Chapter Four
See you around, hyung.
The mockery in his voice echoes in my head for three days straight. It’s like a catchy, irritating pop song I can’t scrub out of my brain. It’s not the honorific that bothers me—I am his elder, and I deserve the respect—it’s the way he said it. Like he was patting a yapping chihuahua on the head.
I am not a chihuahua. I am a wolf. A very large, very expensive, very well-groomed wolf. And Kang Donghwa is going to learn that the hard way.
By Wednesday, I’ve decided that passive observation is for Betas. If Donghwa wants to act like he’s above the natural order of things, I’m going to drag him down into the mud with the rest of us.
We’re in Professor Lim’s "History of Visual Culture" lecture. That i have more than one class with the little upstart makes it even worse. It’s a required course, which means the room is packed.
And Donghwa, sitting three rows ahead of me, smelling like a damn luxury ski resort.
It cuts right through my scent, and I have to flare my pheromones just to reclaim my personal space.
"Can anyone tell me the significance of the Dada movement in relation to post-war trauma?" Professor Lim asks, waving a stick of charcoal like a magic wand.
Before anyone can even pretend to read the textbook, a voice speaks up.
"It was a rejection of logic," Donghwa says. His voice is deep, calm, and annoying as hell. He doesn't even look up from his notebook. "Reason and logic led to the war, so the only way to create honest art was to embrace chaos and nonsense."
Professor Lim beams. "Precisely! Mr. Kang, excellent as always."
I lean over to Seungchan, keeping my voice just loud enough to carry. "God, look at him. Does he think this is high school? Someone’s desperate for a gold star."
Seungchan snickers, covering his mouth. "Teacher’s pet."
"Right?" I continue, slouching back and crossing my arms, making sure my biceps bulge against the sleeves of my V-neck. "Probably spent all night memorizing the wiki page. Try-hard."
Donghwa doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t stiffen. He doesn’t do anything. He just keeps scratching away in his sketchbook with a fountain pen that probably costs more than my car.
Being ignored is worse than being punched. It makes my skin itch.
"Okay, okay, settle down," Professor Lim says, shuffling a stack of papers on his desk. "I have the updated syllabuses. Mr. Kang, since you’re so engaged, would you mind distributing these to the back rows?"
Donghwa stands up. He’s wearing all black again—an oversized coat over a sweater that hides everything. It pisses me off. If you have muscles, you show them. That’s the rule. Hiding them just means you think you’re too good for the game.
He takes the stack of papers and starts moving up the aisle. The omegas in the row ahead of me throw themselves onto the floor as he passes, scenting the air like eager puppies. It’s disgusting.
I wait. I time it.
As he steps toward my row, I stretch my legs out. I don’t trip him—that’s amateur hour. Instead, as he goes to hand a stack to the girl sitting across the aisle, I swing my arm out in a wide, dramatic stretch, "accidentally" backhanding the papers right out of his grip.
Smack.
The papers explode like confetti, scattering all over the dirty lecture hall floor.
"Whoops!" I grin, leaning forward, elbows on my knees. "My bad, man. Didn't see you there. You blend into the shadows with all that black."
Seungchan and the other guys burst into laughter, high-fiving me under the desk. A few people in the back snicker. This is it. This is the moment where he gets flustered, scrambles to pick them up, and looks like an idiot.
But Donghwa doesn’t scramble.
He stops moving completely. He looks at the papers scattered around his boots, then slowly lifts his gaze to meet mine.
His eyes are dark, flat, and terrifyingly bored. There’s no embarrassment. No anger. He looks at me the way a human looks at a bug that just flew into a window.
The laughter around us dies down, choking off into awkward coughs.
Donghwa doesn't say a word. He doesn't bend down. He just holds my gaze for three long seconds—long enough for me to feel a trickle of sweat start down my back—and then he steps over the papers.
He walks right past me, drops the remaining stack on the desk behind mine, and returns to his seat.
"Uh," the girl across the aisle whispers, looking at the mess on the floor.
"I'll get it," I snap, my face heating up.
I end up on my knees, gathering the papers myself while Donghwa sits perfectly still in his seat, twirling his expensive pen. I wanted to make him look small. Instead, I’m the one crawling on the floor while he looks like a king who just stepped over a puddle.
I shove the papers at the girl and slump back into my seat, fuming.
Okay, I think, glaring at the back of his head. You want to play the cool guy? Fine. Let’s see how cool you are when I actually start trying.
The canteen is just as much a jungle at lunchtime.
By midsemester most of the rich kids abandon it to eat off campus, but at the start of the semester everyone is here to mingle.
I strut past the salad bar, Seungchan flanking me like a loyal bodyguard.
The air smells like fried pork cutlet and a mountain of omega and alpha pheromones, but underneath it all, I catch that irritatingly crisp scent of winter air and expensive ink and my mood curdles.
He’s sitting at a corner table, alone, because apparently he’s too good for company. He’s got a book open—paper, not a tablet, because he’s pretentious like that—and a tray with a bowl of spicy beef soup.
"Target acquired," I mutter to Seungchan.
"Uh, are we doing this?" Seungchan asks, eyeing the faculty table nervously. "He looks like he’s actually eating."
"He’s disrespecting the hierarchy by existing," I correct him. "Watch and learn."
I adjust my jacket, making sure the leather sleeves squeak just enough to announce my presence. I chart a course that takes us directly past his table. There’s plenty of room. The aisle is wide enough for a truck. But I’m not a truck. I’m a force of nature.
As I get close, I don’t even look at him. I keep my eyes fixed on the drink dispenser across the room, laughing loudly at a joke Seungchan hasn't even told yet.
"That is hilarious, bro!" I boom.
Then, I drop my shoulder. Just a shift in weight, a calculated stumble. My hip checks the edge of his table with the force of a linebacker hitting a tackling dummy.
CLANG.
The sound is beautiful. The metal tray jumps. The bowl of red, oily soup tips in slow motion, cascading over the edge of the table and splashing onto the pristine black denim of Donghwa’s jeans. The chopsticks clatter to the floor.
Silence ripples outward from the impact zone.
I stop, pivoting on my heel with practiced shock. "Whoa! Shit, man. My bad."
I loom over him, letting my pheromones roll off me in thick, choking waves. I want him to choke on it. I want him to jump up, grab my collar, and scream. I want him to acknowledge that I am a threat.
Donghwa doesn’t jump. He doesn’t scream.
He slowly closes his book. He looks at the red stain soaking into his thigh. Then, he looks up at me.
His face is a mask of absolute, crushing boredom.
"You have a wide turning radius," he says. His voice is flat. "Like a bus."
Seungchan snorts behind me, then quickly turns it into a cough when I glare at him.
"Maybe don't sit in the middle of the walkway next time," I sneer, leaning down so we’re face to face. "Accidents happen when you take up too much space."
Donghwa stares at me. He doesn't blink. He doesn't flare his scent to challenge me. He just reaches for a napkin, dabs at the soup on his leg with agonizing slowness, and then stands up. He’s taller than me. I hate that he’s taller than me.
"Enjoy your lunch," he says, dropping the dirty napkin onto the tray.
Then he walks away. He just… leaves. He doesn't demand an apology. He doesn't threaten me. He treats me like a minor inconvenience, like rain on a picnic or a slow Wi-Fi connection.
My hands curl into fists at my sides. "I’m not done talking to you!" I call after him.
He doesn't turn around.
For the next week, it becomes my personal mission to crack that stone face. If he wants to act like a statue, I’m going to be the pigeon that shits on him.
Tuesday.
I catch him heading for the elevator in the Art & Design building. He’s got his hands full with a massive portfolio case and a coffee. As he approaches, I speed up, jamming my finger onto the 'Close Door' button.
He sees me through the narrowing gap. Our eyes meet. I grin, waving my fingers at him.
"Full up, sorry!" I chirp, even though I’m the only one in the car.
The doors slide shut right in his face. I wait for a shout, a curse, a banging on the metal. Nothing. Just silence. When I get to the lobby, I check the stairwell. He’s walking down the stairs, looking at his phone, completely unbothered.
Wednesday.
I spot him in the library. He’s in one of the private study cubicles, headphones on, editing photos on his laptop.
I grab Seungchan and two other guys from the swim team. "Team meeting," I announce, dragging them to the table directly behind Donghwa’s cubicle.
We are loud. We are obnoxious. I recount a story about a party that never happened, laughing like a hyena, slapping the table.
"And then she said, 'Is that a knot or are you just happy to see me?'" I howl.
I watch the back of Donghwa’s head. I see his shoulders tense. Got him. He takes off his headphones. He turns in his chair.
Here it comes. The explosion.
"Could you keep it down?" he asks. "Some of us are actually trying to get a degree, not just buy one."
My jaw drops. "Excuse me?"
He puts his headphones back on and turns around.
Thursday.
The vending machine near the lecture hall. He’s standing in front of it, digging for his card. I see what he’s looking at—the last can of the premium cold brew coffee.
I stride up, shoulder him aside—"Excuse me, emergency"—and tap my card against the reader before he can react. I punch in the code. The machine whirs, and the cold brew drops.
I crack it open right there, taking a loud, exaggerated slurp. "Ah. Nectar of the gods."
Donghwa looks at the empty slot. He looks at me. He looks at the can in my hand.
He shakes his head, a tiny, pitying smile touching the corner of his mouth.
He buys a bottle of water and walks off.
Friday.
I’m losing my mind. Nothing works. I’ve tripped him, blocked him, stolen his caffeine, and polluted his air space with enough pheromones to send a lesser Alpha into a coma. And all I get is that same look. That look that says you are a child, and I am waiting for your parents to pick you up.
It’s not just the disrespect that’s killing me. It’s the math. The math isn’t mathing.
I am six-foot-one of prime, gym-sculpted Alpha. I smell like expensive spiced rum and victory. I have a smile that my mother’s PR team assured me tests well with all demographics. By all laws of the universe, Yoon Heesung should be draped over my arm like a designer jacket by now.
But he’s not. He’s slippery. Like a bar of soap in a shower, every time I think I’ve got a grip on him, he just… slides away.
That afternoon as I'm passing the quad I see Kang Donghwa sitting on a bench in the courtyard, visible through the glass doors. He’s doing absolutely nothing.
He’s not on his phone. He’s not studying.
He’s just sitting there, legs stretched out, staring at a tree like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.
And he is surrounded.
It’s like a nature documentary. A flock of omegas—mostly freshmen, but a few sophomores who should know better—are hovering around him in a semi-circle.
They’re chattering, giggling, preening. The air around that bench must be thick with sweet pheromones, but Donghwa looks like he’s meditating on a mountaintop.
I step closer to the glass, squinting.
"Oppa, did you see the party flyer?" one of the girls asks, leaning in way too close. "Are you going?"
Donghwa blinks slowly, turning his head. "No."
One word. He says one word, flat and uninterested.
The girl doesn't recoil. She doesn't get offended. She blushes. She actually blushes and whispers something to her friend, giggling.
What the hell?
If I gave a one-word answer, I’d be called an asshole. If I ignored someone, I’d be "stuck up." But Donghwa does it, and suddenly he’s the brooding, tortured artist that everyone wants to fix.
Another omega, a guy from the dance department, holds out a box of cookies. "I baked these for the club meeting, but I have extras. Do you want some?"
Donghwa looks at the cookies. He looks at the boy. "I don't like sweets."
It’s a rejection. A cold, hard rejection.
The boy’s eyes widen, and he nods enthusiastically. "Oh! Of course! You have a refined palate. I’ll make something savory next time!"
I feel a vein throb in my temple. This is insanity.
He’s treating them like furniture, and they’re eating it up.
It’s the "bad boy" effect. They think because he’s quiet, he’s deep.
They think because he’s rude, he’s honest. They don’t realize he’s just a bored, rich brat who thinks he’s better than everyone else.
He’s not engaging with them, but he’s not chasing them away either. He just sits there in his cloud of winter-scented pheromones, letting them bask in his presence like he’s a statue in a museum.
It’s infuriating. It’s lazy.
I put in the work! I remember names! I compliment outfits! I go to the gym six days a week so I look good for them! And this guy rolls out of bed, puts on a black turtleneck, grunts at people, and gets a fan club?
I grind my teeth so hard I think I chip a molar.