“Beanpole!” His tone was stringent and held no less malice than the Zodiac killer himself. He a much taller kid against the long, green metal lockers as his gaggle of other kids filed in around him. “Tell me, Beanpole, just how have you been?” His posse shared a laugh as he sneered. The fist he had entangled tightly in the tall kid’s t-shirt was white-knuckled and strong. Behind a punch from that fist must have held the boiling rage of at least a thousand caged tigers. Easily.

“Why isn't anyone helping him?” Asked another student who, with a friend, was standing safely against the mottled brick wall littered with posters. Their fluorescent basketball shoes stood out on the yellowed tile flooring.

The other chuckled, voice deep and laced with a tinge of pity. “You think someone is going to stand up to him of all people just for a hoser like Junhong.”

Just as he uttered that indifferent, outsider sentence, that ‘hoser’ of a kid Junhong was, once again, shoved into one of the many lockers that lined the hallway. The buzzing lights overhead did nothing to aid the throbbing behind his eyes as he was wailed upon by the diamond hard fists of the one only affectionately known as his bully.

“You've had enough, Beanpole?” He hissed, face close enough so that Junhong could smell the stinking tobacco on his breath. “C’mon, tell me you've had enough.”

“Please,” he croaked, as the air was repeatedly knocked out of him each and every time that his spine met the metal locks of the lockers. “Please, Daehyun, I've had enough.”

The fingers that had kept a firm grip on the front of his shirt loosened and he slid down the lockers into a beaten mess on the dusty floors. All of the guys surrounding him laughed and carried on as he gasped eagerly for breath he could never have. “We’re not done with you yet, Beanpole,” Daehyun growled, tone so low that it held a sharp and dangerous edge. “You and I are going to settle this one on one. I'll see you this afternoon at three. You know where to meet me.” With one last haughty sniff and a well aimed lougee, he was gone. No one stopped, though. All of the students just went on with their morning as if this was completely normal.

And it was.

From the leather bomber perched upon his shoulders to the silver cross ironically strung around his neck, everyone knew who Daehyun Jung was. He was a burn out, yet so much more. A familiar face in not only detention, but to the police as well. His weekends were spent with a gun in his waistband and a fatty in his mouth. Weekdays he skipped classes when he could, and when he couldn't he made them hell for whoever he'd decided to single out that day. Usually, it was Junhong. There was something about him that made Daehyun want to gravitate towards him and just beat the living out of him. There was no one on or off the school grounds that would willingly mess with Daehyun. As an accomplished gang leader and renowned high school bully, there was this definite air to him that said ‘Don't with me.’

Youngjae was like his lackey. From the brightly coloured button up shirts to the tight pants that he wore, it was obvious that Youngjae was a flamer. He'd attached himself to Daehyun in some hopeless, twisted sort of way of affection. The way that the upperclassman beat on him though was softer, more forgiving. Almost as if he had a soft spot for a certain Youngjae Yoo. Though Youngjae was smart. In fact, the kid was practically brilliant. There was no questioning that he wasn't completely blinded by his so-called ‘Stockholm syndrome’ -- though that definitely wasn't the correct name for it. He was intelligent enough to see that if he was with Daehyun, there was a special sort of protection that he wouldn't get anywhere else. None of the lesser-bullies could touch him because he was undoubtedly conspicuously branded with ‘Daehyun's,’ which made it so no one else could lay a finger on him.

This leads to a certain ‘Himchan Kim’ who was well known for his academic prowess among other things. Though his personality left, at times, much to be desired, it was his attitude that left most reeling. He was cold, extremely numb to everything that didn't concern him. A pacifist, yet he didn't make it his priority to get involved with other people’s issues. Daehyun wouldn't dare touch him. Himchan had a year and several inches on him, and just by the very way he looked down on that dusty brown mop of hair left even the intense and intimidating Daehyun hesitant to pick a fight. But no one ever said he wasn't itching to.

Finally, the notorious Yongguk Bang. His past was shrouded in mystery and his face was a chiseled creation of both endearment and a fear-instilling visage. He was among the ‘untouchables’ along with Himchan. It was only coincidence that the two were best friends.

Yongguk was… different, though. He wasn't a flamer like Youngjae, a violent burnout like Daehyun, or a richie like Himchan. He was painfully, well, plain. Average grades, average height, average everything else. The only thing about him that was above the bar were his terrifying looks and his hunger for peace. What stopped him from defending a loser like Junhong was fear. He was afraid to step in, to get involved. There was no telling the consequences if he were to get between Daehyun and his target. It could honestly be a life or death choice, because rumour had it that Daehyun had killed countless men without a bat of a lash.

With that, he was subjected to watching the same turbulence over and over again whilst waiting outside his Spanish class.

However, today, it seemed as if there was new meat.

A boy, about Daehyun’s height, traversed the hallway with all of the brutality of a small, brown mouse. His backpack was thick and heavy, most likely full to the brim with books and loose-leaf paper; a freshie. He looked innocent and foreign, though Asian wasn’t particularly rare in the Boston area. It wasn’t in his scared, worrisome little face. No, it was in the way he hunched over to himself, binder hugged to his chest. He was so out of place, like formal wear in a disco. There was no doubt that soon enough he would unknowingly overstep his pre-set boundaries. As was natural with all new students.

“Excuse me?” His voice was thick with an accent, the origin of which unknown. The question was directed at Himchan, who looked down with a glare that could freeze a grown man in fear.

“What is it?” Himchan answered back to him. Yongguk silently urged him to be kinder to this kid, who was obviously fresh out of some completely different country.

The kid visibly shrunk, retreating further into himself. “Um, I…” He muttered under his breath, seemingly unable to form a coherent sentence. “I would like to know if this is the Spanish room?” He pointed a finger to a door hung with cliche colourful Mexico-themed decorations. It made no sense for those to be there, really. The Spanish teacher was whiter than the moon.

Before Himchan could even let out some nasty affront, Yongguk grabbed him by the shoulder and took over. “Yes, it is. Do you have class here?”

The kid nodded in response and they both watched as he and his ridiculous, laughable mountain of a bag made their way into the dreary little Spanish room. “He’s not going to last long,” Himchan hummed, shoving his hands in the pockets of white washed jeans. “The moment Daehyun sets eye on him he’s done for.”

Yongguk gave no answer. He knew it was the undeniable truth. Daehyun found the weak and preyed on them. He snuffed them out as soon as he could with awful disparage and well-aimed punches. The two sighed as the bell rang, it’s shrill annoyance reverberating throughout the meek hallways. They reluctantly headed to their first period class as many others did the same.

Junhong stood up in that same feeble, shaky way he always did in the morning after Daehyun visited him. With a laboured breath, he made his way down the emptying hallway and to gym where he’d be subjected to an hour of vigorous cardio and unforgettable embarrassment.

1984. A new year, yet a normal day.