His eyes are dark, almost black. There’s no hostility in them. No fear. Just a mild, detached amusement. He looks at me like I’m a yapping chihuahua he just noticed on the sidewalk.
"It’s a vector of force," Donghwa says, his voice gravelly and calm. "If you have to fill the whole page to show tension, you’re not drawing tension. You’re drawing noise."
The room goes silent. Somewhere in the back, someone whispers, "Damn."
My face goes hot. My pheromones flare, aggressive and spicy, flooding the space with the scent of scorched sugar and rum. I want to grab him by that expensive coat and shake him until he shows some emotion.
"Noise?" I laugh, but it sounds brittle. "I call it effort. Some of us actually care about the assignment."
Donghwa holds my gaze for a second longer, then shrugs. A small, dismissive motion of one shoulder.
"Sure," he says.
Then he turns back around.
He dismisses me. He just... turns around. Like I’m not even worth the argument.
I sit there, vibrating with rage, my hands clenched into fists on the desk. Beside me, Heesung lets out a soft breath.
"Wow," Heesung whispers. "He’s so cool."
I snap my pencil in half. For real this time.
Chapter Three
The lecture ends with the screech of chair legs against linoleum, a sound that matches the grinding of my teeth.
I’m still staring at my drawing. My "noise." It looks stupid now. Overworked. Desperate. I shove the paper into my bag, crumpling the edge. Whatever. Art is subjective. Professor Min is just going through a minimalist phase.
"Class dismissed," Min chirps.
I look up just in time to see Kang Donghwa rise.
He doesn't pack up because he didn't take anything out. He just stands, unfolding that long, swimmer’s frame like a lawn chair, and slides his helmet off the desk. He doesn't look atthe professor. He doesn't look at his classmates. He definitely doesn't look at me.
He just turns and walks toward the door, his heavy boots thudding rhythmically against the floor.
"Look at him," Seungchan grumbles behind me, shoving his massive notebook into a tiny backpack. "Doesn't even say goodbye. Who does he think he is? Batman?"
"Batman had a personality," Yoonsuk mutters, slinging his bag over one shoulder. "This guy is just... empty. Did you see his eyes? Dead fish vibes."
"He thinks he's better than us," Jaejoong adds, crossing his thick arms. "That’s what it is. Old Money arrogance. Bet he thinks we’re all peasants because we don't have a building named after our grandpa."
I watch Donghwa reach the door. He doesn't hold it open for the person behind him. He slips through, the heavy metal swinging shut, and immediately, the flock moves.
It’s pathetic, really.
Three Omega girls from the front row—the ones who spent the whole lecture fixing their makeup—scramble to pack their bags. They rush the door like it’s a holiday sale, chattering excitedly as they squeeze into the hallway after him. Even the guy who sits by the window, a quiet Beta, hurries out to catch a glimpse.
"It’s a cult," I say, disgusted. "They’re following him like he’s the pied piper of depression."
"It’s the pheromones," Seungchan says, sniffing the air loudly. "Smells like a freezer in here now. Some Omegas are into that cold, distant thing. Daddy issues, probably."
I snort. "It’s a novelty. It’ll wear off. Once they realize he has nothing to say, they’ll get bored."
I stand up, adjusting my jacket. I need to salvage this. The morning was a disaster, but lunch is where the real moves are made. I’ll take Heesung to that new sushi place off-campus. Mytreat. I’ll dazzle him with stories about my summer, maybe flex a little about the VIP table I have reserved at Club Ellipse for the weekend.
I turn to my left, putting on my best, most charming smile. The one that saysI’m the King, and I’m choosing you.
