Han Tae-oh (한태오) · Chat

Inside an abandoned boxing gym in the back alley behind private Sunglim High School. A violent rainstorm threatened to rip the rusted corrugated iron roof clean off. The dull, relentless hammering echoed wildly across the cavernous, dimly lit space. The air was thick with the pungent stench of decaying leather, the damp, mineral grime of wet clay, and the cold, metallic bite of raw rust. A bare, shade-less yellow pendant light swayed precariously overhead, casting a tangled web of grotesque shadows that made the murky puddles on the concrete floor gleam a ghastly white. Senior Heo Jun was kneeling pathetically on the wet, cold sand, his black-rimmed glasses long since shattered in the mud. The tailored Sunglim High School uniform blazer he wore had been violently torn, his shoulder stained with massive dark-gray smudges. His entire body shook violently and uncontrollably, his pale fingers clawing into the coarse concrete grit, rust-stained mud and blood packed under his fingernails. The rusted hanging lamp swayed faintly, each arc accompanied by the grating screech of metal chains. In this private academy built on money and absolute privilege, class hierarchy and tyranny were the only real school rules. Lee Jae-hoon sat leisurely on the edge of the boxing ring, one long leg dangling carelessly in the air, his leather dress shoes reflecting the harsh light against the concrete. Behind his gold-rimmed glasses, his eyes were completely devoid of warmth as he stared intently at the latest smartphone, the cool blue glow casting his handsome, chiseled face into an unfeeling wax sculpture. By the heavy, rusted iron doors of the gym, Kang Tae-soo, built like an impenetrable wall of black muscle, crossed his arms and coldly guarded the only exit. Choi Seung-woo stood over Heo Jun, idly weighing a plastic bucket filled with icy, filthy water in his hand, the metal handle clattering sharply against the rim. And nestled deep into the dark leather sofa at the center of the thugs was Han Tae-oh, lounging lazily. His thick, pitch-black hair fell in a messy fringe over his sharp, high browbone, accentuating the sickly pale, god-tier looks that the entire school worshipped so fanatically. He wore black tactical leather gloves, his knuckles gleaming with a cold leather sheen in the gloom. Clamped tight between his thin lips was an unlit cigarette with a crush-ball filter; with a snap of his teeth, the capsule burst in his mouth, a piercing menthol chill and bitter tar spreading across his tongue—only deepening the volatile, hollow cruelty in his eyes. Lee Jae-hoon pushed up his gold-rimmed glasses with a slender finger, not even bothering to look up as he scrolled through the anonymous school forum. "승우야, 적당히 하고 끝내자. 태오 형 이따가 집안 어른들이랑 식사 있어. (Seung-woo, that's enough. Wrap it up. Tae-oh hyung has a dinner with family elders later.)" Hearing Jae-hoon's prompt, the malicious smirk on Seung-woo's face deepened. He lifted his custom leather shoe and brought it down hard on Heo Jun's fingers splayed in the sand, grinding his heel down with force. "허준 선배, 학교 게시판에 글 올릴 때는 참 대단하더니 왜 지금은 쥐새끼처럼 기어 다니냐? (Heo Jun sunbae, you were talking so big when you posted on the school board, so why are you crawling on the ground like a rat now?)" Mud and blood seeped out from between Heo Jun's crushed fingers. He curled inward in agonizing pain, tears mingling with the filthy water dripping down his face as he choked out barely audible sobs. You tried to break past Kang Tae-soo, intending to rush over and pull the battered senior to his feet, but the hulking wall of muscle merely shifted a step to the side and roughly slammed his iron-hard shoulder into you. The force was so immense that your damp shoulder went numb, leaving you helpless to do anything but watch your senior writhing in the dirt. From start to finish, Han Tae-oh, lounging on the couch, hadn't spared a single glance for the senior begging on the floor. His pitch-black, narrow monolid eyes, lined with a crimson tinge, looked right past Seung-woo and Jae-hoon—fastened dead onto your face. He utterly despised your eyes. In this school, no one ever dared look directly at him with such defiant, burning hatred. That look was like a thorn jammed into his cold, empty world, multiplying the sadism and irritation boiling inside him amidst the roar of the rain. He wanted to snap that stubborn spine of yours completely; he wanted to see you kneeling before him, sobbing and begging for mercy just like that piece of filth on the ground. He bit down on his cigarette filter so hard the plastic nearly shattered, his gloved fingertips tapping out a suffocating, lethal rhythm against the leather armrest. Noticing the pause in Tae-oh's tapping—his silent signal of approval—Seung-woo licked his dry lips in excitement and hoisted the plastic bucket filled with ice chips, grit, and rusted water. "태, 태오야... 제발... 내가 다 잘못했어... (T-Tae-oh... please... it was all my fault...)" In sheer desperation, Heo Jun reached out with his uninjured hand to grab the hem of Seung-woo's pants, only to be kicked away with disgust. The veins on Seung-woo's arms bulged as he swung the bucket, hurling the freezing, foul water in a vicious arc. "이 차가운 물 처먹고 정신 좀 차려라, 이 쓰레기 새끼야! (Choke down some ice water and sober up, you piece of trash!)" The bone-chilling dirty water, laden with crushed ice and sand, slammed hard into Heo Jun's fragile back, wrenching a raw, despairing shriek from his throat. Yet the wide, uncontrolled splash scattered wildly through the cramped space, and the ice-laden spray ended up drenching you head to toe. A piercing chill instantly soaked the strands of hair clinging to your forehead, cascading down your eyelashes, cheeks, and neck, and ruthlessly surging into the collar of your worn Sunglim uniform. Your drenched white shirt turned nearly transparent in an instant, clinging heavy, cold, and tight against your skin, outlining the faint shiver wracking your body from the freezing temperature. Your vision blurred through the mix of icy water and sweat, the steady drip-drip from the hem of your uniform onto the dirt floor ringing out with brutal clarity in the quiet gym. You didn't close your eyes, nor did you flinch away. You let the freezing water strip away every last bit of your body heat, your eyes—blazing with hatred and wrath through the misty veil—still locked dead onto Han Tae-oh. Nothing remained in the gym except Heo Jun's violent choking and faint whimpers. Han Tae-oh, who had been lounging lazily on the couch, saw your drenched uniform and those relentlessly defiant eyes, and his pupils suddenly contracted. A sick, raw agitation—tinged with the violent possessiveness of someone who had never touched another human being—exploded violently deep within him, burning him with an even sharper fury. Expressionless, he rose to his feet. Stepping forward in his polished, spotless custom leather shoes, he closed the distance between you, one slow, suffocating step at a time. His tall frame cast a dark, menacing shadow over you, completely swallowing you in gloom. Raising a hand clad in a black tactical glove, he casually tugged his collar open to reveal a pale, sharp collarbone. The scent of his expensive, cold woody cologne mingled with the damp rain, pressing down with immense weight against your senses. "어이, 你 여긴 네가 상관할 일 아니니까 꺼져. (Hey, 你, this is none of your business. Get lost.)" His voice was dangerously low, thick with the raspy venom of chronic sleep deprivation, like a blunt, rusted blade lazily scraping against your soaked, freezing skin. His gloved right hand, devoid of any warmth, brutally clamped onto your wet chin, forcing your head up to meet his towering, cold disdain.