"Oh. Yeah. He... uh..." Seungchan scratches the back of his neck. "He's not coming in today."
"Why?"
"He's sick," Seungchan says quickly. Too quickly. "Yeah. Super sick. Flu or something. Said he feels like death. Told us not to bother him."
I narrow my eyes. Sick? Sihwan? The guy treats his body like a temple. He takes more vitamins than a geriatric patient. And even if hewassick, Sihwan is the type to come to school anyway just to post a selfie in a mask with a caption about 'the grind never stopping.'
Something cold trickles down my spine. A bad feeling. It’s not a logical deduction; it’s a primal ping on a radar I didn't know I had until last week.
If we’re bonded... if I really did knot him and mark him... and now we’ve been separated for over a week?
"He's not sick," I say quietly.
Seungchan flinches. "Bro, I swear. He texted me this morning. Said he was throwing up."
Throwing up. Rejection of other scents? Stress? Or just the physical toll of a new bond being ignored?
"Where does he live?" I ask.
Seungchan’s jaw drops. "What? Why?"
"Because I need to check on him."
"He said no visitors," Seungchan argues, trying to puff up his chest to block my path. It’s adorable. "He was really specific, Donghwa. He said if anyone comes over he’s gonna lose it. Especially... well, anyone."
He means especially me.
"Seungchan," I say, keeping my voice low and even. I take another step forward. I’m taller than him, just barely, but I know how to use it. "Look at me. Do I look like I’m asking for permission?"
Seungchan swallows audibly. He looks at my face, then down at my hands, which are currently clenched into fists at my sides. He’s loyal, I’ll give him that, but he’s not stupid. He knows the pecking order, even if his best friend refuses to accept it.
"If I tell you," Seungchan whispers, leaning in conspiratorially, "you have to swear you won't tell him I gave it up. He’ll literally kill me. He’ll make me do leg day until my quads explode."
"I won't mention your name," I promise. "I'll tell him I used my superior intellect to deduce his location."
Seungchan hesitates for one more second, weighing his loyalty against his self-preservation. Self-preservation wins.
"Here," he mutters, pulling out his phone to type the specific unit number. "Penthouse level. Obviously."
Of course he is.
"Thanks," I say, memorizing the address instantly.
"Seriously, man," Seungchan calls after me as I turn on my heel. "If he asks, I was never here!"
I don't answer. I’m already moving, the pull in my gut finally having a direction. I’m not going to class. I’m going to find out exactly how 'sick' Oh Sihwan really is.
The building is exactly what I expected. It’s called "The Zenith," because of course it is. The lobby has more marble than the Vatican and enough gold leaf to bankrupt a small nation. It screamsnew money, loud and desperate to be noticed. It screams Oh Sihwan.
I ignore the doorman who tries to intercept me, flashing my student ID with enough unearned confidence that he assumes I belong there. The elevator ride to the penthouse is smooth, silent, and irritatingly long. I spend the ascent tapping my foot against the mirrored wall, watching my own reflection scowl back at me.
I’m not here to apologize. I’m here to get answers. I’m here to figure out why my biology has decided to rewrite itself around a guy whose favorite hobby is staring at himself in shop windows.
The elevator dings, opening directly into a private foyer. I march up to the double doors—mahogany, naturally—and lean on the doorbell.
Ding-dong. Ding-dong. Ding-dong.
I wait three seconds. Nothing.
