The first lesson Lee Jinwoo learned at Seoyeon High wasn't calculus or chemistry; it was the physics of invisibility.
He wasn't ugly, nor was he particularly odd. He was just thin, average height, and quiet—a perfectly forgettable combination. This meant when he walked the halls, people saw straight through him, literally. Conversations continued right over his head. Doors slammed shut after the visible person ahead of him passed. He was a piece of the scenery, and he hated every minute of it.
His saving grace, if you could call it that, was that invisibility often meant safety. He wasn't a target, but merely a mild inconvenience used for favors.
"Oi, Jinwoo. Grab my bag."
It was Han Tae-seong, a mountain of muscle and the undisputed 'King' of the third-year halls—a title he'd earned by never losing a fight and maintaining a chilling, bored indifference that was more effective than any threat.
Jinwoo flinched, his heart doing its usual anxious triple-tap against his ribs. He didn't want to, but the raw, unblinking power in Tae-seong's eyes was a physical pressure. He swallowed, nodded, and picked up the heavy leather duffel bag that probably contained half a weight rack.
"Good dog," Tae-seong murmured, not even looking at him as he strolled away with his clique.
Jinwoo carried the bag, the burn in his shoulder muscles a familiar, constant reminder of his helplessness. He was a watcher in this school, observing every brutal exchange, every subtle shift in posture that indicated who was winning and who was losing the endless social war. He absorbed the details, storing them in a useless mental archive: Tae-seong always leads with his left shoulder slightly forward; he never blinks when he makes a demand.
The New Target
The routine of invisibility was shattered two weeks into the semester by Han Sora.
She was new—a transfer student from outside the city—and painfully visible. She had bright eyes, a slight smile that never quite faded, and a naïve willingness to help anyone. She stood out like a beacon of clean light in Seoyeon's dim hallways, and Jinwoo immediately knew she was going to be trouble.
The trouble found her behind the cafeteria after lunch.
The "mean girls" weren't always mean girls; sometimes they were just Tae-seong's hangers-on, a collection of students who loved the feeling of borrowed authority. Today, their ringleader, a girl named Choi, had Sora cornered against a brick wall.
"You really think you can just smile your way through Seoyeon, little transfer?" Choi sneered, pushing Sora's shoulder.
Sora's smile wavered, replaced by genuine fear. "I... I just wanted to return your notebook."
The scene was escalating quickly, and Jinwoo, hidden by a dumpster while he pretended to look for a lost key, felt a knot of familiar panic and self-loathing tighten in his gut. Do something, anything, you coward.
He froze, his feet anchored to the concrete. He saw the shift in Choi's expression—the point where verbal bullying tips into physical aggression.
Suddenly, a voice cut through the tension, clean and authoritative: "Cut the crap."
Kang Minjun, the school's star boxer, stepped into the alley. He was tall, athletic, and possessed a quiet confidence that was fundamentally different from Tae-seong's brute intimidation. Minjun didn't look like a thug; he looked like a champion.
"This isn't your business, Minjun," Choi spat.
"It is when you're cornering someone," he replied evenly. He didn't raise his voice, but the way he stood—shoulders square, feet apart, hands loose—demanded respect.
The situation exploded when one of Choi's muscle-bound friends, frustrated by Minjun's intervention, lunged forward with a wild, sloppy hook aimed at Minjun's head.
The Echo
Jinwoo didn't think; he just watched.
His anxiety, usually a paralyzing ice, suddenly became a scorching focus. Everything slowed down. He saw the bully's clumsy motion, the wasted energy, the huge opening in his guard.
Then, he saw Minjun's response.
It wasn't a thought or a guess; it was an echo in Jinwoo's mind. He saw the boxer's body fluidly shift, the weight settling perfectly on his rear leg, the almost imperceptible head movement that dodged the wild hook, and the crisp, beautiful counter-punch that landed precisely on the bully's solar plexus, forcing a gasping retreat. It was perfect mechanics.
I know how to do that, Jinwoo thought, a dizzying, terrifying certainty flooding his mind. I saw every fiber of his movement. I know the force angle.
The fight immediately descended into chaos. Minjun was defending himself, landing sharp, calculated blows. Sora shrieked and stumbled, falling right toward Jinwoo's hiding spot.
One of the retreating bullies, blinded by rage, saw Sora fall and swung his fist in a wide, desperate arc toward her defenseless head.
Jinwoo's mind screamed. He wasn't thinking about boxing form or Minjun's technique anymore; he was simply reacting. The memory, the Echo, was overwhelming. It wasn't just Minjun's counter-punch; it was a flash of Minjun's defensive block from the first exchange—quick, tight, and protective.
Jinwoo lunged out from behind the dumpster. His movement was clumsy, his footwork sloppy, but his right forearm snapped up in an identical, perfect angle to block the blow.
CRACK.
The impact jarred his entire body, sending a spike of blinding pain up his arm. But the punch, which should have crushed Sora, glanced harmlessly off his bone.
The bully, stunned by the unexpected block and the solid resistance, stared at Jinwoo. Minjun, who had just finished dropping the last guy, glanced over, his eyes wide with confusion. Sora was safe, staring at Jinwoo with utter astonishment.
Jinwoo pulled his arm back, his hand shaking. He didn't feel brave; he felt numb, terrified, and profoundly confused. His arm was throbbing, but his mind was clearer than it had ever been.
He hadn't learned how to block a punch. He had simply copied it.
As the bullies scattered, recognizing the fight was lost, Minjun rushed over. "Jinwoo? What the hell was that? You okay?"
Jinwoo stared at the pulsating blue bruise already forming on his forearm. He looked at Minjun, then at his own trembling, useless body.
"I... I don't know," Jinwoo whispered, the echo of the perfect block still vibrating in his bone. He didn't know, but for the first time, he felt something far more dangerous than fear: potential.