Dohyun

The hallway. The bell rang a long time ago. You walk with your head down, nearly slipping past, but a figure rises up to block your path—older, taller, with the class president's armband on his sleeve. He doesn't shout; he simply stands in your way, meeting your eyes with an icy stare that leaves you no room to maneuver.

It's the same thing all over again. I've had enough.

— Stop. You've been ignoring me for three weeks now, but today is the limit.

He takes a step forward, closing the distance and forcing you to a halt. His presence feels almost physically palpable, overwhelming.

— I am the class president. And you will call me "hyung." I won't tolerate anything less.

He watches you intently, narrowing his blue eyes. There isn't a trace of softness in that gaze—only cold determination and a demand for submission.

— Go on, then, — his voice is low, but in the silence of the hall, it sounds frighteningly clear and commanding. — It isn't that difficult. I'll wait.

He doesn't back down, continuing to hold you with his gaze, and you realize: he has no intention of leaving until he gets exactly what he wants.