"Exactly!" Min beams. He never beams at me. "Mr. Kang, excellent point."
I want to snap my pencil in half.
"Dude," Seungchan whispers, leaning forward to poke my shoulder. "This guy is a machine. Is he a cyborg? He hasn't even opened his textbook."
"Shut up, Seungchan," I hiss.
I look at Donghwa’s profile. The sharp nose, the heavy-lidded eyes, the bored set of his mouth. He’s not just a pretty face with a trust fund. He’s talented. Naturally, effortlessly talented.
It burns. It burns in my chest like I swallowed a coal.
I worked my ass off to get into this program. My dad paid for tutors, sure, but I stayed up late. I memorized terms. I practiced my drafts until my fingers cramped. I have totry. I have to try so hard just to be good.
And this guy? He looks like he’d rather be asleep, yet he’s running circles around the entire junior class without breaking a sweat.
He’s not just competition. He’s an insult to my entire existence.
"Okay," Professor Min says, clapping his hands. "For the last ten minutes, I want you to sketch a quick concept based on the word 'Tension.' Don't overthink it. Just draw."
Finally. Something practical.
I grab a fresh sheet of paper. This is my turf. I might not be a walking encyclopedia, but I can draw. I have technique. I have style.
I sketch furiously. I draw two jagged lines crashing into each other, heavy shading, aggressive strokes. It’s bold. It’s masculine. It screamspower. I shade the background with heavy cross-hatching, pressing down until the graphite shines.
I finish with a flourish, sitting back to admire my work. It’s good. It’s visceral.
I glance over at Heesung’s paper. He’s drawn a delicate hand gripping a rose by the thorns. Cliché, but pretty. Very Omega.
"Nice," I tell him, flashing a wink. "Very poetic."
Heesung smiles, but his eyes drift. Again.
I follow his gaze.
Donghwa hasn't touched his paper. He’s staring out the window, watching a bird land on the ledge. His pencil is spinning idly between his fingers.
"Mr. Kang?" Professor Min asks, walking down the aisle. "Struggling for inspiration?"
Donghwa blinks, turning his head slowly. "No."
"Let’s see it then."
Donghwa looks at the blank page. Then, with agonizing slowness, he lowers his pencil. He makes one single, fluid line. A curve. Then a sharp, violent dot right in the center of the negative space.
That’s it. Two seconds of work.
Professor Min stares at it. I crane my neck to see. It looks like nothing. It looks like a mistake.
"Incredible," Min breathes, adjusting his glasses. "The isolation... the impending snap. It’s so minimal, yet the weight is there."
Are you kidding me?
I stare at my own drawing—my labored, detailed, sweaty drawing—and then at Donghwa’s single line.
"It’s a line," I blurt out. I can't help it. "It’s literally just a line."
The class goes quiet. Donghwa turns in his seat, looking back at me for the first time.
