Donghwa blinks slowly, turning his head. "No."
One word. He says one word, flat and uninterested.
The girl doesn't recoil. She doesn't get offended. She blushes. She actuallyblushesand whispers something to her friend, giggling.
What the hell?
If I gave a one-word answer, I’d be called an asshole. If I ignored someone, I’d be "stuck up." But Donghwa does it, and suddenly he’s the brooding, tortured artist that everyone wants to fix.
Another omega, a guy from the dance department, holds out a box of cookies. "I baked these for the club meeting, but I have extras. Do you want some?"
Donghwa looks at the cookies. He looks at the boy. "I don't like sweets."
It’s a rejection. A cold, hard rejection.
The boy’s eyes widen, and he nods enthusiastically. "Oh! Of course! You have a refined palate. I’ll make something savory next time!"
I feel a vein throb in my temple. This is insanity. He’s treating them like furniture, and they’re eating it up. It’s the "bad boy" effect. They think because he’s quiet, he’s deep. They think because he’s rude, he’s honest. They don’t realize he’s just a bored, rich brat who thinks he’s better than everyone else.
He’s notengagingwith them, but he’s not chasing them away either. He just sits there in his cloud of winter-scented pheromones, letting them bask in his presence like he’s a statue in a museum.
It’s infuriating. It’s lazy.
I put in the work! I remember names! I compliment outfits! I go to the gym six days a week so I look goodfor them! And this guy rolls out of bed, puts on a black turtleneck, grunts at people, and gets a fan club?
I grind my teeth so hard I think I chip a molar.
Chapter Five
The soccer field is exactly the cure I need for this building madness.
If the lecture hall is a prison of boredom and the cafeteria is a minefield of social etiquette, the pitch is where the hierarchy is stripped down to its rawest form. Sweat, muscle, speed. No textbooks, no "Dadaism," just physics. And in terms of physics, I am a freight train.
I jog onto the grass, my cleats crunching satisfyingly into the earth. I’m wearing my lucky neon-orange compression shirt—the one that highlights the cut of my pectorals and the terrifying width of my shoulders. I catch a glimpse of myself in thereflection of the locker room windows before I hit the field.Magnificent.
"Looking huge, Sihwan!" Seungchan bellows, jogging up beside me and slapping my ass.
"Eyes on the prize, Seungchan," I say, rolling my neck until it cracks. "Today isn't just a game. It's an education."
The sidelines are already filling up. It’s a departmental mixer, Juniors versus Freshmen, which means half the Visual Design student body is here to watch. I spot a cluster of omegas spreading out picnic blankets near the midfield line. And there, sitting on a cooler like a prince on a throne, is Yoon Heesung. He’s wearing oversized sunglasses and sipping an iced americano, looking bored and beautiful.
Perfect. The stage is set.
I scan the opposition. The freshmen look nervous, huddled together like sheep waiting for the slaughter. Except for one.
Kang Donghwa is stretching near the goal post.
He’s not wearing the standard-issue pinnie like the rest of the scrubs. He’s in a sleek, all-black athletic kit that looks more like a wetsuit than a soccer uniform. He’s bent at the waist, palms flat on the grass, hamstrings stretching with an easy flexibility that makes my own stiff muscles twinge in sympathy.
"Look at him," I sneer, nudging Seungchan. "Skinny legs. No mass. One solid tackle and he’s going to fold like a lawn chair."
Seungchan squints. "I dunno, bro. He looks kinda… wiry. Like a whip."
"Whips don't stop boulders, Seungchan," I say. "I’m going to run right through him. By the time the whistle blows, he’s going to be crying for his mommy’s lawyer."
This is a chance, an opportunity to finally put the little punk in his place. One I will happily snag.
The whistle blows, shrill and piercing, and the game is on.
