It’s not just a hookup. It’s not just a bruised ego.
A low, guttural sound builds in my chest, vibrating against my ribs before escaping as a long, miserable groan. I lean forward, burying my face in my hands, pressing my palms into my eyes until I see stars.
"Fuck," I breathe into my hands.
It’s a catastrophe. It’s a cosmic joke. I came to university to escape my family’s suffocating expectations, to make art, to be left alone. And instead, in the first month, I’ve accidentally tethered myself biologically to the loudest, most high-maintenance, insecure gym-bro on campus.
I drag my hands down my face, pulling at the skin, and stare blankly at the piano keys.
"I fucking bonded him."
Monday morning arrives with all the grace of a sledgehammer to the temple.
I didn't sleep. My body spent the entire weekend in a state of high-alert agitation, like a radio stuck between stations, buzzing with static. I kept waiting for a signal that never came.
By the time I walk into the Visual Communication lecture hall, I’m running on caffeine and a very short fuse. I scan the room before I’m even fully through the door. My eyes skip over the rows of sleepy students, ignoring the Omegas who perk up as I enter, ignoring the hushed whispers.
I’m looking for one specific, annoying, gel-haired head.
He’s not here.
The seat next to Heesung—Sihwan’s usual throne from which he surveys his imaginary kingdom—is empty.
I stop in the aisle, a frown tugging at my mouth. It’s wrong. The room feels wrong. It’s too quiet, lacking that undercurrent of desperate "look at me" energy Sihwan projects. I take a seat in the back row, drumming my fingers on the desk, staring at the back of Heesung’s head.
Maybe he’s late. He likes making an entrance. He’s probably waiting outside the door right now, checking his reflection in his phone screen, fluffing his hair to achieve maximum volume.
Ten minutes pass. The professor starts prostrating about advertisement design. The door stays shut.
An hour later, class ends. No Sihwan.
I don't go to my next class. Instead, I stalk the hallways of the Arts wing. I know his schedule—not because I’m a stalker, but because he made it his mission to be in my face for a month, so I learned his routine just to avoid him. Now, I’m retracing those steps.
I wait outside the Brand Management lecture hall. Students file out. I see a few of his gym-bro acolytes, laughing and shoving each other, but the King isn't with them.
I check the canteen. I check the courtyard where he likes to hold court. I even check the gym, standing in the doorway and breathing in the smell of rubber mats and sweat, trying to pick up that specific scent of spiced rum.
Nothing.
The agitation in my gut spikes, twisting into something sharper. It’s not just annoyance anymore. It’s a physical pull, a hook in my navel yanking me toward a void I can’t locate.
I round the corner near the vending machines and finally spot a familiar target.
Choi Seungchan. Sihwan’s lieutenant. The guy is built like a vending machine himself—all width, no neck. He’s currently struggling to open a bag of chips, looking like a bear trying to solve a puzzle box.
I change course, marching straight for him.
Seungchan looks up as my shadow falls over him. His eyes widen, and he actually takes a half-step back, clutching his chips to his chest like I’m going to steal them.
"Donghwa," he stammers. "Uh. Hey."
"Where is he?" I ask. I don't have the patience for pleasantries.
Seungchan blinks, feigning ignorance poorly. "Who?"
"Don't be cute, Seungchan. It doesn't suit you," I say, stepping into his personal space. I let a little bit of my scent leak out—just a warning, a cold snap of winter air. "Sihwan. He wasn't in class. He wasn't at the gym. Where is he?"
Seungchan shifts his weight, looking wildly uncomfortable. He glances around the hallway as if hoping Sihwan will pop out of a locker and save him.
