Taehyung’s P.O.V

I kick my feet up on the desk and try not to die of boredom - none of my friends are in last period free, and it lasts for a mind-numbing hour before I can be released to club activities in the afternoon. I hate it.

“Kim Taehyung! Please try to act like a civilised human, at least for another half hour.”

I smile sarcastically at the teacher, who’s got to be at least a hundred years old with a nose like the curved beak of a pelican. “Of course, miss. I live to serve you.”

A boy I vaguely know, Jackson, snorts in the front row with compressed laughter. I can see the teacher trying to decide whether or not I’m being sincere, and then I see her decide that she doesn’t care enough to follow the argument through.

After five minutes, I put my feet back on the desk. I’m bored. I almost wish there was something going on with the other gang near us, the Warfare Gang, just so I'd have something to occupy myself with.

And it’s not like I have any work to do, either. Despite appearances - I’m Kim Taehyung, one-sixth of the (kind of) infamous Bangtan Boys gang - I do actually do my work, which means I can just sit here and watch the clock turn around, blowing bubblegum and trying to pick a hole in the knee of my jeans.

Unsuccessfully.

Just as another five minutes take a century to go by, there’s a timid knock on the classroom door. Despite myself, I perk up - maybe it’s Namjoon and Yoongi, coming to tell me to come to the radio station early or something. (Hah. I wish.)

“Come in,” the teacher calls, sounding just as bored as I am.

The door creaks open slowly, and a boy peers through the door, blinking a few times as he takes in the room before him, at all the eyes now aimed his way. I perk up, grinning. His hand, half-covered with the sleeve of his too-long hoodie, curls around the doorframe like he’s afraid to let go of it, and his teeth bite nervously at his lower lip as he looks around. I can’t help but notice his uniform. We’re not exactly a posh school, not by half, but none of us have uniforms as scruffy and holey as his, which is a few sizes too big for him and only makes him look smaller, younger, like someone playing dress-up with his older brother’s clothes. He looks, in a phrase, like a lamb coming among the wolves.

“H-hello,” he stammers to the teacher. “I’m… um, I’m Jeon Jungkook, and I’m… um, I was told to come here. For last period. I’m… um, the new transfer student?” He trails off uncertainly.

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