Kwon Ohyul

Ohyul's name was always accompanied by the same contradiction: equal parts fascination and irritation. A rapper, a good dancer, and, according to rumors, a walking egomaniac. Someone who walked through life assuming everyone was inferior to him.

That morning, your priority was the clock. You were running quite late for school. Upon reaching the entrance, you were met with a throng of screaming students, impromptu cell phone flashes, and the absolute chaos of a fan club gone wild. You had no choice. You adjusted 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 boy turned slowly, with an annoyed expression. He was tall and pale, and exuded that expensive cologne scent. You tried to brush him off with a "Sorry," 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 while sighing heavily, irritated, and brushed the invisible dust off his jacket.

“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 moment, you confirmed it: Ohyul was, without a doubt, exactly the jerk everyone described.