Fight code

The faint hum of a buzzing light filled the silence in Class 2-C as the early morning sunlight filtered through half-drawn blinds. The chalkboard at the front was littered with remnants of yesterday's lesson—an algebraic formula no one had bothered to erase. Students filled the classroom in small clusters, their laughter and chatter weaving into a chaotic symphony of teenage life.

Jinwoo sat at the very back, his desk positioned near the window. It wasn't a spot he chose; it was given to him—out of sight, out of mind. His uniform, once crisp and neatly ironed, now hung loosely on his frame, the sleeves slightly frayed at the edges. His dark, shaggy hair fell over his face, a curtain shielding him from the world's judgmental stares.

The classroom didn't just feel cold because of the faulty heater; it was the atmosphere that froze Jinwoo in place. His classmates ignored him. No greetings, no glances. And if they did acknowledge him, it was only to remind him of his place at the bottom of the social ladder.

It started innocently enough—a misplaced pencil, a stolen lunch. But over time, the bullying evolved, becoming sharper, crueler. Lee Joon-pyo, the class's self-proclaimed leader, had taken a particular liking to tormenting Jinwoo. His posse followed him like shadows, echoing every insult, amplifying every blow.

"Yo, Jinwoo," Joon-pyo's voice rang out, cutting through the noise like a blade. The classroom quieted as everyone turned to watch. He sauntered over, his hands stuffed casually into his blazer pockets, his smirk dripping with condescension.

Jinwoo didn't respond. He kept his head down, his fingers gripping his notebook tightly. He knew better than to meet Joon-pyo's eyes.

"Are you deaf now?" Joon-pyo's tone darkened. He grabbed Jinwoo's notebook and flipped through it carelessly before tossing it to the ground. The pages fluttered open, revealing Jinwoo's neat handwriting—an escape he clung to in this relentless torment.

Laughter erupted around him. One of Joon-pyo's lackeys stepped forward, kicking the notebook across the floor. Jinwoo swallowed hard, his throat dry as sandpaper.

"Pick it up," Joon-pyo commanded, leaning in close. "Or do you want me to teach you some respect first?"

Jinwoo didn't move. His silence was his only form of resistance, but it cost him dearly. Joon-pyo's fist slammed into his desk, startling him. The class gasped, but no one intervened.

"Pathetic," Joon-pyo sneered, straightening up. "You're not even worth my time."

As the bell rang, signaling the start of class, the crowd dispersed. Jinwoo bent down to retrieve his notebook, his hands trembling. His face burned with humiliation, but he didn't cry. Not here. Not in front of them.

The day dragged on, each moment heavier than the last. By lunchtime, Jinwoo found himself in his usual hiding spot: a forgotten storage room near the gym. It smelled of dust and old paint, but it was quiet. Safe. He sat on the cold floor, nibbling on a stale sandwich, his mind clouded with thoughts he couldn't escape.

"Why me?" he whispered to the silence.

The answer never came.

----------------------------------------------------

Six month Timeperiod-

The house was unnervingly quiet. Jinwoo's room, once filled with the hum of late-night gaming and the occasional rustle of notes, now felt like a sealed tomb. The curtains were drawn tightly shut, keeping the world at bay. Only a faint sliver of light slipped through the cracks, casting long shadows across the cluttered floor.

For six months, Jinwoo locked himself away from the outside world. No one knew why. To the teachers, his absence was just another statistic. To his classmates, it was confirmation of his defeat—a bullied loner retreating into the darkness, unable to face the ridicule.

But the truth was far more complex than anyone could imagine.

At first, Jinwoo's isolation seemed like an escape. He avoided the laughter, the insults, the cruel jabs that had haunted him daily. But the silence soon turned oppressive. The walls of his room felt like they were closing in, each corner whispering doubts and fears back at him.

He spent the early weeks staring at his reflection in the mirror. His once-vivid eyes were dull, sunken with exhaustion. His body, frail and lifeless, bore the marks of neglect. Every bruise and scar left by Joon-pyo and his cronies felt like a brand, a permanent reminder of his failures.

Jinwoo's parents tried to reach out, knocking softly at first.

"Jinwoo, dinner's ready."

"Jinwoo, are you okay? Do you want to talk?"

As weeks turned into months, the knocks became less frequent, the concern replaced by quiet resignation. They assumed it was the bullying, and perhaps it was, but Jinwoo didn't have the words to explain the storm raging inside him.

Days blurred into nights. Time lost all meaning. Jinwoo avoided his reflection, avoided thinking. He buried himself in distractions—endless videos, games, and aimless scrolling. But one evening, amidst the haze, something changed.

He stumbled upon a martial arts video—an old clip of a young taekwondo champion demonstrating a flawless spinning hook kick. The precision, the elegance, the sheer power—it was mesmerizing. For the first time in months, Jinwoo felt something stir within him.

It wasn't just admiration. It was a spark.

He began devouring every piece of martial arts content he could find. Taekwondo, boxing, judo—styles he barely understood but now studied with an intensity that surprised even himself. The movements, the discipline, the philosophy—it was all so far removed from his reality, yet it felt like a lifeline.

And then, one night, he made a decision.

Underneath the layers of despair, Jinwoo found a core of unyielding determination. He couldn't remain a victim, a shadow of himself. If he was going to survive—no, if he was going to live—he needed to fight. Not just against Joon-pyo or the bullies but against the version of himself that had surrendered.

Jinwoo started small. Push-ups, sit-ups, stretches—all awkward and clumsy at first. His body protested every movement, every effort. But he persisted. He followed online tutorials, mimicking techniques late into the night. His room became a training ground, his sweat staining the floor as he pushed himself past exhaustion.

Every punch, every kick, every failure brought him closer to something new.

The Jinwoo who had locked himself away was beginning to fade. In his place, something stronger was being forged.

------------------------------------------------------

After six months-

The first day back at school dawned with a crisp chill in the air, the kind that made the morning sky look sharper and brighter. Jinwoo stood in front of the mirror, adjusting his freshly pressed uniform. It fit snugly now, tailored to a body hardened by six months of relentless training. His reflection stared back at him—a young man with a lean, toned frame, sharp jawline, and eyes that no longer wavered with doubt.

Gone was the timid, hunched figure his classmates had mocked. In his place stood someone new.

As Jinwoo walked through the school gates, conversations faltered. Heads turned. Whispers filled the courtyard like the rustling of leaves.

"Is that… Jinwoo?"

"No way. It can't be. Look at him!"

"When did he—?"

Jinwoo ignored the murmurs. His steps were steady, deliberate, as he made his way to Class 2-C. The familiar smell of chalk and cheap air freshener greeted him as he slid open the door. The room fell silent.

The classmates who had once looked through him now couldn't tear their eyes away. Even the girls, who had never so much as glanced in his direction, exchanged stunned looks. Jinwoo's transformation was undeniable—his chiseled features and calm demeanor radiated a confidence no one had ever associated with him.

He took his seat at the back of the classroom, the same spot he used to shrink into. This time, he sat tall, his posture commanding attention.

But not everyone was impressed.

Lee Joon-pyo leaned back in his chair, a smug grin tugging at his lips. His cronies snickered beside him, their laughter low and taunting.

"Looks like the ghost decided to come back," Joon-pyo said, loud enough for everyone to hear. The tension in the room thickened, but Jinwoo didn't respond. He simply opened his notebook and began writing, as though Joon-pyo didn't exist.

The dismissal stung Joon-pyo's pride. His grin faded, replaced by a scowl. He motioned to his lackeys, and the three of them sauntered over to Jinwoo's desk.

"Hey, you think you're some big shot now?" Joon-pyo sneered, slamming a hand on the desk. The classroom held its breath, the anticipation palpable. "Don't think we've forgotten who you are."

Jinwoo finally looked up, his dark eyes meeting Joon-pyo's. There was no fear, no hesitation—just a calm, steady gaze that made Joon-pyo falter for a brief moment.

"Let's have a chat," Joon-pyo said, grabbing Jinwoo by the collar and dragging him toward the storage room. The lackeys followed, their grins plastered with malice.

The storage room was as Jinwoo remembered—dusty and cramped, with a single flickering light overhead. Joon-pyo shoved him against the wall, cracking his knuckles.

"You think you're better than us now? Let me remind you where you belong."

But before Joon-pyo could swing, Jinwoo moved.

It was as if time slowed. Jinwoo sidestepped Joon-pyo's fist with precision, grabbing his arm and twisting it. The bully yelped in pain as Jinwoo delivered a flawless spinning hook kick, sending him sprawling to the ground.

The lackeys rushed him next, but they were no match. Jinwoo flowed between them like water, his movements sharp and deliberate. A roundhouse kick to one, a swift elbow strike to another. Within moments, the three were groaning on the floor, clutching bruises and nursing wounded egos.

Jinwoo stood over them, his breathing steady. He adjusted his tie, looking down at Joon-pyo with an unreadable expression.

"I didn't come back to prove anything to you," he said, his voice calm but firm. "But if you touch me again, I won't hold back."

With that, he turned and walked out of the room, leaving the bullies to their humiliation.

When Jinwoo returned to the classroom, the whispers grew louder, but he paid them no mind. He sat down, opened his notebook, and resumed writing.

The boy who had disappeared six months ago was gone. In his place stood someone who refused to be broken.