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Chapter Text

“And finally, let’s all applaud Zhang Hao, who scored 100% once again.”

Zhang Hao stood with practiced grace, a modest (but smug) smile on his face as his classmates gave the world’s most unenthusiastic applause. He sauntered up to the front of the classroom, retrieving his test like he was accepting an Oscar. That bright red “100/100” at the top? Pure poetry.

Another day, another perfect score. Not that he’d say that out loud—he wasn’t arrogant, just… confidently humble.

He’d always been a prodigy. At age six, he’d skipped straight to second grade, and by seven, he was the only kid in school who could pronounce "photosynthesis" without tripping over it. He fell in love with the violin after overhearing a melody drifting from the music room, and ten years later, he was basically the Paganini of Seoul.

He was the school’s heartthrob: charming, talented, unattainable. Girls adored him. He adored his violin. It was a complicated love triangle—with himself.

And that’s the story of my life.
He’d say that with a dramatic shrug anytime someone asked.

As he returned to his seat, the room bubbled with chatter. Lunch break was only minutes away, and people were already packing up.

“Show off,” Ricky muttered, slinging his bag over his shoulder with theatrical disapproval. “You walked up there like she was handing you the Nobel Peace Prize.”

“Shut up, Quanrui. You’re just salty because you bombed the test after refusing to study with me,” Zhang Hao said, sticking out his tongue.

Ricky mirrored the action and rolled his eyes just as the bell rang.

They’d been inseparable since seventh grade. Ricky, or Quanrui as Hao often called him, came from a wealthy Chinese family and was expected to inherit a skyscraper or two by the time he turned twenty. But back when he first moved to Seoul, he’d been all stiff shoulders and guarded stares. Zhang Hao, being the only other Chinese kid in the neighborhood, took him under his wing—and never let go.

“I’m not mad,” Ricky said as they walked into the hallway, “I just happen to value karaoke over grades. It’s called balance.”

“Balance? Bro, your brain’s a rock.”

Ricky gave him a half-hearted smack on the shoulder, just as a third voice screamed from behind.

“ZHANG HAO! SHEN RICKY!”

A wild Gunwook appeared, launching himself at them with octopus-like enthusiasm. He draped an arm around each of their necks, nearly toppling all three of them.

“Gunwook! My spine!” Ricky wheezed.

Zhang Hao met Gunwook in middle school, back when the guy was shorter, sweeter, and easier to carry. Fast-forward a few years and now he was 183 cm of pure gym membership. Despite his intimidating frame, he was the softest person Zhang Hao knew.

A golden retriever trapped in a bodybuilder’s body.

“I have an announcement!” Gunwook said, dramatically blocking their path like a human traffic light. “I met someone—”

“You got a girlfriend?” Zhang Hao gasped, clutching his chest.

“What? No! I didn’t even—”

“BOYFRIEND?!” Ricky shouted, already grabbing Zhang Hao for emotional support.

“NO. Shut up!” Gunwook hissed, eyes wide as passing students glanced over. “Could you be any louder?”

“Sorry,” Zhang Hao said with mock solemnity. “We’ve just been... traumatized by the last girl you told us about.”

“And I really thought this was your coming out moment,” Ricky added casually.

Gunwook gave him the side-eye of doom.

“Anyway,” he continued, dramatically pausing, “a little birdie told me we’re getting transfer students from YITSA.”

Youth in the Shade Academy. Seoul’s finest, bougiest, most cutthroat private school. The students there were basically engineered in labs.

“Why would they transfer here?” Ricky frowned. “They already won the school lottery.”

“Maybe for the same reason you transferred—dumbass—OW!” Gunwook yelped after a slap to the back of the head.

“Say it again,” Ricky warned. Gunwook raised his hands in surrender.

“They’re smart. Like, scarily smart,” Gunwook said, turning to Zhang Hao. “Like, could-possibly-dethrone-you smart.”

Zhang Hao gasped dramatically. “So I’ve lost your faith. I see.”

“What? No! Ricky, back me up!”

“I’m Switzerland in this,” Ricky said with a shrug.

Zhang Hao giggled. Gunwook groaned. The usual.

When they reached the cafeteria, they plopped down at their usual table.

“So they’re prodigies?” Zhang Hao asked.

“Yes!” Gunwook said between bites—he’d already stolen half of Gyuvin’s nuggets when Gyuvin and Yujin joined them.

“Are they that smart?” Zhang Hao asked again.

“They’re prodigies and hot,” Gyuvin said matter-of-factly, sitting down. “Like, I’m scared.”

Everyone stared at him.

“What? Am I not allowed to call a man hot as fuck?” Gyuvin held his hands up, mock offended.

“It’s just weird coming from you,” Ricky said, shivering like someone just walked over his grave.

“What?! Why am I always the weird one?!” Gyuvin cried.

The topic jumped quickly—like it always did—bouncing from hot transfer students to Gunwook’s biceps to who would die first in a zombie apocalypse.

“I’m smart too, y’know!” Ricky argued, after being named “Least Likely to Survive.”

“Sure,” Gyuvin said, “if the zombies were allergic to karaoke.”

“Say that again and I’ll feed you to them!”

“Joke’s on you—I’d be delicious,” Gyuvin grinned.

The table erupted in laughter. Again.

“Don’t cry when I die and you have no one to cuddle with,” Ricky added, half-seriously.

The table went silent. Everyone looked at him. Then Gyuvin.

“You guys… cuddle?” Yujin blinked.

Ricky blinked. “Oh shit.”

“Only one time!” Gyuvin said frantically. “Also—it was his idea!”

“You literally baby your dog like she’s a newborn! Don’t turn on me now!”

“She’s my daughter! You’re… you’re just Ricky!”

More laughter. The kind that leaves your ribs sore.

Later, as they said their goodbyes, Ricky dragged Zhang Hao out of the cafeteria mid-nugget.

“We don’t have class togeth—”

“MOVE!”

Zhang Hao followed with a sigh, looking back at the group fondly.

A few hours later, Zhang Hao stood in the center of his bedroom. Violin tucked neatly under his chin, he closed his eyes and played. The world faded. No homework. No gossip. Just the strings singing back to him.

“Zhang Hao! Come down! Your food’s getting cold!” his mom yelled.

Peace: shattered.

“Coming!”

Dinner was the usual chaos. His older sister, Zhang Li, was already scowling at him when he sat down.

“What were you doing up there? Jerking off to Bach?”

“I was practicing!”

“Sure, ‘practicing.’”

“Can we please have a peaceful dinner?” Mr. Zhang muttered, massaging his temples.

They looked like siblings. Fought like rivals. Argued like lawyers.

“How was school?” Mrs. Zhang asked, ever the peacemaker.

“Flawless as always,” Zhang Hao said with a sip of water.

“I didn’t flunk history,” Zhang Li added proudly.

“Proud of both of you,” Mrs. Zhang smiled.

Then came the dish war. Zhang Li tried to take his plate before he was done.

“Hey! I’m not finished!”

“Well maybe be faster!”

“You’re just mad I’m the favorite!”

“Mom said there’s no favorite!”

“SHUT UP!” their mom screamed from the kitchen.

Silence.

“You started it.”

“You escalated it.”

Zhang Hao eventually escaped back to his room. His phone buzzed. Gyuvin.

“Hello?”

“Hyung…” Gyuvin whimpered.

Zhang Hao froze. “What happened?”

“I got food poisoning… can you take care of Eumppappa tomorrow?”

Zhang Hao physically cringed. Last time, that dog nearly killed him with a leash-wrapped ankle and a lust for chaos.

“I thought you hired a new dogsitter?”

“Please. You’re the only reliable one.”

Zhang Hao sighed. “Fine. Just rest, okay?”

“Thank you, Hao-hyung!”

He hung up. Zhang Hao stared at the ceiling.

Great. Back into the warzone.

All because he had a soft spot for weird friends and feral dogs.

Chapter Text

Zhang Hao woke up the next morning to the sound of his alarm blaring and the faint scent of toast wafting from downstairs. He blinked at the ceiling for a moment, letting his mind catch up. The morning sun poured through his curtains. Another day to be great.

He sat up, stretched, and glanced at his phone. A message from Ricky.

“Don’t be late, you narcissist. Apparently the rich kids are arriving today.”

Zhang Hao rolled his eyes. Right. The transfers from YITSA. He wasn’t worried — they’d probably show up in perfectly ironed uniforms and act like they owned the place. He’d seen the type before. 

He’d beaten the type before.

After washing up and tossing on his uniform, Zhang Hao trudged downstairs, drawn by the smell of toast and the familiar scent of judgment in the air.

“You look grumpy. As usual,” Zhang Li said, not bothering to look up from her cereal.

“You look like a ‘before’ transformation photo. As usual,” Zhang Hao shot back, snatching a slice of toast.

She shrugged. “Still prettier than your personality.”

“Yeah, well, at least my face doesn’t glitch in mirrors.”

“If I hear one more insult before the clock hits 8:00, you’re both walking to school.” their moms voice warned from the kitchen.

Zhang Hao and Zhang Li exchanged a look.

A temporary truce was formed.

For now.

By the time Zhang Hao slipped through the school gates, the buzz was impossible to ignore. It wasn’t just chatter—it was aura. Something electric and unspoken had settled over the halls, the kind of energy that only descended when something big was happening. Even surprise fire drills didn’t stir people like this.

He passed a group of second-years huddled near the vending machines, trying to look casual while blatantly whispering.

“…one of them was on TV once…”

“…heard he won an award for, like, quantum something…”

“…his hair is unreal—like anime-level…”

Zhang Hao adjusted his bag strap, expression unreadable. His face was calm. Serene. The face of someone deeply above it all.

Internally? He was intrigued.

He turned the corner near the front office and—there they were.

Well. He was.

Only one of the transfers was visible at the moment. The others must have been sucked into a staff meeting or a locker orientation ceremony or whatever it was elite schools did. But the boy standing by the office desk? Yeah. That was a capital-M Main Character if Zhang Hao had ever seen one.

The guy looked like he had a skincare routine blessed by ancient forest spirits. His uniform blazer sat perfectly on his shoulders, no wrinkles, no crooked seams, not even a rebellious collar curl. And he was just… standing there. Smiling at a teacher. Calm, poised, like a Disney prince waiting for his musical number to kick in.

Zhang Hao narrowed his eyes as he tried to read the student’s name tag.

Han… something.

He couldn’t quite gauge the second part of his name.

He walked a little slower, watching the way the new student nodded politely at something the teacher said. His movements were relaxed, deliberate. No fidgeting. No eyeing his surroundings nervously. Like he belonged here already.

Interesting.

Zhang Hao didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. He just walked by, expression unreadable, and filed it all away in his mind palace, Sherlock-style. He’d get the details later. Names, grades, mysterious extracurriculars. He always did.

It was only when he reached his classroom that he realized he hadn’t seen Gunwook or Ricky yet.

This was odd. Gunwook was always early—claiming it helped him “mentally prepare” for the rigors of modern education (by which he meant sleeping with his head on his desk for fifteen minutes). And Ricky usually timed his entrance with the first bell, dramatic and effortless like a K-drama CEO.

Just as Zhang Hao sat down, his phone buzzed. Another message from Ricky.

“One of the transfer students just talked to us. You’re not ready.”

He barely had time to respond before the door burst open and Gunwook crashed inside.

His eyes were wild. His backpack was unzipped. He looked like he’d sprinted through a hedge.

“I met an angel,” he wheezed, collapsing into the seat in front of Zhang Hao. “I met—he—his voice. Hyung. His voice.”

Zhang Hao blinked.

Gunwook, usually known for being the emotionally bulletproof himbo of the group, looked like he’d just come back from war. Or worse—love at first sight.

Ricky followed a second later, far more composed, sipping an iced latte like he hadn’t just watched his best friend emotionally combust.

“He speaks in full sentences and made Gunwook cry,” Ricky said by way of explanation. “Also, his name’s Matthew.”

Zhang Hao internally face palmed.

“He asked Gunwook if he was okay after tripping over his own feet,” Ricky continued. “Gunwook said thank you and then forgot how to walk again.”

Gunwook groaned, face buried in his arms. “He has the prettiest smile ever...”

A couple hours later, when his math class started, Zhang Hao tried not to care that the teacher left a blank seat beside him.

It’s just a seat, he told himself. It’s not symbolic.

But then the classroom door opened. And of course a couple of the YITSA students walked in, one of them being the same boy Zhang Hao had seen earlier.

They came in quietly, with that same effortless calm demeanor. The teacher welcomed them, the students murmured curiously, they both gave small, respectful bows.

One of them cleared their voice and took a small step forward.

“Hello, my name is Jiwoong. I’m looking forward to getting to know everyone,” he said calmly, giving a small smile to a group of girls. They erupted into squeals and giggles, Zhang Hao rolled his eyes internally.

“I’m Hanbin,” the other one said, voice soft but clear. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Zhang Hao could feel the room sigh in awe collectively.

Hanbin

He thought to himself.

It had a wholesome, almost poetic ring to it. He already hated how much it suited him.

Zhang Hao leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling like it might offer him some divine clarity.

“So,” he said finally. “This is the competition.”

“Not competition,” Ricky said while leaning over, with a sly grin. “Ascension.”

There was something about the boy he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

The teacher sat Jiwoong somewhere near the front of the classroom, and of course had to direct Hanbin to the other empty seat. Right next to Zhang Hao.

Hanbin sat down, offered a polite smile, and unpacked his materials with the gentle grace of someone who absolutely had more than one reusable eco-friendly tote bag at home.

Zhang Hao nodded at him once. Short, efficient.

“Zhang Hao, right?” Hanbin said softly. “I’ve heard good things.”

Zhang Hao glanced at him, then at the perfectly organized pencil case, then back at him.

“Likewise,” he said.

He didn’t mean it. Yet.

Hanbin let out a soft chuckle before turning to the chinese boy.

“I have a feeling we’ll get along well, don’t you think?,”

Zhang Hao internally scoffed.

You wish

But instead, he settled for a smile and a nod.

“Of course,”

By lunch, it was over.

The school had collectively decided that amongst all the transfers, Hanbin was a gift to humanity. He smiled at the lunch ladies. He held the door open for a senior who was carrying a project model. He complimented someone’s water bottle.

Zhang Hao sat at their usual table, watching the chaos unfold.

“He’s too kind,” he muttered. “This is suspicious.”

“He offered to share his umbrella,” Ricky said. “There wasn’t even rain. Just the idea of rain.”

Gyuvin plopped down beside them, waving his phone.

“Look at this! He helped a first-year find her lost bracelet and didn’t even want credit!”

“I’m telling you,” Zhang Hao said, “he’s either an alien or a government experiment.”

Yujin took a slow bite of rice. “I like him.”

“Of course you do,” Zhang Hao muttered.

Gunwook let out a wistful sigh from across the table. “Do you think if I stand in the hallway looking lost, Mathew will help me find my will to live?”

“No,” Zhang Hao said flatly. “But you’ll definitely get help from the school janitor again, like last time.”

Gunwook looked genuinely unbothered. “Mr. Lee gives great life advice. Told me to drink more water and stop trying to impress people with strength battles.”

“And yet here we are,” Ricky muttered.

Across the cafeteria, a ripple of excitement passed through the tables like a wave in a stadium. Zhang Hao turned just in time to see the YITSA students again, Hanbin—of course—offering a neatly folded napkin to someone who had sneezed. The girl looked like she was about to pull out marriage papers.

“Okay,” Zhang Hao muttered, stabbing his rice. “I get it. He’s perfect. He’s good at being a decent person.

“He recycles,” Gyuvin said, still scrolling. “With enthusiasm.”

Zhang Hao pointed his chopsticks at him. “See? That’s not normal. Normal people recycle without a care in the world, not with joy.”

Ricky looked thoughtful. “Maybe he’s just… emotionally healthy.”

Zhang Hao nearly choked. “Don’t say that like it’s a superpower.”

Just then, as if summoned by name (or internal monologue), Hanbin and a couple other YITSA students approached their table. Calmly. Gracefully. Like swans trained in social etiquette.

Aside from Hanbin, Jiwoong (the guy who has all the female students wrapped around his finger) stood beside him. There were two others that Zhang Hao hadn’t seen yet, but looking at Gunwook’s flushed face and wide eyes, he could tell the shorter one to Hanbin’s right was Matthew.

“Mind if we sit with you all?” he asked, holding a tray that looked more like a curated picnic than a cafeteria lunch. His sandwich had layers. His apple had been sliced. There was a tiny container of hummus. Hummus.

The group stared at them for a full two seconds before anyone responded. Gunwook was the first to break.

“Yes,” he said too quickly. His gaze switched from Hanbin to Matthew frantically. “I mean—no. No, we don’t mind. Yes, you can sit. You should sit. Sit. Please.”

Zhang Hao resisted the urge to drop his forehead into his lunch tray.

Hanbin took the open seat beside Zhang Hao, giving him a small nod of acknowledgment. “Thanks.”

Zhang Hao nodded back, tight-lipped. “No problem.”

The rest of the group sat beside Hanbin, and Matthew sat on the end between Jiwoong and Gunwook (who was turning redder by the second).

Hanbin smiled at the group, completely unaware (or, worse, totally aware) of the emotional apocalypse their presence had triggered.

“I’ll introduce myself first and we can go around the table, yeah?” Hanbin asked, looking at everyone.

They all mutually agreed and began introducing themselves, mentioning their name and year.

“I’m Taerae, and I’m in grade 12. It’s nice to meet you guys,” the last boy said, his two dimples piercing his cheeks.

“We’re all still getting used to the school, so I hope we’re not intruding.” Hanbin said shortly after.

“You’re not,” Yujin said instantly. “Want my cookie?”

“Yujin,” Zhang Hao hissed.

“What? It’s oatmeal raisin.”

“Still!”

Hanbin laughed softly. “Thank you, but I’m good.” 

Matthew cleared his throat and glanced around. “This school has a really warm atmosphere.”

“That’s probably just Gunwook sweating,” Ricky said casually. “He does that when he’s nervous.”

Gunwook didn’t even deny it. He just stared at Matthew like he’d personally rewritten his entire belief system.

Zhang Hao, meanwhile, took another slow bite of rice.

Because this was fine. Totally fine. Hanbin could be universally adored. He could radiate kindness and glow with the light of a thousand self-help books. But Zhang Hao knew.

Nobody was that perfect.

There had to be something inside of him that was flawed, horribly flawed.

And he was gonna figure it out.

Zhang Hao cleared his throat.

“So,” he said, casually enough that it was instantly suspicious, “where’d you guys go to middle school? Just curious. Not stalking.”

Hanbin turned to him, smiling with that same pleasant, unbothered energy that made Zhang Hao want to throw a carrot stick across the table.

“Most of us were in YITSA’s middle school program,” Hanbin replied. “They let us take electives early, so I did visual arts and robotics.”

Of course he did

Zhang Hao internally crossed off can’t draw and bad with tech from his mental list of possible weaknesses. This was getting out of hand.

Jiwoong leaned in, his grin charming enough to land a toothpaste sponsorship. “I remember that! Hanbin’s robot could actually sort different types of recycling. We called it the Eco-Bin.”

“Oh my god,” Gyuvin whispered. “He’s got merch.”

Hanbin chuckled softly.

“I moved here from Canada towards the end of middle school so I didn’t spend as much time there,” Matthew added, with his signature smile.

There were visible hearts in Gunwook’s eyes as he spoke.

“I’m going to be honest,” Ricky said, peering at Hanbin’s lunch, “your sandwich looks like it pays taxes and has a retirement plan.”

“It’s sourdough,” Hanbin said, like that explained everything. “My aunt bakes.”

Of course she does

Zhang Hao thought. Probably also teaches meditation in Bali.

But before he could spiral further, Matthew spoke up.

“This school feels really different, though,” he said, with a quiet sincerity that made even Zhang Hao pause. “Less… stiff. People actually talk during lunch here.”

Gunwook, having regained basic brain function, nodded way too earnestly. “Yeah. Sometimes people yell, but, like, with emotion.”

Matthew looked delighted. “Yelling is healthy.”

Jiwoong raised a brow. “People yell during lunch?”

“Zhang Hao once flipped a tray because someone took his dumpling,” Yujin offered.

“It was one dumpling,” Zhang Hao muttered.

“It was the last dumpling,” Ricky added.

“It was my dumpling.”

Hanbin chuckled. “So you’re passionate. That’s not a bad thing.”

Zhang Hao blinked. That was… almost a compliment. Was he trying to be nice?

He narrowed his eyes. No one was this forgiving unless they were hiding something.

Gunwook, meanwhile, was still staring at Matthew like he was a soft-focus K-drama flashback. “What electives did you do at YITSA?”

“Dance and music,” Matthew said with a small shrug. “I play piano.”

Of course he plays piano.

Zhang Hao considered laying his head on the table and screaming into the void.

Jiwoong piped up, “He also composed the music for our winter showcase. Got a standing ovation.”

Zhang Hao internally started crossing out every personality flaw he’d hoped for in Matthew, too.

“You composed something?” Gunwook asked breathlessly. “Like… chords?”

“Chords and melody,” Matthew said modestly.

Gunwook made a sound so high-pitched a dog three blocks away probably barked.

Hanbin turned back to Zhang Hao with polite interest, like he hadn’t just witnessed Gunwook have a romantic awakening across the table.

“Is there a club you’d recommend joining here?” he asked.

Zhang Hao sipped his water like a villain in a drama. “Depends. Do you like pain?”

Hanbin blinked. “Excuse me?”

“He means the debate team,” Ricky explained. “Zhang Hao runs it. And he’s a tyrant.”

“I’m passionate,” Zhang Hao corrected.

“You made a freshman cry last semester.”

“They were wrong and loud,” Zhang Hao said without remorse.

Hanbin smiled, unshaken. “I like challenges. I might check it out.”

Zhang Hao stared at him. Hanbin stared back, just as calm, just as composed, and—ugh—still smiling.

Around them, the table had relaxed into messy, easy conversation. Yujin and Taerae were trading snacks. Gyuvin was showing Jiwoong chaotic school memes and dramatically recapping the drama club’s last scandal. Ricky and Matthew were conversing in english about their traumatizing middle school years. Gunwook was pretending not to watch Matthew breathe.

It was weird. And kinda nice. Like two puzzle pieces almost clicking together—except one of the pieces didn’t quite fit right.

Hanbin cleared his throat.

“So, Zhang Hao,” he began, turning towards the boy once again.

“What?” Zhang Hao responded harshly.

Hanbin didn’t flinch. He tilted his head slightly, like he was trying to read a passage in a language he already knew, but hadn’t seen written this sharply before.

“Are you always this… intense?” he asked, with no malice—just pure curiosity, which somehow made it worse.

Zhang Hao narrowed his eyes. “Are you always this perfect?”

A beat passed. The table fell quiet—not because anyone was listening, but because the tension between them was suddenly loud enough to hum.

Hanbin blinked, surprised, then actually laughed. Not the polite kind, either. The real kind, warm and a little startled.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever accused me of that before,” he said, a little sheepishly.

“Then they’re not paying attention,” Zhang Hao muttered, stabbing at the remnants of his rice like it had personally wronged him.

Gyuvin paused mid-meme to glance over. Jiwoong arched a brow. Gunwook blinked twice like he’d just resurfaced from a daydream about Matthew playing piano in a field of sunflowers.

Hanbin didn’t take the bait. He just picked up a grape from his tray and popped it in his mouth like Zhang Hao hadn’t just low-key challenged his entire personality.

“Everyone has flaws,” Hanbin said casually. “You just haven’t seen mine yet.”

“Oh, I’m looking,” Zhang Hao said. “Trust me.”

“Good,” Hanbin replied, smiling again. “Let me know when you find one.”

Zhang Hao stared at him, mouth slightly open, completely thrown off by the way Hanbin had turned his jab into… whatever that was.

A game? A dare? A challenge?

He hated it.

He hated him.

But he also, maybe, sort of wanted to win whatever this challenge was and prove to Hanbin that he was better than him.

Zhang Hao held eye contact with Hanbin, not wanting to lose the unspoken battle.

His gaze stayed tense while Hanbin’s stayed calm and almost relaxed, it pissed Zhang Hao off.

“Okay, lover boys, take it outside,” Gyuvin muttered, scrolling without looking up.

“I don’t know,” Ricky said. “Feels like they need to work through this over, like, a shared project. Something with group presentations. Or fencing.”

“Do not manifest fencing,” Zhang Hao warned. “I will stab someone.”

“See?” Hanbin said lightly. “Passionate.”

“Stop agreeing with me!”

Hanbin held up his hands in mock surrender, breaking the eye contact game and leaning back. 

“You’re the boss.”

And that was it.

Conversation flowed again like nothing had happened. Someone brought up Jiwoong’s skincare routine (nine steps, two mists). Gunwook nearly passed out when Matthew complimented his bracelets. Taerae cracked a joke so dry it took three seconds to land, and then Gyuvin laughed so hard he dropped his phone into his ketchup.

Zhang Hao sat in the middle of it all, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, still pretending he wasn’t keeping track of every little thing Hanbin said.

Like his sandwich, Zhang Hao knew there were so many layers to Hanbin.

The bread on the outside was perfect—crisp, golden, decrusted like it came straight from an artisan bakery.

But on the inside? There had to be something questionable. A soggy tomato. Cheese that expired last week. Dijon mustard hiding malice.

Nobody was that perfect.

He sighed, stabbing a carrot like it owed him answers, then glanced at his friends—laughing, chatting, practically glowing under the warm halo of YITSA Energy—before stealing a sideways look at Hanbin.

Still smiling. Still calm. Still sandwich-tier composed.

Zhang Hao narrowed his eyes.

He’d find the mold.

Even if he had to peel back every metaphorical layer to do it.

I’ll show you, Sung Hanbin.