#calculatedfights

Like your brothers!

Author's note: I could have done better. I really enjoyed writing this; maybe I'll fix it later and change a few things. ⤷Contains:* Siblings, slice of life, mild drama, overprotectiveness, chaotic cohabitation, light humor, emotional tension, unspoken affection ⤷Pairing:* None (focus on family and sibling bonds) ⤷Word count:* ~3,800 words ⤷Warning:* Mild language, mentions of fights, minor injuries, overprotectiveness, emotional intensity, sibling jealousy

Yeon Si-eun:

You arrive home with the exam folded inside your notebook. You try to walk past her, but Si-eun has already seen it on your face.

"How did it go?" she asks without looking up from her book.

You hand it to her; she looks at it and sighs. It's not an annoyed sigh. It's a tired one. A gentle disappointment.

That gesture.

She doesn't yell at you. She doesn't lecture you. She simply hands the paper back and looks at you as if she's… disappointed, but confident that you can do better. And that hurts the most.

"You'll retake it," she says calmly. "This time, with me."

You feel like apologizing.

Finally, she sighs.

It's not an annoyed sigh. It's a tired one. A gentle disappointment.

She hands the paper back without saying anything for a few seconds. Then she looks at you. There's no anger. No reproach. Just a silent expectation that weighs like a stone on your chest.

“You can do better,” he finally says. “You know it.”

That hurts more than any shouting. Because you know he’s right. Because you know he trusts you. Because he doesn’t treat you like you’re incapable—he knows you’re not.

“We’ll go over it tomorrow,” he adds, taking a sip of his mug. “It won’t happen again.”

It’s not an order. It’s a fact.

Ahn Suho

You're sitting across from your plate. The food is hot, it smells good… but you're not hungry. You're fiddling with your fork, not eating a thing.

Suho bursts in like a whirlwind of energy.

"What is this?" he says, eyeing the plate. "Some kind of modern art installation?"

"I'm not hungry."

He freezes.

He looks at you with a mixture of horror and exaggerated drama.

"That's not a real sentence. That doesn't exist."

He sits down across from you, rests his chin on the table, and observes you as if you were some kind of mysterious phenomenon.

"Does something hurt? Are you sick? Have they replaced you with a Boring version of yourself?"

You try not to laugh.

"I'm just not hungry, silly."

He gently pokes your cheek.

"Look at those cheeks. They need energy to stay cute."

He teases her, makes absurd comments, tells her a ridiculous story about a supposed food contest that he clearly makes up on the spot… but little by little you realize he's not leaving. He's staying right there.

After a while, seeing that Nciki still hasn't eaten anything, he approaches her later with a glass of water and some cut fruit.

"Even just a little," he says more quietly. "I don't want you to skip meals."

His voice is no longer joking. It's gentle.

Then he smiles again as if nothing happened.

"If you don't eat, I'll eat your dessert. And you'll cry."

Gotak /Go Hyun-tak

Ever since he saw you talking to someone he really disliked, or maybe didn't even know!, Gotak has been unbearable.

He slams the door harder than usual. He sighs heavily. He glances at you sideways as if he's solving an international crime.

"So… you have new friends now."

"Don't start."

"I'm just saying," he crosses his arms. "I don't like that guy."

"You don't know him."

"My instincts never fail me."

He comes closer and ruffles your hair without permission, messing it up.

"Hey, stop it."

"That way no one's going to steal from you," he says very seriously, as if that makes sense.

He puts an arm around you, almost crushing you against his side.

"Besides, you have me. Why do you need more weirdos?"

" He teases you, pokes your forehead, lifts you lightly off the ground as if you were weightless, just to annoy you… but then, without you asking, he places a blanket over you, brings you something warm to drink, and stays close, watching over you.

"I just want you to be careful," he murmurs, a little more serious.

Jealous, protective, clumsy, absurdly sweet. A bear with a bodyguard complex!

Baku / humin

You open the refrigerator. Empty. Absolutely empty.

"Did you eat it all?" you demand from the kitchen.

"I just eat well," he replies calmly from the sofa.

"That's not 'eating well,' that's organized looting."

You exchange glances. You complain. He feigns dignity. You say he always leaves the house without food, that he only thinks about his stomach, that one day you'll survive on air.

"You're exaggerating," he says.

"Of course, because you never go hungry."

The next day you get home… and the table looks like a banquet. Your favorite food.

You stare at him, surprised.

"It didn't take all that…"

"Yes, it did."

He affectionately ruffles your hair.

"You need to eat well. You're too thin."

"That's not true."

"Let me believe it." I like taking care of you.

He smiles proudly, as if he's won an epic battle against world hunger.

Seongjee

He arrives with a bruise on his arm and a cut on his face.

"What happened to you?!" you ask, looking at him.

"Nothing. I'm fine."

"That's not 'nothing.'"

You ignore him and he sits down to play video games.

"Noonna," he says jokingly, "you worry too much."

Even so, you start healing him. You're focused, gentle… until he pulls your hand away, still looking at the screen.

"That's enough."

"You're an idiot! Then heal yourself!" you say, going to your room angrily.

Seongjee continues playing, but he takes the small heart-shaped mirror you had brought. He looks at himself and finishes healing in silence.

Later, he comes to your room with the mirror as an excuse. He finds you on your phone.

"What are you doing?"

He takes the phone from you.

"Give it back!"

Check the screen.

"You don't talk to anyone."

"And why would I? Every time I make friends, you scare them away."

He hands you back your phone with a shrug.

"I'm just looking out for you," Seongje replies.

"Looking out for you? By hitting my friends, Seongje?" you ask, looking at him.

Seongje shrugs.

Baek Jin —

Baek Jin doesn't ask how you are or anything like that; he already knows.

He knows by the way you put down your backpack, by how long it takes you to take off your coat, by whether your steps sound light or tired. He reads people like others read the weather. You're no exception.

One afternoon, he calls you to his room.

"Sit down."

The word isn't harsh, but it's not kind either. It's precise. You obey almost without thinking.

On the table are your open notebooks, your exams neatly arranged, your notes underlined with unsettling meticulousness. He's already looked through everything without asking permission.

"Your grades have dropped," he says. "Not because you're stupid, but because you're using the wrong method."

He looks up at you. His eyes are calm, calculating.

“When you let fatigue control your attention, you make simple mistakes. That’s unacceptable.”

It doesn’t sound like a scolding. It sounds like a diagnosis.

He explains exactly where you’re failing, how to organize yourself better, how much time to dedicate to each subject. His mind works like a chessboard where everything has a function.

“I’ll help you correct it,” he continues. “Two hours a day. No excuses.”

“And if I don’t improve?”

A short pause.

“Then you’ll go to tutoring. I won’t pay for favors or shortcuts. I don’t want you to depend on that.”

Although he could. He has the resources. The connections. The ability to buy quick fixes. But not with you. With you, he wants you to be strong, capable, independent.

Outside the home, no one knows you’re siblings.

He makes sure to maintain that distance. You don’t walk together in public. You don’t exchange obvious messages. There are no shared photos. It’s not coldness: it’s strategy.

The world around Baek Jin isn't kind. And you're his weak point.

Once someone in your circle starts asking too many questions—a nosy classmate, a persistent stare, an inappropriate comment—that person changes schools. Two days later, no one knows why.

You don't ask. You've learned that some things Baek Jin handles without explanation.

Sometimes it seems like he doesn't care about you. He doesn't hug you when you're sad, doesn't say nice things, doesn't congratulate you enthusiastically.

But if you're late or don't answer your phone, he's already set half the world in motion to find you.

Summary: Each chapter depicts the reaction of the older brothers from Weak Hero Class when their sister is harassed or attacked by bullies. Includes street fight scenes, intense dialogue, and the brothers’ protection according to their personalities: Sieun, Suho, Parku/Baku, Gotak, Seongje, and Baek Jin. Contains: Street fights with bullies Dialogue between the bullies and the sister Sister’s combat skills and training Protective reactions of each brother (physical and psychological) Retribution and punishment of the aggressors Relationship: Older brothers and younger sister Non-romantic; focuses on familial bond and protection Word Count (approx.): Sieun: ~1,200 words Suho: ~1,200 words Parku/Baku: ~1,000 words Gotak (with Baku): ~1,100 words Seongje: ~1,500 words Baek Jin: ~1,800 words (Total approx.: 7,800 words) TW (Trigger Warnings): Bullying / school harassment Physical violence / fights Minor bleeding / injuries Strong language and aggressive sarcasm Themes of intimidation and humiliation

Yeon Sieun:

You were leaving class, eyes fixed on the ground, wishing the earth would swallow you up. You’d been skipping days, pretending to be sick, feeling miserable, but Sieun hadn’t bought it for a second and had insisted on walking with you today, even though you tried to avoid him.

As you walked, you heard the usual laughs. “Hey, look who’s walking alone again!” shouted one of the usual guys, nudging you lightly. “What’s the matter, forgot how to smile today?” added another, while the rest laughed like hyenas.

You tried to step aside, but they surrounded you. “Come on, let’s have some fun, shall we?” said the tallest one, shoving you toward a nearby karaoke. Inside, they started rifling through your things. “Wow, you really use all this?!” one of them mocked, tossing your belongings to the floor. When you tried to pick them up, another hit your arm. “Hey! Stop crying like a baby!”

You gathered your stuff and got out of there as fast as you could, feeling the pain in your body and humiliation in your chest. When you got home, the house was silent, cold, and depressing as always. You didn’t care. You just wanted to get in the shower and wash off all the dirt before Sieun noticed.

Just as you were about to open the bathroom door, you heard his voice, calm but cold, calling your name: "[Your Name]." You turned, heart racing.

—What happened? —he asked, his eyes fixed on you.

—I… fell… —you lied, trying to sound believable.

Sieun frowned and stepped closer, crossing his arms.

—Don’t lie to me —he said, his calm tone frightening—. I want the truth. Now.

You took a deep breath and told him everything: the pushes, the hits, the teasing, how they dragged you to the karaoke and stole some of your things. His eyes darkened with every word.

—Who? —he asked, voice low and cutting like ice.

You told him the names, and without another word, he hugged you tightly, carefully checking your wounds.

—Damn… —he muttered—. Nobody touches you. Nobody. —Sieun… —you whispered, trying not to break down—. I don’t want trouble…

—Trouble, little sister… —he replied through gritted teeth—. You’ve got it already. And I’ll take care of them.

The next day, Sieun went to find them. You hid a bit, but you could hear the conversation from a distance:

—Hey, what’s up? —asked one of the guys, still cocky. —Don’t ever touch my sister again —Sieun said, his voice icy and firm—. Because if you do, you’ll regret it.

The guys laughed, thinking it was an empty threat.

—What are you gonna do? —asked one, mocking—. Give us a little lecture and that’s it?

—No. —Sieun smiled coldly—. You’re going to learn that nobody I protect gets hurt.

By the time they realized, it was too late. Sieun dealt with them brutally, precise, making it clear that no one messes with you and gets away with it.

Afterwards, he came back home, hugged you again, and said:

—Never let anyone hurt you again, okay? I’m here for you. Always.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt like someone truly had your back.

Ahn Suho:

You had just finished your shift at your grandmother’s restaurant. You didn’t work as much as Suho, but you helped from time to time. That night, the place closed a little later than usual, and you left first, headphones in, exhaustion weighing on you. The street was almost empty, lit only by a few weak streetlamps.

You’d barely taken three steps when a group of boys blocked your way. You recognized them instantly: the same jerks as always. Your stomach dropped, but you kept moving until they forced you back.

“Well, well… you’re looking prettier every day,” one sneered. “Hey, isn’t she Suho’s little sister?” another muttered behind him. “If he finds out, he’ll kill us,” someone else laughed from the back.

Their chuckles grew louder, and before you knew it, they were shoving you around. There were too many of them. You fought back, of course, but the punches landed hard, and the difference was overwhelming. Eventually, bored of it, they left you there, bruised and humiliated, still laughing as they walked away.

“Tsk… idiots,” you muttered under your breath, fixing your clothes and brushing off your scraped knees.

You kept walking, trying to focus on getting home, when you suddenly heard the low hum of a motorcycle and a sharp honk. Turning around, you saw Suho, helmet on, still in his restaurant uniform. He had been out on deliveries.

The moment he spotted you, he stopped abruptly and parked beside you.

—What happened? —he asked, frowning deeply.

—Nothing, really. I just took a while leaving.

Suho narrowed his eyes. He didn’t believe a word. Without saying anything, he ruffled your hair, pulled off his helmet, and carefully placed it on your head, fastening the strap.

—Get on. I’ll take you home.

You obeyed. The ride was silent, but you could feel his tension in the way he gripped the handlebars, every muscle taut with restrained anger.

When you arrived and got off the bike, he didn’t move. He just stood there, arms crossed, staring at you.

—Alright. Now tell me the truth. What happened?

—It was nothing, really… —you tried to smile, but he scoffed.

—Nothing? Come on. Tell me.

You sighed, finally giving in.

—Just some thugs messing with me. Doesn’t matter. A bunch of idiots.

Suho clicked his tongue, jaw tightening.

—Tell me who they were.

—I don’t want you to—

—[Your name]. —his tone cut sharp, brooking no argument—. Tell me who.

Eventually, you gave him the names. He didn’t say much after that. Instead, he pulled out some instant noodles and set water to boil.

—Let’s eat first. Then we’ll talk.

You both sat down, eating ramen together. He seemed calm, but you caught him muttering under his breath between bites: “Idiots… bastards… I’ll smash them…”

When he finished, he stood up, grabbing his keys again.

—I’ve got more deliveries to do. Stay here.

But you knew that wasn’t all he was planning. The way he gripped the keys told you everything.

On the bike again, he muttered to himself, voice low and dangerous:

—Touch my sister, huh? You’ll regret it.

It didn’t take him long to stop near a back alley where the boys usually hung out. He got off the bike, walking with that calm, confident stride of his, every step radiating danger.

“Hey,” he called, making them look up. “Stop messing with my sister.”

Most of them immediately lowered their heads, nodding nervously. But one—the same bastard who’d made the comment earlier—smirked and stepped forward.

“Well, what if we don’t? What are you gonna do, Suho? By the way, your sister’s real fine. I wouldn’t mind—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Suho’s fist connected with his jaw before he could.

—Didn’t anyone teach you to respect women? —Suho snarled, landing another brutal punch.

The others rushed him then. There were many, and their blows connected, but Suho didn’t back down. He fought fiercely, fueled by a single truth: no one lays a hand on his sister and walks away unpunished.

BAKU (Park Humin)

The night was damp, and you were walking down the sidewalk with a small bag of snacks and sodas from the 24-hour store. You weren’t in a rush to get home; the cool air felt nice on your face.

But peace never lasted long. Three figures stepped into your path, laughing among themselves. You recognized those voices instantly: the same idiots who had been bothering you for weeks.

“Well, well, look who we’ve got here,” one said, blocking your way. “Out late, huh? Got yourself a party going?” another teased, peeking into your bag. “Wait a sec… isn’t this Baku’s little sister?” the third asked, grinning.

Your stomach tightened.

“So what if I am?” you shot back, trying to sound firm.

The first leaned in closer, too close. “You’re way too cute to be out here alone.”

“And with legs like those…” the second added with a snicker.

You shoved him away, but the tallest one grabbed your wrist hard. “Relax, we’re just joking around.”

“Let go of me, you creep!” you shouted, twisting against his grip.

They only laughed, feeding off your anger. And then, suddenly, a sharp voice cut through the street:

“Hey, assholes!”

All three froze. Standing under the glow of a streetlight was Baku, arms crossed, smirk plastered on his face like he’d been waiting for this moment.

“Well, well…” he said, walking toward you slowly. “Aren’t you embarrassed? Three against one?”

The guys exchanged nervous looks. One whispered, “Shit… it’s him.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Baku confirmed, voice dripping with sarcasm. “The big brother. The one who’s about to beat the crap out of you.”

One of them tried to play it off. “C’mon, man, chill. We were just talking.”

“Talking?” Baku scoffed. “Funny, my sister doesn’t usually come back from a ‘talk’ with her wrist bruised.”

He stopped in front of you, scanning you up and down quickly. “What happened?” he asked, his eyes never leaving the boys.

“Nothing…” you muttered.

He arched a brow. “Nothing, huh? So you decided to throw yourself against a wall for fun? Try again.”

You stayed quiet, and that was enough. He clicked his tongue and turned back to them.

“Alright. Got it.”

One of them, still trying to act tough, smirked. “Man, relax. We were just saying your sister’s pretty hot.”

That was his mistake.

In a flash, Baku shoved him hard against the wall, the sound echoing down the street. “Excuse me?!” he barked, and his fist connected with the guy’s jaw in one brutal punch.

The other two lunged in, but Baku was already fired up. His movements were fast, messy, fueled by rage. A punch to the first, a sharp kick to the second. He didn’t care about looking clean — it was all raw, brutal, and direct.

You yelled his name, but he wasn’t listening. By the end of it, all three were on the ground, groaning, and Baku stood above them, breathing hard, knuckles bleeding.

He crouched down slightly, eyes blazing. “If you so much as look at her again, I swear you’ll regret it. Got it?”

None of them dared to answer.

Baku scoffed, wiped the blood from his lip with the back of his hand, and turned back to you. His face softened just a fraction when he saw you.

“Come on,” he muttered, taking your arm gently.

The walk home was silent. You tried to look away, still shaken, while he looked like he was holding back another explosion.

At home, he grabbed a first-aid kit and, without asking, started cleaning a scrape on your arm.

“Seriously, you thought I wouldn’t notice?” he muttered, sarcasm in his voice but his hands surprisingly gentle.

“I didn’t want to worry you…” you said quietly.

He let out a short laugh, bitter. “Congrats then. I’m worried and pissed off.”

When he finished, he tossed a chocolate bar onto the table in front of you. “Eat it. So you can’t say I’m a total asshole.”

You blinked at him, surprised, but he just looked away, pretending it was nothing.

“Next time those idiots even come near you…” he said, adjusting his jacket. “Tell me. I’m not finding you like this again, got it?”

You nodded. He ruffled your hair roughly, like always, and though he tried to keep his voice cold, his eyes gave him away: for you, he’d fight the whole damn world.

Gotak :

The night was heavy, the streets almost empty as you walked home. Your bag weighed down your shoulders, but not nearly as much as the exhaustion weighing on your body. You kept your head low, hands shoved into your pockets, praying that no one would notice you. But luck had never been on your side.

—“Well, well… look who we’ve got here!” a voice sneered mockingly.

You froze. Slowly, you lifted your gaze and saw them: the same group of boys who always seemed to find you, like vultures circling their prey.

They stepped in front of you, grins curling across their faces.

—“Isn’t this Gotak’s little sister?” the leader sneered. “What a prize.”

—“She’s kinda cute though,” another added, leering at you. —“Don’t you dare,” someone behind cut in with a half-laugh. “If Gotak finds out, he’ll lose it.”

—“Who cares? That loser isn’t anyone, he’s just Baku’s lackey. He wouldn’t lift a finger without him.”

Their laughter cut through the street like knives. Your stomach twisted, but you forced the words out:

—“…Shut up.”

One leaned closer, mocking. —“What was that, sweetheart? Speak up.”

Your fists clenched. —“I said shut up.”

They laughed again, pushing you roughly in the shoulder until you stumbled.

—“Look at her! Acting like she’s brave.” —“Too bad she’s weak, just like her brother. Baku’s little lapdog, right?”

The word lapdog hung in the air like a slap.

Then, a new voice cut in. Dry. Sarcastic. Dangerously calm.

—“Lapdog? Wow. Really original. Do you guys rehearse that, or does it come naturally?”

The bullies stiffened. They turned, and there he was: Baku.

Leaning lazily against a lamppost, arms crossed, smirk on his face, like he was already bored of their existence.

—“Oh great… it’s him,” muttered one, trying and failing to sound brave.

—“Yeah, it’s me,” Baku replied, pushing off the lamppost and strolling forward casually. “And you guys… still the same idiots. Picking on kids to feel like men. Pathetic.”

The leader scoffed, though his voice trembled. —“What do you care? It’s not your sister.”

Baku tilted his head, that dangerous grin on his face. —“True. But Gotak is my friend. And honestly? I don’t like anyone touching what’s his.”

The air grew heavy. Then, heavy footsteps echoed behind the group.

Gotak.

He didn’t run. He didn’t shout. He just walked forward, that shadow in his eyes making the bullies swallow hard. He passed between them straight to you, scanning your face, your trembling hands, the scrape on your arm.

His voice was low, sharp, sending chills down your spine. —“Did they hurt you?”

You shook your head quickly. —“N-no… really, it’s nothing—”

He cut you off, ice in his tone. —“Don’t lie to me.”

The silence was suffocating. Even the bullies seemed uncomfortable. One tried to force a laugh. —“Oh please. Look at him. Acting all scary. What’s he gonna do, bark like the dog he is?”

That was it.

Gotak’s fist crashed into the boy’s jaw with a sickening crack. He hit the ground instantly, groaning in pain.

The others lunged at him, but Gotak was already moving. A storm unleashed—brutal, relentless. One punch, two down. A knee to the stomach, another crumpled. A punch to the ribs, shoved into the wall. Each strike carried years of swallowed rage, of hearing “Baku’s lackey” like it was his only name.

You screamed his name, but he didn’t hear. He was lost in it.

—“Gotak!”

This time, the voice wasn’t yours. It was Baku.

He stepped in, grabbing Gotak by the shoulders and pulling him back before he could land another devastating blow.

—“Enough!” Baku barked.

Gotak thrashed, eyes blazing. —“Let me go! They deserve this!”

Baku shoved him further back, planting himself between Gotak and the groaning bullies. —“I said stop. You’ve made your point. Unless you plan to bury them here, you’re done.”

The street fell silent except for the ragged breathing of the boys.

Gotak’s chest heaved, fists trembling from rage. His eyes darted to the boys, then to you, and slowly, reluctantly, he unclenched his hands.

Baku let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. —“Damn… and they call you my lackey. With fists like that, I’d say I’m more like your bodyguard.”

Gotak didn’t answer. He just walked past the bullies, who scrambled out of his way, and came to you. Gently, carefully, he draped his jacket over your shoulders, the touch soft after all the violence he had just unleashed.

—“Never call it ‘nothing’ again. Got it?” His voice was still rough, but protective now.

You nodded, throat too tight to speak.

Gotak led you away from the scene. Baku lingered for a moment, casting the bullies one last look of disgust.

—“Next time you want to talk about lackeys,” he muttered, grin crooked, “try not to end up crying on the pavement first.”

Then he followed behind, hands in his pockets, chuckling under his breath. —“Tch. And people think I’m the scary one.”

Seongje :

It was late, and the streets of Seoul were almost empty as you walked home from the internet café. You had spent some time gaming; nothing particularly interesting had happened, and Seongje, your older brother, was busy with Union work. He wouldn’t be back until late.

Most people didn’t know you—after all, you were rarely around Seongje, and he never mentioned you to keep you out of the mess that was the Union.

Still, some guys noticed you on the street. Clearly, you were beautiful, but you ignored them, keeping your pace steady, trying not to give them attention.

—“Hey… check her out,” one said, eyes scanning you from head to toe, “isn’t she Seongje’s sister? Lucky guy.”

—“Yeah, but… all alone? Shouldn’t she be protected by her brother? Or maybe he doesn’t care,” another added, trying to laugh, though clearly uneasy.

—“Bah, probably doesn’t know how to fight. Everyone says she’s weak, like a little mouse,” mocked the first one, his grin disgusting.

You stopped and spun around, green eyes blazing with fury. —“Cowards. Do you really think you can scare me?”

—“Hahaha, look at her! Talking big,” said the second, “acting brave, but can’t fight a single one of us.”

—“Oh, I thought someone like you would be grateful for a little attention,” added the first with a snide smirk.

—“Shut up, seriously!” you yelled, advancing toward them with a firm stance. “You’re not scaring me.”

—“Bitch!” one shouted, clearly frustrated that you weren’t intimidated.

—“Bitch? Really? That’s the best you got? I thought you’d be more creative,” you shot back, hitting the first one in the stomach with a clean, quick strike.

The second lunged at you, but you dodged and punched him in the jaw, sending him to the ground. —“Hey! That’s not fair!” yelled another as he tried to get up.

—“Yes, it is, idiot. Learn to respect women,” you said, dodging another punch and shoving him into the wall.

Finally, after taking them all down, you straightened your clothes, lit a cigarette, and exhaled the tension. You were angry, of course: cowards, cheaters, humiliated by you—but you had survived.

Just as you were about to continue walking home, someone grabbed your hair. A bastard had the nerve to touch you.

You spun quickly and shoved him against the wall, starting another fight. His companions tried to help him, but years of training under Seongje had made you strong. Still, the odds weren’t fair; even though you fought well, they had numbers on their side. Finally, they scattered.

Breathing heavily, you finished your cigarette and walked the remaining blocks home, furious but intact.

At home, you ran into Seongje. It was unusual to see him there so early.

—“Wow… you look like a mess,” he said sarcastically, taking in your disheveled clothes and hair.

You ignored him, walking toward your room.

—“Hey,” he said, stopping you. “What happened?”

—“Oh, do you care?” you replied with disdain.

His expression turned serious, though his broken humor still lingered: —“Of course I care. You’re my little sister.”

—“I got into a fight,” you admitted quietly.

Seongje’s gaze softened slightly, but his tone remained sharp: —“I see you didn’t win.”

You huffed. —“Can I go now?”

Hours later, Seongje had called some of his allies. One of the guys who had followed you was brought in.

—“Tell me who were the ones who hit her,” Seongje demanded.

The guy stammered the names, trembling. Seongje stood from the sofa, his presence instantly commanding.

When he arrived at the street where the bullies gathered, his usual calm shifted into that dangerous aura you knew so well. He approached, eyes cold and calculating, and spoke first:

—“I wonder… do you know how ridiculous you look when you pick on someone weaker than you?”

No one answered. That was the wrong answer.

Then his fists moved. Fast, precise, brutal. He hit without mercy, while one of the idiots pulled out a phone to record him. Every punch was a lesson, every kick a warning: never touch my sister again.

By the time Seongje left, the guys were bruised, humiliated, and he didn’t say another word. He simply knew that you were safe—and that was enough.

Back home, he didn’t lecture or scold you. But the look he gave said it all: you were his priority, and anyone who dared to touch you would pay.

Baek jin: It was a quiet afternoon, the sun beginning its descent, painting the city in shades of orange and gold. You were leaving your private lesson, books tucked tightly in your backpack, headphones in, walking at a careful pace. Every step was measured, every breath controlled. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary… until they appeared.

A group of guys, the kind that always thought they were untouchable, had noticed you. And of course, everyone in the area knew who you were: Baek Jin’s sister, the head of the Union. Messing with you wasn’t just foolish—it was practically a death sentence. Yet, their arrogance ignored that fact.

—“Well, well… look who we’ve got here. The big boss’s little sister,” one said with a smirk, stepping closer. —“Yeah, she looks all innocent, but let’s show her what happens when she tries to act tough,” another chimed in, cracking his knuckles.

You stopped, green eyes scanning them, calculating every possible move, every opening. Your lips curled slightly, amused but not intimidated.

—“Do you really think you can scare me?” you asked calmly, voice low but clear.

—“Hahaha, look at her! Acting all brave! Does she even know how to fight?” one sneered, trying to mask the unease in his voice.

—“I bet her brother doesn’t even notice her. She’s probably useless, weak,” another added.

Your lips twitched into a dangerous smile. —“Oh, I’m far from weak,” you said, and in a flash, the first one lunged at you.

Your foot swept under him, sending him tumbling backward into a trash can with a deafening clang. You leaned down, gripping his collar, and whispered coldly:

—“That’s where you belong.”

The others rushed at you simultaneously. You dodged, countered, struck—every movement precise, every hit calculated. You weren’t just strong; you were elegant, almost graceful in the chaos. They swung wildly, but you anticipated, blocked, and retaliated. Within moments, they were staggering, groaning, some scraping their knees on the concrete, completely outmatched.

One of them tried a desperate move, reaching for your hair. You twisted, pushed him into another trash can, and sent him toppling over.

—“Exactly where you belong,” you spat, eyes blazing with fury.

By the time you stepped away, only a faint cut on your lip marked the battle. Not much… but enough for Baek Jin to notice.

Later, back in his office, Baek Jin was calm as ever, perfectly composed, reviewing reports. He called Seongje over.

—“Tell me who were the ones who hit her,” he said, his voice cold, sharp, and precise.

Seongje, ever obedient, nodded and relayed the names, trembling slightly as he spoke. Baek Jin’s gaze didn’t waver. He didn’t need to touch a single person himself; he simply watched, every detail noted.

Soon, Seongje arrived at the alley where the bullies were recovering, unaware of what was about to happen. In an instant, his fists moved, striking, punishing, precise and brutal. Laughter escaped him—a dark, sadistic sound—as he delivered every blow.

Baek Jin observed, arms crossed, expression unreadable but a faint, calculating smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

—“A little more,” he said softly, voice low. “Make sure they understand exactly who’s in charge.”

Seongje obeyed, strike after strike, each hit more punishing than the last. The men were humiliated, bloodied, and utterly aware of their mistake.

Baek Jin finally allowed Seongje to step back. He straightened his tie, leaned against his desk, and looked down the alley. Perfect order restored. His sister was safe, the idiots punished, and not a drop of blood had touched his hands.

Back home, you stepped inside, still buzzing from adrenaline. Baek Jin glanced at your lip, his eyes narrowing, a slight frown on his face.

—“Next time, don’t make me hear about this first,” he said, calm, almost cold, but protective in every tone. “You’re my sister. That means nothing less than perfection and respect. Understood?”

You nodded, still catching your breath, feeling the weight of both the chaos and the reassurance of your brother’s presence.

—“Good,” he said, straightening again, adjusting his cuff. “Order must be maintained. Always.”

And with that, he returned to his desk, meticulously reviewing documents, leaving the lesson clear: no one touches his sister and walks away unscathed.