Chapter 13
Rooftop Ashes
The sun had shifted by the time the afternoon bell rang, slanting golden light through the classroom windows. Students rushed out in noisy groups, already planning their evenings. Sung Ho moved slower, packing his books neatly, one by one, as if stalling would change the inevitable.
It didn't.
The door creaked open again, and the air shifted. A hush fell over the few students still in the room.
Xin Min stood there, hands in his pockets, a lazy grin spreading across his face. His two shadows flanked him, their presence filling the doorway like a blockade.
Sung Ho's breath caught in his throat.
"You," Xin Min said, his voice carrying like a whip crack. "Roof. Now."
It wasn't a request.
The rooftop door banged open with a clang. Sung Ho stumbled through, shoved forward by one of the goons. The late afternoon breeze whipped across the open space, carrying the scent of asphalt and dust.
Xin Min strolled out last, stretching his arms as if arriving at a playground.
"Nice weather today," he said, his grin sharp. "Perfect for a little exercise."
The goons chuckled.
Sung Ho's pulse hammered. His palms were damp, his throat dry. He knew what was coming. He had been through it enough times to know the routine.
But today, something inside him itched—raw, restless. Maybe it was the way Xin Min's laughter bounced off the concrete walls, or the sight of the city sprawled far below, so free and unreachable. Maybe it was just that he was tired of being the dog everyone kicked.
When Xin Min stepped closer, Sung Ho's fists clenched.
"Please," he managed, voice hoarse. "Not today."
Xin Min tilted his head. "Not today? You think you get to decide?"
He leaned in, his smirk widening, eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. "You've been getting on my nerves lately. Maybe you're forgetting your place."
Something snapped.
Sung Ho swung.
It was clumsy, desperate—a fist launched with no technique, no strength. Xin Min barely had to move. He tilted his head back, laughing, as the punch cut through empty air.
"Pathetic."
The word hit harder than any blow.
Xin Min's hand lashed out, catching Sung Ho across the face. Pain exploded through his cheek, and he staggered, almost falling.
The goons laughed, jeering.
"You call that a punch? My grandmother hits harder!" one of them shouted.
Sung Ho tried again, another wild swing. This time Xin Min caught his wrist midair and twisted. A sickening crack echoed as pain shot up Sung Ho's arm. He cried out, dropping to one knee, clutching his wrist as tears stung his eyes.
Xin Min crouched in front of him, his grin dripping with contempt.
"That's it? That's your fight?" He shoved Sung Ho backward, sending him sprawling against the rooftop fence. "You really are useless."
The goons stepped forward then, eager, fists flying. Kicks slammed into his ribs, his stomach. Sung Ho curled in on himself, gasping, each blow stealing his breath.
"Stop—please—" he choked, but the words dissolved in their laughter.
Minutes stretched into an eternity. By the time they finally stepped back, Sung Ho lay trembling on the concrete, bruises blooming across his skin. His vision blurred, his body screamed with pain.
Xin Min loomed above him, casting a long shadow.
"Remember this," he said, his tone almost casual, like a teacher giving instructions. "Don't ever think you can stand up to me. Not here. Not anywhere."
He spat on the ground beside Sung Ho's head, then straightened, signaling to his goons.
"Let's go. He's had enough."
Their footsteps echoed as they left, laughter fading down the stairwell. The rooftop fell silent except for Sung Ho's ragged breathing and the distant hum of the city below.
Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself upright. His arms shook, his ribs ached with every breath, but he managed to sit, leaning against the cold fence.
He lifted his eyes to the horizon. The sun was sinking, painting the sky in hues of red and gold. Beautiful, unreachable, mocking.
His throat tightened.
He had tried. He had finally tried to fight back. And it had been useless.
Worse than useless.
For all his pain, all his humiliation, nothing had changed. Xin Min still walked away laughing. Sung Ho was still broken, bleeding, powerless.
The wind tugged at his hair, cool against his swollen face. He closed his eyes, letting despair wash over him.
Maybe this was his fate—to always kneel, to always suffer.
The thought settled heavy in his chest, darker than the bruises spreading across his skin.
And somewhere deep inside, a dangerous seed of hatred began to take root.