The cafeteria buzzed with the usual chaos — trays clattering, laughter bouncing off the tiled walls, sneakers squeaking on the linoleum floor.
It was the sound of comfort, of hierarchy, of a hundred students pretending they weren't scared of anything.
Then the door opened.
A cold wind swept in.
Apollo stepped through, quiet as breath. His presence didn't roar — it pressed.
Every instinct in the room seemed to stutter. Conversations cut mid-sentence, metal spoons froze above half-eaten rice bowls. Even the loudest ones suddenly had nothing to say.
At the far table, Han Dae-hon lounged with his crew — legs stretched, sneakers up on another chair, chewing a stick of gum like the world owed him something.
He looked up, lazy and amused.
"Well, well. The hero shows up," he drawled, tilting his head. "You really didn't learn, huh?"
His friends laughed — that echoing kind of laughter that only cowards share.
Apollo didn't respond.
He walked forward, each step steady, echoing against the floor.
Some students whispered from the side.
"He's dead. Dae-hon's gonna kill him."
"After what he did to Tae-min? He's crazy."
"Why's he even here alone?"
But Apollo wasn't listening. He was watching Dae-hon — the way he leaned back like a predator pretending to be bored.
The same kind of boy who used to kick his ribs in years ago.
The kind who laughed while he bled.
Dae-hon leaned back, voice casual but laced with venom.
"So… you decided to show up. I was wondering if the little storm last week was a fluke."
Apollo's lips curled into a faint smile — cold, amused, and just arrogant enough.
"Fluke?" he said softly, eyes tracing Dae-hon's posture, the angle of his shoulders, the subtle twitch in his right hand.
"Depends on who's counting."
A ripple went through the room. Laughter halted. Eyes widened. Even Dae-hon's crew exchanged subtle, nervous glances.
Dae-hon's smirk didn't falter. "Counting's my specialty. And I always win."
Apollo tilted his head. His hand twitched slightly — almost imperceptibly.
"Still quiet, huh?" he said, stretching his neck until it cracked. "I heard you've been getting brave lately — breaking noses, acting like you're someone."
Han Dae-hon, seated at the head table like a king surveying his territory, leaned back. One arm draped over the back of the chair, the other tapping against the table. His smirk returned, sharper this time, sharper than before.
"Well, if it isn't the ghost of last week. Thought you'd hide under your books, huh?"
Apollo said nothing. His gaze was calm, detached — but his pulse thrummed under the skin, steady, sharp. The echo of that dream still burned in his chest.
You can't kill what's part of you.
"Say something," Dae-hon said. "Or are you scared?"
Apollo tilted his head slightly. "No. Just wondering how many times I'll have to hit you before you stop moving."
The laughter died.
For a moment, the air froze — that moment before lightning strikes.
Then Dae-hon grinned. "You talk tough for someone who's about to bleed."
He dropped his tray. The clang was the signal.
The tension tightened. Students pressed against walls, lockers, corners, clutching trays, whispering prayers to unseen gods. Every eye was locked on the two boys.
"Thinking of running?" Apollo's voice was soft, flat. A whisper, but sharp enough to slice through the bravado.
Dae-hon's smirk widened. "You think I'm scared of a brat who's bleeding from his last fight?"
Apollo's jaw flexed. A brat, huh? Let's give him something to remember.
Dae-hon cracked his knuckles. He was taller, heavier — built like someone who'd spent his life at the top of the food chain.
Apollo looked smaller, his uniform sleeve torn, his knuckles faintly red from the classroom fight.
"Try not to cry this time," Dae-hon said, smirking.
Apollo smiled faintly — that cold, unreadable curl of the lips.
"I'll try."
Then Dae-hon lunged.
His punch came fast, a heavy swing meant to crush, not test. Apollo slipped aside, but not fast enough — the knuckles grazed his cheek, stinging hot. He stepped back, guard up, body lowering instinctively.
Dae-hon followed, heavy footwork shaking the floor.
The second punch landed — a clean hook to Apollo's ribs. The sound cracked through the cafeteria. Pain burst sharp and deep, forcing air from his lungs.
He stumbled back, arm snapping down to guard his side.
The third hit came — another hook, same side, a test. Apollo dropped low this time, letting the strike graze his shoulder — and countered.
A sharp jab to the chin.
The sound was small, but real. Dae-hon's head snapped slightly — not much, but enough.
Surprise flickered in his eyes.
Apollo followed up — body twist, left cross, clean contact on the jaw. But Dae-hon didn't fall; he took it, laughed, and smashed his forehead forward.
CRACK.
Pain exploded across Apollo's nose. Blood spilled instantly. He staggered back, palm covering the bridge, breath hissing through his teeth.
Dae-hon grinned, blood from his lip mixing with spit. "That all you got? You fight like a cornered rat."
Apollo's laugh was low, almost a whisper.
"…Better a rat with teeth than a dog with a leash."
Dae-hon lunged first. Predictable. Wide swing, full body behind it — arrogance wrapped in muscle.
Apollo sidestepped. Foot planted perfectly, torso rotating with minimal effort. He could feel the molecules of air moving around him, the shift in balance as Dae-hon overcommitted.
Good. Keep coming.
A jab across Dae-hon's jaw — light, measured, but enough to sting.
The bully staggered back, eyes narrowing, teeth gritted. "You'll pay for that."
Apollo's grin widened, a flash of madness igniting. Yes… yes… I want it messy. I want it raw.
He pivoted. His movement was almost playful, teasing — a predator enjoying the chase before the kill.
The first clash of knuckles echoed. The cafeteria tables shook slightly from impact.
Students ducked instinctively as fists collided with flesh and bone. Blood spattered across the floor, the air thick with copper scent.
Apollo's strikes weren't wild. They were clinical, precise, each blow measured to inflict maximum effect without losing rhythm. His mind cataloged every twitch, every breath, every micro-shift in Dae-hon's stance.
Dae-hon retaliated — knees, elbows, a desperate flurry. But Apollo caught, blocked, twisted. His movements fluid, almost too fast for anyone watching.
---
Apollo's laughter, low and barely audible, vibrated in his chest. Not loud enough to startle the others, but enough for Dae-hon to hear. It was mad, unhinged, playful — a predator enjoying the hunt.
The bully's face twisted with confusion and irritation. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
Apollo tilted his head. "You… don't excite me yet."
Another swing, another counter. Knees smashing ribs, elbows snapping against shoulders. Dae-hon grunted, staggered, blood trickling from a cut above his brow.
Apollo's breathing was steady. Heart pacing perfectly with each strike. Yes… every drop of blood, every flinch… this is it…
---
The fight slowed for a heartbeat — both boys circling, sizing, waiting. Sweat dripped, muscles tensed, and the room seemed to hold its breath.
"Inch by inch..
Apollo's eyes caught the micro-expressions of fear, arrogance, hesitation. He was not dominating yet — that was not the goal. The thrill of being even slightly weaker fueled him.
His grin widened. Yes… let it be real. Let it burn. Let me feel the edge.
Dae-hon wiped blood from his lip, smirk twitching into something sharper, darker. "Not bad… kid. Not bad at all."
Apollo's lips twitched upward. "You'll need more than that."
Another clash. Fists, elbows, knees. Blood, sweat, adrenaline mixing into a heady chaos. Students gasped, some fainted, others clutched their chests. Every strike felt electric.
"Crazy joy… this is it…
---
The two boys stood a few feet apart. Chests heaving, eyes locked. Both bleeding, both alive, both burning with adrenaline and arrogance.
Apollo's mind raced. Not overwhelming… not yet. Let him think he has the upper hand. Inch by inch, I take control.
Dae-hon's smirk returned, confidence building. "Ready to end this?"
Apollo tilted his head, eyes glittering with madness and anticipation. Not yet… not yet… the real fun hasn't started.
They inched closer. Each movement deliberate. The cafeteria was silent, everyone frozen, watching the slow, inevitable convergence.
Apollo's grin widened again, blood and sweat mixing on his cheek. Yes… chaos, tension, anticipation… my favorite moment.
Dae-hon's eyes narrowed, pupils sharp. He's enjoying this. He's insane.
Apollo leaned forward slightly, face inches from Dae-hon's. Breath mingled. Every molecule of air seemed charged, vibrating with energy, fear, and excitement.
This is it. Right here. Mid-point. Face to face. The storm is coming…
And then — everything froze.
A breath. A heartbeat. Inches between predator and prey.
"The reckoning… paused.
Momentum Shifts
Dae-hon roared and rushed in again.
This time, Apollo didn't retreat. He met him head-on.
Their fists collided mid-swing — the impact echoing like a gunshot.
Pain crawled up Apollo's arm, but he moved on instinct, slipping under the next swing and jabbing at the ribs. One, two, three — each shot tighter, faster. The last one hit clean; Dae-hon flinched.
Apollo exhaled sharply, rotating his hips — short hook, right cross.
But Dae-hon was no amateur. He absorbed the blows, then slammed his knee into Apollo's gut. The breath left Apollo's chest in a grunt. His vision blurred for a second as Dae-hon's elbow came down across his shoulder.
The impact dropped him to one knee.
Blood dripped from his nose onto the floor, bright red against white tile.
Dae-hon laughed, looking down at him. "This is what happens when trash dreams too big."
Apollo's fingers brushed the ground, steadying himself.
He breathed slow. Deep. Measured.
Then he smiled.
Not forced — not polite.
A real smile.
Something dark flickered in his eyes.
"Finally," he whispered. "It's been a while since someone made me feel alive."
He rose slowly — not defiant, but deliberate. The cafeteria went still.
Then Apollo moved.
His first strike was a low kick, sharp and fast, cracking against Dae-hon's thigh. The taller boy grunted, staggered half a step — and Apollo didn't stop. He pressed forward, weaving inside Dae-hon's reach.
A jab. A hook. A short elbow across the cheek.
Each motion faster, tighter — his movements no longer perfect, but instinctual, almost feral.
Blood ran from his nose, down his lip, but his grin only widened.
He ducked under a wild swing, drove his shoulder into Dae-hon's chest, and shoved him backward into a table.
The metal legs screeched. Students scrambled away.
Dae-hon snarled, grabbing Apollo by the collar and hurling him across the floor. Apollo hit hard, sliding into a stack of chairs — pain flashing through his spine.
He pushed himself up, laughing under his breath.
"You're still smiling?" Dae-hon snapped.
Apollo wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing blood. "You're strong. That's good. I hate it when they fall too fast."
"Psycho," Dae-hon spat, charging again.
Apollo sidestepped the first swing — barely — and caught a second across the face. His vision flared white. The third came, a brutal body shot that folded him for half a second.
But pain was rhythm now.
Pain was clarity.
He twisted mid-collapse, grabbed Dae-hon's arm, and drove his knee into the elbow joint.
A sharp pop sounded. Dae-hon grunted, jerking back, but Apollo didn't give him the chance to breathe.
He surged forward — shoulder check, backfist, low kick. His eyes gleamed with a cold thrill, that arrogance threading through every movement.
"Come on," he muttered between breaths, voice low, rough. "You said I was weak. Show me how weak I am."
Dae-hon growled, fury replacing confidence. He tackled Apollo, both crashing into the side of a table. Trays scattered, food splattering across the floor.
They grappled — raw, heavy, desperate.
Dae-hon's strength pressed down, forearms digging into Apollo's throat. Apollo clawed at his wrists, gasping for air — then head-butted him.
Blood splattered across both faces.
The pressure eased. Apollo twisted free, rolling to his knees, chest heaving.
They circled each other — bloodied, panting, faces split and bruised.
The crowd had gone dead quiet.
Only the hum of the lights and the drip of blood on tile filled the air.
Apollo's breath came sharp, but steady. His vision tunneled; every motion of Dae-hon's shoulders, every twitch of his muscles registered like instinct.
"Don't forget this time.
He moved first.
A feint to the left — Dae-hon blocked. Apollo pivoted, driving an uppercut straight up the center. Dae-hon's head snapped back; his gum flew from his mouth.
Before he could recover, Apollo swept his leg — the bigger boy stumbled. Apollo caught him by the collar and slammed a punch into his jaw.
Another.
And another.
But Dae-hon still didn't fall. He caught Apollo's wrist mid-punch and twisted — pain shot up Apollo's arm. Dae-hon's fist came crashing across his temple.
Apollo reeled, staggering back, knees threatening to give.
"You're done!" Dae-hon roared, charging.
Apollo's grin returned — blood on his teeth.
"Then finish it."
The next few seconds blurred.
Dae-hon's punch came. Apollo ducked under, feeling the wind rush past his ear — then countered with a short hook to the ribs.
The sound was deep, solid.
He followed with a low kick, another jab, and one clean straight across the face.
Dae-hon's head snapped sideways, spit flying.
Apollo exhaled hard, chest burning. His muscles screamed — but his mind was still, completely still.
For the first time, he wasn't running from fear or rage.
He was living in it.
He smiled again, eyes sharp, alive with that dangerous glint that made people step back.
They stopped — both standing, blood dripping, chests heaving.
The cafeteria floor was chaos — overturned tables, food and blood mixed, phones recording from every angle.
But inside the circle, only silence.
Apollo tilted his head, sweat and blood streaking down his face.
"You're strong," he said quietly. "But not strong enough."
Dae-hon spat blood. "You think you've won?"
Apollo's smile sharpened. "No. But I'm not the one breathing heavy."
The words struck deeper than any punch.
Dae-hon's expression darkened. "I'll break your face."
"Try."
They charged at the same time.
The impact was brutal — fist to jaw, knee to gut, elbow to shoulder.
Each hit echoed like thunder, both refusing to fall.
Apollo's body ached, ribs screaming with every breath — but the pain only sharpened his focus. His movements flowed faster, cleaner, adapting to Dae-hon's rhythm.
The crowd gasped as Apollo caught a wild swing, slipped under it, and countered with a spinning elbow that sent Dae-hon stumbling back.
Blood trailed from both.
Apollo's lip curled into a grin. "That look suits you — scared."
Dae-hon roared, eyes wild, charging again.
Apollo met him halfway.
Their fists collided mid-air, a loud, bone-jarring thwack that seemed to rattle the very floor. Pain surged through Apollo's arm, a sharp, localized shock, but his grin only widened, fueled by the equal measure of impact and adrenaline.
Counter Sequence: Apollo exploited the momentary shock in Dae-hon's stance. A short, devastating uppercut ripped upward, snapping Dae-hon's head back.
Before he could recover, Apollo fired a brutal hook to the ribs, followed by the blinding speed of a spinning backfist that caught his temple.
Dae-hon stumbled, dazed, but recovered enough to drive a desperate elbow into Apollo's shoulder.
Apollo twisted, absorbing the blow, using the impact to position himself.
He responded with a razor-sharp knee delivered to the side of the floating ribs, then leveraged his weight into a final elbow to the face, stepping inside with ruthless, calculated precision.
Every motion was economic, every hit delivered with the full weight and rotation of his body.
This is the moment of truth. This chaos, this fear, this power transfer.
It is all mine to command. The sound of his failure is my oxygen.
Sensory Overload and The Collapse
The air was a thick, fetid soup of sensory information: the sharp, metallic tang of blood; the acrid smell of sweat and fear; the grease of spilled cafeteria food.
Apollo's vision was a kaleidoscope of red and black, sweat stinging his eyes, adrenaline pounding a deafening rhythm in his ears.
He moved with a deadly, improvisational artistry.
Step, duck, elbow, kick. The cadence was flawless, hypnotic.
Dae-hon tried to clinch, to smother the speed. Apollo slipped the hold, executed a quick wrist lock, used the momentum to spin, and delivered a final, concussive knee to the ribs.
Every motion was a calculated act of violence, yet utterly unhinged in its delivery. Every hit was a single, ringing note in the deafening symphony of pain.
This is more than life. This is the pinnacle of existence.
Dae-hon's remaining reserves were gone. His lackeys were crumpled, scattered around the floor like broken marionettes. Apollo's grin was stretched wide, the pure, psychotic energy pouring off him.
Every micro-flinch, every gasping breath, every failed counter-attack was a nutrient, feeding the consuming predator instinct.
Apollo executed a final, devastating sequence:
He stepped inside Dae-hon's exhausted guard—an elbow to the temple, a low, bone-crushing kick to the thigh,
then leveraging his full weight into a final, powerful shoulder shove that sent Dae-hon flying into a row of metal cafeteria tables.
The metal shrieked against the tile floor; the tables collapsed in an ear-splitting cascade of splintered laminate, flying food trays, and twisted steel.
The crash was the final note in the symphony.
Yes… yes… scream inside. The table breaks, the will breaks. Feed me your ruin. Feast complet
Dae-hon lay draped across the wreckage, unmoving save for the ragged hitch of his breath.
The cafeteria fell into a vacuum of silence, broken only by the heavy, tearing sound of their labored breathing.
Students remained pressed against the walls, wide-eyed, the terror now mixed with a sickening, wide-scale awe.
Dae-hon slowly pushed himself up, wiping blood from his chin. His body heaved, chest rising and falling violently.
His face was a mask of cuts and swelling, his expensive jacket torn.
Apollo, equally bloodied and bruised, stood a few feet away, seemingly untouched by fatigue.
This… this is the high. The precipice. Inches, microseconds of violence.
Dae-hon struggled to his feet, eyes blazing with a hatred that transcended fear.
Apollo took a single, slow, deliberate step into the debris. His psycho grin was razor-thin, streaked with sweat, blood, and a sublime, cold victory.
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper, soft enough that only Dae-hon—and the recording phones—could possibly catch it:
"You saw what happens, Dae-hon. You felt it. Remember this feeling.
Blood dripped onto Apollo's shoes. His smile faded — replaced by something calmer.
The thrill was gone, but the clarity remained.
He looked at Dae-hon — beaten, but still standing.
There was respect there. Twisted, reluctant, real.
Apollo's voice cut through the noise, soft enough that only Dae-hon heard:
"Remember this, Dae-hon. You Lost ."
Dae-hon spat, glaring through the blood. "You talk too much."
Apollo's smile returned, faint, razor-thin.
"Then stop me next time."
---