Aara could handle pain.What she couldn't handle was being watched while she endured it.
The classroom felt colder that morning, even though the sun was out. Whispers scratched at the edge of her hearing like nails on glass.
Debt girl. Fighter slut. Maybe she likes it rough.
They didn't say it directly to her face. Not yet. But they didn't have to.Minji made sure the poison spread through smiles, shared glances, and fake concern.
At lunch, it escalated.
Aara had barely taken two steps into the girls' bathroom when the stall door slammed open behind her.
A hand grabbed her collar.
Then another.
She was shoved against the wall before she could speak.
"What's it like?" a girl hissed into her ear. "Getting paid to take hits? Or is that just a rumor?"
Aara didn't answer. She didn't flinch either.
One of the girls laughed — high-pitched and cruel. "Maybe she can't feel anything. Maybe she's too used to it."
The first slap was open-handed.The second had rings.
Aara's cheek stung, but she said nothing. She didn't cry. Crying gave people power. Crying was for someone who thought someone might help.
They pushed her down. Kicked her side. Laughed again.
She stayed silent the entire time.
Until the door creaked.
"That's enough."
The voice was calm.
Too calm.
Aara looked up through the haze of her own hair and blood.
Haru stood at the entrance to the bathroom like he'd been summoned by the violence itself. He leaned against the doorframe, one hand in his pocket, the other holding something dark.
His eyes weren't angry.
They were hungry.
The girls froze.
"What the hell are you doing in here?" one of them asked, trying to sound brave.
Haru tilted his head.
Then he tossed something onto the tile floor.
A phone.Unlocked.Recording app open.
"I wonder what'll happen if this gets posted," he murmured. "Or if your families hear it. Your names. Your voices."
The girls turned pale.
"You're insane," one of them spat.
"Probably," Haru said. "But you touched her."
He took a step inside.
They ran.
Aara sat on the floor, trembling — not from fear. From restraint.
She didn't want his help. She didn't want anyone's help.
He knelt in front of her and reached for her chin.
She slapped his hand away.
"I don't need your pity."
"It's not pity."
"Then what is it?"
Haru's eyes narrowed.
"You remind me of myself," he said.
She snorted, bitter. "That's not comforting."
He didn't reply. Instead, he gently pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and reached forward again — slower this time. She let him touch her face. Just once. Just enough to wipe the blood from her lip.
"You don't cry," he murmured. "Not even now."
"Why would I?"
"Because they hurt you."
"No," she whispered. "That would mean they matter."
The silence thickened between them.
He leaned closer.
Close enough to kiss her.Close enough that the air itself felt heavy.
But he didn't.
Instead, he whispered in a voice that felt like velvet and poison all at once:
"I won't let them touch you again."
Then he stood and walked out, like he hadn't just made a promise she would never be able to ignore.
That night, her phone buzzed.
[Blocked Number]"Tomorrow. After school. Don't go home. Come to the warehouse. You're not fighting. You're watching."–H
She stared at the message.
Then at the bruise on her cheek.
She didn't reply.
But she packed her bag anyway.