The school was nothing like the last one.
Here, the floors didn't creak. The walls were glass and polished steel. The uniforms looked like they cost more than rent. Everything smelled like order.
And judgment.
The kind of judgment money buys.
Not curiosity.
Not concern.
Just cold calculation.
Aara stepped through the front gate, shoulders squared, tie hanging loosely around her neck. The blazer was too stiff. The skirt too short. The emblem on her chest too shiny.
She didn't belong here.
And she didn't pretend to.
She could feel it immediately — eyes tracking her from lockers, from balconies, from the arching marble staircase in the center of the main hall.
The whispers started halfway to her homeroom.
"Who is that?"
"Is she one of the transfer cases?"
"Why's she walking like she owns the place?"
"Is that the girl from the fight video?"
She kept her eyes forward.
Let them look.
Let them recognize her.
Haru walked two steps behind her, sleeves rolled up, shirt untucked, the tie stuffed in his pocket like he dared the school to say something.
He didn't say a word.Just watched every face that turned toward her.
And when one guy reached out to tug at her skirt as she passed?
Haru grabbed his wrist and squeezed until the guy dropped to his knees.
No words.
Just eye contact.
Dead calm.
Class was theater.
The teacher introduced her — Aara Jin, "transfer student from Seoul," fluent in English and math, scored in the 95th percentile on national placement.
The students didn't care.
They were already scanning her for weakness.
For cracks in the mask.
And when she took her seat in the back row, she did it without looking at any of them.
Because she knew one thing they didn't:
You don't earn respect from people like this.You make them afraid to take it from you.
Lunchtime.
The cafeteria looked like a luxury lounge — all clean lines and spotless glass. Designer bags on every chair. AirPods in every ear.
She didn't eat.
Just stood with Haru by the far window, overlooking the back courtyard.
"They're too quiet," he said, scanning the room.
"They're calculating," she replied. "Waiting for me to make a move."
He smirked.
"So make one."
She didn't.
Not yet.
But someone else did.
A boy approached — tall, sharp smile, uniform perfect, hair swept back like he belonged in a perfume ad.
He stopped two feet from her and tilted his head.
"You're Ash, right?"
She said nothing.
"I've seen your footage. Very… messy."
Haru took one step forward, but Aara lifted her hand — subtle, stopping him.
The boy kept smiling.
"We don't do blood here," he said. "Not unless it's sponsored."
She raised a brow. "And you?"
He grinned. "Kwon Jaeyul. Student council president. Unofficial head of extracurricular enforcement."
"In English?"
"I run the fights."
There it was.
The first real card on the table.
"You want something," she said.
"I want you to know your place. You don't walk in here with street scraps and think you're a queen. We have rules."
She smiled slowly.
Cold. Sharp. Unshaken.
"I break rules before breakfast."
Jaeyul's smile didn't fade.
But it did tighten.
"Then I'll see you underground," he said, stepping back.
"And don't worry…"
His eyes flicked to Haru, then back to her.
"We welcome dates."
He turned and walked off.
No fear.
Just power.
But power that was about to learn what a real threat looked like.
Haru watched him go.
Then muttered, "I don't like him."
"I'm counting on that."
That night, back in the apartment, Haru was already running his fingers across Jaeyul's name on the file.
"He's smart," Haru said. "Cautious. Rich. Protected."
"So were the last ones," Aara replied, curling her bruised fingers around a mug of tea.
He looked up.
"I want to break him from the inside."
She met his eyes.
"Then we start with the thing he's proudest of."
Outside, the city pulsed like a living thing.
Somewhere beneath it, the underground arena Jaeyul ran was waiting.
But they weren't afraid.
Because this time?
They weren't entering someone else's war.
They were writing it.