I did not molest Kim Shinju. I swear on my life. Because I’ve never been attracted to that bastard, not even once.
I like women. My first love was a girl my age from kindergarten, my favorite idols are girl groups, and even when I watch porn, my eyes are drawn to women. Of course, molestation isn’t a matter of preference. So, it’s pointless to question whether my sexual orientation is towards men or women.
The decisive reason I didn’t molest Kim Shinju is that, before I’m a heterosexual, I’m a human being with a decent personality. Meaning, I’m not so low as to forcefully touch someone else’s body. I’m not that kind of trash.
“I did not molest Kim Shinju.”
I repeated the words I’d said dozens, no, hundreds of times in the counseling room. Unfortunately, no one nodded in agreement.
One of the teachers in charge of the school violence committee sighed deeply. A parent representative displayed blatant displeasure, and someone who appeared to be a community representative glanced at the clock above my head, looking bored. But I had no intention of giving them the answer they wanted. I opened my mouth again to assert my innocence. My voice didn’t tremble, nor did my gaze waver.
“It’s true. I didn’t do anything like that.”
There’s no need for me to prove I’m straight. There’s no test to examine sexual orientation, so there’s no objective way to prove it. Instead, I intended to persuade them that it was physically impossible for me to molest Kim Shinju. This was the most rational approach.
“I’m a diligent student. Ask my homeroom teacher. My grades are decent, and I’ve never caused any trouble. Moreover, I’m not bigger than Kim Shinju. I’m not even interested in sports. It’s physically impossible for me to molest Kim Shinju. I never… no, I never molested him.”
Kim Shinju was a guy with the height and build of an athlete. Compared to him, my specs are nothing special. This isn’t self-deprecation; it’s an objective fact. A skinny nerd like me, barely above average height and physically weak, assaulted Kim Shinju, who has a good family, a glamorous background, and an impressive physique? Even a stray dog would know better. Not only did I have no intention of assaulting Kim Shinju, I didn’t even have the capacity.
“As I stated in the previous perpetrator’s statement, there were witnesses in that classroom. You did take statements from all the witnesses, right? I’m actually the victim of school violence. I’ve been continuously bullied by Kim Shinju since the second semester of last year.”
It was humiliating, but true. Kim Shinju and his cronies beat me up like a dog on a hot summer day. These people don’t know how cunning a bastard Kim Shinju is. He only hit me in places that wouldn’t be visible, controlling his strength just enough not to break my bones. To me, his cunning in controlling his strength felt crueler than the hand that slapped my cheek.
The reasons for the violence were pathetic. He beat me because I “talked like shit,” he beat me because my “eyes looked annoying,” and later, he didn’t even bother giving a reason.
“The person who was actually molested wasn’t Kim Shinju…”
The last words caught in my throat. Why did admitting I was a victim feel more humiliating than denying the accusations?
“…”
But I told myself, You’re fucking okay. So what if you’re the victim? That’s proof you’re innocent, not something to be ashamed of. So you can say it. Say it, Yoon Seonwoo.
“It was me, not Kim Shinju.”
I straightened my back. I didn’t swallow or blink.
Just because that bastard Kim Shinju sucked on my lips with his filthy tongue and humiliated me in front of his friends, it doesn’t mean I deserve to be treated like this.
I’m innocent. I’m a more valuable person than those vermin who trample on those weaker than themselves. That’s why I’m superior to you. I feel no shame whatsoever.
I forced the words out of my throat again, spitting them out like vomit.
“I’m the real victim in this case.”
It wasn’t my life that Kim Shinju, that bastard, ruined, but his own. And it wasn’t me he humiliated, but his own dignity. You can hit me and molest me, but you can never break me. A single word I couldn’t bring myself to utter because of a meager sense of pride lingered on the tip of my tongue. The corners of my lips trembled precariously. I clenched my trembling hands and managed to lift my head.
“Kim Shinju… that bastard sexually assaulted me.”
I finally said it. I felt relieved and enraged at the same time. Now that I’d admitted it myself, it felt like nothing.
Yeah. Kim Shinju molested me. As if it wasn’t enough that he tormented me for almost a year, he sucked on my lips with his filthy mouth. So what? Am I supposed to degrade myself because I was sexually assaulted by another guy? No fucking way.
The one who did something shameful was Kim Shinju, not me. I almost pity him. I thought he was just crazy, but the fact that he’s a perverted freak on top of that—well, that’s his misfortune, not mine.
“Sigh…”
However, the atmosphere in the room didn’t unfold as I expected. Someone’s heavy sigh broke the silence. It was the teacher in charge of the school violence committee who shattered the uncomfortable silence. He called my name with a displeased expression.
“Student Yoon Seonwoo.”
“Yes.”
“The witnesses stated that you were the perpetrator.”
No way. That can’t be true.
“What?”
No, it could be true.
“They stated that Yoon Seonwoo molested Kim Shinju, and when he resisted, you hit Kim Shinju’s head with a flowerpot.”
I finally understood why no one had believed me so far. It was my mistake, being blinded by my own innocence and failing to look around. The so-called witnesses were all Kim Shinju’s gang.
I was naive. The moment I became a fool was when I expected a shred of conscience from those pieces of trash.
“The witnesses are all Kim Shinju’s friends.”
“They are the only witnesses who were there.”
“Then let me have a three-way confrontation.”
The teacher in charge ignored me and continued speaking.
“The statements of the students who witnessed it were consistent…”
“My statement has also been consistent.”
“More than anything, it’s an undeniable fact that you assaulted Kim Shinju.”
“That… that’s… because he…”
“This isn’t something you can get away with by lying.”
Cold stares stopped my attempt to make excuses. I felt like all the blood was draining from my body.
“It’s not a lie.”
“How shameless.”
The community representative, who had been staring at the clock, clicked his tongue at me. Shameless? Who’s calling who shameless right now? I felt sick to my stomach at the adults who dismissed my words as lies based on only one side of the story.
“Don’t speak carelessly.”
“Student Yoon Seonwoo!”
“You have a duty to judge this case objectively. Investigate again. It’s physically impossible for me to have molested him. Let me make a statement together with the victim and the witnesses. I’m the real victim!”
“The perpetrator cannot request a three-way confrontation.”
“I’m the victim! I’m the victim!”
My scream echoed, but no one responded.
“I’m the victim…”
Everyone treated me like a ghost. My homeroom teacher ignored me, and my classmates just watched as I was dragged away by Kim Shinju. I’m clearly alive, I bleed when I’m hit, and I cry when I’m hurt…
It’s the same today. Nothing has changed here. These people don’t see my pain, don’t hear my voice, don’t recognize the truth I’m screaming as a victim. I had no parents to notice the dark bruises hidden under my uniform shirt, no friends to feel sorry for the damage I couldn’t hide.
And so, I became the perpetrator.
****
That day, it was Kim Shinju who grabbed my arm and dragged me into the music room. For some reason, that bastard didn’t hit me. I remember staring holes into his face, trying to figure out what kind of shit he was plotting.
His lackeys were standing guard outside the door, and Kim Shinju, unlike usual, kept his eyes fixed squarely on mine. It was clear that talking wouldn’t get us anywhere, so I just stared back with a sullen face and endured his gaze.
“If you're gonna hit me, hurry up and get it over with.”
The way he looked at me made my skin crawl. I turned my eyes away, and that’s when he stopped staring at my face and started slowly tracing my neck instead. It was disgusting. Infuriating. I would’ve preferred being beaten—anything but this bastard sizing me up like a slab of meat, letting his gaze crawl all over me.
I took a step back to escape the revolting look. He cornered me like he was hunting a rabbit, pushing me toward the wall. At some point, my back hit cold concrete.
“Just hit me already.”
"Where are you looking? Look at me."
I avoided his gaze with everything I had. I’d never lowered my eyes before, no matter how badly I got beaten, but this time—I couldn’t help it. Kim Shinju watched with amusement as I broke eye contact and let my stare drift into space. Behind his head, I could see the eyes of his lackeys peeking through the window, watching me. Something was off. This wasn’t like usual.
“The fuck are you looking at, Yoon Seonwoo?”
I didn’t respond. I just kept silently counting how many heads were observing us from outside the room. They were deliberately giving us space. Guys who would normally be joining in, stomping me into the floor with him, were now hanging back like they’d been instructed to.
Then I heard snickering from somewhere. They were laughing at me. Mocking me. Watching my misfortune approach, eyes sparkling with anticipation—and for a moment, a chill raced down my spine.
“What the fuck are you guys…”
"Don’t look at them. Look at me."
"If you’re not gonna hit me, I’m leaving."
I wasn’t desperate to get beaten. Saying I’d leave if he wasn’t going to hit me made me feel pathetic, but that wasn’t the point. It was a kind of fear I’d never felt before—raw, unfamiliar. Panic surged in my chest. My body tried to bolt forward on instinct, but Kim Shinju’s hand moved faster. He yanked my wrist, grabbed my shoulder, and then caught my jaw.
"Just stay still for a second."
"Let me go."
The grip he had on my locked-up jaw was brutal. His hand—big, rough—dragged across my face and brushed over my lips. Kim Shinju looked down at me, his eyes gleaming with something vile, while my face twisted in shock.
Fucking hell. Just hit me like usual.
I tried to pull away, but he kept dragging me toward him like a goddamn lunatic. His face inched closer and closer.
"Mmph!"
And then—his lips touched mine.
At first, I froze like a block of ice. He must’ve taken that as consent, because his tongue forced its way inside my mouth. It wasn’t until that disgusting, slippery thing touched my tongue that my brain caught up to reality.
What the fuck is happening right now?!
"Mmph! Mmph—fuck—fuck off! Let go of me!"
I swung my hands through the air. His head was a full size above mine, but I managed to grab a fistful of his hair. I clenched it tight and yanked with everything I had. Only then did he finally pull away from me.
"Shut up and stay still if you don’t wanna get hurt."
"You fucking pervert! Just hit me, asshole! Go ahead, beat me! I’d rather be hit!"
Kim Shinju jerked me forward with both hands. I thrashed, struggling to get away, but I couldn’t break his grip. My whole body tensed like a stretched wire. Stay calm, stay calm. No matter how many times I repeated it in my head, I couldn’t calm down. I was on the edge of a full-blown panic attack, thrashing like a wild animal. My leg lashed out and, by sheer luck, connected with his shin.
"Agh!"
He collapsed, clutching his leg. Now—this was my chance. I had to run. But again, he moved faster than me. He got up, grabbed me from behind, and slammed me back against the wall. I was completely outmatched. He pressed my shoulders down, and I felt the cold wall at my back again.
"I said, stay the fuck still!"
"Let me go! Are you fucking insane?!"
His massive hand clamped over my mouth, smothering my scream. I couldn’t breathe. I felt his hot breath rolling over my neck. While still gagging me with one hand, he pressed his mouth against the side of my neck.
"Yoon Seonwoo… because of you, I..."
I wanted to tear that whimpering mouth off his face. If I couldn’t do that, I wanted to slice off my ears. Even while doing this, this fucking lunatic had the audacity to blame me. This disgusting, crawling bug of a human being. I’m going to kill him.
Between my trembling thighs, I felt something hard pressing against me. Kim Shinju was grinding his erect dick against my leg. My breath caught in my throat. A deafening siren went off in my head.
He slid his hand up my torso, pushing under my shirt. The moment his skin touched mine, a wave of nausea hit. It felt like every drop of blood in my body had drained away. Disgust. Hatred. Terror. And above all—rage. Pure, feral rage.
And then, something inside me snapped. My vision went white with fury. I gathered every last bit of strength I had left. While he was busy rubbing his hard-on against me, I kicked him in the gut with everything I had.
"Fuck you, you sick piece of shit!"
He stumbled back, clutching his stomach. I wanted to break his fucking skull open right then and there. And that’s when I saw it—a flowerpot in the corner of the windowsill. A dried-up orchid, half-dead. I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed it and smashed it against his fucking head.
"Hey! Kim Shinju!"
His lackeys burst through the classroom door. I was on top of him, fists flying, eyes burning. They swarmed me and pulled me off. By the time I came back to my senses, it was already too late.
Kim Shinju was lying beneath me, unconscious.
Blood ran down his head.
And I was the one standing over him.
****
The consistent witness testimonies, Kim Shinju being sent to the hospital, and me—someone with no rich parents, no political connections, and no one to vouch for me. The three-piece combo landed perfectly. The outcome? Obvious. Victim: Kim Shinju. Offender: me. Case closed. I got slapped with a forced transfer almost immediately. Am I bitter about it? Of course I am. I’m fucking bitter to hell and back.
Everyone knew I was basically Kim Shinju’s personal punching bag. I even lifted my shirt and showed the school violence committee teacher the bruises that bastard had carefully left on me—neat and methodical, like he took pride in each one. And yet, no one believed me. Or maybe, no one could afford to believe me. After all, Kim Shinju was one of the school’s top-ranked students, the kind of asset that raised the school's prestige just by existing. Most importantly, he had rich, powerful parents. I found out later his mom was the chair of the Parent Committee. I had charged into a fight I was destined to lose from the start.
The decision for the transfer was swift, clean, ruthless. I made a scene about filing an appeal with the Board of Education, but my homeroom teacher explained—calmly, like it was the most natural thing in the world—that the board usually sides with the school, and that it was standard procedure. I had no choice but to raise the white flag. I had no parents who could fight for me. No time, no money, no power. My whole fight to prove my innocence came to a bitter, abrupt end.
The day before the transfer, I went back to the classroom to pack my things. My classmates looked at me like I was a piece of human trash. I don’t know what that look meant—was it pity? Guilt? Disgust at a pervert who’d been branded and banished? I’ll never know for sure.
But one thing I do know better than anyone is this: every last one of these assholes was an accomplice, and I’m the only one in this school with a shred of integrity.
I swept my eyes across the classroom and made eye contact with each and every one of them. Cowards, the lot of them. In two years, they’ll all be legal adults, and yet here they are, pissing themselves at some thug like Kim Shinju. It makes me sick to think these people are the future of the country.
Not a single one of them ever stood up to Kim Shinju’s baseless violence. They all shut their mouths and turned a blind eye. They were just glad it wasn’t happening to them. Pathetic. Worthless cowards.
I turned away from them and began packing my things, slowly. When I opened my desk drawer, all I found was a pile of trashed textbooks and garbage. I was going to just toss them in my bag, but the sight disgusted me. With a blank expression, I grabbed one of the ruined books and hurled it toward the blackboard. It was the one Kim Shinju had poured milk over—soggy, stained, destroyed. The room stayed dead silent, the dull thud of the book hitting the board the only sound. Everyone just sat there, watching my tantrum like an exhibit.
I grabbed every single textbook I could get my hands on and threw them, one after another. Not a single book was intact. Even the teachers had ignored how wrecked my supplies were. My deskmate, my partner for group projects, people I used to think were friends—they had all looked the other way.
When I was done tossing books, I opened my locker. My gym clothes were shredded and reeked of spoiled milk. I draped the uniform over my chair like a disgusting trophy and sneered at it. Torn to bits and covered in filth by Kim Shinju’s crew, the damn thing still reeked of their filth.
You people still think I’m the problem? You look at this and still think I’m the one who sexually assaulted Kim Shinju? If you’ve got half a fucking brain, you’d know how fucking absurd that is. You spineless, brain-dead pieces of shit.
“Take care, you dumbass fucks.”
Before I left the room, I raised my middle finger. I scanned every last one of their faces with clenched teeth. I heard someone mutter “Is he crazy?” behind me, but I didn’t give a shit. I slammed the door hard enough to rattle the frame.
There was nothing I wanted to take from this school. What few friends I had abandoned me. The school never protected me, never gave a shit about me. My textbooks, my gym clothes, my supplies—everything had been turned to garbage long ago. Everything I got from this school had been drained of all value. My backpack was practically empty, but my legs felt solid beneath me. My shoulders were light.
Yeah, this level of fucked-up doesn’t even qualify for three months’ worth. Time will pass like it always does, and dust will settle over my rage. And that’s enough. I did nothing wrong. I’m still the only person in this goddamn school who has the right to hold his head high.
****
I’m no stranger to transfers. Thanks to my dad being a career soldier, I transferred schools seven times in elementary alone and three more times in middle school. Most military families split up once their kids reach middle school, choosing to live separately during the week, but mine didn’t. My dad, despite the hassle, wanted us all under the same roof. And we respected that.
But everything has a trade-off. Not getting split up was lucky, sure. But because of it, I never had the chance to form real friendships. Every time I got close to someone, I transferred again. I said goodbye before I had the chance to get attached. My childhood was one long series of hellos followed by goodbyes. I learned early on that every connection comes with an expiration date.
Still, this was my first forced transfer. I wasn’t used to being labeled a problem student.
Usually, schools treat these kinds of transfers like favors. You take someone’s problem kid this time, they’ll take yours next time. It’s mutual blackmail, basically. So I didn’t get to choose my next school. Not that offenders deserve a choice anyway—but the thing is, I’m not an offender. So yeah, it still pissed me off.
I stood alone in the faculty office, waiting for my new homeroom teacher. The stares stabbed into me from all directions. Their eyes made my skin itch. To them, I was just some ticking time bomb they’d been forced to inherit. I’m sure no one was looking at me with kindness.
“You’re Yoon Seonwoo?”
A man in his mid-thirties with a slim build approached me, like I was a piece of forgotten furniture. He was probably the new homeroom teacher.
“Hello.”
“You look… surprisingly quiet.”
He said it like it caught him off guard, and he even looked a little relieved. I just nodded without saying much. He went through a few formalities, then told me to stay out of trouble and focus on my studies—five times.
“Your grades aren’t bad. You might not make it in through early admission, but regular admissions should be doable.”
“Yes.”
“Keep your head on straight and study hard.”
I guess my first impression wasn’t awful. The teacher even threw in some encouragement.
“Thank you.”
I would’ve done that anyway, but I bowed politely. Early admission was already fucked thanks to the transfer, but if I nail the regular exams, I’ll be fine. And if not, I can always repeat a year.
“Let’s just get you through graduation quietly.”
That was my goal too. Keep my head down, don’t make waves, graduate without incident. If I could do that, then the brand burned into my forehead—the stigma chasing behind me—would start to lose its meaning.
<2nd Year, Class 5>
I stared at the placard above the classroom door for a long time. A new classroom, a new class, a new daily routine. A new start. I didn’t feel excited. But I wasn’t afraid either. I just didn’t want to repeat the same past again.
“This is our transfer student. Help him adjust, everyone.”
Even before the teacher finished speaking, multiple eyes were already on me. I’m sure they’d all heard the rumors. Even if it’s supposed to be confidential, news like this spreads in the shadows. With kids from different schools all gathering at the same academies, it’s easy for gossip to get passed around. Through whispers, through social media—everyone eventually finds out who transferred, when, and why.
I heard the muttering. “Forced transfer.” “Pervert.” “Molestation.” The words pierced my ears without mercy.
“Hello. I’m Yoon Seonwoo. Nice to meet you.”
I said it without emotion, looking out at their sour faces.
A few slackers. A few who looked like diligent types. A couple who screamed internet café addicts. One guy already half asleep. A perfectly average bunch. That was almost reassuring—until I met a pair of eyes towering from the back of the room.
“Take that empty seat over there.”
The teacher pointed, and as I made my way over, that gaze never left me. Out of all the eyes aimed my way, one of them felt uniquely sharp and uncomfortable. I felt a chill down my spine. That was my first impression of him.
Even at a glance, he had a striking face. But the reason he stood out wasn’t just good looks. His eyes had that strange weight to them, like he was pressing down on everything he looked at. It wasn’t hostility. It wasn’t disgust. It was... height. That’s the only way I can describe it. Like he was looking down from way up high. Like he knew for a fact there was a massive gap between us. Where had I seen that before? It felt familiar…
And then it hit me. Kim Shinju.
Fuck. That’s it.
This was the same feeling I had when I first met Kim Shinju. The same chill. The same mistake. I let my guard down, distracted by a well-kept appearance, and it nearly ruined my fucking life. No—it did ruin it. I quickly turned away and took my seat.
People with eyes like that are dangerous. One wrong step, and you’re fucked. Sure, it’s not like you run into some pervert who rubs his lips on other guys every day, but still—something about the way this guy looked at me, like he was scanning me head to toe, made my skin crawl.
Any bastard who looks at someone like that the first time they meet isn’t normal. He’s got to be fucked up in his own way. My instincts were screaming. Guys like him and I—we’re oil and water. I’ve already learned that lesson the hard way.
I don’t want to be anyone’s punching bag ever again. Not in this new school. This time, I just want to get through quietly.
I need to avoid that guy at all costs. Keep my head down. If I get singled out again for running my mouth, then what the fuck was the point of surviving the transfer? I have to stay quiet and get through to graduation.
His stare still burned into the back of my skull, but I forced myself to open the textbook. A textbook without a single torn page. It had been a while since I’d seen something so intact. The unease faded a little, replaced by the faintest flicker of anticipation. My lips twitched into the barest smile. I wrote my name on the corner of the first page.
Yoon Seonwoo.
This is a new beginning. I’m starting over—labelled as a deviant, branded a problem child. But maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll meet at least one person who sees me for who I really am. And if I end up an outcast again... so be it. Life is sometimes beautiful, and sometimes ugly.
Even this fucked-up teenage chapter of mine will come to an end someday.