I grind my teeth.
"Okay, settle down," Professor Min calls out, tapping a marker against the whiteboard. He’s a dry, dusty Beta who has been teaching Visual Theory since before I was born. "Welcome to Advanced Visual Communication. I assume since you’re all Juniors—and a few ambitious underclassmen—you’ve done the summer reading."
I didn't. Obviously. I spent my summer doing chest flys and drinking mojitos on a boat. But I’m good at bullshitting. That’s my major.
"Let’s start with a refresher," Min says, uncapping the marker. "Who can explain the application of semiotics in modern branding versus traditional corporate identity?"
Silence falls over the room. It’s the first day. Nobody wants to be the nerd who speaks first.
I smirk. This is my moment. I don't know the textbook definition, but I know branding. My dad owns a hotel empire. Iama brand.
I clear my throat, preparing to raise my hand and charm the room with a half-assed but confident answer about logos andconsumer trust. I’m already formulating the sentence, ready to lean back and let my voice boom.
"It’s the shift from signifier to experience," a deep voice rumbles from the front.
My mouth snaps shut.
Donghwa doesn't even raise his hand. He doesn't sit up straight. He just speaks, his voice low and scratchy, like he’s bored out of his mind.
"Traditional identity relies on the logo as a stamp of ownership," Donghwa continues, twirling a pen between his long fingers. "Modern branding deconstructs the symbol. The brand isn't the logo anymore; it’s the cultural context the consumer projects onto it. It’s not about what the company sells, it’s about the tribe the consumer joins."
Professor Min blinks. He actually lowers his marker. "That is... surprisingly concise. And correct. Mr...?"
"Kang," Donghwa mumbles.
"Kang Donghwa," the professor nods, checking his roster. "The freshman. Impressive."
I feel a vein throb in my temple.
The freshman.
The air around me sours. My scent spikes, turning sharp and burnt. I can feel Seungchan shift uncomfortably behind me, probably choking on the sudden wave of aggression rolling off my shoulders.
"Show off," I mutter under my breath.
"He’s right though," Heesung whispers.
I whip my head toward him. Heesung is looking at Donghwa with a spark of genuine interest, his pen tapping against his lip.
"It’s textbook," I scoff, leaning in close to Heesung. "He probably memorized it to impress the professor. It’s desperate."
Heesung glances at me, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Maybe. Or maybe he’s just smart."
I hate the way he sayssmart. Like it’s a turn-on.
"I’m smart," I say, and immediately realize how petulant I sound. I clear my throat, dropping my voice lower. "I mean, anyone can quote a book, Heesung. Real skill is application. You’ll see."
I turn back to the front, determined to crush this guy.
The next hour is a nightmare.
Professor Min is on a warpath, firing off questions about color theory, typography hierarchies, and negative space. And every single time, before I can even get my hand in the air, Donghwa answers.
He doesn't do it eagerly. That would be annoying, but manageable. I can bully a teacher’s pet. I can mock a try-hard.
But Donghwa acts like answering is a chore. He answers with this heavy, lethargic sigh, like he’s doing the professor a personal favor by proving he knows more than everyone else in the room.
"Gestalt principles aren't rules," Donghwa drawls when Min asks about layout balance. He’s slouching so low in his chair he’s practically horizontal. "They’re cognitive shortcuts. If you use them rigidly, the design looks sterile. You have to break the symmetry to hold the eye."
