The word was written in permanent marker.
FATHERLESS.
Kang Tae-jun stood in front of his locker and stared at it.
The letters were thick, uneven, pressed hard enough to scratch into the metal beneath the ink. Someone had tried to smear it before it dried, so the black streaked downward like melting tar.
Underneath it, smaller handwriting:
Know your place.
The hallway was loud—morning chatter, footsteps, lockers slamming—but around him, there was a pocket of space. Not physical space. Social space.
A circle.
A waiting.
He didn't have to turn around to know they were watching.
"Morning, Tae-jun," someone called lazily from behind him. "Looking for your dad in there?"
Laughter.
Not explosive. Not chaotic.
Controlled.
The kind of laughter meant to last.
Tae-jun slid his key into the locker without responding.
The metal door creaked open.
Inside, his textbooks were shoved to the bottom. His lunch container lay on its side. Soy sauce had leaked into his math notebook, staining pages dark brown.
His fingers paused for half a second.
Then continued.
Behind him, a phone camera lifted.
"Zoom in," another boy muttered. "He's doing that thing again."
"What thing?"
"The quiet thing. Like he's above it."
More laughter.
Tae-jun wiped the inside of his locker with tissues from his bag.
His ears were ringing.
He focused on the small movements—folding the tissue, stacking his books, adjusting his pen case.
If you reacted, they won.
If you protested, they escalated.
If you ignored them, sometimes they got bored.
Sometimes.
A teacher walked past.
She slowed down when she saw the writing on the locker.
Her eyes moved from the word.
To Tae-jun.
To the group behind him.
There was a pause.
A choice.
"Clean it up before class starts," she said calmly. "And don't block the hallway."
She walked away.
No questions.
No warning.
No discipline.
Just instruction.
The boys behind him chuckled softly.
"See?" one of them said. "Even teachers know."
Tae-jun finished wiping the locker.
The word faded, but not completely.
The scratch marks remained.
It didn't stop in class.
When attendance was called, his surname always drew a slight pause.
"Kang… Tae-jun."
Just long enough.
Just noticeable enough.
Whispers followed.
"Maybe Kang isn't even his real surname."
"Maybe his mom made it up."
He kept his eyes on his notebook.
The boy sitting behind him flicked the back of his ear with a pen.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Tae-jun didn't turn around.
At lunch, it escalated.
He stood in line quietly, tray in hand. He could feel it before it happened—the subtle shift in energy behind him.
A hand nudged the back of his knee just as he stepped forward.
His balance tilted.
Not enough to fall completely.
Just enough.
His tray jerked sideways.
Rice spilled across the floor.
Soup splashed against his sleeve.
The cafeteria went quiet for a heartbeat.
Then came the laughter.
Low.
Spreading.
A ripple of amusement.
"Careful," someone said loudly. "Gravity hits fatherless kids harder."
Phones appeared again.
Always phones.
Tae-jun crouched to pick up the tray.
His hands trembled, but he controlled them.
He could already feel his phone buzzing in his pocket.
Notifications.
Group chat.
He didn't check.
He didn't need to.
He already knew the caption would say something like:
Even his balance left him like his dad did.
When he finally sat down—alone, as usual—the laughter continued in bursts from across the room.
He ate anyway.
Even though his appetite had disappeared years ago.
After school, it followed him home.
He lived in a small apartment above a closed-down pharmacy.
The stairwell smelled faintly of mold.
His mother wouldn't be back until late.
She worked two jobs.
He didn't complain.
He had learned early that asking questions about his father tightened something in her chest.
So he stopped asking.
He opened his phone.
The video was already trending in the school's unofficial social page.
His stumble replayed in slow motion.
Zoomed in.
Edited with dramatic music.
Comments flooded beneath it.
He thought he could confess today lol.
Who gave him confidence?
Someone tell him bloodlines matter.
Bloodlines.
He locked the screen.
But the words stayed.
Bloodlines.
That was always the center of it.
Not just that he didn't have a father.
But that he didn't have a lineage.
No backing.
No surname that carried weight.
No invisible shield.
He was alone in a system that valued inheritance.
And everyone knew it.
There had been one exception.
One person who didn't laugh.
Didn't whisper.
Didn't look at him like he was an anomaly.
Her name was Yura.
She wasn't kind.
She wasn't warm.
She simply… didn't join in.
Once, when someone had bumped into him intentionally in the hallway, she had said, "Grow up."
Not to him.
To them.
It wasn't dramatic.
But it was enough.
For someone drowning, neutrality feels like rescue.
He misunderstood that.
He built something in his head.
Hope.
It was fragile.
But it was there.
And that was his mistake.
He planned the confession carefully.
Wait until classes ended.
Keep it simple.
No crowd.
No spectacle.
He bought a bracelet.
Not expensive.
Just something small.
He rehearsed for three nights.
"You don't have to answer right away."
"If you're uncomfortable, I understand."
"I just wanted to be honest."
He told himself rejection was survivable.
He had survived worse.
He didn't plan for her friends to be there.
He didn't plan for someone to shout, "Say it louder!"
He didn't plan for phones to rise in unison.
He didn't plan for her smile to look entertained.
"Kang Tae-jun," she said, tilting her head slightly. "Are you serious?"
Laughter burst behind her.
He felt heat crawl up his neck.
"I… I just wanted to—"
"You?" she repeated louder. "Confessing to me?"
Someone behind him clapped slowly.
Another voice: "This is content."
His ears started ringing.
Yura stepped closer.
He thought—stupidly—that she might tell them to stop.
Instead, she leaned forward just enough for her voice to carry.
"Do you actually think this is realistic?"
Her friends giggled.
"You're not even in my league."
The words weren't shouted.
They were measured.
Clear.
Designed to cut.
"I don't mean to be harsh," she continued, though her smile suggested otherwise, "but you should know your place."
The phrase hit harder than he expected.
Know your place.
The same words under his locker that morning.
Coincidence.
Or design.
Someone behind him added loudly, "Tell him about his dad."
The crowd quieted slightly.
Yura's eyes flickered.
Just for a second.
Then she smiled again.
"Look," she said sweetly, "you don't even know who your father is. What makes you think someone like me would choose someone like you?"
It was subtle.
But intentional.
That was when something inside him fractured.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just a quiet internal crack.
His vision blurred at the edges.
He became hyper-aware of everything.
The angle of the phones.
The way someone zoomed in on his face.
The tremor in his jaw.
The way his throat refused to open.
He wanted to speak.
To say something dignified.
Something controlled.
But his body betrayed him.
A tear slipped before he could stop it.
That was the moment the laughter exploded.
Not because of the rejection.
But because of the tear.
"Is he crying?"
"Oh my god, zoom in."
"This is gold."
He bent down instinctively, pretending to adjust his shoe, just to hide his face.
The bracelet slipped from his hand and hit the ground.
No one picked it up.
Yura didn't either.
She stepped back.
"Don't do this again," she said softly.
Then she turned.
And the crowd dispersed.
Still laughing.
Still filming.
Still uploading.
He stayed there for a full minute after everyone left.
The courtyard felt bigger.
Colder.
Emptier.
He picked up the bracelet.
The metal had bent slightly.
The rooftop door wasn't locked.
It rarely was.
He didn't think.
He just walked.
Up the stairs.
One step at a time.
Each echo of his footsteps sounded louder than usual.
The sky above was gray.
The wind sharp.
He approached the edge slowly.
His hands gripped the railing.
The city stretched beneath him.
Cars moving.
People living.
No one knowing.
No one caring.
His phone buzzed again.
More notifications.
He didn't check.
He didn't need to.
His chest felt hollow.
Not broken.
Not explosive.
Just… empty.
Like something had finally worn down to nothing.
He climbed onto the ledge.
The wind pressed against his back.
Almost gently.
As if encouraging.
"Don't."
The voice cut through everything.
Clear.
Steady.
He froze.
Turned.
A girl stood near the stairwell entrance.
He had never seen her before.
Her eyes weren't panicked.
They weren't soft either.
They were calculating.
"You can't," she said calmly.
He let out a hollow laugh.
"Why not?"
She stepped closer.
"Because dying now means they win."
He stared at her.
"They already did."
"No," she replied. "They humiliated you. That's different."
He swallowed.
His throat burned.
"You think this is about her?" she continued. "It's not. It's about hierarchy. Power. Perception. You don't lack value. You lack leverage."
Her words felt cold.
Precise.
Unemotional.
And yet—
They cut through the fog.
"You're letting them define you," she said. "You're letting them decide your worth. If you jump, you confirm their narrative."
The wind howled.
His grip tightened.
"They'll forget me tomorrow."
"Exactly," she said. "Unless you become unforgettable."
Silence.
The city below felt smaller suddenly.
"You don't need to be strong," she continued. "You need to be strategic."
Something shifted inside him.
Not hope.
Not warmth.
Something sharper.
Clearer.
"What if I can't?" he whispered.
She met his eyes.
"Then learn."
A long pause.
Then—
"You're not angry enough yet," she added.
He frowned.
"You're hurt. That fades. Anger becomes fuel. Decide what you want. Revenge? Control? Power? Or just peace?"
He stepped down slowly from the ledge.
His legs trembled.
Not from fear.
From adrenaline.
"I don't want them to win," he said quietly.
"Then don't die."
She turned toward the stairs.
"And when you rise," she said without looking back, "don't rise emotionally. Rise strategically."
The door closed behind her.
He stood alone again.
But the emptiness felt different now.
Not hollow.
Focused.
His phone buzzed once more.
He pulled it out this time.
The humiliation video had already crossed a thousand shares.
His face frozen mid-break.
Mid-tear.
He stared at it.
For a long time.
Then he wiped his face.
And for the first time that day—
He smiled.
Not softly.
Not warmly.
But with clarity.
"They laughed today," he whispered to himself.
"But one day…"
His grip tightened around the phone.
"They'll need my permission to laugh."
The wind carried the words into the gray sky.
And somewhere deep inside Kang Tae-jun—
Something cold was born.