Chapter Six
My shins are still throbbing.
Every step I take toward the Visual Design building sends a dull, rhythmic ache radiating up my legs, a lovely souvenir from Friday’s soccer game. I’d like to say I gave as good as I got, but the scrape on my elbow and the bruise blooming purple on my hip tell a different story.
I check my reflection in the glass doors before pushing them open. Hair perfectly swept back? Check. Biceps looking massive in this tight white tee? Double check. If I’m walking with a slight limp, I’ll just play it off as a war wound. Chicks dig battle scars.
"Morning, Sihwan-oppa!" a group of freshman Omegas chirp as I pass.
I flash them the million-won smile, the one my mother made me practice in the mirror until my cheeks cramped. "Ladies."
I let my scent roll off me. It usually has people clearing a path, eyes lowering in deference. But as I turn the corner toward the lecture hall, the air changes. The temperature seems to drop five degrees, and the sharp scent of cold winter air and ink cuts right through my musk like a knife.
Kang Donghwa.
I grit my teeth. Since the game, the bastard has stopped playing the role of the stoic, silent monk. I told him it was war, and apparently, he took that as an invitation to be the most annoying person on the planet.
I stride into the lecture hall. He’s there, of course. Front row, center, looking like he just rolled out of a spread in Vogue with that bored, disaffected slouch. He’s wearing a black turtleneck in the heat of September again.
I march down the steps and slam my bag onto the desk right next to him.
Donghwa doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even look up from his sketchbook. He just sighs, a long, weary sound that scrapes against my last nerve.
"Seat's taken," I lie, looming over him.
Donghwa slowly turns his head. His dark eyes drift up, scanning me from my expensive sneakers to my face. "By who? Your ego? It’s certainly big enough to need its own chair."
A ripple of laughter goes through the rows behind us. My ears burn.
"Funny," I snap, dropping into the seat anyway. I spread my legs wide, encroaching on his personal space. "Just making sure you don't get lonely down here, hoobae."
"I prefer the solitude," he murmurs, turning a page. "It smells better."
I lean in, pitching my voice low so only he can hear. "You think you’re hot shit because you got a few lucky shots in on the field? Watch your back, Kang. You’re playing in the big leagues now."
Donghwa finally looks at me fully. There’s a glint in his eye—not fear, but amusement. "Hyung, if you lean any closer, people are going to think you’re trying to kiss me. And you’re really not my type."
I recoil like I’ve been slapped, sputtering as the Professor breezes into the room, clapping his hands for attention. I spend the next hour stewing in my own pheromones, glaring at the side of Donghwa’s head.
Wednesday is worse.
We’re in the studio for a critique session.
I’ve spent three days on my branding project—a sleek, high-energy campaign for a sports drink.
It’s loud, it’s colorful, it screams Sihwan.
I present it with my usual flair, charming the class, making eye contact with Heesung in the back row.
Heesung offers a polite smile, which I count as a victory.
Then it’s Donghwa’s turn.
He walks up to the front with nothing but a single black-and-white photograph mounted on a board. It’s a stark, high-contrast shot of a crushed soda can on wet pavement. It’s depressing. It’s pretentious.
Professor Yoon practically weeps over it. " The texture! The ennui! The commentary on consumerism!"
I scoff loudly from the back. "It’s trash. Literally. He took a picture of garbage."
The room goes quiet. Professor Yoon looks annoyed, but Donghwa just leans against the podium, looking entirely unbothered.
"It’s about the aftermath of consumption," Donghwa says, his voice smooth and deep. He looks directly at me. "About things that are loud and flashy, only to be discarded once they’re empty. I call it 'The Hypebeast'."
The silence stretches for a second, and then half the class turns to look at me. I’m wearing a limited edition Supreme jacket.
My jaw drops. "Are you calling me a soda can?"
"I'm explaining the art, Hyung," he says innocently, though the corner of his mouth twitches. "If the shoe fits, or... if the can crunches."
"You little—" I start to stand up, my scent flaring hot and aggressive, scorched earth filling the room.
"Sihwan," Professor Yoon warns. "Sit down. Donghwa, excellent work."
I sit. But I’m plotting murder.
By Thursday, the tension is thick enough to choke a Beta.
I’m at the vending machines near the cafeteria, trying to get a damn coffee, but the machine eats my bill. I kick it. Hard.
"Violence isn't the answer, even for inanimate objects."
I spin around. Donghwa is standing there, hands in the pockets of his oversized coat, looking down at me. And I do mean down. I hate that he has four centimeters on me. It’s unnatural.
"Mind your business," I snarl, giving the machine another kick. "It took my money."
Donghwa steps forward. He pulls a crisp bill from his wallet and feeds it into the slot. He presses the button for the black coffee, retrieves the can, and cracks it open.
He takes a sip, watching me over the rim.
"Thanks," I say sarcastically, reaching for it.
He pulls it out of reach. "Oh, this is for me. I just wanted to show you how it works. You have to be gentle. The machine can sense desperation."
He walks away, sipping the coffee I wanted.
I see red. I march after him, catching up as we reach the double doors to the courtyard. I try to shoulder-check him as we pass through the frame, putting all my gym-honed weight into it.
It’s like running into a brick wall. The guy is lean, but he’s dense. He barely stumbles, just shifts his weight and uses his hip to check me back. Since I’m already off-balance, I go stumbling sideways, nearly tripping over my own feet.
I catch myself, straightening my jacket, face burning.
"Careful," Donghwa calls over his shoulder, not even stopping. "You seem a little unstable on your feet lately. Maybe skip leg day and work on your core."
"I have a fantastic core!" I yell after him, which is exactly the kind of thing a cool, collected Alpha definitely screams in a crowded hallway.
I look around. A group of Omegas is giggling behind their hands.
And there, standing by the lockers, is Yoon Heesung. He’s looking at Donghwa’s retreating back with an expression I’ve never seen him direct at me—genuine interest.
My hands curl into fists.
This isn't just a rivalry anymore. He’s mocking me. He’s stealing my spotlight. He’s drinking my coffee.
Later I spot Donghwa immediately as I walk into the canteen.
It’s hard not to. Kang Donghwa takes up space even when he’s sitting still, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric of that ridiculous, overpriced black coat.
He’s sitting with Jiyoon, looking at his phone, a pristine bunch of grapes resting on his tray like a still-life painting waiting to happen.
The opportunity is too good to pass up.
I alter my trajectory, aiming for the narrow gap between his table and the pillar. I speed up, feigning a distraction, looking over my shoulder at absolutely nothing.
"Whoops," I say loudly, swinging my arm wide as I pass.
My hand connects with his tray. It’s a beautiful, chaotic sweep. The bunch of grapes goes flying, scattering across the linoleum floor like green marbles.
I stop, putting a hand to my chest in mock surprise. "My bad, bro. Clumsy of me."
Donghwa looks at the empty spot on his tray, then down at the floor, then up at me. His expression doesn't change. Not a flicker of annoyance. He just stares.
"Clumsy," he says, his voice flat.
"I'll be more careful next time," I lie, flashing a grin that shows too many teeth. "Enjoy your... air."
I turn on my heel, feeling a surge of petty victory. That’ll teach him to drink my coffee. I swagger away, hips swaying, ready to join my table where Seungchan is already waving me over.
Thwack.
Something small and hard pelts the back of my head.
It stings, right at the base of my skull. I stumble a step, hand flying to the back of my neck. A grape bounces off my shoulder and rolls sadly onto the floor.
Laughter erupts. Not just a giggle, but a full-blown roar from the tables nearby.
I spin around, fury spiking my scent into a cloud of burnt sugar and rage. "Who the hell threw that?"
Donghwa is looking at his phone again. He’s popped a single grape into his mouth—one he must have saved from the massacre—and is chewing slowly. He doesn't even look up.
"Unbelievable," I hiss. My face feels hot. I look like a lunatic screaming about fruit. I stomp off to my table, fuming, while the sound of Donghwa’s low, dark chuckle follows me like a ghost.
If the grape incident was annoying, the next few days are a living nightmare.
Donghwa has changed his strategy. Before, he was the ice prince, ignoring every Omega who batted an eyelash at him. It was annoying because it made him look cool.
Now? Now he’s doing something infinitely worse.
In our Friday seminar, a cute Omega named Eunji—who I’ve definitely flirted with before—slides into the seat next to him. Usually, Donghwa would shift away or give a one-word answer.
"Is this seat taken, Donghwa?" she asks, twirling a lock of hair.
I watch from two rows back, waiting for the rejection.
Instead, Donghwa turns to her. He smiles. It’s not a big smile, just a slight quirk of his lips, but it transforms his face from 'scary gangster' to 'romance novel cover model.'
"For you? Never," he says, his voice dropping an octave.
Eunji practically melts into a puddle right there on the desk.
My pen snaps in my hand. Ink bleeds onto my fingers, but I don't even feel it.