Chapter Three
The lecture ends with the screech of chair legs against linoleum, a sound that matches the grinding of my teeth.
I’m still staring at my drawing. My "noise." It looks stupid now. Overworked. Desperate. I shove the paper into my bag, crumpling the edge. Whatever. Art is subjective. Professor Min is just going through a minimalist phase.
"Class dismissed," Min chirps.
I look up just in time to see Kang Donghwa rise.
He doesn't pack up because he didn't take anything out. He just stands, unfolding that long, swimmer’s frame like a lawn chair, and slides his helmet off the desk. He doesn't look at the professor. He doesn't look at his classmates. He definitely doesn't look at me.
He just turns and walks toward the door, his heavy boots thudding rhythmically against the floor.
"Look at him," Seungchan grumbles behind me, shoving his massive notebook into a tiny backpack. "Doesn't even say goodbye. Who does he think he is? Batman?"
"Batman had a personality," Yoonsuk mutters, slinging his bag over one shoulder. "This guy is just... empty. Did you see his eyes? Dead fish vibes."
"He thinks he's better than us," Jaejoong adds, crossing his thick arms. "That’s what it is. Old Money arrogance. Bet he thinks we’re all peasants because we don't have a building named after our grandpa."
I watch Donghwa reach the door. He doesn't hold it open for the person behind him. He slips through, the heavy metal swinging shut, and immediately, the flock moves.
It’s pathetic, really.
Three Omega girls from the front row—the ones who spent the whole lecture fixing their makeup—scramble to pack their bags.
They rush the door like it’s a holiday sale, chattering excitedly as they squeeze into the hallway after him.
Even the guy who sits by the window, a quiet Beta, hurries out to catch a glimpse.
"It’s a cult," I say, disgusted. "They’re following him like he’s the pied piper of depression."
"It’s the pheromones," Seungchan says, sniffing the air loudly. "Smells like a freezer in here now. Some Omegas are into that cold, distant thing. Daddy issues, probably."
I snort. "It’s a novelty. It’ll wear off. Once they realize he has nothing to say, they’ll get bored."
I stand up, adjusting my jacket. I need to salvage this.
The morning was a disaster, but lunch is where the real moves are made.
I’ll take Heesung to that new sushi place off-campus.
My treat. I’ll dazzle him with stories about my summer, maybe flex a little about the VIP table I have reserved at Club Ellipse for the weekend.
I turn to my left, putting on my best, most charming smile. The one that says I’m the King, and I’m choosing you.
"So, Heesung," I start, leaning against the desk. "I was thinking we could grab—"
I’m talking to an empty chair.
I blink. I look under the desk, as if he might have dropped a pen. Nothing.
I spin around. "Where’s Heesung?"
Seungchan looks up from his phone, blinking vacantly. "Huh? The pretty one?"
"Yes, the pretty one! The one I was sitting next to for an hour!"
"Uh..." Seungchan scratches the back of his neck, his bicep flexing with the movement. "I think he left while you were staring at the goth kid."
"I wasn't staring," I snap. "I was observing the enemy."
"Right. Well, the prize just walked out the back door."
I whip my head toward the rear exit. The door is just settling into its frame.
He slipped me.
Yoon Heesung, the guy who loves attention, the guy who collects Alphas like trading cards, just ghosted me. He didn't say goodbye. He didn't ask for my number. He just waited until I was distracted by Donghwa’s little exit show and vanished.
My jaw tightens. My scent flares again, hot and spicy, souring with irritation.
"Unbelievable," I mutter, grabbing my bag.
"Don't worry, bro," Seungchan says, clapping a heavy hand on my shoulder. "We can go get pork cutlets. My treat. Bulking season, right?"
I shake his hand off. "I don't want pork cutlets, Seungchan. I want to know why the hell everyone on this campus is suddenly blind to quality."
I storm toward the door, my friends trailing behind me like a pack of confused oversized puppies.
This isn't over. Not even close. Kang Donghwa might have won the first round by being a mysterious, pretentious mute, but I play the long game. And I never lose.
I catch my reflection in the glass of a trophy case near the elevators and pause.
Not bad. The lighting in the Arts Hall is usually tragic.
A fluorescent hell that washes out even the best tans, but I’m making it work.
The Under Armed shirt is tight enough to show off the chest day pump I got this morning, and the hair is holding its shape despite the humidity.
I give myself a subtle nod. King behavior.
I’m feeling good. I’m feeling generous, better than this morning now that I've had a couple hours to get over my irritation. I’m ready to bless the Visual Design department with my presence. But as I turn the corner toward the lecture rooms, my good mood hits a speed bump.
There’s a blockade.
A gaggle of students, mostly omegas with a few betas sprinkled in, are clustered around the narrow window of Practice Room 4. They’re buzzing like a hive, all hushed giggles and not-so-subtle jostling for a better view. Usually, this kind of congestion only happens when I walk into the cafeteria.
I slow my stride, curiosity warring with a prickle of irritation. If they’re looking at something, it means they aren’t looking at me. And I have a strict policy about being the most interesting thing in the room.
"Move over, I can't see," one girl whispers, standing on her tiptoes.
"God, look at his hands," another breathes out, sounding like she’s about to melt into a puddle of slick right there on the linoleum.
I frown. His hands?
I step up behind the group. I don't have to say anything; I just let my scent flare a little. Just a tease. Heavy enough to make the air thick. It works like a charm. The betas stiffen, and the omegas closest to me turn, eyes widening as they realize a dominant alpha is looming over them.
"Oh, Sunbae!" one squeaks, shuffling aside.
"Sihwan-oppa," another murmurs, cheeks flushing.
That’s better.
"Ladies," I drawl, flashing the smile that usually gets me free drinks at the club. "What’s the main event? Someone trip and fall?"
They don't answer, just part like the Red Sea, giving me a clear line of sight to the rectangular window in the door. I step forward, ready to be unimpressed.
Then I hear the music.
It’s a piano. Not the clunky, halting scales of a music major panicking before a midterm. It’s fluid. Complex. Dark. It sounds like rain against a windowpane at midnight. And it’s coming from inside the room.
I lean in, squinting through the smudge-free glass, and immediately wish I hadn’t.
Of course. Of fucking course.
It’s the freshman. Kang Donghwa. The Prince of Darkness himself, sitting at the baby grand like he was born on the bench.
He’s not just playing; he’s practically making love to the instrument, which is a gross thought, but accurate.
His posture is infuriatingly perfect—straight back, relaxed shoulders, that bored, detached expression on his face like he’s doing his taxes instead of performing a concerto that sounds like it requires twelve fingers.
His sleeves are pushed up just enough to show off the tendons in his forearms shifting with every complex chord. He isn’t even looking at the keys. He’s staring out the window at the brick wall of the science building, looking pensive and tortured.
"He's so talented," the girl beside me whispers, clutching her chest. "I heard he didn't even major in music because he thought it was too easy."
I feel a vein in my temple throb. Too easy?
I played violin for six years. My mother made me practice until my fingers bled and I wanted to smash the wood against the wall.
I know what "easy" looks like, and this isn't it.
This is showing off. This is a calculated, pretentious display of effortless superiority designed specifically to piss me off.
The music swells, a dramatic, crashing crescendo that vibrates through the door, and the little fan club outside lets out a collective, breathy sigh. The air in the hallway is starting to smell like rain and ink—his scent—and it’s drowning out mine.
That’s it. I’m done.
I scoff, loud enough that a few of the omegas jump, and spin on my heel.
"It's a little sharp, don't you think?" I lie loudly, not waiting for a response.
I shove my hands into my pockets and stomp down the hall, putting as much distance between me and that hauntingly perfect melody as possible. Who the hell just sits around playing Rachmaninoff—or whatever dead Russian guy that was—in the middle of the day?
"What a try-hard," I mutter to myself, kicking at a scuff mark on the floor.
The guy is doing the absolute most to look like he’s doing the absolute least. It’s annoying. It’s exhausting. And worst of all, it’s working. I need to get to the gym. I need to lift something heavy until I forget that guy's stupid, talented hands.
The East Wing bathroom is my sanctuary.
It’s far enough from the design studios that the desperate smell of acrylic paint and panic doesn't reach it, and the lighting is actually decent. It’s the only place on campus where I can fix my hair without some freshman asking for my number or a professor asking why I haven't submitted the sketches for the branding project yet.
I shoulder my bag, humming a little tune—some EDM track that was blasting at the club last weekend—and push through the heavy door. I’m ready for silence. I’m ready for the smell of industrial lemon cleaner and the sight of my own beautiful face in the mirror.
Instead, I get hit with a blast of cold air.
Not from the AC. The ventilation in this building is older than my father. No, this is a scent. Sharp, crisp, and annoying as hell. It smells like winter wind and bitter ink.