Reunited with My Tormentor
The click of heels approaches.
Park Soyeon stands in front of my desk, holding a clipboard.
She is a slender, voluptuous woman—168 centimeters tall, an E-cup, with shapely legs.
Her long, dark brown hair is tied in a low ponytail at the nape of her neck.
A neat, classic beauty with wine-toned lips, subtle eyeliner, and thin, gold-framed glasses.
She wears a dark gray blazer, a knee-length H-line skirt, black stockings, and five-centimeter mid-heels.
A single button of her shirt is undone beneath her blazer, so when she lifts the clipboard, the contour of her breasts presses prominently against the fabric.
Thirty-two years old, in her fourth year as the student dean, and the second-grade department head.
She is the person who has tormented me every single day for the past four years.
I have a nagging feeling that behind her neat, perfect mask lies a weakness she herself doesn't even know.
Soyeon speaks up, her voice loud enough for the entire office to hear.
"Mr. Han, late again? You're in your fourth year, and you still can't manage your time?"
"I'm sorry."
"This is exactly why I can't trust you with any real work. You know that, right?"
"Yes."
Soyeon taps my desk lightly with her clipboard.
"Get all that data organized by the end of the day. Don't put it off. You're a fourth-year teacher. A fourth-year."
"Yes, I'll have it ready for you."
Soyeon shifts her grip on the clipboard and walks back to her desk.
My colleagues at the neighboring desks steal sideways glances.
I pause for a moment, hands resting on my desk.
The afterimage of her breasts pressing against her blazer when she lifted the clipboard lingers in my mind.
I'm a fucking mess for thinking about that bitch's tits at a time like this.
Beside me, Park Seonghun smirks, curling one corner of his mouth.
A thirty-three-year-old colleague who started the same year as me.
An average face, dressed in a standard dress shirt.
Ever since he was promoted to grade department head last year, his condescending tone toward me has grown even more pronounced.
"Hey, Mr. Han. Chewed out again, huh? And right in front of everyone, too. Ms. Park really doesn't give you a break, does she?"
"I guess not."
"You should really stand up for yourself. You're a fourth-year, after all."
"Right."
Morning homeroom, right before first period.
The door to Grade 3, Class 2 opens, and Yuna walks in.
Jung Yuna, my class president.
Nineteen years old, 163 centimeters tall, and slender.
Large eyes behind black horn-rimmed glasses, pale lips.
Her black hair is tied back in a ponytail.
She is, by anyone's standards, a neat, model-student beauty.
Her clear, polite voice greets me in the exact same tone every day.
"Sir, it's time for homeroom. All the students are here."
"Right, thanks, Yuna."
I quickly take attendance, go over a couple of announcements, and leave the classroom.
In the hallway, Seonghun raises a hand to stop me.
"Hey, Mr. Han. Don't be late for the grade meeting at three. Ms. Park said she wants to review the data today."
"Got it."
"Print it out beforehand and leave it on her desk. You know what'll happen if you start scrambling in front of her again, right?"
"I understand."
I return to the staffroom.
Soyeon tosses a sticky note onto my desk as she walks past.
I silently get to work on the two menial tasks written on it.
One is grading assistance for the first-grade exams, and the other is drafting a response to a parent's complaint.
Neither of these is my responsibility, yet they always end up on my desk.
In four years, the workload dumped on me has never once decreased.
The afternoon meeting consists of thirty minutes of the grade department head barking unilateral orders, while Soyeon stands beside him, tapping her clipboard twice.
After work, I head down the alleyway near the school convenience store.
A woman is standing right in front of the convenience store.
As our eyes meet, she speaks first.
"Huh? Teach? Haha, you're still at this school? You seriously haven't changed a bit since four years ago."
"Oh... right. Haerin, is that you? Long time no see."
It's Jung Haerin.
Her name slipped out of my mouth first, but it took me a moment to recognize her face.
A beat late, my brain connects her to the bitch who used to sit in the back of the classroom with her legs crossed four years ago.
Now in her early twenties, she is a voluptuous beauty with a D-cup chest and a tiny waist.
Her long, dyed brown hair sways gently over her shoulders.
Slanted, sharp eyes, plump lips, and a slight smirk playing on her face.
Thick black eyeliner frames her eyes, paired with a beige-toned lipstick.
She's wearing a crop top, a denim miniskirt, and white sneakers.
Her midriff is slightly exposed beneath the crop top, and her legs beneath the miniskirt are short but shapely and defined.
Her sharp eyes scan me up and down, and her smirk widens.
The attitude of the girl who sat in the back of the class with her legs crossed four years ago is still entirely intact, even if her appearance has matured.
She has the kind of looks that make everyone turn their heads at least once.
She was the leader of the school bully gang in my very first class when I was newly appointed.
My class's performance evaluation was the absolute lowest.
During the staff meetings, the grade department head singled me out and tore me apart.
I couldn't say a word even when the students ran wild, and Ms. Park chewed me out daily.
That was also the year Soyeon's relentless bullying began.
It was also thanks to the students in that class that my name ended up on the parent complaint list twice during my first year of teaching.
Haerin spent her year like that, and by the end of it,