Seungchan scratches his head. "Yeah, that was... weird. But hey, listen. Jiah from the Theater department is throwing aparty tomorrow. Her parents are out of town, huge apartment in Gangnam. Everyone’s going."
I pause. A party.
A party means alcohol. It means loud music. But most importantly, it means a controlled environment where I am the undisputed main character. No professors to fawn over Donghwa’s 'artistic vision.' No soccer fields for him to tackle me on. Just social dynamics, which is the one game I know I can win.
"Is Heesung going?" I ask.
"Probably," Seungchan shrugs. "He goes to everything."
I grin, tossing the crushed bottle into the recycling bin from three meters away. Nothing but net.
"Pick me up at eight," I say, hopping off the bench. "I need to pick out an outfit that says 'I own this school' and 'I’m casually approachable' at the same time."
By Saturday night, I am a masterpiece.
I spend an hour on my hair alone, teasing the chestnut strands until they look perfectly windblown. I chose a black silk shirt, unbuttoned just enough to show off the definition of my pecs, and tight jeans that leave nothing to the imagination. I spritz on my cologne, layering it over my natural scent until I smell like a walking aphrodisiac.
"You ready, boss?" Seungchan asks when I slide into his car. He’s wearing a t-shirt that is struggling to contain his biceps.
"Born ready."
We pull up to the apartment complex a little after ten. It’s one of those high-end places with a doorman, but the bass is already thumping so hard I can feel it in the pavement.
We head up. The elevator opens directly into chaos.
The air is thick, a humid soup of cheap beer, expensive perfume, and the mingling pheromones of fifty differentstudents. The lights are dim, pulsing with the beat of some generic EDM track that I pretend to hate but secretly love.
"Showtime," I mutter.
I step out of the elevator, Seungchan flanking me like my personal bodyguard. I don't just walk in; I make an entrance. I roll my shoulders back, expand my chest, and let my scent flood the entryway.
Heads turn.
"Sihwan-oppa!" a chorus of voices rings out from the kitchen island.
I smirk, the tension of the week instantly evaporating. This is it. This is the drug. The eyes, the whispers, the way the crowd naturally parts to let me through. I high-five a guy from the soccer team, wink at a Beta girl holding a red cup, and soak it all in.
"Drinks?" Seungchan yells over the bass.
"Vodka," I yell back. "And keep 'em coming."
I lean against the wall, posing, letting the adoration wash over me. For the first time in a week, the air doesn't smell like winter and ink. It smells like victory.
"Looking good, Sihwan," someone purrs.
I turn to see a cute Omega from my marketing class. I flash the smile. "Just trying to keep up with you, babe."
Yeah. I’m back. The King is in the building, and absolutely nothing is going to ruin my night.
The vodka tastes like straight paint stripper, but after the third shot, I stop caring.
The bass drops, vibrating through the floorboards and straight up my spine. I’m on the makeshift dance floor in the living room, surrounded by a sea of bodies. Two Omegas from the Art History department are grinding close to me, their sweet, floral scents mixing with the heavy musk of my cologne.
I don’t even know their names. It doesn’t matter.
I hook a hand around one’s waist, spinning him out and pulling him back in. He giggles, looking up at me with those wide, dilated eyes that screamAlpha. I smirk, letting my pheromones roll off me in thick, heavy waves. This is easy. This is natural. I am the sun, and they are just little planets caught in my gravity.
"You're on fire tonight, Sihwan!" someone shouts over the music.
