I let my scent roll off me. It usually has people clearing a path, eyes lowering in deference. But as I turn the corner toward the lecture hall, the air changes. The temperature seems to drop five degrees, and the sharp scent of cold winter air and ink cuts right through my musk like a knife.
Kang Donghwa.
I grit my teeth. Since the game, the bastard has stopped playing the role of the stoic, silent monk. I told him it was war, and apparently, he took that as an invitation to be the most annoying person on the planet.
I stride into the lecture hall. He’s there, of course. Front row, center, looking like he just rolled out of a spread inVoguewith that bored, disaffected slouch. He’s wearing a black turtleneck in the heat of September again.
I march down the steps and slam my bag onto the desk right next to him.
Donghwa doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even look up from his sketchbook. He just sighs, a long, weary sound that scrapes against my last nerve.
"Seat's taken," I lie, looming over him.
Donghwa slowly turns his head. His dark eyes drift up, scanning me from my expensive sneakers to my face. "By who? Your ego? It’s certainly big enough to need its own chair."
A ripple of laughter goes through the rows behind us. My ears burn.
"Funny," I snap, dropping into the seat anyway. I spread my legs wide, encroaching on his personal space. "Just making sure you don't get lonely down here,hoobae."
"I prefer the solitude," he murmurs, turning a page. "It smells better."
I lean in, pitching my voice low so only he can hear. "You think you’re hot shit because you got a few lucky shots in on the field? Watch your back, Kang. You’re playing in the big leagues now."
Donghwa finally looks at me fully. There’s a glint in his eye—not fear, but amusement. "Hyung, if you lean any closer, people are going to think you’re trying to kiss me. And you’re really not my type."
I recoil like I’ve been slapped, sputtering as the Professor breezes into the room, clapping his hands for attention. I spend the next hour stewing in my own pheromones, glaring at the side of Donghwa’s head.
Wednesday is worse.
We’re in the studio for a critique session. I’ve spent three days on my branding project—a sleek, high-energy campaign for a sports drink. It’s loud, it’s colorful, it screamsSihwan. I present it with my usual flair, charming the class, making eye contact with Heesung in the back row. Heesung offers a polite smile, which I count as a victory.
Then it’s Donghwa’s turn.
He walks up to the front with nothing but a single black-and-white photograph mounted on a board. It’s a stark, high-contrast shot of a crushed soda can on wet pavement. It’s depressing. It’s pretentious.
Professor Yoon practically weeps over it. " The texture! The ennui! The commentary on consumerism!"
I scoff loudly from the back. "It’s trash. Literally. He took a picture of garbage."
The room goes quiet. Professor Yoon looks annoyed, but Donghwa just leans against the podium, looking entirely unbothered.
"It’s about the aftermath of consumption," Donghwa says, his voice smooth and deep. He looks directly at me. "About things that are loud and flashy, only to be discarded once they’re empty. I call it 'The Hypebeast'."
The silence stretches for a second, and then half the class turns to look at me. I’m wearing a limited edition Supreme jacket.
My jaw drops. "Are you calling me a soda can?"
"I'm explaining the art, Hyung," he says innocently, though the corner of his mouth twitches. "If the shoe fits, or... if the can crunches."
"You little—" I start to stand up, my scent flaring hot and aggressive, scorched earth filling the room.
"Sihwan," Professor Yoon warns. "Sit down. Donghwa, excellent work."
I sit. But I’m plotting murder.
By Thursday, the tension is thick enough to choke a Beta.
I’m at the vending machines near the cafeteria, trying to get a damn coffee, but the machine eats my bill. I kick it. Hard.
