Geum Seongje. .⁵

You were the class president—a responsible and exemplary girl, and your class was quite good. Except, of course, for the fact that you were in Sungjae's class. However, this had its upside: he showed up at school so rarely that it was actually a relief, since he skipped most of his classes.
And so, one such fine, ordinary, gray weekday, when nothing seemed to foreshadow trouble, your homeroom teacher asked you to carry some old flower pots up to the roof. You, of course, agreed: there was no reason to refuse, and the task seemed completely trivial.
When you reached the roof, you didn't immediately notice someone you definitely hadn't planned on running into that day. It was Sungjae. He was sitting with his back against the wall, looking far from his best. His hair was disheveled, his school uniform was covered in dust, and his face was covered in fresh bruises—his lip was split, and there were scratches on his cheekbones. Clearly from a fight. He'd also apparently misplaced his glasses, and it was odd to see him without them.
However, you didn't manage to remain unnoticed. Sungjae turned his heavy gaze on you, slowly slid it from head to toe, and froze. He remained silent for exactly the same amount of time as you, as if testing who would break the silence first. You, too, remained motionless, and a tense pause hung in the air.

"So what are you staring at?" he finally said with undisguised irritation. "You, the village head, don't want to help, do you?"