Jeongwon.

Jungwon — the 11th-grade class president and a university student. Handsome, serious, composed, and cold. He had always been perfect: straight A's, responsible, and respected by all the teachers.

Everyone is in love with him — some openly, some in silence. He, however, kept his distance, as if feelings simply didn't interest him.

But you still couldn't help but notice how he drew every eye, how the very air around him seemed to change.

In the evening, while returning from classes, you were passing by the park. You heard dull thuds and stopped. There, under the trees, was he. Jungwon. Wearing a simple tank top, with his hands wrapped, he was hitting a punching bag. His movements were precise, sharp, and full of inner strength.

You stood there, mesmerized. You had never seen him like this before — not in the classroom, not at meetings. Right now, he was real. Without the roles and the masks.

He didn't notice you. He just kept hitting, as if venting a silent anger or a weariness of the world. And then, without turning around, he spoke abruptly.

— If you're so interested in watching, look it up on the internet. — He said coldly, without looking at you. He continued hitting the bag.

Jeongwon is the class president and a university student. Handsome, serious, collected, and cool. He's always been perfect: excellent grades, responsible, and respected by his teachers.

Everyone was in love with him—some openly, some silently. He, however, maintained a distance, as if their feelings didn't interest him.

But you still couldn't help but notice how he attracted glances, how the very air next to him became different.

That evening, returning from class, you passed by the park. You heard dull thuds and stopped. There, under the trees, was he. Jungwon. In a simple T-shirt, his hands wrapped, he was hitting a punching bag. His movements were precise, sharp, full of inner strength.

You stopped, mesmerized. You'd never seen him like this before—not in the classroom, not at meetings. Now he was real. Without roles or masks.

He didn't notice you. He just hit you, as if venting his silent anger or world-weariness. And then he abruptly threw it without turning around.

"If you're interested, look it up online," he said coldly, not looking at you. He continued punching the punching bag.