— Haru's POV
Aara didn't ask me to hurt them.
That's what made it worse.
She just sat there.
Quiet.Bleeding.Broken in the way only someone who's been stepped on too many times can be.
She didn't cry.
She never fucking cried.
So I would do it for her.
It started with Minji.
Of course it did.
Everyone else was just a pawn — she was the hand that moved the pieces.
I found her after school. Alone.
She always waited at the bus stop for her driver, scrolling through her phone, pretending to be loved by the world when in reality she was just good at dressing up her loneliness in lip gloss and lies.
I didn't approach her like a boy.
I approached her like a storm.
She looked up. Smiled.
"Haru," she said, like she owned my name.
"I didn't know you knew where the poor kids wait."
I didn't smile back.
Her grin faltered.
I took a step closer. She stepped back instinctively — good. She had better instincts than I thought.
"I know it was you," I said flatly.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't lie."
She tucked her phone into her purse. "Look, if this is about Aara—"
"It is," I said, interrupting. "It's always about her now."
Something flickered in her face.
Jealousy. Resentment. That ugly, green thing people hide behind lip liner.
"You think you're protecting her?" she snapped. "She's trash, Haru. She works at three jobs, wears the same uniform every week, and shows up to school with bruises."
"You say that like I didn't already know."
Minji blinked.
I stepped in closer.
So close her back hit the brick wall behind the bus stop.
"You think you're above her," I whispered. "But you're not even in her league."
I pulled something from my pocket — her phone history.
Screenshots. DMs. Her burner account logins. The gossip post. The camera data that matched her phone model to the blurred photo of Aara.
I handed her one of the printed pages.
Her face drained of color.
"I can ruin you," I said. "You know that, right?"
She tried to speak. I didn't let her.
"You think your daddy's money will protect you from me? Try me."
"Haru—"
"Shut. Up."
She went silent.
"I'm not going to touch you," I said, voice calm. "I don't need to."
"But if you even look at her again, speak her name, breathe in her direction…"
I leaned in, close enough for her to feel how still I was.
"I'll make sure you wake up in a house without windows."
I left her there shaking.
It wasn't enough.
Next: The Others.
The boy who printed the post. The girls who laughed when she fell. The one who filmed her outside the warehouse.
One by one.
I made them remember what fear tastes like.
No punches thrown. Just names whispered. Secrets exposed. Doors opened that should've stayed shut.
I'm the son of a man who controls people for a living.
I learned young.
By Monday morning, the school had changed.
Minji didn't come in.Two girls dropped out of the group chat.The boy who filmed Aara switched seats — to the back corner, far from her.
And Aara?
She walked in like she hadn't seen the shift yet.
But I did.
And I liked it.
She found me on the rooftop during lunch.
Angry.
Of course she was.
"You did something," she said.
I didn't answer.
"Minji deleted everything. No one's looking at me. No one's whispering."
Still, I stayed quiet.
She stepped closer. "What did you do?"
I finally looked at her.
"I gave them a reason to be afraid."
"You think that helps me?"
"Yes."
"It doesn't."
"Yes, it does."
She gritted her teeth.
"You think fixing things with threats makes it better?"
"No," I said. "But I like watching people bleed when they touch what's mine."
Her eyes widened.
There it was.
The silence.
Not the broken kind.
The dangerous kind.
"Don't say that," she said quietly.
"Say what?"
"That I'm yours."
"You don't believe it?"
"I don't want to."
I stepped forward.
She stepped back.
"I didn't ask you to fight for me, Haru."
"Then why didn't you stop me?"
She didn't answer.
Because she couldn't.
Because deep down — buried beneath pride, beneath pain — she wanted someone to finally stand the fuck up for her.
Even if it wasn't healthy.Even if it scared her.
She just never thought it would be me.
"You're messed up," she whispered.
"Maybe."
"And you're dangerous."
"Definitely."
"Then why don't I feel safe, but I don't want you to leave?"
My heart twisted.
I reached out, slowly, and touched her face — just like I had in the bathroom.
Her skin was warmer now. Her eyes wet but not crying.
"I don't want you to feel safe," I said. "I want you to feel seen."
She didn't pull away.
She didn't lean in.
We just stood there, a breath apart, with the wind cutting between us like a warning.
This wasn't love.
Not yet.
But it was real.
And that was enough to keep me here.