SU-GANG |||CURROPTION

The last bell had died an hour ago.
Muyeong High was a tomb: no footsteps in the corridor, no chatter, just the low, dying hum of the vending machine down the hall and the occasional metallic groan of the building settling into night. You were alone in the ethics classroom, door half-shut, stacking papers with the mechanical rhythm of someone trying very hard not to think about the past. Your knuckles still carried the faint white scars from the night you decided the ring had taken enough. Retirement tasted like copper and silence. Then the lights in the hallway snapped off, one by one.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Like someone was walking the switch panel with purpose. The classroom bulb flickered once, twice, then steadied, throwing everything into sickly yellow.
You smelled it before you heard it: expensive cologne cut with the sharp bite of sweat and something metallic, blood or adrenaline, you couldn’t tell yet. The door didn’t open.
It was kicked. Hard. The metal frame rattled in its hinges. Han Su-gang filled the doorway like a storm front, shoulders too wide, presence too heavy. Behind him, two of his usual dogs, but tonight they stayed back in the dark corridor, silhouettes only, breathing through their mouths. Su-gang didn’t need them close. Not for this. He stepped inside and let the door swing shut behind him with a slow, deliberate clang that echoed longer than it should have. The lock clicked. His thumb, casual. Too casual. His eyes never left you. “Evening, Iron Fist,” he said, voice soft enough that you felt it in your sternum more than heard it. He pronounced your old ring name like he’d been tasting it for weeks. “Heard you teach kids not to hit back. That true?” He started walking. Not fast. Just inevitable. Each footstep deliberate, shoes scuffing the floor like he owned gravity itself. Ten feet. Eight. Five. You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Not yet. He stopped just inside your reach, close enough that the heat rolling off him felt like standing too near a furnace. His tie was gone tonight. Top three buttons undone. A thin line of dried blood traced the corner of his mouth; someone else’s, probably. His knuckles were split open and shining. He tilted his head, studying the old fight photo on your desk like it personally offended him. “Used to be somebody, huh?” A humorless smile. “Now you’re here. Telling my little sister’s class that violence never solves anything.” His tongue touched the cut on his lip, savoring it. “Cute.” The room was shrinking. Air thinning. He leaned in, slow, until his forehead almost brushed yours. You could count the flecks of gold in his irises, see the pulse hammering at his throat, fast, hungry. “I’ve got a problem, teacher,” he whispered, breath ghosting over your mouth. “I don’t like being lied to. And every time you open that pretty mouth in front of thirty kids and pretend the world isn’t ruled by who hits hardest...” His hand came up, knuckles grazing your jaw with the gentleness of a loaded gun. “You’re lying to me.” His fingers curled, not quite grabbing your throat, just resting there, feeling the jump of your pulse like he was checking ripeness. “So here’s what’s gonna happen.” His voice dropped another octave, lethal silk. “You’re gonna show me what’s left of that ‘champion.’ Right here. Right now. No gloves. No refs. No pretty speeches.” He stepped back one single pace, rolled his shoulders like he was loosening up for warm-ups, and smiled with too many teeth. “Or I start breaking your rules one by one until you remember how good it feels to break something back.” The fluorescent light overhead flickered again, buzzed, then held. Just you.
Just him.
And the low, hungry sound of his breathing filling the room like a countdown.

Smut fem pov ver.

The last bell had died an hour ago.
Muyeong High was a tomb: no footsteps in the corridor, no chatter, just the low, dying hum of the vending machine down the hall and the occasional metallic groan of the building settling into night. You were alone in the ethics classroom, door half-shut, stacking papers with the mechanical rhythm of someone trying very hard not to think about the past. Your knuckles still carried the faint white scars from the night you decided the ring had taken enough. Retirement tasted like copper and silence. Then the lights in the hallway snapped off, one by one.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Like someone was walking the switch panel with purpose. The classroom bulb flickered once, twice, then steadied, throwing everything into sickly yellow.
You smelled it before you heard it: expensive cologne cut with the sharp bite of sweat and something metallic, blood or adrenaline, you couldn’t tell yet. The door didn’t open.
It was kicked. Hard. The metal frame rattled in its hinges. Han Su-gang filled the doorway like a storm front, shoulders too wide, presence too heavy. Behind him, two of his usual dogs, but tonight they stayed back in the dark corridor, silhouettes only, breathing through their mouths. Su-gang didn’t need them close. Not for this. He stepped inside and let the door swing shut behind him with a slow, deliberate clang that echoed longer than it should have. The lock clicked. His thumb, casual. Too casual. His eyes never left you. “Evening, Iron Fist,” he said, voice soft enough that you felt it in your sternum more than heard it. He pronounced your old ring name like he’d been tasting it for weeks. “Heard you teach kids not to hit back. That true?” He started walking. Not fast. Just inevitable. Each footstep deliberate, shoes scuffing the floor like he owned gravity itself. Ten feet. Eight. Five. You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Not yet. He stopped just inside your reach, close enough that the heat rolling off him felt like standing too near a furnace. His tie was gone tonight. Top three buttons undone. A thin line of dried blood traced the corner of his mouth; someone else’s, probably. His knuckles were split open and shining. He tilted his head, studying the old fight photo on your desk like it personally offended him. “Used to be somebody, huh?” A humorless smile. “Now you’re here. Telling my little sister’s class that violence never solves anything.” His tongue touched the cut on his lip, savoring it. “Cute.” The room was shrinking. Air thinning. He leaned in, slow, until his forehead almost brushed yours. You could count the flecks of gold in his irises, see the pulse hammering at his throat, fast, hungry. “I’ve got a problem, teacher,” he whispered, breath ghosting over your mouth. “I don’t like being lied to. And every time you open that pretty mouth in front of thirty kids and pretend the world isn’t ruled by who hits hardest...” His hand came up, knuckles grazing your jaw with the gentleness of a loaded gun. “You’re lying to me.” His fingers curled, not quite grabbing your throat, just resting there, feeling the jump of your pulse like he was checking ripeness. “So here’s what’s gonna happen.” His voice dropped another octave, lethal silk. “You’re gonna show me what’s left of that ‘champion.’ Right here. Right now. No gloves. No refs. No pretty speeches.” He stepped back one single pace, rolled his shoulders like he was loosening up for warm-ups, and smiled with too many teeth. “Or I start breaking your rules one by one until you remember how good it feels to break something back.” The fluorescent light overhead flickered again, buzzed, then held. Just you.
Just him.
And the low, hungry sound of his breathing filling the room like a countdown.

Smut male ver.

The last corridor light died with a soft click.
Muyeong High after dark felt like the inside of a coffin. You were sliding the final stack of quizzes into your bag when the classroom door rolled open on its track: slow, deliberate, the metal rail humming like a warning. Han Su-gang stepped through the gap and let the door glide shut behind him with the same lazy finality. The lock snapped. Once. The emergency strip above the whiteboard threw a sickly green glow across the room, cutting sharp shadows under his eyes, turning the fresh blood on his knuckles glossy black. He didn’t rush. Just stood there a second, shoulders filling the frame, breathing slow and deep like he was already tasting the fight. Then he started walking. Each step landed with soft menace, shoes scuffing the linoleum.
Ten meters.
Seven.
Three. He stopped just short of touching you, close enough that the heat coming off his body slammed into yours like a wall. Close enough that you smelled sweat, blood, and that dark, expensive cologne he wore like a threat. His gaze dragged down your frame, slow, deliberate, then locked back on your eyes. “Iron Fist,” he said, voice low and rough, almost intimate. “Still got that killer in you... or did this place teach you how to roll over and take it?” He lifted his hand (those raw, split knuckles) and brushed them along your jaw, not gentle, not quite rough. Just contact. A dare. His thumb dragged across your lower lip once, testing. “Every time you stand up there preaching that violence never solved anything,” he murmured, leaning in until you felt his breath against your mouth, “I wonder if your blood still remembers how good it felt to put someone on the floor.” His thumb pressed harder, tilting your head back an inch, forcing you to meet his stare. The green light flickered; for a heartbeat his eyes looked pitch black. “Or do you jerk off at night wishing someone would finally make you feel it again?” He planted one hand on the desk behind you, wood creaking under his weight, boxing you in without closing the last inch. The space between you crackled, thick and electric. “I can make you feel it,” he whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice dropping into something filthy and reverent. “Right here. Bend you over this desk and fuck the good-teacher act right out of you until the only thing you remember how to say is my name.” His free hand rose, knuckles grazing the side of your throat, slow, deliberate, stopping over the frantic jump of your pulse like he was claiming it. “One word,” he breathed against your skin, “and I open that door and walk. Or you stay quiet... and I remind you exactly why they used to be scared of you.” The sliding door gleamed dully in the half-light, still locked. Waiting.
Hungry.
Ready.