Chapter Three #2
My stomach drops. You have got to be kidding me.
There, standing at the middle sink like he owns the plumbing, is Kang Donghwa.
He’s bent slightly over the basin, rinsing soap from his hands. Even the back of his neck looks arrogant. His oversized black coats draping over shoulders that are irritatingly broad.
I freeze in the doorway, hand still on the brass handle. This is my spot. I found it freshman year. I claimed it. I practically peed in the corners to mark the territory. What is he doing here?
Donghwa doesn't turn around. He doesn't even flinch. He just keeps scrubbing his hands, slow and thorough, like he’s a surgeon prepping for a heart transplant.
I let the door swing shut behind me with a heavy thud.
At the sound of the door slamming, he finally looks up.
His eyes meet mine in the mirror. Dark, heavy-lidded, and completely void of the fear that usually flashes across a freshman’s face when I corner them. He doesn't jump. He doesn't scramble to bow. He just holds my gaze in the glass, water dripping from his long, pale fingers into the basin.
I hold the stare. I widen my stance, letting my pheromones roll off me in a thick, musky wave. Choke on it, pretty boy. I want him to flinch. I want him to look away first.
He turns off the tap. The silence stretches, broken only by the hum of the ventilation and the aggressive thumping of my own heart—from anger, obviously.
"Can I help you?"
His voice is deep. Annoyingly deep. It vibrates in the tiled room, calm and flat, like he’s asking a telemarketer to take him off the call list.
I let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. The audacity is actually impressive.
"You really think you're a big deal, don't you?" I sneer, stepping further into the room. I cross my arms, flexing my biceps so the fabric of my shirt strains. "Walking around here like you own the place. Ignoring everyone."
Donghwa reaches for a paper towel, drying his hands with agonizing slowness before he finally turns around.
I hate him immediately. I hate that I have to tilt my chin up just a fraction of an inch to look him in the eye. I hate the effortless way his black turtleneck hangs off a frame that hasn't seen a bench press in its life yet still looks broad.
He arches a single, perfect eyebrow.
"Have we met?" he asks.
My jaw tightens so hard my teeth ache.
"No," I spit out, stepping into his personal space. "We haven't. Because you think you're too important to follow basic protocol. You think you're too good to come and respectfully introduce yourself to your seniors? It’s called manners, freshman. Maybe your rich daddy forgot to buy you those."
I’m looming over him, waiting for the apology. Waiting for the scramble. Oh, I’m sorry Sunbae, I didn't know.
Instead, the corner of his mouth quirks up. It’s barely a smile. It’s a smirk. A lazy, arrogant little tilt of the lips that makes me want to punch the mirror.
"I don't really subscribe to that whole 'respect your elders' nonsense," he says, his voice smooth, bored. He tosses the crumpled paper towel into the bin without looking. "Respect is earned. And you haven't done anything impressive yet."
I let out a scoff so harsh it practically echoes off the tile.
"Just listen to you," I snap, shaking my head like I can’t believe the sheer volume of bullshit coming out of his mouth.
"I could tell you were insolent from the second I laid eyes on you in that lecture hall. You walk in there, chin up, looking down your nose at everyone, just letting your pheromones bleed out into the air like you’re the only Alpha in the zip code. "
I take another step closer, invading his bubble. I want him to feel the heat coming off me. I want him to choke on the pheromone boosters I spent a fortune on to make sure everyone knows exactly where I stand on the food chain.
"It’s arrogant," I hiss, jabbing a finger toward his chest, stopping just short of poking that expensive black fabric. "Walking into a room full of your seniors and scenting the place up without even asking permission? It’s disrespectful. It’s messy."
Donghwa doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even blink.
Instead, he shifts his weight, leaning back against the wet edge of the sink like he’s lounging on a patio chair. He crosses his arms over his chest, his biceps flexing just enough under the knit fabric to annoy me. He looks comfortable. He looks bored.
"You’re one to talk," he says, his voice deadpan.
His dark eyes flick over me, slow and assessing, landing on my neck where my scent glands are currently working overtime.
"You’re currently pumping so much pheromone into this room that even a beta would probably pass out if they walked in right now," he points out, sounding mildly disgusted. He wrinkles his nose, just a fraction, like he’s smelled something rotting in the trash.
"It’s thick. Desperate. Makes me wonder. .."
He tilts his head to the side, looking at me with this maddeningly calm expression.
"Are you trying to compensate for something?"
My blood runs hot, a flush creeping up my neck that has nothing to do with the humidity. My hands curl into fists at my sides. Compensate? Me? I’m Oh Sihwan. I’m the guy on the brochures. I’m the guy who benches three-fifteen.
"Watch your mouth, freshman," I growl, my voice dropping an octave. I flare my scent intentionally now, pushing the heavy, burnt-sugar smell of my boosters to the limit, trying to crush him under the weight of it. "You think just because you’re some rich, old-money pretty boy that people are going to bow down to you? You think your daddy’s name is going to win you any friends here? "
I lean in, getting right in his face. I’m taller than most people, but he’s got a few inches on me, and I hate having to look up even slightly.
"You have to earn your place here," I tell him, putting every ounce of my dominance into the words. "And right now? You’re at the bottom."
Donghwa just sighs. A long, weary exhale that smells like ginseng and ice water, cutting right through my heavy musk.
"That's the thing," he says, pushing off the sink and standing to his full height, forcing me to take a half-step back or risk chest-bumping him. "I’m not interested in winning 'friends.' And I definitely don't care about your little social point system."
He looks at me with pity. Actual, genuine pity.
"It sounds exhausting," he adds dryly. "You can keep the crown, or whatever it is you think you’re wearing. I just want to wash my hands."
That pitying look is the final straw. It snaps something in my brain, right where my patience used to be.
I step into his space. I don't just invade it; I occupy it. I get close enough that I can see the individual flecks of gray in his irises, close enough that the scent of cold winter air coming off him is practically burning my nose hairs.
I lift my hand and jab a finger hard into the center of his chest.
"Listen, punk," I snarl, my voice echoing off the bathroom tiles.
I expect him to be soft. He looks like an art exhibit, all sharp angles and expensive fabric, the kind of guy who’d bruise if you looked at him too hard. But my finger meets resistance. Under that oversized cashmere turtleneck, the guy is solid. It’s like poking a marble statue wrapped in wool.
It annoys me even more.
"I don't know how things worked in whatever ivory tower you crawled out of," I say, keeping my finger pressed against his sternum, "but here? In this department? I’m the dominant alpha. Me."
I use my free hand to gesture vaguely at the door, at the hallway, at the entire university that I have spent two years conquering.
"I built this hierarchy," I continue, my voice rising. "I put in the time. I went to the mixers, I bought the drinks, I set the standard. So if you think you’re just going to stroll in here with your moody attitude and your gap-year nonchalance and just... collect all the omegas without putting in the work? You’ve got another thing coming. "
I’m breathing hard, my chest heaving. I’m waiting for the fear. I’m waiting for him to realize he’s stepped on the wrong toes.
Donghwa doesn't move. He doesn't slap my hand away. He doesn't step back. He just looks down at my finger digging into his chest, then slowly drags his gaze up to my face.
And he smiles.
It’s not a nice smile. It’s barely there, a ghost of amusement that curls the corner of his mouth. His eyes crinkle just a fraction, and I swear to god, he looks entertained.
"Are you finished?" he asks.
"I'm finished when I say I'm—"
"You have no standing to lay claim over every omega in the department," he interrupts, his voice calm, cutting right through my bluster like a scalpel.
He finally moves, lifting a hand to brush invisible lint off his shoulder, completely ignoring the fact that I’m still threatening him.
"Last I checked, this is a university, not a feudal kingdom," he says, his tone bored. "And despite what you seem to believe, you don't own the student body. You aren't the gatekeeper of who they talk to or who they look at."
He takes a half-step forward, forcing me to either hold my ground and chest-bump him or retreat. I hold my ground, but the height difference is glaring now. He looks down at me, his dark eyes heavy and unimpressed.
"And here’s a reality check for you, Sunbae," he adds, putting a mocking emphasis on the title. "You aren't the only dominant alpha on campus anymore."
The words hit me like a bucket of ice water. I open my mouth to retort, to tell him he’s nothing compared to me, but he talks right over me.
"If the omegas prefer me to you," he says, shrugging a shoulder as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, "that sounds like a personal problem. Maybe you should ask yourself why they’re looking for something else instead of trying to bully the competition."
He leans in, his voice dropping to a whisper that is infinitely more terrifying than my shouting.
"You have no control over who they want. And judging by the way you're acting right now? I can see why they're bored."
The word bored rattles around in my skull like a loose coin in a dryer.
My vision actually goes a little red at the edges.
Not a figure of speech. Actual, physiological rage.
I’ve spent three years crafting my image.
I’m the guy who buys the rounds. I’m the guy who organizes the MTs.
I’m the guy everyone wants to be seen with.
And this... this overgrown goth kid thinks he can just dismiss me?
I take a step back, needing the space to actually breathe because the air around him is too thin, too cold.
"You think you're funny," I say, my voice low, lacking the polish I usually aim for. It’s raw and ugly. "You think because you have a famous last name and a moody stare that you can just coast? Let me make this crystal clear for you."
I jab a finger toward his face again, though I stop short of touching him. I don't want to touch him. He feels too solid, too unmovable.
"Stay out of my way," I warn him, putting every ounce of venom I have into the words.
"Stay away from the omegas I'm talking to.
Stay out of my spotlight. You stick to your little piano practice and your gloomy corner, and we won't have a problem.
But if you try to step on my toes? If you try to embarrass me again? "
I let my pheromones spike, sharp and aggressive, smelling of burnt sugar and musk. It’s a threat in olfactory form.
"I will make you regret it. I run this department, Kang Donghwa. Don't forget it."
Donghwa stares at me for a beat. Then, slowly, deliberately, he rolls his eyes.
It’s such a teenage, petulant gesture, but coming from him, it looks like he’s just exhausted by my existence. He doesn't look scared. He doesn't look intimidated. He looks like I’m a pop-up ad he can’t figure out how to close.
"If that's the whole speech, I'm leaving," he says flatly. "I have actual places to be."
He doesn't wait for my permission. He just moves.
He steps around me, and for a second, we’re shoulder to shoulder. I brace myself, tensing my core, ready for him to check me, to bump me, to do something aggressive. But he doesn't touch me. He doesn't have to.
As he passes, he lets his scent go.
He doesn't push it out like I do. He doesn't force it. He just... unspools it. A heavy, suffocating wave of cold winter air and dark ink washes over me, drowning out my expensive boosters like they’re nothing but cheap cologne. It’s dense.
It’s heavy. It’s the kind of natural potency you can’t buy in a bottle, the kind that's born of a bloodline so pure it makes my new-money genes scream in inadequacy.
My breath hitches. My knees—just for a microsecond—feel weak. My body recognizes the threat even if my conscious mind rages against it.
He stops at the door, hand on the brass handle. He glances back over his shoulder, the harsh bathroom light catching the sharp angle of his jaw.
The corner of his mouth hooks up. It’s not a smile. It’s a weapon.
"See you around," he draws out the vowels, his voice dripping with a sarcasm so thick I can practically taste it. "Hyung."
The honorific hits me like a slap to the face. He says it like a joke. Like a taunt.
He pushes the door open and saunters out, the heavy thud of the wood closing behind him echoing in the silence he leaves in his wake.
I stand there alone in the bathroom, staring at the closed door, my hands trembling at my sides. The air still smells like him. Cold, clean, and superior.
"Fuck you," I whisper to the empty room, my voice cracking.
I turn to the mirror, expecting to see the King of the Campus staring back. Instead, I just see a guy in a tight shirt, sweating through his deodorant, looking small in the reflection of the glass.
I grab the edge of the sink and squeeze until my knuckles turn white.
Arrogant prick.