Chapter Two #2
My spine locks up. The hair on the back of my arms stands straight up, prickling against my jacket.
It’s not the sweet, cloying scent of the Omegas. It’s him. It rolls off him in a cold, heavy wave, invisible but undeniable. It smells like freezing winter air, sharp black ink, and the bitter, earthy tang of ginseng. It’s clean, it’s potent, and it’s absolutely suffocating.
It’s the scent of a Dominant Alpha.
And not just any Alpha. This isn't the smell of someone who pumps boosters to mask their insecurities. This is raw. Natural. It hits my nose and my instincts scream THREAT.
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 not impressed. "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 have competition," 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 leaning over 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.
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. I am a brand.
I clear my throat, preparing to raise my hand and charm the room with a half-assed but confident answer about logos and consumer 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 says smart. 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."
"Exactly!" Min beams. He never beams at me. "Mr. Kang, excellent point."
I want to snap my pencil in half.
"Dude," Seungchan whispers, leaning forward to poke my shoulder. "This guy is a machine. Is he a cyborg? He hasn't even opened his textbook."
"Shut up, Seungchan," I hiss.
I look at Donghwa’s profile. The sharp nose, the heavy-lidded eyes, the bored set of his mouth. He’s not just a pretty face with a trust fund. He’s talented. Naturally, effortlessly talented.
It burns. It burns in my chest like I swallowed a coal.
I worked my ass off to get into this program. My dad paid for tutors, sure, but I stayed up late. I memorized terms. I practiced my drafts until my fingers cramped. I have to try. I have to try so hard just to be good.
And this guy? He looks like he’d rather be asleep, yet he’s running circles around the entire junior class without breaking a sweat.
He’s not just competition. He’s an insult to my entire existence.
"Okay," Professor Min says, clapping his hands. "For the last ten minutes, I want you to sketch a quick concept based on the word 'Tension.' Don't overthink it. Just draw."
Finally. Something practical.
I grab a fresh sheet of paper. This is my turf. I might not be a walking encyclopedia, but I can draw. I have technique. I have style.
I sketch furiously. I draw two jagged lines crashing into each other, heavy shading, aggressive strokes. It’s bold. It’s masculine. It screams power. I shade the background with heavy cross-hatching, pressing down until the graphite shines.
I finish with a flourish, sitting back to admire my work. It’s good. It’s visceral.
I glance over at Heesung’s paper. He’s drawn a delicate hand gripping a rose by the thorns. Cliché, but pretty. Very Omega.
"Nice," I tell him, flashing a wink. "Very poetic."
Heesung smiles, but his eyes drift. Again.
I follow his gaze.
Donghwa hasn't touched his paper. He’s staring out the window, watching a bird land on the ledge. His pencil is spinning idly between his fingers.
"Mr. Kang?" Professor Min asks, walking down the aisle. "Struggling for inspiration?"
Donghwa blinks, turning his head slowly. "No."
"Let’s see it then."
Donghwa looks at the blank page. Then, with agonizing slowness, he lowers his pencil. He makes one single, fluid line. A curve. Then a sharp, violent dot right in the center of the negative space.
That’s it. Two seconds of work.
Professor Min stares at it. I crane my neck to see. It looks like nothing. It looks like a mistake.
"Incredible," Min breathes, adjusting his glasses. "The isolation... the impending snap. It’s so minimal, yet the weight is there."
Are you kidding me?
I stare at my own drawing—my labored, detailed, sweaty drawing—and then at Donghwa’s single line.
"It’s a line," I blurt out. I can't help it. "It’s literally just a line."
The class goes quiet. Donghwa turns in his seat, looking back at me for the first time.
His eyes are dark, almost black. There’s no hostility in them. No fear. Just a mild, detached amusement. He looks at me like I’m a yapping chihuahua he just noticed on the sidewalk.
"It’s a vector of force," Donghwa says, his voice gravelly and calm. "If you have to fill the whole page to show tension, you’re not drawing tension. You’re drawing noise."
The room goes silent. Somewhere in the back, someone whispers, "Damn."
My face goes hot. My pheromones flare, aggressive and spicy, flooding the space with the scent of scorched sugar and rum. I want to grab him by that expensive coat and shake him until he shows some emotion.
"Noise?" I laugh, but it sounds brittle. "I call it effort. Some of us actually care about the assignment."
Donghwa holds my gaze for a second longer, then shrugs. A small, dismissive motion of one shoulder.
"Sure," he says.
Then he turns back around.
He dismisses me. He just... turns around. Like I’m not even worth the argument.
I sit there, vibrating with rage, my hands clenched into fists on the desk. Beside me, Heesung lets out a soft breath.
"Wow," Heesung whispers. "He’s so cool."
I snap my pencil in half. For real this time.