Chapter Text
The sound of his alarm drags Gi-hun out of sleep, but he doesn't move right away. He stares at the ceiling, blinking against the dim morning light filtering through his half-closed blinds.
First day of senior year.
The thought should carry some weight. It should feel like a thing, like a checkpoint in his life. But all it does is settle like a dull pressure in his chest—another step forward in a path he never chose.
With a sigh, he finally forces himself up, rubbing a hand through his mess of dark hair. His room is the same disaster it always is—clothes on the floor, an unmade bed, an old textbook shoved under his desk like he's hoping it'll disappear. He isn't in a rush to get to school, but he knows if he doesn't get moving, Thanos will show up and start banging on his window like a psychopath.
Dragging himself to the bathroom, he splashes cold water on his face, staring at his reflection.
He looks the same as always. Tall, a little lean but not scrawny, tired eyes that don't quite match the smirks he throws around all day.
He wonders, for just a second, if he'll feel any different when the year is over.
Then he shakes the thought away and gets dressed.
By the time Gi-hun shoves his way out the front door, Thanos is already there, leaning against the gate with a cigarette tucked between his fingers. His uniform is a mess—shirt untucked, tie loose, sleeves rolled up like he's allergic to rules.
He snorts. "You do realize it's literally the first day?"
Thanos grins, sharp and unbothered. "And?"
Gi-hun just shakes his head. He doesn't bother telling him to put the cigarette out—Thanos does what he wants. Always has.
They fall into an easy rhythm, moving through the streets like they own them. People look at Thanos and see trouble. They look at Gi-hun and expect the same. And yeah, maybe they don't do much to prove people wrong. But it's not like they go out of their way to cause problems.
Not really.
"You think this year's gonna suck as much as last year?" Thanos asks, kicking a stray rock down the sidewalk.
"Probably more."
"Great."
Gi-hun smirks, but the conversation fades as they approach the school. The gates are already swarming with students, groups forming like clockwork—the popular kids, the smart ones, the ones who actually care about being here.
And then there's them.
Gi-hun doesn't mind being an outsider. He prefers it. But there's always this shift when he steps onto campus, like a weight settling over him, pressing down.
Thanos mutters something under his breath when a teacher passes, shooting them a warning glance, but Gi-hun isn't listening.
His eyes are on the building.
He doesn't know why.
There's nothing different about it. Same school, same walls, same bullshit waiting inside.
And yet... something feels off. Like there's something waiting for him on the other side of that door.
He shakes the thought off and steps inside.
The walk to their homeroom is uneventful. Thanos nearly trips someone on purpose, his friend shoves his hands in his pockets and lets his mind drift, the usual routine.
But then they step into the classroom.
And he sees him.
The new teacher is standing at the front, flipping through a book like he has all the time in the world. He doesn't look like most of the other teachers—no tired, forced smile, no nervous energy from dealing with students all day. Instead, he looks... composed. Controlled.
Gi-hun's steps slow without meaning to.
The teacher tall, but the boy realizes he's taller. It's a weird detail to notice, but for some reason, he does. His dark brown hair is neat, a few loose strands softening the sharp angles of his face. His white shirt is crisp, sleeves buttoned at the wrists, the contrast against his black slacks making him look severe.
Then their eyes meet.
It happens fast, just a second too long, but it's enough.
Gi-hun doesn't know what he expected. Maybe the usual disinterest most teachers give him, or maybe annoyance, like he's already a problem before he's even spoken.
But his gaze is unreadable. Cold, yes, but not dismissive. More like... evaluating.
Like he already sees something in Gi-hun that he doesn't even see himself.
It unsettles him.
He quickly looks away, scoffing under his breath to cover the weird shift in his chest.
As he walks to his seat, the teacher turns to the class.
"My name is Mr. Hwang. I'll be your homeroom teacher, as well as your literature instructor."
Thanos drops into his seat and mutters, "Something's off about that guy."
Gi-hun forces a smirk. "Nah, I think I like him."
Thanos gives him a look. "You like him?"
"Not like that, dumbass." Gi-hun leans back in his chair, forcing his usual lazy grin. "He just... doesn't seem boring."
But his mind keeps replaying that moment.
And for the first time in a long time, he has a feeling this year won't be anything like the others.
Most teachers try too hard. They push enthusiasm, crack jokes, or stomp around like they need to remind everyone they're in charge.
But Mr. Hwang?
He just stands there. Calm. Quiet. Like nothing in this classroom could rattle him.
Gi-hun's gaze flickers over him, curious despite himself. He waits for some sign of nervousness, some crack in the careful exterior.
But then the teacher lifts his gaze—and for just a second, their eyes meet again.
It's fleeting, a mere brush of attention. But the boy feels it, like a spark against his skin.
Not being watched. Not being judged.
Just... seen.
His stomach tightens, a strange heat creeping up his neck. It's unnerving, being looked at like that.
Like he matters.
He's the first to break eye contact, dropping into his seat with a scoff.
Thanos nudges him. "Told you something was off about him."
Gi-hun snorts. "He's just another teacher."
But even as he says it, his fingers tap against his knee.
Because something about that one-second glance lingers in his mind.
Mr. Hwang speaks, his voice smooth and low, effortlessly commanding attention. He goes over the syllabus in a steady rhythm, never raising his tone, never pushing for engagement.
He doesn't need to.
Something about the quiet way he talks makes Gi-hun listen.
He doesn't want to. He tells himself it's just curiosity, nothing more.
But he keeps glancing up, watching the way In-ho moves. The way he holds himself, perfectly measured, never rushed.
It makes something itch under Gi-hun's skin.
Because people like that—people who never react—they fascinate him.
And Gi-hun? He likes making people react.
So when the In-ho turns to write something on the board, Gi-hun leans toward his friend, voice just low enough to be private.
"Bet I can get him to crack."
Thanos raises a brow. "How?"
Gi-hun smirks. "Just watch."
He slouches in his chair, stretching out like he owns the place, and when the teacher turns back around, he makes his move.
"Mr. Hwang."
The name rolls off his tongue with a casual drawl, and the room goes still. A few students glance over, sensing the challenge.
The older man doesn't even blink.
"Yes?"
The response is immediate, level. No hesitation.
Gi-hun grins wider, tilting his head. "You're new, right? Sure you can handle this class?"
He's expecting something. A twitch of annoyance, a forced chuckle.
Instead, In-ho just looks at him.
And in that brief, unbearable silence, Gi-hun feels something coil tight in his chest.
Then—
"I suppose we'll find out," Mr. Hwang says simply, turning back to the board without another word.
No irritation. No amusement.
Just... nothing.
Like he wasn't challenged at all.
The boy's pulse jumps, an unfamiliar heat crawling up his throat.
Because for the first time in a long time, he's the one who feels thrown off.
The rest of class drags on, but Gi-hun can't focus.
He finds himself watching Mr. Hwang more than he should, waiting for some tell.
And once—just once—he catches him glancing back.
It's brief, barely a flicker. But it sends something sharp down his spine.
By the time the bell rings, his chest feels strangely tight.
He swings his bag over his shoulder, heading toward the door. But just as he reaches the threshold—
"Gi-hun."
The name freezes him.
His fingers tighten around the strap of his bag before he slowly turns back.
Mr. Hwang doesn't even look at him as he flips through some papers. His voice is calm, unreadable.
"Next time, if you want my attention, try asking something relevant."
Gi-hun stares.
Something shifts inside him, a feeling he can't name.
For the first time in years, someone just got the last word over him.
And worse?
It made his heart beat a little too fast.
The next few days, it keeps happening.
Little moments.
During a slow-moving lesson, Gi-hun gets bored.
He pulls out his pen, absentmindedly spinning it between his fingers. Thanos, beside him, watches with an amused smirk.
Then, with a flick of his wrist, the boy "accidentally" drops the pen. It clatters loudly against the floor, breaking the quiet atmosphere.
All eyes flick to him. He stretches, making a show of leaning down slowly to retrieve it. When he straightens up, he grins at Mr. Hwang.
"Oops. Guess I'm just restless today."
Mr. Hwang looks at him, unimpressed. "Then I suggest you redirect that energy toward your notes."
It's a simple response.
But Gi-hun hates that there isn't even a flicker of irritation.
So, naturally, he tries again.
He taps his fingers against his desk, just loud enough to be noticeable.
Nothing.
And it drives him crazy.
Because anyone else would have snapped at him by now.
Why not him?
He's still standing there, calm, untouchable, unshaken.
And for some reason, Gi-hun finds himself wanting to change that.
Another day, Mr. Hwang is going over a passage from a book, asking the class for interpretations.
Silence.
No one wants to answer.
Gi-hun, half-listening, smirks to himself before lazily raising his hand.
"Maybe the author was just bored out of his mind, so he wrote a bunch of nonsense and called it deep."
A few students chuckle.
Thanos snorts. "Sounds about right."
He expects Mr. Hwang to dismiss the comment. Or to say something strict, reminding him to take this seriously.
Instead—
"An interesting perspective," the instructor replies, completely calm. "Though if that were true, it would mean millions of people have spent years overanalyzing nothing. Which would be ironic, don't you think?"
Gi-hun blinks.
He wasn't expecting that.
He wasn't expecting Mr. Hwang to actually engage with his nonsense.
And that unsettles him more than he wants to admit.
One other afternoon, Mr. Hwang asks the class:
"Do you think people are naturally selfish, or do we just learn to be?"
It's supposed to be a philosophical question. An abstract discussion.
But for some reason, it hits Gi-hun the wrong way.
He scoffs under his breath, flipping his pen between his fingers. "People only care when it benefits them."
Mr. Hwang watches him for a second.
"You sound sure of that."
Gi-hun shrugs. "Yeah, well. Life proves it enough times."
The room is quiet.
In-ho doesn't respond right away. He just looks at him, expression unreadable.
"That's one way to see it."
And for the first time, something in his tone feels too knowing.
Like he understands something Gi-hun isn't saying.
And that—somehow—bothers him more than anything else.
These moments...
In-ho never reacts to Gi-hun the way other teachers do. He doesn't scold. Doesn't flinch. Doesn't play the game.
And Gi-hun.. He doesn't know why that makes him feel restless.
So when Mr. Hwang assigns a reading and Gi-hun realizes he wasn't paying attention, something inside him burns.
Not because he cares about the subject.
But because he feels like he lost.
When the final bell rings, students begin filing out, their chairs scraping against the floor in a rush to leave. The classroom empties quickly, but Gi-hun lingers at his desk, his fingers drumming against the surface.
He tells himself he's just thinking about asking for help with the assignment. That's all. It's definitely not about the way Mr. Hwang looks when he's not addressing the whole class—more composed, more detached, yet somehow still demanding attention.
Thanos nudges him on the way out. "You coming?"
Gi-hun clears his throat. "Uh... I'll catch up."
Thanos gives him a look but doesn't press. "Don't take too long, man."
And then, it's just him and his teacher.
The silence is thick. Mr. Hwang is still at his desk, flipping through papers, completely unbothered by Gi-hun's presence.
Gi-hun could leave. Should leave.
But instead, he finds himself standing and making his way to the desk before he can talk himself out of it.
What am I doing?
He's never been the type to second-guess himself, but as he stops in front of Mr. Hwang, that confidence wavers.
"Uh... Mr. Hwang?" His voice comes out quieter than he meant it to.
The teacher doesn't look up immediately. "Yes?"
Gi-hun clears his throat. "I, um... had some questions about the reading assignment."
That gets In-ho's attention. He finally lifts his gaze, and the weight of his stare makes Gi-hun's stomach twist. It's not that he's glaring—no, it's worse. His eyes are calm, unreadable, like he already knows exactly why his student is really here.
Gi-hun shifts awkwardly, gripping the strap of his bag tighter.
What the hell is wrong with him? He's never been nervous talking to a teacher before. He's been yelled at, scolded, sent to the principal's office more times than he can count, and none of it ever fazed him. But now, standing here under Mr. Hwang's gaze, his usual smirk is nowhere to be found.
"What exactly do you need help with?" In-ho asks, his voice smooth but impassive.
Gi-hun swallows. Say something, idiot.
"I just..." He exhales sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. "I didn't really get the passage about—" He stops. No, that's not true. He did get it, he just doesn't know how to talk about it. And suddenly, asking for help feels humiliating.
Mr. Hwang leans back in his chair, waiting. Not impatiently, not condescendingly—just watching.
Gi-hun shifts on his feet. His throat feels tight.
"Never mind," he mutters quickly, already turning away. "It's not—"
"Sit."
The command is firm but not harsh. It's not a request, but it's not an order Gi-hun has to obey, either. He could leave. Walk out and pretend this never happened.
But instead, he hesitates.
And then, slowly, he lowers himself into the chair across from the teacher's desk.
His hands feel too big, too obvious as he fidgets with the hem of his sleeve.
Mr. Hwang studies him for a long moment, and Gi-hun forces himself to meet his eyes.
"You're not used to asking for help,"In-ho observes.
Gi-hun's fingers tighten around his sleeve. "I'm not used to needing it."
A beat of silence. Something unreadable flickers across Mr. Hwang's expression.
"Then this will be a learning experience for you," he says simply, before picking up his book. "Let's start over. What part of the text confused you?"
The boy exhales, his nerves still buzzing, but somehow—just barely—he starts to relax.
And In-ho..
He tells himself that the way Gi-hun's expression softened doesn't mean anything.
That this moment is nothing.
But even after Gi-hun leaves, that feeling lingers.
And it unnerves him.