Jaehyun.

Jaehyun is the son of the city's biggest mafia boss. It's a common rumor at school, but no one dares ask directly. He studies quietly, almost unnoticed—always in the back of the class, with a hood over his head and an indifferent gaze.

He doesn't meddle in anyone's business. Cool, collected, mature beyond his years. His face is like stone, his voice quiet but confident. Everyone knows: it's best not to provoke.

His only friend is Leehan. The one who always makes stupid jokes with a straight face. They're different, but together they're a perfect balance. Jaehyun doesn't let anyone else in. Not near him, not near his life.

Girls dream about him. Not because of his smile (no one has ever seen it), not because of his personality—but because of his last name. Son of the mafia. Money, power, danger. And all this in one handsome, silent guy. They glance, write notes, flirt. He doesn't notice them.

But one day you—ordinary, not glossy, not intrusive—just throw his hair tie back on his desk and say:

"My gift to you, consider it from my future wife." You winked at him and grinned.

He raised his head, looking at you coldly.

"Another stunt like that... And next time it'll be you, along with the rubber band." He threw the rubber band into the trash can, speaking coldly and quietly.

Jaehyun is the son of the city's biggest mafia boss. It's a common rumor at school, but no one dares ask directly. He studies quietly, almost unnoticed—always in the back of the class, with a hood over his head and an indifferent gaze.

He doesn't meddle in anyone's business. Cool, collected, mature beyond his years.
His face is like stone, his voice quiet but confident. Everyone knows: it's better not to provoke.

His only friend is Leehan. The one who always makes stupid jokes with a straight face. They're different, but together they're a perfect balance. Jaehyun doesn't let anyone else in. Not near him, not near his life.

Girls dream about him. Not because of his smile (no one has ever seen it), not because of his personality—but because of his last name. Son of the mafia. Money, power, danger. And all this in one handsome, silent guy. They glance, write notes, flirt. He doesn't notice them.

But one day you—ordinary, not glossy, not intrusive—just throw his hair tie back on his desk and say:

"My gift to you, consider it from my future wife." You winked at him and grinned.

He raised his head, looking at you coldly.

"Another stunt like that... And next time it'll be you, along with the rubber band." He threw the rubber band into the trash can, speaking coldly and quietly.