My hands curl into fists on the desk. I hate him. I hate him so much I could scream. I hate that he’s sitting there looking like a prince while I’m huddled in a hoodie trying not to cry from the friction of my own underwear.
But my body remembers the weight of him. The heavy, crushing pressure of his hips. The way his hands pinned my wrists. A shiver racks through me, hot and shameful. It’s a biological betrayal. My inner Alpha should be raging, demanding blood for the insult. Instead, it’s cowering, confused, vibrating with this sick, residual heat that hasn't left me since I limped out of that apartment.
The lecture drags on for a thousand years. I don't hear a word of it. I just sit there, sweating in my hoodie, hyper-aware of every shift of fabric, every throb of the mark on my shoulder, every breath I take that smells likehim.
Finally, the professor dismisses the class.
The second the words "read chapter four" leave his mouth, I’m moving.
I grab my bag, ignoring the sharp protest in my lower back. I don't wait for my friends. I don't look for Heesung. I definitely don't look toward the middle row.
I bolt.
I weave through the crowd of students clogging the aisle, practically shoving a sophomore out of my way. I need air. I need distance. I need to get far enough away that the scent of winter air fades and I can stop feeling like I’m about to either punch someone or fall to my knees.
"Sihwan, wait up!" someone calls—Seungchan, probably.
I don't stop. I hit the door and burst into the hallway, walking as fast as my battered body will allow, desperate to outrun the heat crawling under my skin.
My life has become a stealth mission. I am no longer Oh Sihwan, Campus King and heir to the Oh! Paradise fortune. I am a rat. A scurrying, paranoid, hoodie-wearing rat trying to navigate a maze without getting eaten by the snake that is Kang Donghwa.
I spend the rest of the afternoon dodging shadows. Every time I see a flash of black hair, my heart tries to punch its way outof my ribcage. I dive into a stairwell when I see a figure that looks vaguely like him near the library. I take the long way to the vending machines—the ones in the basement that smell like mildew—just to avoid the main canteen.
At one point, someone yells "Hey!" from down the hall. I flinch so hard I smack my elbow against a locker, hissing in pain as I scramble around a corner, heart hammering. It turns out to be some random sophomore calling his friend, but the adrenaline dump leaves me leaning against the wall, wheezing like I just ran a marathon.
This is humiliating. I built this reputation brick by brick. I am the guy who walks down the center of the hallway. I am the guy people move for. Now I’m skirting the edges like a freshman with a bad haircut.
And then, the inevitable happens. The clock hits 4:00 PM.
Swim practice.
Fuck.
I stand outside the locker room doors, staring at the handle like it’s made of radioactive waste. The smell of chlorine seeps out, usually a scent that pumps me up—the smell of victory, of my best event. Today, it smells like exposure.
I can’t skip. Coach is already on my ass about "focus" after I tanked the last meet because I was too busy winking at the stands. If I bail today, he’ll bench me. But if I go in there…
I look down at my chest. Under the gray hoodie, under the t-shirt, is the Mark of Shame. The bite. It’s purple, angry, and undeniable. And swim trunks? Speedos? They hide nothing. If I walk out onto that pool deck, everyone is going to see the bruises on my hips. They’re going to see the teeth marks on my shoulder.
And in a locker room full of Alphas, they’ll know exactly what that means.
I swallow hard, my throat clicking dryly, and push the door open.
The humidity hits me instantly, thick and warm. The sound of lockers slamming and guys shouting echoes off the tile. It’s a meat market in here. Naked backs, towels snapping, the heavy, competitive scent of Alpha pheromones mixing with the chemical tang of the pool.
I keep my head down, clutching my gym bag to my chest like a shield. I shuffle to my usual spot in the corner, praying for invisibility.
"Yo! Sihwan!"
I cringe. Seungchan. Of course.
I look up to see my best friend beaming at me from three lockers down. He’s already stripped down to his briefs, a mountain of tan muscle and zero self-awareness. He waves a towel at me, grinning.
"Thought you weren't coming, man! You’re late. Coach is gonna make us do laps until we puke."
"Yeah," I croak. My voice sounds wrecked. I clear my throat, trying to inject some of my usual swagger into it, but it falls flat. "Yeah, got held up."
I set my bag on the bench. I don't open it. I just stand there, hands shoved in the pocket of my hoodie, staring at the metal vents of my locker.
