Prince Han (ML)

Jihu Kim (MC)

Chapter -1

The morning sun slipped through a cracked windowpane, its light weak and half-blocked by dust.

The old curtains hung limply, stained with years of neglect.

The floor creaked under the faintest movement, and the entire place reeked of dampness mixed with faint traces of burnt wood from the last winter fire.

This was Jihu’s home.

Jihu sat at the small wooden table, elbows resting on the surface that had long since lost its polish.

The table was uneven, one leg shorter than the others, so it wobbled every time he placed something on it.

In front of him was a single empty plate. No food, no bread, not even rice left from yesterday.

His stomach churned painfully, but he ignored it, staring at the blank plate as though he could force something to appear.

The nineteen-year-old sighed, running a hand through his slightly messy dark hair.

His face, though young, carried shadows far older than his years.

His sharp jawline, tired eyes, and tall frame gave him a dignified look, but that dignity often went unnoticed.

No one cared about a boy struggling at the bottom.

He had been fired the day before from his part-time job at a café.

“We don’t need you anymore. Business is slow. Sorry, kid.” That was all they’d said before shoving his last paycheck into his hands.

It wasn’t enough. It was never enough. Rent was coming, his scholarship covered only tuition, and he had no family to depend on.

His father was locked away in prison after murdering his mother in front of him when he was only eight.

That memory had carved itself into his bones—blood splattering across the kitchen floor, his mother’s lifeless body falling to the ground, his father’s drunken roar echoing in his ears.

He had lived alone ever since, bouncing between part-time jobs and the mercy of neighbors until he could stand on his own feet.

Now, those feet were trembling again, threatening to give out.

His stomach growled loudly. He pressed his hand against it, muttering bitterly,

“...Shut up. I don’t even have money to feed you.”

The sound of hurried footsteps came from outside. Before he could react, the front door creaked open, and a familiar voice called,

“Jihu! You awake?”

It was Ren.

Ren stepped inside without hesitation, his tall, lean figure filling the doorway. His light brown hair was messy, like he had just rolled out of bed, and his expression was a mix of worry and exasperation.

Jihu frowned. “Didn’t I tell you to stop barging in like this?”

“You’d let yourself starve to death if I didn’t,” Ren retorted, holding up a plastic bag from the convenience store.

The smell of warm bread and instant noodles wafted from it, making Jihu’s stomach twist violently.

Immediately, Jihu shook his head and looked away.

“No. Take it back. I don’t want charity.”

“Charity?” Ren raised a brow. “It’s not charity, idiot. It’s called being a friend. You think I’ll just sit by and watch you faint in class again?”

“I won't faint,” Jihu muttered under his breath.

“You nearly collapsed last week,” Ren shot back. “Your face was pale as a corpse. Do you think I didn’t notice?”

Jihu stayed silent. His pride screamed at him to refuse, but his body betrayed him—the way his eyes flickered toward the bag, the way his throat tightened when the aroma reached him.

Ren sighed, walked over, and set the bag down on the table.

He pulled out two bread rolls and shoved one into Jihu’s hands.

“Eat. Or I’ll force-feed you.”

Jihu gave him a sharp glare. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Ren smirked. “Try me.”

For a long moment, the two stared at each other.

Jihu’s pride and Ren’s stubbornness clashed in silence until finally, Jihu’s stomach growled again, breaking the tension.

His face burned red, and he muttered,

“...Damn it.”

He tore into the bread, chewing quickly as if embarrassed by his own hunger.

Ren sat across from him, calmly eating his own roll, pretending not to notice the way Jihu devoured his food.

That was what Jihu liked about Ren.

He never pitied him openly.

He just… stayed.

After finishing the bread, Jihu leaned back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

His stomach felt a little better, but the weight on his chest didn’t.

“Thanks,” he muttered reluctantly.

Ren grinned. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Jihu clicked his tongue and looked away.

Across the city, another morning had begun—one painted in extravagance and excess.

Inside a grand mansion, light filtered through enormous glass windows into a dining hall larger than Jihu’s entire house.

Chandeliers sparkled above, servants lined the walls, and the long dining table was covered with dishes most people would never see in their lifetime.

At the head of the table sat Prince.

Twenty years old, tall—6’3, broad shoulders, sharp features, and an undeniable aura of arrogance.

He leaned back in his chair, scrolling through his phone while servants carefully arranged plates in front of him. Omelets, sausages, pancakes, fruit platters, freshly squeezed juice—everything a king could want for breakfast.

Yet, his brows furrowed the moment he took a bite.

“What the hell is this?” he snapped, throwing his fork down.

The servant flinched. “S-Sir, is there something wrong with—”

“It tastes like garbage,” Prince interrupted coldly.

He pushed the plate away, glaring at the trembling maid.

“Do you idiots not understand the meaning of seasoning? Or do you think just throwing expensive ingredients together makes it edible?”

The maid bowed repeatedly, apologizing.

Prince sneered, waving his hand dismissively.

“Forget it. Bring me something else. And tell the chef that if he keeps serving me crap like this, I’ll fire him.”

The servants scattered nervously.

Across the table, a calm voice broke through the tension.

“Prince.”

It was his younger brother, Noha.

At eighteen, Noha was only slightly shorter than Prince, with softer features and a calmer aura.

Unlike his brother, his eyes weren’t filled with arrogance but with quiet concern.

“Don’t waste food,” Noha said firmly.

“If you don’t like it, fine. But don’t insult people who are just doing their jobs.”

Prince rolled his eyes. “Here we go again. My annoying little brother, lecturing me first thing in the morning.”

“No, I’m serious,” Noha replied, his tone steady.

“There are people out there who would kill for even a fraction of this food. You sit here in a mansion, throwing tantrums over breakfast, while—”

“—while what?” Prince cut him off sharply, leaning forward.

“Don’t act like you know the world, Noha.

You don’t. You’re just a kid who reads too many moral books. This is how life works. I’m rich. People serve me. End of story.”

Noha’s jaw tightened.

“Those so-called friends of yours—those idiots who laugh at every cruel thing you do—they’re not real friends. You know it. You’re not stupid, Prince. You don’t even like bullying people. You just do it because you’re afraid of losing face in front of them. Am I wrong?”

Prince’s smirk faltered for a split second.

But then he leaned back, chuckling coldly.

“You think you’ve figured me out? How cute. Don’t bother, Noha. You’re not half as clever as you think.”

Noha clenched his fists but didn’t argue further.

He had said enough.

Prince glanced back at his phone, ignoring him, though a flicker of irritation crossed his face. Noha’s words dug deeper than he wanted to admit.

Still, he refused to show weakness.

To the world, Prince was untouchable—the perfect heir to a wealthy family, handsome, arrogant, feared.

The number one bully at school, the one everyone avoided or sucked up to.

His friends were fake, shallow parasites, but he kept them around because it was easier than being alone.

Deep inside, though… he hated the person he had become.

But no one could ever know that.

Two different mornings.

Two different worlds.

One boy fighting hunger in a crumbling home.

Another drowning in excess inside a mansion.

Neither of them realized yet…

That their paths were about to cross.

And when they did, nothing in their lives would ever be the same again.

The streets were alive with the sound of morning bustle—bikes rushing past, students in uniforms laughing as they headed toward school, vendors shouting out deals for fresh bread and snacks.

But Jihu walked in silence.

His shoes, worn and patched, tapped against the cracked pavement.

His uniform, though neatly washed, was old and slightly faded at the edges.

He carried only a thin bag slung over his shoulder, heavy with textbooks that weighed far more than they seemed to.

His expression was calm, almost too calm, as if carved from stone.

Behind that stillness, however, churned exhaustion, hunger, and a constant ache of memories.

He blended into the crowd, invisible.

Just another scholarship student trying to make it through the day without drawing attention.

That was all Jihu ever wanted—quiet survival.

But fate rarely cared about what he wanted.

Inside the school courtyard, the golden morning light spilled across polished tiles and clean hallways.

Laughter echoed from a group of boys lounging near the entrance.

They were dressed in the same uniform as everyone else, but the way they carried themselves—the way others avoided them—spoke louder than wealth ever could.

At the center of them sat Prince, leaning casually against the railing.

Tall, broad-shouldered, sharp-jawed, his presence was magnetic, dangerous, and cold.

His fake friends surrounded him like vultures circling a lion—loud, flashy, and desperate for his approval.

One of them suddenly pointed toward the gate.

“Hey, isn’t that him?”

Prince lifted his gaze lazily.

Through the bustling students, Jihu entered the courtyard.

His tall frame and strikingly handsome features were impossible to ignore, even though he carried himself quietly.

His dark hair fell slightly into his eyes, and despite his cheap clothes, his natural presence drew attention like a shadow among light.

The boy who had spoken earlier grinned wickedly.

He raised his middle finger toward Jihu and laughed.

“Look, it’s that bastard! Remember? The one we beat up just for some money last time?”

The group erupted in cruel laughter.

Prince’s eyes narrowed slightly.

His friends’ laughter rang in his ears, but he didn’t laugh with them.

Instead, his gaze lingered on Jihu, analyzing.

He’d never noticed him before—at least, not like this.

Jihu’s tall height, sharp jaw, quiet eyes… there was something there. Something dignified, even in the way he walked with his worn-out bag slung over one shoulder.

“…Who is he?” Prince asked, his voice calm but edged with curiosity.

One of his friends snickered.

“He’s just a junior. Some bastard who’ll do anything for money.”

Another one laughed louder, adding,

“Yeah! Why don’t we have some fun again? Let’s beat him up and throw him some change like the trash he is.”

The group howled with amusement, some even mimicking tossing coins.

Prince didn’t respond immediately.

His jaw tightened, and for a fleeting second, his face hardened with something unreadable.

But then, as always, the expectations of his fake circle weighed down on him.

If he refused, they’d mock him.

Question him. Maybe even turn on him.

And though Prince hated them, he hated the idea of being alone more.

So he smirked.

Cold.

Detached.

“Fine. Do what you want.”

His words sealed it.

The group straightened with excitement, their eyes gleaming cruelly as they moved to intercept Jihu.

Jihu had barely taken a step into the hallway when three boys blocked his path.

“Hey, bastard.”

He froze, his grip tightening on his bag strap.

Slowly, he looked up, his eyes meeting theirs. Cold, tired, unflinching.

The boy in front shoved him against the wall.

“You got money on you? No? Then we’ll just take it out of your hide again.”

Jihu’s jaw tightened.

His body screamed for him to fight back—but he couldn’t.

Not here.

Not now.

A single wrong move, and he could lose his scholarship. Without it, everything would collapse.

His voice was quiet, steady.

“…If you want, then just beat me up and fuck off from here.”

His words silenced them for a moment.

Even Prince, watching from a distance, felt something twist inside him.

But the silence didn’t last.

Provoked by Jihu’s defiance, one of them snarled and punched him hard in the stomach.

Jihu doubled over, choking back a groan.

Another kick landed against his ribs. His back slammed against the wall. Fists rained down—face, chest, arms.

He endured.

He didn’t beg.

He didn’t cry.

He simply clenched his teeth and took it.

The boys laughed louder with each hit.

Someone pulled a crumpled bill from their pocket and threw it at him mid-beating.

“Here! You wanted money, didn’t you? Hahaha!”

Prince stood back, arms crossed, his smirk a mask.

Inside, his chest burned with something he couldn’t explain.

Guilt?

Anger?

Or disgust at himself?

Still, he said nothing.

And so, Jihu was beaten miserably, until his tall frame slid down the wall, his breath ragged, blood smearing his lip.

A few bills fluttered to the ground beside him like cruel reminders of the humiliation.

The group finally grew bored.

One of them spat near him and sneered.

“Pathetic. Let’s go.”

They walked away laughing, slapping each other’s backs.

Prince followed, his eyes lingering one last time on Jihu before he turned away.

Time passed.

The courtyard emptied as classes began.

But Jihu didn’t move.

His vision swam, his body ached everywhere, and the crumpled money near his hand mocked him.

He wanted to throw it away. Burn it. But he needed it.

That was the cruelest part.

Elsewhere in the building, Ren frowned as he looked around the classroom.

Jihu’s seat was empty.

Again.

He clenched his jaw. Something was wrong.

Without hesitation, he left the classroom, ignoring the teacher’s call.

He searched the hallways, the courtyard, the back staircases.

Finally, near a deserted corner behind the gym, he found him.

“Jihu!”

Ren rushed forward, dropping to his knees beside him.

His eyes widened as he took in Jihu’s bruised face, the blood at the corner of his mouth, the bills scattered on the ground.

Ren’s heart sank. He didn’t need to ask what had happened. He already knew.

This wasn’t the first time.

“Damn it…” Ren whispered, his fists trembling.

He wanted to storm off, hunt down every single one of those bastards, and make them pay.

But right now, Jihu needed him more.

“Come on,” he said softly, slipping an arm around Jihu’s shoulders. “Let’s get you out of here.”

Jihu’s body was heavy, weak, but his eyes—though clouded with pain—still burned with quiet defiance.

" Hey... I am alright. It's normal for me. You don't have to worry,” he muttered in low voice.

Ren’s chest tightened. He hated this. Hated seeing his only friend broken like this, forced to swallow humiliation again and again just to survive.

...

The antiseptic smell of the hospital was sharp, almost suffocating.

White walls stretched endlessly, their sterile brightness only making the shadows beneath Jihu’s eyes darker.

Ren half-dragged, half-guided his tall friend through the automatic doors, ignoring Jihu’s quiet protests.

The nurse at the desk looked up with practiced sympathy as Ren explained in a rush,

“He was beaten up. Please, we need a doctor right away.”

Jihu tried to pull his arm free.

“Ren, I said I’m fine."

“You’re bleeding,” Ren snapped, his voice rising louder than usual.

People turned to look, but he didn’t care.

“Your ribs might be broken, your lip is cut, and your face looks like you fought a truck. You are not fine.”

Jihu grimaced, touching the corner of his mouth where blood had dried.

“It’s not that bad. I’ve had worse.”

That only made Ren’s chest ache more.

He tightened his grip on Jihu’s sleeve and glared at him fiercely.

“Do you even hear yourself? ‘I’ve had worse’? That’s not something you should be used to saying, Jihu!”

The nurse hurried to call a doctor, and within minutes, they were ushered into a small examination room.

A middle-aged man in a white coat examined Jihu with steady hands, checking his bruises, shining a light in his eyes, gently pressing at his ribs.

Jihu winced but didn’t complain.

Not once.

Ren sat in the corner, his fists clenched, his jaw tight.

The doctor finally sighed and said,

“He’s lucky. No broken bones, just bruising. A few cuts, some swelling. He needs rest, good food, and no stress.”

Ren exhaled slowly. Lucky. That word felt bitter in his mouth.

As the doctor left to fetch some ointment and painkillers, Jihu turned his head toward Ren, his lips curving faintly despite the swelling.

“You don’t have to look like that. I told you, I’m okay.”

Ren’s head snapped up, his glare sharp.

“Okay? You think being beaten until you can’t walk straight is okay?”

Jihu chuckled softly, though it made his lip sting.

“Don’t talk like my mom.”

For a moment, the air froze.

Ren’s chest tightened, his words dying in his throat.

He stared at Jihu, unable to reply.

The image of Jihu’s murdered mother—the story he had told Ren once, in a rare moment of vulnerability—flashed in his mind.

Jihu noticed the silence, and his faint smile slipped.

He looked down at his hands, his long fingers curled loosely against his knee.

Ren finally spoke, his voice quieter but heavy.

“If you need money… just take it from me. Why hurt yourself like this?”

Jihu didn’t answer.

His jaw tightened, his eyes focused on the sterile floor.

Ren leaned forward, his voice urgent.

“Why? Are you trying to prove something? That you can survive on your own? That you don’t need anyone? Well, guess what—everyone needs someone. And you have me. So stop—stop killing yourself just to pretend you’re fine.”

Still, Jihu said nothing.

His silence was like a wall Ren couldn’t break through.

The door opened again, and the doctor returned with supplies.

Ren backed off, swallowing his frustration as the doctor handed him instructions for medicine and care.

Jihu was patched up, given bandages, and told to rest.

By the time they left the hospital, the sun was dipping low, painting the sky in streaks of orange.

Ren carried the small bag of medicine, his steps heavy.

Beside him, Jihu walked slowly, one hand pressed against his side, his face unreadable.

Neither of them spoke for a long while.

Meanwhile, at school, the classrooms were filled with the drone of teachers’ voices and the scratching of pens.

But in one corner, Prince wasn’t listening at all.

He sat at his desk, chin resting on his hand, his eyes fixed on the empty page of his notebook.

His friends whispered and laughed a few rows behind him, but their voices sounded distant, muffled.

His mind replayed the morning’s scene again and again.

Jihu’s tall frame against the wall.

His steady, cold eyes.

His voice, quiet but unwavering—“If you want, then just beat me up and fuck off from here.”

And then the beating.

The silence.

The way Jihu didn’t beg, didn’t cry, didn’t even try to run. He just… endured.

Prince tapped his pen against the desk, a crease forming between his brows.

He had seen people cry, beg, scream when beaten.

That was normal.

That was expected.

But Jihu hadn’t done any of that. He had stood there like stone, like a man carrying the weight of something far heavier than fists.

Prince muttered under his breath, too quietly for anyone else to hear,

“…How can someone let themselves be beaten up for just some money?”

He couldn’t understand it.

He didn’t understand him.

And for the first time in a long while, Prince felt something unfamiliar.

A crack.

Far from the classroom, Jihu sat quietly in his room later that night, staring at the bag of medicine Ren had left for him.

His ribs ached, his lip was swollen, but none of it hurt as much as the silence between him and Ren.

Ren had gone home reluctantly after insisting Jihu rest. But his words lingered.

“You have me. So stop pretending you’re fine.”

Jihu closed his eyes and lay back on the thin mattress.

For a moment, he allowed himself to wish.

Wish that life was easier.

That he could lean on someone without feeling weak.

That maybe—just maybe—he could stop enduring alone.

But wishes were dangerous.

And Jihu didn’t believe in them anymore.