Target

After the last bell rang, the hallways emptied, but Minjun could still feel the weight of the day pressing down on him. The laughter, the whispers, the mocking glances—they lingered in his mind far longer than they had in the crowded corridors. No one was following him now, no one was calling his name, yet the sting of what had happened stayed, heavy and relentless. He walked home slowly, counting each step as if the rhythm could anchor his thoughts, but the sense of being targeted clung to him like a shadow.

At home, his mother asked how school had been. Minjun forced a small, practiced smile and said, “It was fine.” The words slipped out easily, but they were a shield hiding his reality. If she knew the truth—the cruel jokes, the public teasing, and the way the bullies tried to humiliate him—she would worry, and the fragile world he had built for himself would crumble. They had no idea that behind his quiet demeanor lay a life of wealth and privilege: a large, guarded house, tutors for every subject, and a family who could provide anything. But at school, none of that mattered; he was just another student. And that invisibility, while protective, was lonely.

The bullying had grown more sophisticated. The boys didn’t only tease him in person—they created online posts, spread edited images, and wrote rumors meant to humiliate him in front of the whole school. Minjun had learned this was called rage bait—content deliberately designed to provoke anger, get attention, and create a reaction. They wanted him to respond, to flinch, to let the world see their power. Every share, every comment, every like added fuel to their cruelty. Watching classmates engage with it was like salt in a wound that refused to heal.

That night, lying in bed, Minjun stared at the ceiling. He replayed every insult, every post, every whispered joke. It felt impossible that such small things—a glance, a laugh, a word—could hurt so deeply. He thought about how his wealth could solve almost any problem, yet it couldn’t shield him from the loneliness, the anxiety, or the feeling of being exposed. Still, the rage bait had taught him something important: the bullies thrived on attention, but he could choose not to give it to them. That understanding gave him a quiet strength he hadn’t felt before.

The next morning, Minjun dressed carefully, keeping his uniform neat and his movements calm. He kept his head low, blending in with the crowd, but inside, something had shifted. He no longer wanted to disappear entirely. He could endure their posts, their whispers, their jokes. He could observe, wait, and protect himself. They didn’t know his true life, his family, or the resources he quietly commanded. But he didn’t plan to use that to scare them. Instead, it reminded him that he had control over how he responded.

By the time he reached the school gates, the sun was low, casting long shadows across the grounds. Minjun was still alone, still quiet, but the fear had shifted into resolve. The bullies could post, tease, and provoke all they wanted. But understanding the game, he realized, was more powerful than anything they could throw at him.

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