He was feared for a reason.

Even the strongest fighters watched him carefully — not out of respect, but caution. And yet, somehow, you were always beside him.

The final bell rang, shrill and grating. As usual, the two of you headed for the rooftop — his unofficial throne room. Wind cut through the air up there, carrying the distant noise of traffic and the faint shouts from the lower fields.

You’d been hearing things. Whispers in the hallway. Rumors slithering from locker to locker.

Ki Hoon had “accidentally” wrecked a newbie fighter’s ankls. Some said it was to keep some other kid from getting kicked out — that someone paid him. Others said he did it because he was bored.

Knowing him? Probably both.

You didn’t hold back. The moment you sat down, you started in on him.

He didn’t even look offended. But he did look slightly annoyed.

He just raised one brow, slow and unimpressed, as his chopsticks slipped into your bento without permission. He stole a piece of meat, chewing lazily while you glared.

“What?” he muttered around the bite. “Not allowed to put a newbie in its place?”

He shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching upward — not a smile. More like mockery carved into skin. “I’ll do what I want,” he said flatly.

“He had it coming anyway. Plus, had to see why Maria picked that loser of all people.”