Missions (Part 4)

The Life of Aurelius Valemont: Missions (Part 4)

Two months later after the ballerino "incident"...

Father stood in his office, staring at the rain dripping down the glass window like it was counting down seconds to someone's death. I was already tired from my last mission, my limbs sore from ballet, my soul sore from murder. But of course, there was no break in this life.

He didn't even turn to face me when he spoke.

"Your next target is in South Korea."

My brows twitched.

"You'll be a high school student," he continued, voice as cold as the marble under my feet. "Since you're seventeen, this role will suit you. You'll do this alone."

Of course. Alone again.

"Your target is Chan-Woo Gong. He used to work for me… my second-in-command," he said with bitterness laced in every syllable. "He stole classified documents from the Valemont vault and disappeared. He's resurfaced as the principal of Cheongdam Elite Private Academy. Highly respected. Untouchable. And surrounded."

My jaw clenched. He paused before facing me.

"This will be hard, even for you," he said, folding his arms. "You'll remain there until you're nineteen. Two years. No violence unless necessary. Become a model student. Win awards. Top grades. Make friends. Seduce loyalty from everyone — especially him."

He took out a file and tossed it onto the desk in front of me.

"You'll be Lee Jae-Won now. A Korean-French transfer. Wealthy background. Former international school prodigy. Disguise, records, passport — all arranged."

I opened the file and glanced at the ID. My hair was dyed dark brown. Colored contact lenses. Subtly sculpted brows. Same sharp jaw, but softened. Uniform tailored to perfection. If I didn't know better, I'd say I looked like a k-pop idol with a secret.

Then his voice dropped lower.

"Fail… and your precious will die."

I didn't flinch, but my fingers tightened around the file. I knew who he meant. He always used the word precious like a knife under the skin — cold, sharp, and full of venom. I wouldn't let him touch them. Not again.

He sat down, lighting a cigar, like he hadn't just sentenced me to two years of psychological warfare.

"You leave tomorrow."

I turned without a word.

As I walked out, I heard his final words echo down the hallway:

"Make me proud, Lee Jae-Won."

The next day...

I arrived at Incheon Airport, and the moment I stepped out of immigration, I knew I was in trouble.

Every head turned.

Phones were lifted.

Whispers flew like bullets.

"Is that a K-pop idol?"

"Which group is he from?"

"He's so tall—look at his jawline!"

I sighed. Loudly.

Do I look like I want to be in a boy group?

I'm 6'1", have at least four knife scars on my back, another bullet wound near my ribs, and I once broke both arms at the same time during training at age fifteen.

But sure. Idol. Let's go with that.

After dropping off the forged documents at the school administration ahead of time (courtesy of Philip, who's remotely hacking through South Korea's firewalls while sipping tea back home), I checked into a sleek little hotel downtown. Just a temporary base for the next two years until I find a better hideout.

Next: transportation.

Something fast, quiet, and efficient.

Enter: my new matte black scooter motorcycle. I named him Shadow Jr.

Not creative, I know, but the original Shadow exploded during a mission in Budapest, so let's just move on.

After a full night of reviewing Chan-Woo Gong's files and creating a fake schedule of hobbies like "violin," "debate," and "robotics," I slept four hours and woke up at five. My body runs on caffeine, paranoia, and muscle memory at this point.

First Day – 6:30 a.m.

I suited up in the academy's pristine uniform: white button-up, navy blazer, gold-lined crest stitched over my chest. My tie was crooked at first, and I nearly threw it into the wall out of habit until I remembered:

No blood.

No bodies.

Just fake smiles and perfect grades.

I walked to the underground parking lot, tied my hair loosely, slipped on a helmet, then mounted Shadow Jr.

The engine purred.

And I was off.

Two years of pretending.

Two years of perfection.

Two years of being Lee Jae-Won.

Let the games begin.

The moment I pulled into the parking lot of Cheongdam Elite Private Academy, I could already feel the weight of a hundred stares. The second I took off my helmet, a collective gasp echoed across the courtyard like I had just descended from K-drama heaven.

Phones were out.

Photos were being snapped.

Girls were giggling.

Guys were whispering.

And somewhere, I swear, a student dropped their sandwich in slow motion.

"Who is that?"

"New student?"

"Definitely a trainee."

"No way, he's too tall to be in high school!"

"Look at his jawline! That's not a student, that's a war god."

I fought the urge to sigh and simply tucked my helmet under my arm. My expression: bored and disinterested. My heart: mildly panicking. I haven't been around this many civilians at once since… never.

My boots almost stepped into a puddle of mud near the flower beds. Almost. I pivoted like a ballerina mid-stride, narrowly avoiding disaster. A perfect spin. Thanks to my "Dance of Death" mission from two months ago, I had surprisingly agile footwork.

And yes, I almost got caught for speeding on the way here. Not my fault—traffic laws were never part of my killer curriculum.

Inside, everything smelled too clean—like new books, ambition, and the stress of rich kids trying to impress their parents.

I'm wearing a uniform for the first time in my life.

I'm going to school for the first time in my life.

And I've never had a classmate before. Or a locker. Or group projects.

Lee Jae-Won…

This name feels so foreign but necessary.

I have to wear this mask and wear it well.

I adjusted my tie, nodded politely at some gawking students, then walked toward the main building.

Let the illusion begin.

And may my target fall for it.

To be honest, I really didn't know how to react to all this attention. So I just walked—casually, silently, pretending like I hadn't noticed the flashes from the phones or the way some students tripped over their own feet just watching me pass.

As a "first-year high school student in Korea," I was assigned to Class 1-A. I had no idea what that even meant at first. First year? At seventeen? Korean academic systems were complex, but then again, so was assassination. This just had more backpacks and hair gel.

I kept walking through the halls, trying to ignore the nervous energy buzzing in the air. Every step brought me closer to my mission… and further into unfamiliar territory.

Of all the places I imagined infiltrating, school wasn't one of them.

Chan-Woo Gong, huh?

I have to give credit where credit's due. You escaped my father's estate—an empire guarded by millions of men, dogs, drones, and blood-hungry maniacs.

Congratulations.

Because of you, I'm wearing a high school uniform, about to walk into a classroom for the first time in my entire life.

Sincerely, thank you.

You've gifted me this ridiculous rite of passage.

I finally reached the door to Class 1-A.

The homeroom teacher, a gentle-looking man with round glasses and an almost permanent smile, ushered me in.

"Class, please welcome our new transfer student, Lee Jae-Won."

All the students immediately stood and bowed.

Right. The bow.

Korean etiquette.

I quickly returned an awkward half-bow that probably made me look like a penguin doing yoga.

I cleared my throat and spoke calmly in fluent Korean, with just enough accent to sell the cover:

"Hi. I'm Lee Jae-Won. I came from… Canada." (Thank you, forged documents.)

"I'm not really used to bowing or… this whole classroom setup, so please take care of me."

I gave them a small, sheepish smile—the one Yumi always called "dangerously adorable."

The effect was instant.

A few girls gasped.

Someone dropped their pen.

One boy muttered, "No way he's real."

Another girl blushed so hard she nearly fainted.

I kept the smile on for another second, then let it fade as I scanned the room with eyes that were soft but calculating.

Where is he?

Where's Chan-Woo Gong?

I know you're close. And I'm already watching.

The teacher pointed to an empty desk near the window, classic main-character placement.

Of course.

I made my way over, sat down, and tried not to look like I could snap everyone's neck with a pen.

Which I could.

But we're doing the student thing now.

And so it begins.

So the plan was simple.

Well, father's version of "simple":

Make myself popular.

Join clubs.

Earn achievements.

Maintain perfect grades.

And, ultimately, get close to Principal Chan-Woo Gong.

Sounds doable, if this were a video game. But this is real life—high school edition. And this school? It's just another battlefield. Only this time, instead of guns, there are textbooks and gossip.

From the moment I stepped into the classroom, I was already ahead. Popularity? Accidentally unlocked.

Thanks, face I inherited from the devil himself.

Now, for step two: integration.

As the homeroom teacher smiled at me, he gestured toward the back of the class.

"You can sit by the window, next to Han Seojin."

I nodded, scanned the faces again—noting body language, subtle cues, and the way some students seemed too poised for teenagers.

Students who stood straighter than normal.

Boys with unnatural muscle memory.

Girls with sharp eyes that flicked across the room like trained scouts.

Bodyguards, I noted internally.

They're here.

They're watching me.

And they're definitely not average teenagers.

I made my way to the vacant desk beside a quiet-looking student with raven-black hair. Han Seojin didn't even glance at me. Too focused on drawing in his notebook. Or pretending to.

Possibly one of Gong's, or just an introvert, I thought.

Either way, I'd keep an eye on him.

I sat down, dropped my bag lightly on the floor, and leaned back in my chair with a casual stretch. Just enough to make the audience swoon again.

People were still stealing glances, whispering.

But that was fine. I needed eyes on me. Fame would fast-track this whole operation.

The teacher started the class. Korean history. Ironically, I probably knew more about it than the entire room combined.

Thank you, twelve-hour memory drills at age twelve.

While the teacher spoke, I kept scanning the class and mentally tagging potential threats.

Two students with shoes too clean, posture too stiff.

One girl with barely concealed comms gear under her hair.

And that janitor peeking from the door? Definitely military ex-intel.

So he's got this whole school wired, I thought.

Impressive.

But I've dealt with worse. 12,000 men worse.

This is just… theater.

I let out a soft sigh, barely audible, and looked out the window with a subtle smirk.

Let's play school.

By the time the clock struck twelve, the classroom practically exploded with energy. Students scrambled from their seats, chatting and laughing as if the first half of the day hadn't drained every ounce of their soul.

But me? I was calculating escape routes.

And then it began.

First, three girls from the back row approached, pretending to ask if I needed help with anything—textbooks, school lunch, a full-blown tour of the campus.

Then a group of boys from Class 1-B barged in like I was some K-pop crossover collab.

And then more poured in.

Within seconds, I was surrounded.

A sea of wide-eyed teens.

Phones in hand.

Voices overlapping.

Too many questions.

Too many smiles.

Too close.

One girl actually tried to touch my hair.

Abort mission. This is not a drill. I repeat—this is NOT a drill.

I stiffened, holding my lunch tray like a makeshift shield, mentally reviewing ten ways I could escape the mob without breaking my "charming foreigner" act.

"Lee Jae-Won, do you have a girlfriend?"

"Your eyes are so pretty!"

"Can you say something in French? Or English?"

"Do you want to sit with us?"

"What's your type?"

"Are you mixed?"

"Do you do modeling?"

What I wanted to say:

Yes. I have a girlfriend. Her name is Mission. She's cold, demanding, and wants me to kill her ex-boss.

What I actually said:

"Uhh… I'm still getting used to the school here. But thanks, everyone."

I smiled. The smile. That perfect PR-approved, melt-your-grandma smile.

Immediate reaction: Three girls clutched their chests and squealed.

One boy nearly tripped.

Another whispered, "He's like a manhwa character…"

Okay. That's enough.

I cleared my throat. "Where's the cafeteria?"

Before another wave of questions came crashing in, someone saved me.

Han Seojin—the silent seatmate—stood up, grabbed my tray without a word, and walked ahead.

"Follow me."

I blinked.

Huh. A surprising twist.

Maybe he was just as allergic to chaos as I was.

As I trailed behind him, I heard someone say, "Are they dating?!"

Followed by:

"No way! Not on the first day!"

"They're both so cool though…"

"Shut up, I ship it."

I sighed deeply, adjusting my collar.

First day in school, and I already had a ship name.

Great. Just great.

Now let's see how many of them are actually assassins in disguise.

We stepped into the cafeteria. Correction: I stepped into a battlefield of blushing cheeks, dropped trays, and phones held high like concert lights.

"OH MY GOD, THEY'RE TOGETHER."

"Look, look! He's following Seojin again!"

"Did you see how Seojin took his tray like a boyfriend would?"

"Wait—someone start a fanpage. Quick!"

"#JaeJin is canon!"

"NO. It's #Seowon. Sounds classier."

"I'm dead."

"I'm resurrected."

"I'm dead again."

What the hell is a hashtag and why are they chanting my fake name like a religion?

I was pretty sure at least three students were livestreaming. One girl was hiding behind a potted plant with a DSLR camera. Another student actually slid across the floor just to offer me a spoon. I thanked them awkwardly.

Seojin didn't say a word. He dropped my tray on the empty table near the corner like he was slamming down a death certificate. Then he sat across from me, arms crossed, jaw tense.

"Do you always bring this much drama?" he asked with a deadpan stare.

"Uh… I just… stood."

"Congratulations. You've caused a small-scale riot."

I shifted uncomfortably and picked up my chopsticks like a weapon. My hands remembered 103 ways to disarm a man, but they didn't remember how to eat kimchi without looking like I was dying.

I bit into it.

Too spicy.

Too alive.

Too red.

I coughed once.

Regain composure, soldier.

"Is it always like this?" I asked, trying to casually look around. "People watching. Filming. Whispering like… squirrels?"

"No. Just when K-dramas walk into the cafeteria and sit across from me."

I didn't reply. Mostly because behind Seojin, I spotted something strange.

The janitor. Tall, broad, with oddly shiny shoes for a guy who supposedly mops floors.

And his ID tag?

It said "Ms. Park."

...That's definitely a man.

Then the lunch lady. Her hands didn't match her face—too rough, calloused, like someone used to handling knives, not ladles.

Another red flag.

I leaned in and whispered. "Is it normal for the janitor to wear fake nails and steel-toe boots?"

Seojin narrowed his eyes. "No. Why?"

"No reason," I smiled.

He scowled, standing up. "That's it. I'm leaving before someone draws fanart of us holding hands."

Just as he turned, a student screamed, "I SHIP THEM SO BAD—LOOK, LOOK, HE'S LEANING IN!"

Phones flashed.

Someone dropped their rice in shock.

Another one shouted, "They're like the tsundere x sunshine combo!"

Fanart already began appearing on their tablets.

One artist zoomed in on my slightly blushing ears. Unforgivable.

Mission Update: Survive Korean High School, Assassinate Principal Gong, Avoid Accidental BL Fame.

Seojin walked away grumbling, "I didn't sign up for this."

I took another bite of kimchi.

Coughed again.

Day one: Hell mode unlocked.

I tugged on Seojin's sleeve like a pitiful child abandoned at a market.

He turned halfway, confused—until he saw me.

Eyes red.

Lips trembling.

Nose running.

Tears threatening.

"…Are you crying?" he asked, looking half-annoyed, half-horrified.

"I—I'm not trying to insult your cuisine but—what is this sorcery on my tongue?!" I gasped between shallow breaths, my chest heaving like I'd just run a marathon while being chased by feral dogs.

"It's… kimchi," he said slowly. "It's like… the soul of Korea."

"Well, it's a spicy exorcism!"

Another wave of giggles and camera clicks exploded around us.

"OPPA IS CRYING! HE'S SO DELICATE!"

"SOMEONE GET HIM MILK!"

"LOOK AT SEOJIN-OPPA TAKING CARE OF HIS CRYING BABY!"

"I'd pay money to see this as a webtoon."

I glanced around in panic, the heat still burning through my mouth, the embarrassment seeping into my bones.

"Please—Seojin—get me out of here," I whispered in a broken voice, clinging to his sleeve like he was my last hope before spontaneous combustion.

He sighed, muttering something under his breath like, "Why me?" Then suddenly—he grabbed my wrist.

"Come on, drama queen."

He pulled me. Literally. Past trays and students and one girl who fainted when he made eye contact. We ran out the cafeteria like fugitives fleeing from a BL-themed k-drama with a stalker director.

Down the hall. Up the stairs. Around the corner.

Then—bam—out the side door and into the—

"Basketball court?" I wheezed, still half-crying, half-laughing.

"I'm in this club," he muttered, letting go of my wrist. "And this is the only place the fan club doesn't stalk me."

"...You have a fan club?" I coughed.

"Don't ask."

I leaned on my knees, trying to recover. "God, that kimchi had hands."

"You're seriously hopeless."

"No, I'm internationally incompetent."

He tossed me a water bottle from the court bench. I caught it on instinct—well, I nearly caught it but fumbled and caught it against my stomach.

"I've never been to school before," I mumbled as I sat down on the cold bench, unscrewing the cap. "Never had classmates. Never got screamed at by people shipping me with strangers in real time…"

"Wait," he said, eyeing me sideways. "Never?"

"Yeah. Homeschooled. Trained. Not exactly a normal childhood."

He looked like he wanted to ask more but stopped himself. "Well, welcome to Korean high school, Lee Jae-Won," he said dryly. "Step one: survive the cafeteria. Step two: dodge the fangirls. Step three: don't die from kimchi."

I smiled faintly, rubbing my burning lips. "Step four: join the basketball club, apparently."

He rolled his eyes. "Only if you don't cry on the court."

"No promises."

By the fifth time I missed the hoop, I was ready to die.

And I've died before—figuratively.

"Try again, Jae-Won!" someone called out cheerfully.

I did.

The ball bounced off the rim, flew high…

…and landed straight into my own face.

There was a collective gasp.

Followed by—

"OPPAAAA!!"

"Oh my god, did you see how adorable he looked falling like that?"

"Can someone help him up?"

"No, let him stay down—he's glowing from the floor!"

I lay there, face squished against the polished court, reconsidering my entire mission.

Seojin crouched beside me, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was physically holding back from laughing. "You good, Bambi?"

"I'm dying."

"You're just dramatic."

"My pride…"

"You had that?"

I sat up slowly, cheeks redder than they'd ever been. "I've never been more humiliated in my life."

"That's a lie and you know it."

"…Fair."

One of the boys helped me up and patted my shoulder. "Don't worry. If we enter any idol competition, you'll be our secret weapon."

"Why?"

"Because your face alone scores ten points."

That might be the most insulting thing I've ever heard—and I've been called a 'pretty meat puppet' by mercenaries before.

As the club ended and we parted ways, I caught sight of the same janitor from earlier—now casually cleaning the same spot on the floor for the past thirty minutes. Meanwhile, the cafeteria staff guy "fixing" the vending machine had somehow moved to "organizing" supplies behind a bush near the court.

Suspicious? Very.

Dead giveaway? Also yes.

Midnight – Dormitory Courtyard

Slipping into full stealth mode was like breathing.

Black hoodie, soft shoes, contacts switched to dull brown. My face masked by shadows.

I scaled the back wall with no sound. The estate taught me that even a leaf crunching could be the difference between life and death.

The school looked innocent from the outside. But the janitor's closet was guarded. I counted three sets of shoes behind that door—two heavy, one light. Armed? Probably.

I moved.

Quiet.

Swift.

Duck. Roll. Freeze.

I slipped into the faculty wing through an unlocked maintenance door. Who leaves these things open in Korea? Amateurs.

The teacher's lounge had been cleaned. But someone had left a locked drawer with a thumbprint scanner on the bottom desk drawer.

Valemont technology.

My blood chilled.

Chan-Woo Gong had definitely stolen something real. Something encrypted. Something only the Valemont estate used.

That meant two things:

1. He's still using the estate's old tech.

2. He has access to data my father would kill to retrieve.

My heartbeat calmed.

That's my target.

But first—I had to survive another week of being the human equivalent of a cinnamon roll wearing Jordans.

Three days later…

I'm still not used to these fanclubs.

Apparently, I now have four of them. One of which distributes daily photos of me drinking water with captions like "Our Jae-Won's Hydration Aesthetic #TooPure".

Seojin said if he sees one more of those, he's going to start charging them for breathing the same air as me.

Basketball? Still a disaster. They say I run like a ballet dancer and shoot like I'm trying to seduce the ball. Not sure if I should be flattered or arrested.

Seojin's been a lifesaver, though. Sitting beside me in class, warding off rabid fans like a bodyguard-slash-best-friend hybrid with anger issues. Honestly, I'm shocked he hasn't filed for emotional compensation yet.

Finally, recess.

Peace.

I sighed, poking the uneventful sandwich I bought from the cafeteria. (Still avoiding anything spicy like my life depends on it—which it might.)

Then it happened.

SLAM!

A loud palm hit my desk. My water bottle nearly leapt to its death.

Murmurs erupted instantly.

Gasps. Whispers. Some girl dropped her phone.

Seojin cracked one eye open from his nap and groaned. "Who dares."

I looked up.

Great.

Standing in front of me was someone who looked like he just walked off the cover of VOGUE and decided to ruin my lunch break.

Tall—maybe 6 feet. Sharp jawline, pale skin, black hair swept effortlessly like a K-drama lead mid-wind scene. His school uniform was pristine and slightly modified to look designer-level tailored. His stare? Unamused.

"Are you Lee Jae-Won?" he asked, voice smooth but firm.

A wave of murmurs swirled like storm winds in the classroom.

"That's Minjun Cheong…" someone whispered behind me.

"From Aether Studio, right?"

"Idol trainee… they say he was scouted on the street for his visuals…"

I blinked, trying to recall the name.

Oh, right—Philip mentioned him once while hacking the school's student files. One of the important students, he'd said. "High-profile. Protected. Watch him."

Of course.

Of course the elite idol-trainee with a face carved by Photoshop would show up and glare at me like I just stole his debut stage.

I straightened up and smiled—my usual pretty, polite one.

"Yes. That's me."

He narrowed his eyes, arms crossed. "You're getting too much attention."

Was this… an idol turf war?

"I didn't exactly ask for it," I replied, still smiling.

Seojin finally sat up, rubbed his temple, and muttered, "Is this going to be a whole thing? Because if so, I need coffee."

Suddenly, as if on cue, the entire first-year hallway erupted.

Doors slammed open.

Students poured out like it was a Black Friday sale.

Phones were out. Screens were recording. Hashtags were forming mid-air. I swear I saw someone livestreaming this with the caption:

"#JaeWonVsMinjun: Who's Korea's Ultimate Prince?"

I blinked.

"Wait, what—?"

Of course this would happen. Of course this school treats a hallway stare-down like a royal duel. And of course, I had to piss off a literal idol trainee who probably has more followers than my fake identity's birth certificate.

Minjun just gave me a small, confident smirk. The kind that says, "I've already won, but thanks for participating."

I turned to Seojin.

He was slumped against his desk, arm over his eyes, muttering to himself.

"...Three days. It's only been three days and I've aged ten years. I should've never said yes to switching seats with Jimin. I could've had peace."

I awkwardly scratched the back of my head.

"Seojin—uh, help?"

He peeked at me through his fingers.

"You brought this on yourself, you stupidly tall, too-pretty foreign transfer student."

I glanced back at Minjun. His fanbase had multiplied. Some girls were now passing out promotional flyers he didn't authorize.

A group of boys had started chanting: "1v1! 1v1! 1v1!"

Was this a video game lobby or a school?

Then someone yelled, "BASKETBALL SHOWDOWN!" and the entire crowd shrieked.

"No!" Seojin snapped, standing up so fast his chair screeched. "No more basketball! He shoots like he's proposing to the hoop!"

"I do not—!" I started, flustered.

"Yes, you do!" he fired back, eyes bloodshot. "You twirled before passing the ball, again. Who even twirls in basketball?!"

I shrank a little under the heat.

"…It felt natural."

Minjun tilted his head, clearly amused. "You're... interesting."

His tone said trainwreck, but his smile said this will be entertaining.

I felt like I was about to be sacrificed on the altar of teenage social politics.

Apparently, Minjun Cheong isn't just some random pretty face with a K-pop smile and arrogance wrapped in Gucci.

No—he's the son of the Chairwoman of Aether Studio, one of the biggest entertainment empires in South Korea.

Great. Just great.

Of course he is.

Philip did say this school had high-profile students—children of diplomats, celebrities, tech giants. I should've taken him more seriously instead of zoning out while lifting a barbell with a car chained to it.

I sighed internally.

I wish I could just end this mission already. Break into the office, snap Chan-Woo Gong's neck, and walk away like it's another Tuesday night. But no. This isn't a normal mission. This man was Father's former second-in-command—meaning, the devil trusted him once.

And he escaped.

If he can run from the Valemont estate, from a fortress crawling with thousands of elite mercenaries trained since birth, then yeah... he's no pushover.

Which means I can't afford to act suspicious. One slip, and I'm compromised. And I'm not going to be one of those careless idiots who gets caught on security cam doing backflips off a rooftop in disguise.

I gripped the sides of my desk and sighed.

"What am I supposed to do now?"

Maybe I should've gone for a disguise that made me look... uglier. Or at least less like a CGI male lead from a drama with a tragic backstory and a killer six-pack.

I've attracted too much attention. Too much. I'm probably already viral.

Somewhere out there, Philip is probably watching this live stream and cackling.

Peter's probably sighing, nostalgic about the chaos of his youth.

Luciana and Yumi are probably watching beside him with popcorn.

And Matthew? Silently judging me with his deadpan stare.

And worst of all—Father might be watching.

I turned slightly and—yep.

A student two rows behind me was filming a live video. Literal. Live.

I swallowed.

I should be careful. I should be careful. I should be careful. I should be careful.

Okay. Deep breath. Smile. Channel Yumi's words: "Use the adorable one. The dangerous one. The one that makes people weak in the knees."

I turned to Minjun and pulled that exact smile out of my arsenal. The "dangerously adorable" one. The one that disarms grown assassins and makes government agents forget why they're here.

"Hi," I said, standing up with a friendly tone and a slight head tilt. "You're Minjun Cheong, right? I've heard a lot about you."

There was a short pause.

Girls gasped. Someone's phone dropped. A boy whispered, "He smiled! Oh my god, he SMILED—"

Minjun blinked, slightly thrown off by the charm offensive.

"...Yeah," he said slowly. "And you're Lee Jae-Won. The new celebrity."

"More like unfortunate viral sensation," I chuckled nervously, scratching my cheek. "It's really my first time at a real school."

Minjun raised a brow. "Really?"

"Yeah. Homeschooled," I said with a fake sheepish grin. "Trying my best not to cause too much trouble."

Minjun stared at me, clearly scanning for weakness—or maybe just confused why I wasn't falling into the usual rival idol script.

"Mm," he said, finally backing away from my desk. "Interesting."

He walked off with a flick of his coat, his fanclub dispersing like mist. The moment he was gone, I sat back down, exhaled quietly, and whispered—

"Mission: survive recess. Complete."

Seojin groaned beside me.

"You are... exhausting."

End of Chapter 53.