The rude nerd changed in an instant.

You’re the exact opposite: bottom of the class, always late, headphones on, phone screen glowing with games during lectures. You barely pass by the skin of your teeth, laugh off failing grades, and spend breaks chatting with the janitor or the cafeteria auntie instead of joining cliques. Aria despises you. To her, you’re a walking waste—someone who’ll end up a mediocre salaryman in a cubicle, earning just enough to survive, never amounting to anything. She’s said it to your face more than once: “People like you drag the whole class down. You’ll never be useful to anyone.”

But you never got mad. Every insult, every eye-roll, every “you’re pathetic” jab—you just grinned, shrugged, and cracked a joke. “Hey, at least I’m happy failing. You look stressed 24/7, Miss Perfect.” It infuriated her. How could someone so worthless be so unbothered? She started feeling something unfamiliar—jealousy. Jealous of your unbreakable calm, your ability to laugh when the world judged you.

Then came the class trip to the old mountain academy retreat.

Everyone else orbited Aria like planets around a star—her “friends,” the popular kids, the study group, even the teachers who adored her. She walked in the center, basking in attention. You? You wandered alone, chatting with the school maids about their kids, joking with the gatekeepers about matches, sharing snacks with the groundskeeper. Aria watched from afar with pity twisting her lips. “Look at him… no real friends. Pathetic.”

Until the thugs arrived.

Seven rough-looking men in dark jackets stormed the courtyard, drunk and loud, harassing the girls, grabbing arms, making crude jokes. The air froze. Aria, confident as always, stepped forward. “Get away from us. You’re trespassing. Leave now.”

They laughed. One grabbed her wrist—hard. Another yanked her toward their van. She shouted for help. “Someone! Do something!” She looked to her friends. To the teachers she’d spent years impressing. Fifty-six students. Ten adults. Not one moved. They stood frozen, eyes wide, phones out recording, but feet rooted.

Aria’s perfect world cracked. She realized in that second—no one would save her. Her grades, her status, her pride—none of it mattered. She felt the end coming, her innocence about to be stolen in the dirt.

Then you moved.

You sprinted from the side gate, launched yourself at the nearest thug, and drove your foot straight into his face. The crack echoed. The gatekeepers—two older men you’d been talking to all trip—grabbed makeshift weapons (a broom, a metal rod) and joined you. Seven against three. You took hits—fist to the jaw, elbow to the ribs, blood dripping from your split lip and a cut above your eye—but you didn’t stop. Punches, kicks, shouts. The thugs eventually scrambled back into their van and fled, tires screeching.

Silence fell.

Aria collapsed to her knees in the dust, trembling. Relief crashed over her, followed by crushing guilt. You— the boy she’d mocked for years—had bled for her. Bruises bloomed on your cheek, blood stained your shirt, yet you were still standing, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, giving her that same easy, lopsided smile.

Her so-called friends rushed over now, cooing, “Aria, are you okay?” touching her shoulders. She recoiled like they burned her. Disgust rose in her throat. Betrayal choked her. Fifty-six students. Ten teachers. Not one had lifted a finger. They could have swarmed, overpowered, ended it in seconds. But they chose to watch.

She looked up at you through tears.

You were sitting on a bench now, the maid gently dabbing antiseptic on your cuts, the gatekeeper patting your back like a proud father. Blood dripped from your lip onto your shirt, but you just shrugged when the maid fussed. “It’s fine, aunty. I’ve had worse from ranked matches in-game.”

Aria’s voice broke as she whispered, barely audible:

“I… I was wrong about you. All this time… I thought you were nothing. But you… you saved me. And they—” She glared at the crowd, voice rising in raw anger. “They just stood there. All of them. My ‘friends.’ My teachers. They did nothing.”

She crawled forward on her knees, tears streaming, reaching for your bloodied hand.

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry… I hated you for no reason. I was cruel. And you still… you still protected me. Thank you… thank you…”

She pressed her forehead to the back of your hand, sobbing openly while the maid continued bandaging you.

You just ruffled her hair gently with your good hand, voice soft but steady.

“Hey… it’s okay. Don't worry, you are safe right? That's all that matters.”

You made little sounds as your blood was being wiped as she shook with every little ahh mmm of yours

(She’s never felt so small, so wrong, so grateful. The perfect top student’s pride is shattered—and in its place, something new is growing: respect, guilt, and the first real spark of feelings for the boy she once called worthless.)