The morning sun spilled lazily across the classroom, catching in the dust motes that danced through the air. Students drifted in one by one, chatter rising and fading in waves. Pencils clattered, chairs screeched, and somewhere in the back, a boy yawned loud enough to earn an unimpressed look from the teacher's aide.
Tae-Ho sat on a desk near the window, phone in hand, scrolling with half-lidded eyes. When Jae-Suk walked in, his usual easy smile was missing. He moved like his body was on autopilot, bag hanging off one shoulder, eyes distant.
Tae-Ho noticed instantly. "Well, look who dragged himself in," he said, smirking. "You look like you just got rejected by your favorite snack machine."
Jae-Suk blinked as if pulled from deep thought. "Huh? Oh. Morning."
"Morning?" Tae-Ho echoed, frowning. "That's it? No comeback? No insult? Bro, are you sick?"
"I'm fine," Jae-Suk muttered, sliding into his seat. His smile looked like it was fighting for its life.
Tae-Ho leaned closer. "No, seriously. You look like you saw a ghost or flunked math. Which is worse, by the way?"
"I didn't flunk anything," Jae-Suk said quickly. Then, softer, "And I didn't see a ghost."
"Then what's up?"
Before he could answer, the door opened and in walked Jae-Hyun. Crisp uniform, composed face, every step unhurried but confident. A few girls by the window whispered to each other; someone muttered, "He's so cool," and immediately shushed themselves.
"Good morning," Jae-Hyun said, voice even but warm.
"Morning, hyung!" Tae-Ho waved, suddenly brighter. "We were just talking about how boring the morning's been without you."
Jae-Hyun chuckled softly, setting his bag down. "Really? I doubt that."
"It's true!" Tae-Ho said. "You walk in, and suddenly the IQ of the room goes up twenty points."
Jae-Hyun smirked. "Then I should leave before it drops back down."
"Wow," Tae-Ho said, clutching his chest. "Betrayal before first period. Harsh."
Jae-Hyun laughed lightly, then turned his gaze to Jae-Suk, who had gone unusually quiet again. "Morning," he said.
"Morning," Jae-Suk replied, too quickly, not quite meeting his eyes.
Something flickered in Jae-Hyun's gaze — faint curiosity. "You okay?"
"Yeah… I'm
," Jae-Suk said, forcing a smile. "Just… thinking about stuff." He chose his words carefully. He didn't want to betray the knowledge that had left him stunned the night before. He wanted to respect Jae-Hyun, and besides, he wasn't sure how to even begin talking about it.
Jae-Hyun's sharp eyes studied him for a moment, then smirked lightly. "Hmm… thinking about stuff, huh? That's a dangerous habit for the class president. You might start organizing everyone's life along with the class schedule."
Jae-Suk couldn't help but chuckle lightly at that. "Yeah, I guess it comes with the job."
Jae-Hyun tilted his head slightly, his eyes kind but probing. "You know you can talk to us, right? If something's bothering you."
"I… I'm fine," Jae-Suk repeated, though the slight tightness in his shoulders betrayed him.
Jae-Hyun studied him a moment longer, then smiled faintly. "Well, don't fall asleep in class. Ms. Kang has no mercy."
"I know," Jae-Suk said quickly. "I'm fine, really."
But he wasn't fine. Not even close.He couldn't unhear what his father had told him last night — that Mr. Oh worked for Jae-Hyun. That Jae-Hyun was a chairman.
A sixteen-year-old chairman.The thought still made his head spin.
- - -
Later, as the bell rang and students began settling into their desks, Tae-Ho nudged Jae-Suk. "Seriously, man… you've been acting weird all morning. Especially around Jae-Hyun. What's going on?"
Jae-Suk's heart pounded. He shook his head quickly. "Nothing, Tae-Ho. Really, it's nothing."
Tae-Ho squinted, clearly unconvinced. "Uh-huh… nothing. Sure." He tapped his fingers on the desk, eyeing Jae-Suk suspiciously. "Come on, spill it. You've been dodging Jae-Hyun's questions too. Why? You hiding something?"
"I'm not hiding anything," Jae-Suk said, keeping his voice low, careful. "Just… thinking about stuff I can't really talk about right now."
Tae-Ho pursed his lips, clearly uneasy, but he dropped the subject, though the suspicious glance he threw at Jae-Suk lingered. "Mm… okay. But don't think I won't notice."
- - -
After the second period, the crowd thinned as students drifted to their afternoon classes. Tae-Ho got called to the teacher's office for "an important matter" (which, judging by his face, meant trouble).
As soon as he left, Jae-Suk took a deep breath. His pulse quickened. This was his moment.
"Jae-Hyun," he said quietly.
Jae-Hyun glanced up from his notes. "Hm?"
"I… need to ask you something."
There was something steady and unhurried in the way Jae-Hyun closed his notebook and leaned back. "Go ahead."
Jae-Suk hesitated, then said it all in one breath. "I know about you. About what you do. That you're… a chairman. My dad told me."
Silence. The air between them thickened.
Jae-Hyun didn't flinch. Didn't even blink. Instead, he gave a slow nod. "I see."
Jae-Suk fidgeted with his pen. "I didn't mean to pry. It just… came up. And I had to ask. It's weird, you know? Finding out your classmate runs companies."
A faint smile touched Jae-Hyun's lips. "Weird, yes. But now you know."
"So it's true."
"It's true."
Jae-Suk exhaled, trying to calm his racing thoughts. "You're sixteen. How… how is that even possible?"
Jae-Hyun looked amused. "Hard work. A bit of obsession. And a lot of coffee."
Jae-Suk shook his head slowly. "You talk like an adult. It's freaky."
"Compliment accepted," Jae-Hyun said with a soft grin.
The moment hung there, oddly calm — until Jae-Suk's voice grew quieter. "It just feels strange, knowing my dad works for you. Like… everything shifted overnight."
Jae-Hyun's tone softened. "Does it bother you?"
"I don't know. Maybe? You're my friend, but you're also—" He hesitated. "Someone… powerful. I guess I'm scared things won't be the same."
Jae-Hyun leaned forward slightly, elbows on the desk. "Jae-Suk. Between us, it's never about titles. I'm still me. You're still you. That doesn't change."
"But—"
"No buts," Jae-Hyun said gently, eyes holding his. "You don't have to treat me differently. You don't even have to think about it. We're friends. That's all that matters."
Jae-Suk stared at him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "…Okay."
"Good," Jae-Hyun said. "Now stop looking like you're about to write a resignation letter. You're making me nervous."
That earned a startled laugh from Jae-Suk. "Fine."
The tension eased, replaced by something warmer, steadier — a renewed trust.
"Should I tell Tae-Ho?" Jae-Suk asked after a pause.
"Not yet," Jae-Hyun replied. "He'll find out when he's ready. For now, just… enjoy being normal."
Jae-Suk chuckled. "Normal. Sure."
The classroom door slid open then, and Tae-Ho reappeared, hair slightly messy, face red from whatever lecture he'd endured. "She said I talk too much. Can you believe that? Me?"
"Yes," both Jae-Hyun and Jae-Suk said in unison.
Tae-Ho gaped. "Unbelievable. Betrayed by my own team."
Jae-Hyun smirked. "Consider it character development."
"Harsh, hyung. Real harsh." Tae-Ho flopped into his seat. "Anyway, what'd I miss?"
"Nothing important," Jae-Suk said quickly. "Just… math."
"Ugh, the worst thing to miss."
Jae-Hyun chuckled, leaning back. "Actually, we were talking about how today's lunch was decent. No mystery meat wars."
"Good," Tae-Ho said, stabbing his pen at Jae-Suk. "You still owe me a snack for laughing when I choked last time."
Jae-Suk grinned. "You choked because you were talking mid-bite."
"Oh please," Tae-Ho said. "that barely affected anything."
Laughter filled the small space between them — light, genuine, unburdened for the moment.
Later that afternoon, the lunch bell shrieked through the hallways like freedom itself.Chairs scraped, chatter burst to life, and within minutes, the cafeteria became a boiling sea of trays, laughter, and the clatter of spoons.
Tae-Ho, naturally, was the first to explode through the doors."MOVE, PEOPLE! Tactical priority: get the spicy beef stew before it runs out!"
Jae-Suk groaned as he jogged after him. "We're not soldiers, Tae-Ho!"
Jae-Hyun trailed behind, unbothered as always, one hand in his pocket.
They found a corner table near the windows, the kind that caught afternoon sunlight in thin gold lines. Tae-Ho dropped his tray with a satisfied grunt, steam rising from his soup.
"Gentlemen," he declared, "feast your eyes on the result of sheer determination and impeccable reflexes."
Jae-Suk peered into the bowl. "You literally elbowed someone out of the line."
"That's called competitive spirit."
Before Jae-Hyun could answer, a small commotion rippled across the cafeteria. Voices rose. A few trays clattered. Heads turned.
Jae-Suk frowned. "Uh… what's going on?"
At the center of the crowd, a girl from their class stood frozen, her tray tilted at a disastrous angle. Soup dripped off the edge and onto the shoes of a tall boy towering over her.
The boy's uniform was slightly unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up in that effortlessly rebellious way that somehow looked intentional. A basketball keychain dangled from his pocket, catching the light as he moved.
His name was Kang Min-Seok — a twelfth grader, the star of the school's basketball team, and a legend among underclassmen for his insane vertical jump and easy charm. With his striking looks and laid-back swagger, he wasn't just admired — he was idolized. Girls whispered his name in hallways, and even teachers gave him a little more leniency than they should've.
Coming from one of the wealthiest families in the district, Min-Seok carried himself like someone used to winning — both on the court and off it. Confidence seemed stitched into every movement, his grin sharp, the kind that made you unsure if he was about to shake your hand or start a fight.
And right now, he did not look charming.
The front of his white shirt was splashed with red soup.
"Do you—" he began, voice low and sharp, "—have any idea how much this cost?"
The girl blinked rapidly, panic warring with pride. "It was an accident! I said I was sorry—"
"'Sorry' doesn't clean this up."
She squared her shoulders despite the tremor in her hands. "Then what, you want me to lick it off or something?"
A few students gasped. Someone whispered, "She's dead."
Tae-Ho leaned forward, eyes sparkling. "Oh, this is good."
Jae-Suk hissed, "This is bad! She just talked back to Kang Min-Seok!"
Min-Seok's lips curled into a smirk that didn't reach his eyes. "You've got guts, I'll give you that."
He stepped closer, the tension coiling tighter. The cafeteria's buzz faded into an expectant silence.
Jae-Hyun sighed quietly, pushing his tray aside.
He stood.
Tae-Ho blinked. "Uh, where are you going?"
Jae-Hyun's tone was calm, almost bored. "To stop something stupid before it gets worse."
He walked straight into the center of the cafeteria. The crowd parted instinctively—something about his composure made space for him.
"Hey," Jae-Hyun said simply.
Min-Seok turned, irritation flickering. "Who are you?"
"Someone who thinks yelling over spilled soup is a waste of energy."
The words weren't loud, but they carried. The quiet confidence behind them made even the nearby seniors glance at each other.
Min-Seok scoffed. "You her boyfriend or something?"
"No," Jae-Hyun replied, tone as even as a flatline. "Just someone who doesn't like watching a guy twice her size pick a fight over laundry."
Laughter rippled through the students. Min-Seok's jaw flexed.
"Oh? Big talk for a first-year," he said, voice dripping with challenge. "You play basketball?"
Jae-Hyun shrugged. "Sometimes."
Min-Seok's grin sharpened. "Then how about we make this interesting? One-on-one. After school. You win, I'll forget this ever happened."
"And if you win?" Jae-Hyun asked, unflinching.
Min-Seok's eyes glinted. "Then your class—especially her—cleans the gym storage room for a week."
The girl's face paled. "What?! That's not fair—"
But Jae-Hyun only adjusted his collar slightly. "Fine."
A collective gasp rolled through the crowd.
"Fine?!" Tae-Ho whispered from the sidelines, looking half-proud and half-ready to pass out. "He just—he actually said fine!?"
Jae-Suk clutched his head. "We're going to die cleaning basketballs!"
Min-Seok smirked, satisfied. "Courtyard court. Four o'clock. Don't chicken out, freshman."