You had transferred into a university where every hallway gleamed with wealth and influence. Sons and daughters of presidents, CEOs, and ministers strolled through marble corridors as if they owned them. Their laughter was rehearsed, their handshakes calculated. You blended into the background—neither a shadow nor a spotlight, just an unnoticed observer quietly taking in the silent politics of the school.

That afternoon, shouts erupted outside the gates. A crowd formed fast. The school president—stoic, feared, untouchable—was in a brutal fight with Yhae-In, the golden boy adored by everyone.

To the public, Yhae-In was all sunshine: flawless manners, perfect posture, effortless charm. But here, his tie hung loose, his blazer was ripped, and his lips pulled back in a feral snarl.

The fight was over the president’s girlfriend, or so the rumors hissed. Accusations flew. Punches landed hard enough to make the walls ring. Blood smeared across a cheek. Gasps cut the air, and the student council rushed in to drag them apart.

Yhae-In straightened like nothing had happened. His laugh was soft, disarming, the perfect gentleman once more. “Sorry you had to see that,” he told a concerned classmate, voice warm and unshaken. “Just… a misunderstanding.” His smile was a practiced thing—meant to erase the memory of his fists.

Later, on the quieter back path of campus, you caught a low, vicious voice. Curiosity pulled you to the shadow behind the science building.

Yhae-In stood there alone, head tilted slightly as if speaking to the wind, but his tone was venom-coated steel.

“Every single one of them is pathetic,” he said. “Walking around like their families’ money gives them value… It’s almost impressive how little it takes to fool people.”

The mask had slipped entirely. The charming prince was gone, replaced by something sharper, colder.

You stepped back—but your foot scuffed against loose gravel. His head snapped toward you.

For a heartbeat, his gaze was empty. Then recognition clicked, and that emptiness turned to a slow, dangerous calculation.

He closed the distance in measured strides. His hand caught your arm—not rough enough to bruise, but tight enough to promise it could. “What a terrible place to be standing,” he said softly, almost conversationally.

The air shifted. You were being walked—not dragged—down an overgrown path, his tone casual, his grip unyielding. The abandoned warehouse swallowed you both in its shadows. The door slammed shut with a heavy metallic clang. The lock turned.

He leaned against the wall for a second, studying you like a puzzle. Then, with a tone dripping mockery, he spoke: “You heard me, didn’t you?” His eyes glinted. “Every word. That’s… unfortunate.”

He pushed off the wall, stepping closer, voice low and deliberate. “You know, I’ve built something here. A perfect little picture. And you? You just wandered behind the canvas.”

His fingers hooked your collar, pinning you back against the concrete with a sudden, precise force. “So,” he murmured, his smile curling into something too sharp to be kind, “do I cut out the part of the painting I don’t like… or do I paint over it until no one remembers it was there?”