I grip the edge of my desk, my knuckles turning white. My own pheromones spike in response, my body flooding with adrenaline, ready for a fight that hasn't even started.
I grind my teeth, the muscles in my jaw jumping. The scent is irritating, like stepping out of a hot shower into a drafty room. It cuts right through the heavy, expensive musk I’ve been cultivating all morning, making my own pheromones feel cheap in comparison.
I lean back, tilting my chair onto its back legs so I can talk to the guys behind me without turning around fully.
"Who invited the funeral procession?" I ask, keeping my voice low but laced with enough venom to make it clear I’m notimpressed. "Guy looks like he got lost on his way to an audition for a vampire movie."
Yoonsuk, sitting to Seungchan’s left, rolls his eyes so hard I’m surprised he doesn't pull a muscle.
"You don't know?" Yoonsuk whispers, leaning over his desk. "That’s Kang Donghwa. He’s technically a freshman, but he took a gap year to 'find himself' or whatever rich people do when they don't want to get a job."
Kang.
The name lands heavy. I know the type. Old Money. The kind of family that has buildings named after their grandfathers and looks at my dad’s hotel empire like it’s a roadside motel.
"So he’s a rich kid with a bad attitude," I scoff. "Groundbreaking."
"He’s not just rich, dude," Seungchan chimes in, grinning like an idiot. He nudges my shoulder with his elbow, hard enough to make me wobble. "Look at the reception. The Omegas are practically foaming at the mouth. I heard he turned down three modeling contracts before he even enrolled."
Seungchan chuckles, oblivious to the fact that my mood is rapidly deteriorating. "Looks like the King has some competition for the fanclub this year, huh? Better step it up, Sihwan. That 'brooding artist' vibe is trending right now."
My eye twitches. "I don't havecompetition," I hiss, snapping my chair back down onto all four legs. "I have a hierarchy. And fresh meat doesn't skip the line just because he owns a leather coat."
"I don't know, man," Jaejoong mutters, chewing on the end of a pen. "Competition implies he’s actually playing the game. Look at him."
I look. I don't want to, but I do.
Donghwa is sitting two rows up, completely ignoring the chaos around him. A cute Omega girl with a long wavy hair is leaningover his desk, clearly trying to strike up a conversation. She’s twirling her hair, laughing a little too loudly at something she said.
Donghwa doesn't even look at her. He’s pulling a film camera out of his bag—vintage, black, probably costs more than my car—and setting it on the desk with agonizing slowness. He says something brief, barely moving his lips, and the girl’s smile falters. She pulls back, looking confused, before retreating to her seat.
"See?" Jaejoong says. "Guy is so full of himself he won't even give them the time of day. He treats everyone like they’re invisible."
"He’s an arrogant prick, is what he is," I mutter, crossing my arms over my chest.
It pisses me off. Not just the scent—which is still drifting back here—but the attitude. I work hard for this. I hit the gym six days a week. I memorize people’s names. I spend hours curating my image. I earn the attention I get.
This guy? He just sits there, radiating boredom, and people line up to be ignored by him. It’s insulting. It’s lazy.
"He’s just posturing," I tell the guys, loud enough that I hope it carries. "Give it a week. Once people realize he has the personality of a wet cardboard box, they’ll come back to the fun table."
I glance sideways at Heesung, checking to see if he’s listening.
Heesung isn't looking at me. He’s looking two rows ahead. He’s staring at the back of Kang Donghwa’s head, his pen hovering motionless over his textbook. There’s a tiny, thoughtful frown between his brows, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.
My stomach drops, hot acid curling in my gut.
Oh, hell no.
I spend the first ten minutes of the lecture staring at the back of Kang Donghwa’s neck.
It’s a nice neck. I hate it.
It’s long, pale, and disappears into the collar of that black turtleneck like a column of marble. His hair is messy, but it’s that artful, editorial kind of messy that takes me forty-five minutes and half a can of hairspray to achieve. He probably just woke up, ran a hand through it, and walked out the door looking like a brooding French film star.
I shift in my seat, crossing my arms so my biceps bulge against the fabric of my jacket. I glance at Heesung out of the corner of my eye.
Heesung is still looking forward. He’s not looking at the professor. He’s looking at the exact same spot I am.
