The school felt too small for him.
Not physically—Daeyun Municipal High was an ordinary concrete block with scuffed floors and windows that never quite closed right—but emotionally. The halls pressed in with noise and bodies and rules that pretended to apply evenly.
Tae-Yang walked with his hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed, gaze forward. He kept his pace measured. Not fast enough to look eager. Not slow enough to invite trouble.
The bell had just rung. Lockers slammed shut in uneven rhythm. Somewhere down the hall, a group laughed too loudly—sharp, practiced laughter, the kind meant to be heard.
He clocked it instantly.
Three boys. One cornered. Near the stairwell. Tae-Yang didn't sigh. Didn't tense.
He adjusted course as if it was coincidence.
The weaker student—first year, maybe—had his back against the wall, backpack clutched to his chest like a shield. His uniform was rumpled, his tie crooked, his eyes darting. One of the older boys flicked his forehead lightly, again and again, not hard enough to leave a mark. "C'mon." The boy said, grinning. "Say it louder."
"I—I already said sorry."
The second bully snorted. "Sorry for what?"
The third one stepped closer, crowding the space. "For being annoying." Tae-Yang stopped three steps away. "Move." The word was calm. Flat.
All three turned.
The first bully scoffed. "What, you're his lawyer?" Tae-Yang looked at their stances automatically. Weight distribution. Distance. Who'd move first? Who'd hesitate?
The one on the left favored his right leg. Old injury.
The loud one leaned forward when he talked. Overconfident. The third—quiet eyes, clenched jaw—would escalate if challenged directly.
"Go to class." Tae-Yang said, eyes never leaving them. "All of you." The loud one laughed. "Or what?" Tae-Yang didn't answer.
He stepped forward. Everything happened fast—but not messy.
He caught the first shove, redirected it, twisted just enough to off-balance the bully and guide him into the lockers. Metal rang out. Not a slam—controlled. The second boy swung wildly, panic leaking into his motion. Tae-Yang ducked under it and drove a short punch into the solar plexus.
Air left the boy in a sharp gasp as he folded. The third tried to grab him from behind. Bad choice.
Tae-Yang shifted his weight and hooked an elbow back—not hard, just precise. The boy stumbled, hit the wall, and stayed there, stunned.
No one hit the floor bleeding.
No one screamed.
It was over in seconds.
Tae-Yang stepped back, hands already lowering. "Pick up your bag." He said to the first-year. The kid stared at him, wide-eyed, then scrambled to obey, bowing repeatedly as he fled down the hall. Silence hung heavy. Then—
"What do you think you're doing?"
A teacher's voice cut through the space, sharp with authority. Tae-Yang turned.
Mr. Han stood a few meters away, arms crossed, expression tight. His gaze swept over the scene: three older students straightening themselves, bruised pride hidden behind scowls—and Tae-Yang, calm, composed, untouched. "Fighting in the hallway." The teacher continued. "Again."
Again.
The word stuck. "They started it." One of the bullies muttered quickly. Mr. Han's eyes flicked to him, then back to Tae-Yang. "And you finished it." Tae-Yang held the man's gaze. He didn't argue. Didn't explain.
"Yes, sir."
"Detention." Mr. Han said immediately. "After school." The bullies exchanged relieved looks. Tae-Yang nodded once. "Understood." "Next time," The teacher added, tone cold, "walk away."
Tae-Yang bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment.
As the teacher left, the bullies followed, throwing him glances that were equal parts resentment and caution. The hallway noise crept back in.
Tae-Yang stood alone for a moment.
His hands shook. Just a little. He curled his fingers slowly, nails biting into his palms until the tremor stopped.
Don't escalate.
Don't lose control.
Don't give them a reason.
He went to class. The headache hit halfway through the second period. It started as pressure behind his eyes, like someone tightening a band around his skull. The fluorescent lights buzzed louder than they should have. Chalk scraping across the board made his jaw clench.
His heart beat harder, faster—each thump echoing in his ears.
Breathe.
He pressed his thumb into the desk, grounding himself. He imagined the pressure sinking inward, compressing instead of exploding outward.
Restraint was a choice. He made it. By the time the bell rang, the pain had dulled to a low throb, lingering like a warning. Tae-Yang stood, shoulders squared, expression blank. No one noticed.
That was the point.