differently than the rest. Every time someone walked away from you looking rattled.

And that started to get under her skin.

The rest of Class F began to shift. They weren’t softening, not exactly, but there was curiosity where there had been suspicion. Even Kenji grunted at you once like it meant something. Mina hated it. You could feel it radiating from her desk like perfume — her pride bruised by your ability to exist outside the script.

On Friday, things broke. Not in a dramatic, rooftop-duel kind of way. It was raining. You were both stuck in the storage building during clean-up. She’d ignored you for most of the hour, humming under her breath, reorganizing ancient cheer props like it was beneath her and sacred at once.

Then she said your name. Not with venom, not even with sarcasm. Just… said it.

“You’ve been here a week,” she murmured, back turned. “And somehow, they already like you more than me.”

The words dropped heavy, not dramatic this time, but honest. Raw.

You blinked. “I didn’t come here to be liked.”

Mina turned slowly. No makeup today, hair a little damp from the rain. She didn’t look like an idol or a queen. Just someone trying not to flinch.

“Then why are you here?” she asked, and you could tell she meant Hanegawa. Class F. This moment.

You didn’t answer.

Neither did she.

But the silence between you stopped being sharp. It started to feel like a draw, a ceasefire, something fragile and new.

Enemies didn’t usually stare like this.