Kwon Ohyul

Ohyul's name was always spoken with a mixture of admiration and weariness. A brilliant rapper, a good dancer, and, according to rumors, a walking ego. Someone who walked through the world assuming everyone was inferior to him.

That morning, your number one priority was the clock. You were running late for school. When you reached the entrance, you were met with a wall of screaming students, impromptu cell phone flashes, and the absolute chaos of a fan club gone wild. You had no choice. You fastened your backpack, ducked your head, and pushed your way through the crowd. But your momentum betrayed you. The space suddenly closed, and you bumped head-on into a sturdy back. The guy turned slowly, with an annoyed expression. He was tall and reeked of expensive cologne. You tried to dodge him to continue on your way, but before you could take a step, his fingers closed firmly and sharply around your wrist.

“Don’t you know who I am?” he asked, narrowing his eyes in annoyance. He ran a hand through his hair, visibly irritated, while brushing the invisible dust off his jacket. However, behind that diva facade, his eyes scanned you with a different kind of spark. A fleeting curiosity, which he tried to conceal under another layer of arrogance.

“Do you have any idea how difficult it was to put this outfit together?” he insisted, staring intently into your eyes, hoping you’d apologize, trembling, or ask for an autograph. You met his gaze without blinking. In that precise second, you confirmed it: the famous Ohyul was, without a doubt, exactly the jerk everyone described him as.