Tuesday morning in Class 2-B started out suspiciously normal. The sun was streaming through the high windows, and the heavy atmosphere of the previous week's academic emergency seemed to have temporarily paused for a ceasefire.
It was homeroom period, but instead of reading off the daily administrative notices, Ms. Choi walked into the classroom carrying a bakery box. The chatter in the room instantly died down, replaced by a wave of curious whispers.
"Settle down, everyone," Ms. Choi said, placing the box on the podium and opening it to reveal a neatly frosted sweet potato cake topped with a cluster of lit candles. She cleared her throat, her strict expression softening just a fraction. "As you all know, today is a special day for one of our classmates. Lee Myung-dae, please come to the front."
In the back row, the Prince of Darkness stiffened. He slowly pulled his massive noise-canceling headphones down to his neck, staring at the glowing cake as if Ms. Choi had just unveiled a live grenade.
"Seonsaengnim, really, you don't have to—" Myung-dae muttered, his face turning an impressive shade of pink under his beanie.
"Come up, Myung-dae-ah! Don't be shy!" Kang Min-ah chirped from her desk, leading the class in a loud, clapping chorus of the birthday song.
With a deep, long-suffering sigh that came from the very bottom of his soul, Myung-dae slouched down the tier steps. He stood awkwardly in front of the podium, the candlelight reflecting off the crooked plaster still stuck to the bridge of his nose. Under the collective, adoring gaze of thirty classmates, he quickly blew out the candles in one sharp exhale.
"Thanks," he mumbled to the floorboards, shifting his weight.
"Aooo, look at him!" a girl in the second row squeaked, leaning over to her friend. "Myung-dae can actually be so cute sometimes when he's embarrassed!"
"He looks like a grumpy cat!" someone else giggled.
Myung-dae's jaw tightened, his eyes flashing with a warning that screamed 'I will remember this during ensemble practice.' He turned to walk back to his sanctuary in the back row, muttering, "Who dares call me—"
"HEY, MYUNG-DAE! YOU CRAZY BASTARD!"
The thunderous, heavily accented roar shattered the civilized classroom silence.
The exact phrase—"미친 새끼야!" (Michyeo saekkiya!)—echoed off the concrete walls like a sonic boom.
Ms. Choi's face instantly distorted. Her eyes widened, and her mouth twisted into a terrifying combination of confusion, utter shock, and sheer parental frustration. High school cultural coordinators did not tolerate raw street profanity during official school hours, let alone right over a birthday cake.
She whipped around, her clipboard raised like a weapon, her chest heaving as she prepared to unleash an administrative storm. "Who just said—! Which student dares use such vulgar—"
The retribution was faster, crazier, and infinitely more violent than anyone could have anticipated.
Before Myung-dae could even process the shout, a secondary, entirely separate, and heavily loaded bakery box crossed the atmospheric threshold of Class 2-B.
SPLAT.
A massive, multi-layered vanilla cream cake slammed directly into the center of Lee Myung-dae's face with a violent, satisfying squish. The impact was so perfectly centered that a thick shockwave of whipped cream and sponge cake launched outward, splattering the smart-board and Ms. Choi's podium.
The force of the pastry projectile knocked Myung-dae back a half-step. His signature black noise-canceling headphones slipped completely off his neck, hitting the polished linoleum floor with a sharp, plastic clack.
The classroom went dead, utterly silent. It was a vacuum of absolute shock.
Myung-dae stood frozen at the front of the room. Whipped cream dripped slowly from his eyebrows, down his nose, and coated the white plaster on his bridge. A single maraschino cherry was stuck precariously to the rim of his left ear.
Standing three feet away, his knees bent in a perfect, athletic follow-through and his hands completely covered in white frosting, was San.
And standing right beside him, holding her pink Samsung phone high in the air to record the entire historic event for Kirin's Secret, was Kang Min-ah. She was grinning from ear to ear, her eyes sparkling with the absolute, undiluted joy of a successful conspiracy.
San wiped a stray dollop of cream from his thumb, looking the dripping Prince of Darkness right in the eye.
"In Ukraine," San said, his deep voice carrying a terrifyingly calm, deadpan composure through the silent room, "we express our brotherly love through dessert-based projectiles. Happy birthday, neighbor."