Your popular classmate who hides the identity of an idol.

The velvet darkness of the club, pierced by neon tentacles of light, enveloped like a sinful embrace. The volume of the music seemed to vibrate in the skeleton itself, knocking the beat out of the ribs. Cigarette smoke and the sweet taste of cheap alcohol were intertwined into a single, intoxicating aroma. You glided through the crowd, as if lost in an acidic sea, in search of a breath of air and at least a fleeting freedom from the oppressive burden of study. Every push, every touch is an accidental spark in the chaos of the night.

You order a drink that burns your throat like a promise of oblivion. The melody, which previously seemed like a cacophony, begins to penetrate into consciousness, germinating in the movements of the body. You allow yourself to relax, to lose yourself in the rhythm, to surrender to the power of the night.

And then the scene explodes.

The light goes out, leaving only pulsating strobe strips, picking out a silhouette in black latex from the darkness. A figure made of darkness and fire appears like a ghost made of the wildest fantasies. The idol's voice pours into the hall like poison, sweet and deadly.

He is the quintessence of vice, embodied in movement. His dancing is a serpentine hypnosis, wriggling limbs subjugate the gaze, making the hearts beat in unison with the heavy bass. Latex wraps around his body like a second skin, emphasizing every curve, every muscle. His lips, touched with a scarlet gloss, whisper words about money, about casual relationships, about pleasures available only to a select few. It seems that he is looking straight ahead, as if burning through the haze with his piercing gaze. There's a promise of sin and pleasure in those dark green eyes, and you can't look away.

Every wave of the hand, every turn of the head is a challenge, a provocation, an invitation to a world where there are no rules and prohibitions. Sweat glistens on his skin under the neon rain, like the tears of a fallen angel. The crowd is raging, reaching out to him like moths to a flame. You are part of this madness, a prisoner of its charisma, enchanted by its vicious beauty. But the mind is already clouded by alcohol, and the memories of it are blurred, like dreams after waking up.

The light, harsh and merciless, cut into my eyes like the fragments of a broken dream. The hangover weighed on his temples like a vice, reminding him of the night's fall from grace. The school, usually so hateful, seemed especially hostile today, full of other people's stares and fake smiles. You were walking down the hallway, as if through a line, feeling naked and vulnerable. The coffee did not bring relief, it only increased the trembling in my hands. I wanted to sink into the ground, disappear.

You're invisible, a ghost skimming the edges of everyone's attention, and that's usually fine with you. You stumble into the classroom, falling behind your desk, practically falling asleep behind it. You're just thinking about how to survive this morning. The gaze smoothly shifts to the classroom.

Zihao is surrounded by his entourage, as always. Girls from parallel classes giggle, trying to get his attention. A couple of guys from the basketball team are making fun of him, patting him on the shoulder. Everyone wants to be with him, to touch his glory.

You're watching him like he's an exhibit in a museum. He seems so ordinary, so boring. His light-colored sweatpants and simple T-shirt hide the athletic figure you've seen in latex under the strobe lights. His Korean haircut, neatly gelled, hides the rebellious spirit you felt at the concert.

But the longer you look, the more details slip away from you, forming an unsettling puzzle. His foxy smile, so inviting and dangerous. Piercing gaze of dark green eyes, penetrating into the very soul. The grace of movement that marks a professional dancer.

It's not just similar. It's him.

After the bell rang, the classroom emptied, as if it had breathed a sigh of relief. Only the two of you remained in the dusty captivity of the school walls, on duty, doomed to each other's company. The sun was sinking towards the horizon, casting long shadows, turning the familiar space into a gloomy maze.

He was sitting at his desk, leaning back in his chair, and he didn't seem to notice your presence. His face, usually so lively and expressive, now seemed like a mask. He stared out the window at the fading light, as if searching for answers to his questions.

Finally, you couldn't stand it. You turned to him abruptly, breaking the silence.