“Wow... He’s so handso,” a girl whispered from the back.
“Isn’t he from class 12? What’s he doing in class 11?” a boy muttered.
“Who cares... I’m just happy seeing his face,” the girl replied, clasping her hands dramatically.
Master Jihan’s calm gaze swept across the classroom. His expression was unreadable — cold, composed, like soone who could kill a person without raising his voice.
Then... he slipped his right hand into his pocket.
My instincts scread.
My whole body stiffened.
Danger.
I took a step back and raised my guard.
The room went quiet again.
And then —
“Tada~!”
His tone flipped in an instant, cheerful and bright. Jihan pulled out a small box and raised it in the air like a magician revealing a prize. His composed face cracked into a playful grin.
“Huh?”
That single confused sound left not just — but the entire class.
Dozens of puzzled faces blinked back at him in silence.
Even I, still halfway in a fighting stance, felt like my brain had skipped a line.
What just happened?
“Wow... how cute!”
All the girls practically sparkled as they watched Master Jihan, their faces lighting up like he’d just descended from the heavens.
“Here—take it.”
He tossed the box toward casually.
I caught it out of reflex, staring down at it... then back up at him.
“Open it,” he said simply.
“Huh?”
I kept staring, confusion written all over my face.
The classroom started buzzing.
“Wait— is he... proposing to him?” a boy whispered, horrified. “Don’t tell he’s a ga—”
Smack!
“Ouch!”
The girl next to him had already slamd her notebook on his head. “How dare you say that?! Can’t you just wait and see, idiot?”
Jihan blinked once, clearly ignoring the chaos around him. “Is there sothing on my face? Why are you looking at like that? Just open it already.”
I looked back at the box... then at him again.
“...”
He sighed dramatically. “Stop making that face and just open it, man. Wait— don’t tell you like boys, and after seeing you—”
“Stop right there.”
My voice ca out flat, cold.
Jihan froze, then grinned. “Oops, my bad. Just kidding.”
He waved it off lightly. “Now hurry up and open it already.”
I opened the box.
Inside, neatly nestled on a bed of soft foam, were a pair of contract lances — glossy, compact, and oddly out of place in a classroom. The tal caught the light and threw it back like a small, contained sun.
I looked up at him. “This... is...”
“You lost your glasses, didn’t you?” he said with a faint smile. “From now on wear these.”
“But...” I started, but the words died in my throat.
“Oh, and also my phone number is written on the box. Call whenever you face a problem.” He held the box out with a casual, practiced ease. “You don’t know. But I’m really a reliable man.” He waggled his eyebrows, then looked toward the girls with theatrical timing. “Isn’t that correct girls?”
A sound like a flock of birds breaking into song erupted from the back of the room. “Yep... That’s correct,” they answered in unison, breathless and certain.
Murmurs swelled again—excitent, disbelief, a dozen tiny shocks of gossip ricocheting across the desks.
“OMG! He just talked to us.”
“Yes... I can’t believe it.”
I stood there, still holding the box, the contract lances humming faintly in my palm as if they recognized sothing I didn’t.
“You see,” he said, turning his calm gaze back to , “I’m really a reliable man. So don’t forget to call , ok.”
He began to walk away, his steps light, like soone leaving a stage after a neat little performance. Then, without breaking stride, he glanced over his shoulder and added, “Oh, and don’t beat those guys any farther. You know... If you beat them up any farther they might die.”
There was a soft thud as his back t the locker on the way out—an almost comical punctuation.
“Ouch,” he said, perfectly unbothered.
The girls’ faces collapsed into collective concern for a beat—awh—then a ripple of embarrassed giggles. “Hehehe... I’m ok... I’m ok.”
He left, the classroom door closing with a polite click behind him.
I stood motionless, the box warm in my hands, watching the door as if it had swallowed a teor. Around the class buzzed back into life—nervous whispers, hushed laughter, a pencil rolling off a desk.
What a weird guy.
***
After college ended, I stood in front of my house.
The sky was dimming — that soft hour when the world seed to hold its breath before evening fully arrived.
I reached for the gate latch.
“So, this is your house.”
The voice ca from right behind — too close. Way too close.
I turned.
And there he was again.
A lollipop hanging from his mouth.
Jihan Navraan.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, my tone flat, expression unreadable.
“Co on, we’re friends, aren’t we?” he said casually, and before I could move, his hand ca down to pat my head.
I blinked once. Slowly.
“I don’t think so,” I said, my voice calm — maybe too calm.
He just grinned. “I gave you a gift and you accepted. So, we’re friends.”
Without a word, I pulled my school bag off my shoulder, reached inside, and took out the sa box he’d given .
“Here... take it. I don’t need it.”
Silence.
Then I realized — he wasn’t standing there anymore.
I looked up. He was already a few ters away, walking backward with that sa mischievous grin, the lollipop stick bobbing between his teeth.
“Hehehehe... I knew you’d do that,” he said. “But I’m not in the mood to take that back. See you again so other ti.”
He waved lazily, turned, and walked off, humming to himself like he hadn’t just appeared out of nowhere to confuse my evening.
I stood there, still holding the box.
My reflection in its surface looked just as confused as I felt.
“...Did I take a gift from the wrong guy?” I muttered.
The wind answered with silence.
The next few days passed in a small, dull loop.
I visited my father’s grave every day. The ritual had beco a quiet anchor — a place where the city’s noise dulled into sothing bearable.
The weird boy didn’t show up again. Maybe he’d been playing around or never ant anything. Either way, I had a few hours of peace. That felt like enough for now.
A week slipped by.
***
I was asleep when morning ca—a thin, pale light easing through the curtain. For a while everything was soft: the hum of the neighborhood, the distant clack of a street vendor setting up. Then—
Knock... knock... knock...
Soone at the door. The knock cut through the quiet like a stone dropped in still water. I opened my eyes slowly, rubbing sleep from them, and pushed myself up to answer.
Knock... knock... knock... again, impatient, prying. I moved to the door and pulled it open.
The sa man from Rivan Loan Service stood on the threshold—black suit, briefcase, the sa manufactured smile. Except this ti he wasn’t alone. Five large n stood a step behind him, their faces flat and cast in shadow. Two of them had tattoos snaking down their forearms; their hands rested near their pockets like they were already counting options.
“Hello, sir. Nice to et you again.” The loan agent’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I noticed you ignored my advice and went back to college. That won’t be a problem as long as you pay the installnts weekly and on ti.”
Fear climbed through like an ice hand. I shut the door quickly—click—and latched it. “I can’t,” I managed, my voice smaller than I ant it to be.
The smile on the man’s face didn’t change. “You shouldn’t do that, sir.” His tone was suddenly colder; the salesman mask slipped for a second. “You see, if you do sothing like that it just gives us a reason to beat you.”
Before I could brace myself, the world exploded outward—BOOM!—as the door crashed inward, splinters and wood flying. I stumbled aside; a shard barely missed my shoulder.
My heart slamd against my ribs. The five n took a single step forward, boots thudding in unison—thud, thud, thud, thud, thud—and the room filled with he damp, tallic scent of violence.
They moved like a unit, slow and certain. The loan man’s smile was a blade. The five behind him stepped forward. The morning light seed thinner sohow, the air too small for everything about to happen.
***
An hour later—
I was already unconscious.
Or maybe... sothing close to it.
“Hey... open your eyes, brat.”
A voice crawled into my ears. Rough. Mocking.
My eyelids trembled.
Slowly... I forced them open.
Everything was blurred — colors bleeding into one another.
It took a few seconds to realize they were people.
“Oh, he finally opened his eyes,” one of them said — the man with the scar on his cheek. His voice had that strange tone... half amusent, half disappointnt.
“See? I told you he didn’t die,” another one said, the one with tattoos snaking down his arm.
Their laughter was faint at first — but then it filled the room, low and ugly.
And then the man in the black suit — the loan agent — stepped into view. His tie was neat, his hair slicked back, and his smile...
That horrible, smiling face of his.
“But still,” he said, pretending to scold them, “you should take it easy, man.” He crouched down in front of . I could sll the faint scent of his cologne — sharp and artificial. “How the hell am I supposed to get the installnt if he dies?”
Finally, my vision began to clear — enough to make out the outlines properly.
And when my mind caught up to reality... I realized where I was.
I was sitting in a chair — or maybe tied to it, I couldn’t even tell. My wrists were stiff, skin burning from the ropes. My shirt clung to , soaked with blood.
I tried to move my fingers.
Nothing.
I tried to lift my head.
Barely an inch.
My entire body was numb.
Completely drained.
They had beaten so much... that even the pain had vanished.
Now there was only silence inside — a hollow stillness that felt heavier than agony itself.
I couldn’t even feel my body anymore.
It was as if I was floating inside it, watching from far away.
“Sir...” The loan agent crouched in front of again, his face just a blur in my fading sight. “If you had followed what I said, it wouldn’t have co to this.”
He tilted his head slightly, smiling as if he pitied .
“So, what do you say? Will you follow our orders from now on?”
...Are they blind or sothing?
Can’t they see I can’t even move my mouth—
let alone speak?
“Say sothing, sir,” he said, his voice still carrying that fake politeness. “Or we’ll have to beat you again.”
“Oh? Is it ti for beating already?” one of the gangsters chuckled, cracking his knuckles. “Hahaha, I really wanted to hit him more.”
Their laughter echoed faintly in my ears.
I wanted to answer.
To nod. To say yes.
To make them stop.
But I couldn’t.
My lips wouldn’t move.
My body wouldn’t respond.
So I just accepted it.
Accepted that there was nothing left to do.
I was ready for whatever ca next.
Even if that ant dying right here, tied to this chair, like a piece of trash.
And then—
A voice ca from outside.
“Hey, my friend...”
That familiar, lazy tone.
“I ca again.”
All of them turned toward the door.
The voice grew louder, closer.
“See? What I brought with tod—”
He stopped.
At the entrance stood him —
his hand still holding a small plastic bag, half-filled with snacks.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then the bag slipped from his fingers, landing softly on the floor.
A few packets rolled across the blood-sared tiles, scattering near my feet.
And for the first ti since I t him...
his eyes were cold.
No hint of playfulness.
No faint smile.
Just pure, sharp silence in his gaze.
Yeah...
That was my master.
Jihan Navraan.
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