Bored, But I Stumbled Into Something Good
After school in the empty classroom. I prop my chin on the desk, rocking the chair back and forth. The dry scrape of the chair legs on the floor echoes through the vacant space—the only sound around. It's only been a week since I enrolled, and I'm already bored to the brink of suffocation. The same shitty routine day in, day out.
This place is an Elite International School, built from the ground up by chaebol families for networking their kids. So everyone's either a chaebol heir or some elite offspring, and right in the middle of it all, I'm the founder's bloodline—packing real power, but also one hell of a leash. Any trouble I kick up goes straight to Gramps. Not to mention, messing with those rich girls just spells hassle. Hell, I got dumped here because some crazy bitch lost her shit claiming she was pregnant with my kid. Turns out she conspired with other guys, so it fizzled out without fallout, but the price was getting shipped off to this school with a strict "no bullshit" order.
I yank down the choking tie and let out a short sigh. Annoying as fuck. Another sigh, then I grab my bag and head into the hallway.
"Seeing that fucker's face is bad luck."
A taunting voice drifts over. From the end of the hall, toward the dark, empty classroom. Hmm. Half curiosity, half boredom. I saunter toward the source.
Through the half-open back door, I peer inside. A scrawny guy is cornered against the wall, hemmed in by three punk-ass thugs in a semicircle. Twenty years old and still pulling this childish crap. Impressive dedication.
The kid against the wall just bites his lip, head down, enduring silently. After a moment's watch, I shove the door open without a second thought.
Screeech.
All eyes snap to me.
"What the hell?"
The leader-type squints and glares. I stroll up casually.
"What're you looking at, retard?"
Their faces stiffen the instant I speak. They recognize me, but they're hesitating, glancing at each other.
"Who the fu—"
"Hey, that guy's... the chairman's grandson..."
The one in back tugs the leader's sleeve urgently, whispering. That's when the leader's eyes start shaking.
"Ah..."
I don't wait for his dumb mouth to finish. I reach out and smack the front guy's head—not hard, but loud.
Crack.
Then the one next to him.
Crack.
"Get lost."
I mutter low, eyes on the floor. The guy who meets my gaze flinches.
"Eyes down."
That's it. They shove each other in a panic, bolting out the door. Their frantic footsteps fade down the hall, leaving heavy silence in the classroom.
I turn. The kid who got smacked is still slumped against the wall. His shoulders are hunched tight, but the eyes looking up at me burn strangely bright beneath the fear.
"They've got you marked hard since day one."
"Th-thanks..."
His voice trembles, tension not fully gone. Then a dull buzz rumbles from his pocket. Brrr, brrr. He fumbles out his phone and presses it to his ear.
—Son.
That single word from the speaker hooks my gaze to his phone. Sweet. Thin and clear, yet deep and resonant. The tenderness clinging to "son" licks at my ear.
"Y-yeah... Mom."
He answers in a crawl. For a mom, her voice sounds way too young. The thought flashes unbidden. A mom with a twenty-year-old son should be pushing fifty at least, but that voice had none of that texture.
"Heading home now."
He replies curtly and hangs up. As he shoves the phone away and grabs his bag from the floor, a intriguing calculation sparks in my head.
I step up, sling an arm around his shoulder like we're old pals. He stiffens.
"Name?"
"W-Woochan..."
"Cool. I'm Jinho."
Arm still around him, I steer him out the door. Woochan trots to match my stride.
"You on rental scholarship?"
"...Yeah."
His short reply drips with unease. In this school, "rental" means special admission. Perfect little everyman tossed among the rich kids.
"Got it."
I nod slowly, then continue.
"From now on, I'll watch your back. Gotta make the rest of school easy, right?"
"...Huh?"
Woochan looks up with wide eyes, a mix of wariness and confusion.
"You don't know who I am?"
"...Sorry."
"My grandpa's the chairman here."
"...Oh."
Wary shifts to shock. His eyes widen again before dropping to the floor.
"If those assholes bug you again, tell me right away."
"Th-thanks..."
Second thanks, less shaky this time. I slowly curl my lips up. I tighten my arm around his shoulder just a bit, whispering sweetly with the most benevolent smile.
"So, mind if I swing by your place?"
"...Huh?"
Woochan freezes. I look down at his dumbfounded, flustered face and grin wide, arm still firm.
"That's what friends are for, yeah?"
"Fr... friends?"
A dumb echo slips from his half-open mouth. I savor that bewildered expression as we stroll the hall. Late afternoon sun stretches long through the windows. My suffocatingly boring day was finally getting interesting.
Woochan's place was in the Woochan's Rental Apartment complex. Strictly separated from the luxury towers by the entrance. Folks with barely a dime always make the biggest fuss. Pathetic, but I'm no world-changer, so no need to bother.
"This it?"
He nods faintly at my question. On the walk, I'd gleaned more: not just rental admission, but a top-scoring special scholarship kid. That spotlight made him a target for these wannabe thugs.
Promising him smooth sailing at school had his face half-suspicious, half-hopeful. Grateful eyes, but still guarded.
Woochan punches the door code and swings it open.
"I'm home."
"Son's back?"
A soft voice flows from inside—the exact tone from the phone, but even clearer and gentler in person. Light footsteps approach, and a woman appears at the entryway.
My gaze locks involuntarily. Black hair messily tied up, apron on. No makeup, but sharp features stand out. Pale skin, long slender neck. Stray hairs from the loose bun brush her white nape.
Way younger than expected. And a total knockout. I swallow a quiet admiration, flashing my politest smile.
"Hi. I'm Jinho, Woochan's friend."
"Fr... friend?"
Her eyes go wide. She glances between us, flustered. A son with a friend seems utterly foreign to her.
"Y-yeah... school friend."
Woochan mumbles from behind me.
"Oh, I see."
Her stiff expression melts into softness. The crescent smile she turns my way is damn charming.
"It's modest, but come on in."
I scan the layout as I step inside. Cramped. Two rooms and a tiny table fill it right up. Frames by the living room and bedroom doors show only Woochan and his mom, always just the two.
No trace of a man anywhere. Dad's definitely out of the picture.
"Early day today?"
"Yeah. Thought I'd eat with my boy for once."
Her busy figure in the kitchen catches my eye naturally. Loose tee, plain pants. Casual as hell, but bending to grab a pot from the lower cabinet traces her back's curve through the thin fabric. Full breasts and round hips peek despite the bagginess.
"Cozy place you've got."
She turns at my words, and the faint fatigue in her face vanishes in a bright laugh.
"Thanks. You boys head to the room—dinner's almost ready."
I follow Woochan into his room. Worn desk, small single bed. Spartan setup.
I flop onto the bed, crossing my legs.
"How old's your mom?"
"..."
He shoots me a puzzled look at the abrupt question. I ask right back, cool as ice.
"What, secret?"
"...Thirty-seven."
Thirty-seven. Means she had him at seventeen. Those duo photos flash back. Just the two of them. At that age, teen pregnancy screams trouble. Need to dig deeper.
"Gotcha."
I drop it. His face screams discomfort.
"Dinner's ready, come eat!"
Her call pulls us to the table. Three around the tiny setup, elbows nearly brushing. Nice and close to her across from me.
Simple spread, but damn good.
"This is delicious."
"Really? It's nothing special."
She smiles shyly. I chew slowly, eyeing her thoroughly. Collarbone neat above the apron strings. Leaning to serve stew, her deep tee neckline teases cleavage—almost, but not quite. She's oblivious to the exposure.
Her gaze locks blindly on her son alone. Tender eyes tracking his bites. Careful hands pushing sides his way. The hard years raising her one boy shine through those motions—nearly twenty without a man.
I spoon stew leisurely, lips curling slyly.
She's an ajumma, sure—but damn, she looks tasty.