My strict professor 2

Jimin: “May I come in, sir?” Jimin asked again.

The silence in the classroom was so thick you could almost lean against it. Tae had never heard his classmates this quiet, not even during exams. Every pair of eyes was glued to the front of the room, where the man in the sharp black suit was finishing an equation on the whiteboard. His movements were precise, and his posture was rigid. This, Taehyung realized with a sinking feeling, was the new math teacher.

And he was the guy Tae had just glared, shoulder-checked and cursed out in the hallway.

His mouth went dry as he tried to force the words out as well.

Tae: “M-may I come in, sir?” he stammered, his voice sounding so small in the hushed room.

The man didn’t turn around immediately. He finished writing the final symbol with a quiet scritch of the marker before slowly placing it down on the tray. Then, he turned. His eyes, dark and unnervingly calm, swept over Jimin first, then landed on Taehyung. And a flicker of recognition passed through them.

Yoongi: “Yes, you may,” He said in a low voice, eyes fixed on Tae.

Taehyung swallowed hard. The way those eyes followed him as he stepped inside told him everything he needed to know. His miserable week at home was nothing compared to what was coming.

He was completely, utterly, absolutely doomed.

Jimin scurried to his seat like a mouse escaping a hawk. Tae tried to do the same, his head down, hoping to become invisible. He slid into his chair successfully. The professors eyes followed them as thry took their seats.

Yoongi: “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” he began, walking slowly to the center of the room. He clasped his hands behind his back. “I am Professor Min Yoongi by the way andI have been teaching this class for a week. And yet, I see two new faces today. Would you care to introduce yourselves and explain your absence?”

Jimin, ever the teacher’s pet even when he was in trouble, shot his hand up.

Jimin: “Park Jimin, sir. I was suspended.” He said it with a surprising amount of pride.

Professor Min’s eyes shifted to Taehyung then.

Yoongi: “And you?”

Taehyung squirmed in his seat, avoiding eye contact with the professor.

Tae: “Kim Taehyung. Also suspended.” He mumbled the words, hoping they’d get lost on the way to the front.

Yoongi: “Suspended,” Professor Min repeated, as if tasting the word. “A simultaneous week-long vacation for both of you. How convenient. And what was the reason for this shared time off?”

The class held its breath. Jimin, seeing an opportunity to make Taehyung look worse, blurted out,

Jimin: “We got into a fight, sir!”

A few students winced. Professor Min’s eyebrow twitche.

Yoongi: “A fight,” he repeated as he looked from Jimin’s sling to Taehyung’s bandaged arm. “I see it was a productive one. Did you at least settle your differences?”

Neither of them answered. The silence was answer enough.

Yoongi: “I see,” Professor Min said softly. He began to pace slowly in front of the whiteboard. “Well, while you were away settling your… differences… the rest of the class was learning about quadratic equations and polynomial functions. I trust you are both caught up on the material you missed?”

Jimin (nodded eagerly): “Yes, sir! I studied at home!”

Professor Min’s eyes landed to Taehyung again.

Yoongi: “Kim Taehyung?”

Taehyung’s mind went blank. Studied? He’d spent the week complaining about his arm and watching dramas.

Tae: “I… uh…”

Professor Min didn’t wait for a full answer. The slight frown was enough.

Yoongi: “I see.” He stopped his pacing and looked directly at Taehyung. “Stand up.”

A cold dread trickled down Tae’s spine. He slowly got to his feet, the legs of his chair scraping loudly against the floor.

Yoongi: “Now,” he said, his voice dangerously calm. “I want you to climb onto your chair.”

A confused murmur rippled through the class.

Tae (blinked): “What? Why?”

Yoongi: “The chair, Kim Taehyung. Now.”

The tone left no argument. It was ice-cold and left no room for negotiation. Heart hammering and face already burning with a mixture of confusion and humiliation, Tae placed his good hand on the chair back and awkwardly hoisted himself up. He wobbled slightly, his injured arm throbbing in protest.

Yoongi: “Arms straight up in the air,” he instructed, his face completely unreadable.

Tae: “But my arm—” Tae started to protest.

Yoongi: “Is clearly capable of being raised, as you demonstrated so forcefully in the hallway not ten minutes ago,” Yoongi cut him off, his voice sharpening just a fraction. “Arms up.”

And then Taehyung understood. This wasn’t about the suspension. This was about the stairs. This was about shoving past him and muttering that curse under his breath. This was payback.

Humiliation washed over him. He could feel every single pair of eyes in the room on him. He slowly, painfully, raised both arms above his head. The stretch sent a fresh wave of ache through his injured limb, and he bit his lip to keep from making a sound.

Yoongi: “You will remain there for the duration of the class,” Yoongi said, turning his back on Taehyung as if he were nothing more than a piece of furniture. “It should give you ample time to reflect on the importance of watching where you’re going. And perhaps on the value of respect.” He picked up the marker and turned back to the whiteboard. “Now, where were we? Ah, yes. The discriminant.”

And just like that, the lesson continued. Professor Min’s voice was calm and measured as he explained complex mathematical concepts, as if there wasn’t a student standing on a chair with his arms in the air like a ridiculous human antenna.

The class, terrified into absolute submission, followed along, no one daring to even glance in Taehyung’s direction.

For Taehyung, the next forty minutes were a special kind of torture. His arms began to shake almost immediately. His injured shoulder screamed in protest, and a dull ache spread down to his fingertips. His good arm wasn’t doing much better. The position was unnatural, and every second felt like an hour. He focused on the clock above the door, watching the minute hand drag itself around the face with agonizing slowness. He tried to distract himself by thinking of anything else, the new video game he wanted, what he would have for lunch, the look on Jimin’s face when he’d gotten hurt, but the physical discomfort was too overwhelming.

A few times, he tried to subtly lower his arms just an inch, to relieve the burning in his muscles. And each time, without even turning around, Professor Min would say, “Arms high,Taehyung. I can hear you slacking.” It was uncanny and utterly terrifying. Taehyung was convinced that Professor Min has some super power or maybe two hiden pair of eyes at back of his head.

When the bell finally rang, Taehyung’s whole body sagged with relief.

Yoongi: “You may get down,” Yoongi said, not even looking at him as he gathered his notes.

Taehyung practically fell off the chair, his arms dropping to his sides like dead weights. They felt heavy and numb and were buzzing with a painful pins-and-needles sensation. He slumped into his seat, utterly defeated.

Professor Min addressed the class.

Yoongi: “The homework for tomorrow is problems one through twenty-five on page eighty-four. I expect full solutions, not just answers.” He adressed the class, then his eyes found Jimin and Taehyung. “For our two returning students, you will also complete all the assigned work from the past week. I will expect it all on my desk at the start of tomorrow’s lecture.”

Jimin (nodded vigorously): “Yes, sir! Of course, sir!”

Professor Min’s gaze finally settled fully on Taehyung, who was miserably rubbing his aching shoulder.

Yoongi: “Kim Taehyung.”

Taehyung looked up, a spark of defiance trying to ignite in his eyes despite his exhaustion.

Yoongi: “Sit up straight,” Yoongi said in a voice low. “You will respect your teachers. You will complete the work. And you will keep your attitude in check. I will not tolerate any disrespect from any of my students. Is that clear?”

Taehyung wanted to scream. He wanted to argue. He wanted to tell this pale, stern nightmare of a man exactly what he could do with his quadratic equations. But the memory of the last forty minutes was too fresh, the ache in his body was too real. The words died in his throat, and all that came out was a weak, sullen, “Yes, sir.”

Professor Min gave a short, curt nod, then turned and left the classroom. The moment the door closed behind him, the room erupted into a cacophony of released tension and chatter. And the first thing Taehyung heard was Jimin’s mocking laughter.

Jimin: “Wow, Taehyung,” Jimin sneered, walking over to his desk with a stupid smirk. “You looked great up there. Really suited you. Maybe you should try out for the circus.”

Taehyung shot to his feet, his chair screeching backward.

Tae: “Shut up, shortie! Or I’ll put you on the ceiling next time!”

Jimin: “Oh, I’m so scared,” Jimin taunted, poking at Tae's bandaged arm. “What are you gonna do? Cry to your mommy again? I heard you wailing all the way from the nurse’s office.”

That was it. Tae lunged, his good hand grabbing a handful of Jimin’s hair.

Tae: “You wanna finish what we started?!”

Wooshik and Dukhyun immediately jumped between them, pulling them apart.

Wooshik: “Hey, hey, knock it off! You just got back!” Wooshik hissed, shoving Tae back. “Do you want another suspension? Or worse, another session with Professor Min?”

The mention of Professor Min was like a bucket of cold water. Both boys froze, their anger momentarily overshadowed by a shared, primal fear. They glared at each other, chests heaving.

Tae: “This isn’t over,” Tae muttered, snatching his backpack from the floor.

Jimin: “It never is with you,” Jimin shot back, adjusting his own sling with a wince.

The rest of the school day was a blur of misery for Taehyung. His body ached, his pride was in tatters, and the mountain of make-up work he had to do felt utterly impossible. Everywhere he went, he heard snickers and whispers. “There’s the guy who stood on the chair…” He felt like a walking spectacle.

The bus ride home was the opposite of the joyful one that morning. He sat slumped by the window, silent while Wooshik and Dukhyun tried, and failed, to cheer him up.

Dukhyun: “Look on the bright side,” Dukhyun offered weakly. “At least you didn’t have to do any math in class today like me."

Taehyung just groaned and leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the window.

He dragged himself through the front door of his apartment, looking more defeated than he had after the actual fight. His mother was in the living room, folding laundry. She took one look at his face and her own fell.

Jihu: “Tae? Baby, what’s wrong?” she asked, dropping a shirt and coming over to him. “Did something happen? Did your arm hurt again? Did you fight with Jimin again?”

The concern in her voice, the gentle way she touched his face, was the final straw. The story, mixed with all his frustration and humiliation, came tumbling out in a messy, dramatic flood.

Tae: “It was horrible, Omma!” he wailed, letting her lead him to the couch. “The new math teacher is a monster! A complete and total monster!” He threw himself onto the cushions, burying his face in a pillow. “Mrs. Lim is gone! And this… this Min Yoongi guy replaced her! He’s evil!”

Jihu sat beside him, her hand rubbing comforting circles on his back.

Jihu: “Shhh, tell me what happened.”

Taehyung lifted his head, his eyes wide with indignation as he starr at his mother.

Tae: “First, he made me and Jimin say why we were suspended in front of the whole class! Then he asked if I’d done the work from the week I missed! How was I supposed to do it? I was injured!” He sat up, getting more animated. “And then—and then he made me stand on my chair! On the chair, Omma! With my arms in the air! The whole class! Because I accidentally bumped into him in the hall before class and didn’t say sorry right away! My arm feels like it’s going to fall off!”

Jihu’s eyes widened in shock.

Jihu: “He made you stand on a chair? For the whole class? With your injury? That’s… that’s too much!”

Tae: “It was!” Tae agreed, nodding like a kid. “He’s so mean! And he gave me, like, a thousand pages of homework to do by tomorrow! He’s trying to kill me! I hate him! I wish Mrs. Lim would come back. She was nice. She never made me stand on chairs.” He slumped against his mother’s side, playing the role of the persecuted victim to perfection. “My life is over, Omma. I’m going to fail math. I’m going to have to stand on that chair every day. I’m never going back.”

Jihu held him close, making soft, sympathetic noises as she rubbed his back.

Jihu: “Oh, my poor boy. That does sound awful. A teacher shouldn’t be so harsh.” She kissed the top of his head. “Don’t you worry. You’ll feel better after some food. I made your favorite kimchi stew. And I’ll help you with your homework, okay?”

Taehyung sniffled, a little of his performance becoming real as her kindness soothed his ruffled feathers.

Tae: “Really, Omma?”

Jihu: “Of course,” she said smiling. “We’ll get it done. Now, go wash up. Food is almost ready.”

As Taehyung trudged toward his room, his spirits slightly lifted by the promise of food and help, Jihu stayed on the couch, her smile fading into a faint frown. She wasn’t a confrontational person, but the image of her son, injured and forced to stand on a chair, didn’t sit right with her. She picked up her phone, scrolling through the college’s website until she found the faculty directory. There he was. Professor Min Yoongi. She noted his name and the email address listed beside it.

She wouldn’t say anything to Taehyung, not yet. But perhaps a gently worded email from a concerned parent wouldn’t hurt. Just to ask about the make-up work, of course. And maybe, to subtly mention that her son was still recovering from a rather serious injury.

The comforting smell of kimchi stew did little to lift the cloud of indignation hanging over Taehyung. He shoveled food into his mouth, the story of his horrible day spilling out between bites, each retelling becoming more dramatic and detailed for his father’s benefit.

Tae: “And then he just stood there, Appa,” Tae said, his voice whiny with pouting exaggeration. He sniffled for effect, widening his eyes to look as wronged as possible. “He looked at me like I was a bug. A bug he was about to squish. He didn’t care about my arm at all. He made me stand there until the bell rang. My shoulders still feel like they’re on fire. I am going to sue him."

Jeongjin listened, chewing his rice slowly. He watched his son’s performance, the theatrical sniffles, the pout that had worked on them since he was a toddler. He saw the genuine frustration there, too, mixed in with the act.

Jeongjn: “A teacher made you stand on a chair?” Jeongjin finally said, his tone was neutral. “For the whole class?”

Tae: “Yes!” Tae insisted, slamming his good hand on the table lightly. “Just for bumping into him! That midget only had to say he was sorry and sit down. It’s not fair! He’s got it out for me, I just know it.”

Jeongjin: “Maybe you shouldn’t have been running in the halls,” Jeongjin offered, a simple, logical statement that sent Tae into a fresh wave of sputters.

Tae: “Appa! Whose side are you on? He’s a monster! And he gave me, like, a million pages of homework from the whole week! It’s due tomorrow! It’s impossible! How can you take his side!?"

Jihu, who had been quietly stirring her stew, looked up and offered a warm smile.

Jihu: “I’ll help you after dinner, Tae. We’ll get it done together baby.”

Tae groaned, slumping back in his chair with a pout.

Tae: “It’s math, Omma. You know I don’t get it. It’s like a different language. A stupid, boring language.”

After dinner, true to her word, Jihu sat with him at the small dining table, textbooks and notebooks spread out between them. Taehyung’s initial frustration soon melted into a familiar, glazed-over confusion. His mother pointed at numbers and symbols, speaking in a patient and soothing voice, but the words just swirled around his head without sticking. An ‘x’ here, a ‘y’ there, strange swooping curves that were supposed to be functions. It was useless.

Jihu: “See, baby, you just have to isolate the variable,” Jihu said for the third time, her finger tracing a line on the page.

Tae stared blankly at the page.

Tae: “Why? Where did it go? Why is it isolated? It looks lonely.”

Jihu sighed softly, a small worried frown on her face. Her son wasn’t a bad kid, not really (as she believes). He was just… lost when it came to this. And this new teacher sounded so severe. Her protective instincts, always simmering just below the surface, bubbled over. She couldn’t stand the thought of this Professor Min crushing her son’s spirit, injured arm or not.

While Taehyung battled with a particularly stubborn equation, his head drooping lower and lower, Jihu slipped away to the living room and opened her laptop. She found the college’s contact page, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. She just wanted to explain. To make him understand.

Dear Professor Min, she typed, her words careful and polite.

My name is Jihu, I am Kim Taehyung’s mother. He told me about the incident in class today and I am so sorry for his behavior in the hallway. He can be impulsive, but he doesn’t mean any harm.

I am writing to you just to kindly let you know that he is still recovering from a rather significant injury to his arm and shoulder from last week’s fight. He is in a lot of discomfort, though he would never admit it. He also struggles a great deal with mathematics and often becomes very frustrated with himself. I worry that his frustration comes across as rudeness, but it truly is not his intention.

I would be so grateful if you could perhaps go a little easier on him. He is a good boy at heart, just a little lost sometimes with his studies. Thank you for your understanding.

Sincerely, Kim Jihu

She read it over twice, nodded to herself, and hit ‘send’. A small wave of relief washed over her. There. She had done something. She had advocated for her son.

Back at the table, Tae had lost the battle. His head was pillowed on his textbook, his breathing deep and even. He was fast asleep, a tiny line of drool threatening to land on a half finished polynomial. Jihu’s heart squeezed. She gently closed the book and let him sleep. The homework could wait.

The next morning, Tae woke up with a jolt, remembering the mountain of work he hadn’t done. Panic seized him for a moment before he shrugged it off. So what? He’d just tell the professor his arm hurt too much to write. It was basically the truth. The guy couldn’t punish him for that, could he?

He walked into math class with a false sense of confidence, deliberately avoiding eye contact with Professor Min, who was already writing on the board. As the lesson began, Professor Min’s flat voice cut through the room.

Yoongi: “Place your homework from page eighty-four on the corner of your desks. I will be checking it.”

A rustle of paper filled the room. Taehyung kept his head down, doodling idly in his notebook. Professor Min moved through the rows, his sharp eyes scanning papers, occasionally making a quiet checkmark with his pen.Then he stopped at Taehyung’s desk and stared down at thr boy.

Yoongi: “Kim Taehyung. Your homework.”

Taehyung looked up, putting on his best pitiful face.

Tae: “I couldn’t do it, sir.”

Yoongi: “And why is that?”

Tae: “My arm,” Tae said, gesturing to the bandages with a well-practiced wince. “It was hurting too bad last night. I could barely move it. I tried, but I just couldn’t hold the pencil.” He laid it on the desk, hoping for a shred of sympathy.

Professor Min looked down at him, his expression utterly unchanged. There was no anger, no annoyance, just a cool, assessing gaze.

Yoongi: “I see,” he said. His eyes flickered to Taehyung’s notebook, where he had been effortlessly doodling a detailed cartoon character just moments before.

Yoongi: “Your injury seems selective. You can hold a pencil for art, but not for algebra.”

Taehyung’s mouth fell open. How did he—?

Yoongi: “Join the others at the back of the class,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He pointed to where three other students were already standing, having also failed to complete the assignment.

Humiliation burned Taehyung’s cheeks. So much for his excuse. He grabbed his notebook and slunk to the back of the room, joining the line of failures. He stood there for the entire lecture, fuming. The quiet scratch of the marker on the board, the respectful silence of the class, the occasional correct answer from stupid, know-it-all Jimin, it all grated on his nerves. This man was impossible. He was a robot. A heartless, cruel robot. Taehyung hated him more than he had ever hated anyone in his entire life.

When the bell finally rang, the relief was immediate for everyone but Taehyung. He was gathering his things, planning a furious escape, when Professor Min’s voice stopped him.

Yoongi: “Kim Taehyung. A word in my office. Now.”

A cold dread trickled down his spine. His office? This was worse than standing in the back of the class. This was unknown territory. Had he finally pushed it too far? Was he getting expelled? His heart hammered against his ribs as he followed the professor’s retreating back out of the classroom and down the hall.

Professor Min’s office was small and starkly neat. A single desk, a bookshelf filled with intimidating math books, and a single framed picture of an older woman with a kind face and a fat cat on her lap. There were no personal touches, no mess. It was just like him. Ordered and cold and boring.

Yoongi: “Sit,” Yoongi said, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk. He sat down himself, folding his hands on the wood surface.

Taehyung sat, perching on the edge of the chair, ready to bolt. He expected yelling. A lecture. A detention slip so he braced himself.

Yoongi: “I received an email from your mother last night,” he began, his voice quieter than it was in class, but no less intense.

Taehyung’s blood ran cold. His mother? She’d emailed him? What had she said?

Yoongi: “She is very concerned about you,” he continued. “She says you are in a great deal of pain from your injury. That you struggle with mathematics and become frustrated. That you are a good boy at heart.”

Each word felt like a tiny slap. His mother had laid all his weaknesses bare to this man, this monster. She had told him Taehyung was bad at math. She had made him sound like a helpless, pathetic child. The humiliation was so complete, so utterly devastating, it stole the air from his lungs. He could only sit there, staring, his face burning with a mixture of shame and anger.

Yoongi: “She worries about you a great deal,” Yoongi said, his dark eyes watching Taehyung’s reaction closely. “It is clear she loves you very much.”

Taehyung found his voice, and it came out as a low, furious hiss.

Tae: “She shouldn’t have done that.” he muttered under his breath but Yoongi heard him anyway.

Yoongiv “Perhaps not. But her intention was to protect you. A mother’s instinct.” He paused. “She asked me to be gentle with you. To go easier on you.”

A tiny, foolish spark of hope flickered in Taehyung’s chest. Maybe this was it. Maybe the torture was over.

But that spark was instantly crushed with Yoongi's next words.

Yoongi: “I will not be doing that,” He said, his voice firm this time. “The world will not go easy on you, Taehyung. Your injury is not an excuse for a lack of effort. Your frustration is not an excuse for a lack of respect.” He leaned forward slightly. “What I will do is this: you can come to me for help. My office hours are posted on the door. If you do not understand the work, you ask. You do not give up. You do not make excuses. You do not sleep in class.”

He looked at Taehyung, and for a split second, Taehyung thought he saw something else in his eyes. Not anger, not even disappointment. Something heavier.

Yoongi: “You will also stop the fighting. You will keep your attitude in check especially. I am sorry to say but you are mannerless, and it does not suit you. Your mother deserves a son who does not make her worry like this. If you were my student acting this way for any of my colleagues, the punishment would be far more severe than standing on a chair."

The words were like gasoline on the fire of Taehyung’s anger. How dare he? How dare he talk about his mother? How dare he act like he knew anything about him? The offer of help felt like an insult to him.

He shot to his feet, his chair screeching backward. He didn’t say a word. He just glared, his eyes shining with unshed tears of pure rage, and stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind him with a bang that echoed down the empty hallway.

He didn’t speak to his mother that night. When she asked how his day was, he just glared at her and shut his bedroom door. Later, he heard her gentle knock, her worried voice asking if he was okay.

Tae: “Why did you email him? Why did you tell him I’m stupid? I hate you!” he yelled through the door.

The hurt silence on the other side of the door was louder than any of his yelling. He felt a twinge of guilt, but it was quickly swallowed by his all-consuming anger. She had humiliated him. She had made everything worse.

And things did get worse. A few days later, Professor Min was announced as their new homeroom teacher, their class incharge. Taehyung’s personal nightmare had just been promoted.

It became a routine. Any small infraction, a muttered insult to Jimin, a disrespectful eye-roll to another teacher, a prank pulled on a friend, and the command would come: “Kim Taehyung. Professor Min’s office. Now.”

He would trudge down the familiar hall, his stomach a knot of dread and defiance. The punishment was always the same. “Stand in the corner. Face the wall. Arms in the air.” And he would stand. For what felt like hours. His arms would scream, his shoulders would burn, and his eyes would sting with angry, frustrated tears that he refused to let fall. He would stare at the blank wall, plotting elaborate and impossible revenges, his hatred for Professor Min solidifying into a cold, hard stone in his chest. This man wasn't just a teacher; he was a jailer, a torturer, the villain of his story. And Tae was determined to never, ever give him the satisfaction of winning.

The two months that followed were a slow, grinding torture for Tae. Professor Min’s presence was like a constant gray cloud over his life, and math class was the daily downpour. The initial fiery anger had banked into a low, constant simmer of misery. He was tired. Tired of the punishments, tired of the sharp tone of voice that seemed reserved just for him, and tired most of all of the numbers and symbols that refused to make any sense in his head.

He was standing in the corner of Professor Min’s office again. His arms, which had long since healed, were raised above his head out of pure, conditioned habit. This time, it was for talking back to the history teacher. It was always something.

Professor Min was at his desk, grading papers with quick, efficient slashes of his red pen. The silence was heavy, broken only by the scratch of the pen and the faint hum of the fluorescent light above. Taehyung’s arms began to ache, a familiar, dull throb.

Yoongi: “You can put your arms down,” He without looking up. “And come here.”

Surprised, Taehyung lowered his stiff arms, rubbing his shoulders. He warily approached the desk.

Professor Min slid a notebook across the polished surface. It was open to a page filled with Taehyung’s messy, half-hearted attempts at the previous night’s homework. Red marks covered it like wounds.

Yoongi: “You didn’t even try the last five problems,” he stated with a flat voice.

Taehyung shrugged, looking at a spot on the wall behind the professor’s head.

Tae: “Didn’t get it.”

Yoongi (sighed): “Sit.”

Taehyung sat, slouching deeply in the chair, preparing for another lecture.

But it didn’t come. Instead, Professor Min pulled a fresh sheet of paper toward himself.

Yoongi: “We’re going to go over it. Pay attention.”

And he began to explain. He started from the very beginning, breaking down the concepts into smaller, simpler steps. His voice was still stern but it lacked its usual cutting edge. He was actually trying to teach him.

But to Taehyung, it was just noise. The numbers swam on the page. ‘X’ and ‘Y’ were not variables to be solved; they were personal enemies. He’d listen for a minute, his brow furrowed in concentration, and then he’d get lost. The frustration would build, and his questions would come out all wrong.

Tae: “But why does the ‘y’ go over there?” he’d ask, pointing at a step that seemed to have happened by magic. “Who decided that? It was fine where it was.”

Yoongi would have to take a slow quiet breath every time he answered.

Yoongi: “It’s not about where it wants to be, Taehyung. It’s about algebraic rules. You isolate the variable.”

Tae: “Isolate it from what? Its friends?” Tae muttered, a childish sarcasm edging into his voice.

Another problem. Another attempt.

Yoongi: “Okay, so if you divide both sides by four…” He said, writing it out.

Tae: “But why four?” Tae interrupted as he tilted his head, looking absolutely innocent. “Why not five? It’s a nicer number. Four is so… uneven.”

Professor Min’s pen stilled. He closed his eyes for a brief second. Taehyung could see the muscle in his jaw tighten. The patient teacher was fading, and the stern professor was fighting his way back to the surface.

Yoongi: “It is four,” he said, his voice dropping into a lower, more dangerous one “because that is the coefficient in front of the variable. It is not a matter of preference.”

Tae: “I just don’t get it,” Tae said, throwing his hands up in defeat, his voice whiny. “It’s stupid. Why do I even need to know this? I’m never gonna use it. Am I gonna go to the store and ask for ‘x’ pounds of apples?”

That was the final straw. Yoongi’s patience, which had been stretched thinner than a wire, snapped.

He slammed his hand down on the desk. The sudden, sharp crack made Taehyung jump violently in his seat, his heart leaping into his throat.

Yoongi: “Enough!” Yoongi’s voice wasn’t a yell, but it was a hard, cold crack of sound that was somehow worse. “Stop acting like a brat! This is not a game! This is not a joke! Your willful ignorance is not charming, it is exhausting! Now, either you sit there, you shut your mouth, and you try to learn, or you go back to the corner for the rest of the hour. Your choice.”

Taehyung flinched back as if he’d been struck. The professor had never yelled like that before. The anger in his eyes was so intense, so real. Taehyung felt a sharp sting behind his own eyes. His lips began to wobble traitorously. He bit down on them hard, glaring at the desk, refusing to let the tears fall. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

Yoongi saw it. He saw the wobble, the sheen of unshed tears, the way the boy’s bravado crumbled into something young and wounded. This kid. The anger drained from his face as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a look of profound weariness. He sighed, a long, heavy sound that seemed to carry the weight of the world and picked up his pen again.

Yoongi: “Let’s try it one more time,” he said, his voice quiet now, all the fire gone out of it. “From the top.”

He explained it again, slower, with even more patience than before. Taehyung, humiliated and shaken, listened in silence. He still didn’t get it, not really but he was too afraid and too proud to ask another question.

When the end-of-the-day bell rang, signaling the end of Taehyung’s punishment, he practically leaped out of the chair.

Yoongi: “Wait,” Yoongi said and gestured to a tall stack of notebooks on the corner of his desk. “Take these back to the classroom for me. The janitor will lock up. I have to leave immediately.”

Taehyung stared at him. More errands? Was this part of the punishment too?

Yoongi was already grabbing his coat and bag, his movements rushed and uncharacteristically flustered. He looked… worried.

Yoongi: “I have to get home,” he muttered, more to himself than to Taehyung. He didn’t explain why. He didn’t say another word, just hurried out of the office, leaving Taehyung alone with the stack of notebooks.

Taehyung stood there for a moment, confused by the professor’s abrupt exit. And then an idea began to form. A glorious, terrible idea for revenge. The man had just yelled at him, humiliated him, made him feel small and stupid. And now he was in a hurry? This was the perfect opportunity.

A slow, wicked smile spread across Taehyung’s face. He grabbed the stack of notebooks and carried them to the empty classroom, dumping them unceremoniously on the teacher’s desk. His mind was racing, plotting.

He ran to the window that overlooked the faculty parking lot. There it was. Professor Min’s simple, dark sedan. He looked around. The lot was mostly empty. This was his chance.

He sprinted down the stairs and out into the parking lot, his heart pounding with a thrilling mix of fear and excitement. He pulled his house key from his pocket, its sharp point perfect for the job. With a quick, guilty glance around, he knelt by the driver’s side front tire and jammed the key into the rubber valve cap, twisting it until he heard the sharp, satisfying hiss of air escaping. He did the same to the other three tires. A perfect, flat set of tires. Let’s see him hurry home now.

Giggling to himself, he ran back into the school, his mind already planning the phase two of his plan. He found Wooshik and Dukhyun loitering by their lockers.

Tae: “Give me your phone,” he demanded, breathless from running.

Wooshik: “Why?” Wooshik asked, handing it over cautiously.

Tae: “Just watch,” Tae said, his eyes gleaming with malicious joy. He climbed the stairs to the empty, windy rooftop. He dialed Professor Min’s number from the contact list on the school’s website, which Wooshik had saved for some forgotten project.

The phone rang twice before it was answered.

Yoongi: “Hello? This is Professor Min.” He sounded out of breath, probably already at his car.

Taehyung pitched his voice higher, putting on a fake, panicked tone.

Tae: “Hello, is this Min Yoongi?”

Yoongi: “Yes, who is this?” Yoongi’s voice was tight with impatience.

Tae: “This is… this is Nurse Kim from Seoul General,” Tae stated, covering the phone to stifle his giggles. “I’m so sorry to tell you this, but there’s been a terrible accident. Your mother… she took a very bad fall down a flight of stairs. I’m so sorry… she didn’t make it. You need to come to the hospital immediately.”

The silence on the other end of the line was absolute. Then, a sharp, choked intake of breath.

Yoongi: “What? No. That’s… that’s not possible. I just spoke to her—”

Taw: “I’m so sorry, sir. Please, you need to come now.” Tae couldn’t hold it in anymore. A giggle escaped him.

He heard a ragged, broken sound from the other end, then the line went dead. Tae burst into laughter, doubling over on the rooftop.

Tae: “You should have heard his voice!” he said to his friends, who were looking at him with a mixture of awe and unease. “He totally bought it! Serves him right!”

Meanwhile, Yoongi stood frozen in the parking lot, the world tilting on its axis. The phone slipped from his numb fingers and clattered onto the ground. His mother. His granny. The one person who had always been there. She didn’t make it. The words echoed in his head.

He stumbled toward his car, his vision blurring, and then he saw them. Four flat tires. A cold, sick realization washed over him. This wasn’t a coincidence. This was connected. Someone had done this. Someone had called him.

But the horror of the news pushed all logic aside. He didn’t have time to think. He spun around, his breath coming in short panicked gasps. The bus-stop. He sprinted toward the main road, his legs pumping, his heart hammering against his ribs like a wild bird. He saw the bus pulling away from the curb, its taillights disappearing into the traffic.

Yoongi: “No! Wait!” he screamed, but it was gone.

There was no other choice. He started to run. He ran like he had never run before, his dress shoes slapping hard against the pavement. The city became a blur of noise and motion around him. Tears he didn’t even feel were streaming down his face, mixing with the cold sweat on his skin. Images flashed in his mind: Granny’s smile, the way she hummed when she cooked, the feel of her hand on his forehead when he was sick. Gone. It was all gone. A fall down the stairs. She must have been so scared. He should have been there. He never should have left her alone.

The run felt like an eternity. His lungs burned, his side cramped with a sharp stitch, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He finally skidded to a halt in front of his house, fumbling with his keys, his hands shaking so badly he could barely get the key into the lock.

Yoongi: “Granny! GRANNY!” He threw the door open, his voice a raw, broken sob.

There was a moment of silence. Then, a familiar, gentle voice called from the living room.

Granny: “Yoongi? Is that you? Why are you shouting, you’ll scare the cat.”

He stumbled into the living room, his chest heaving. And there she was. Sitting on the sofa, wrapped in her favorite knitted shawl, the fat cat purring contentedly in her lap. The television was on, showing her favorite historical drama. A cup of tea steamed on the side table. She looked perfectly fine. A little pale perhaps, but alive. Whole.

The relief that crashed over him was so immense, so physical, that his legs gave out. He sank to his knees on the rug in front of her, great, wrenching sobs tearing from his chest. He buried his face in her lap, his whole body shaking, clutching the fabric of her shawl as if he were drowning.

Granny: “Yoongi! My boy, what is it? What’s wrong?” Granny asked, her voice laced with alarm and confusion. She dropped her knitting and placed her hands on his heaving shoulders. “Did something happen? Are you hurt?”

He couldn’t speak. He could only cry, all the terror and the panic and the unbearable grief he had felt for the last twenty minutes pouring out of him in a torrent of tears. He cried for the horrible phone call, for the flat tires, for the long, desperate run, but most of all, he cried for the few minutes he had lived in a world where she was gone. He held onto her, weeping like the lost little boy she had found on the street all those years ago, desperately grateful that his world was still whole.

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