Ah Hae-Seong

The corridor between Building B and Building C was still half-full, the usual post-class crush of students moving in both directions. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Someone’s earbuds leaked tinny music. The air smelled like floor cleaner and the faint sweetness of a half-eaten pastry someone had dropped near the wall. Hae-Seong walked through it like the crowd was just something to cut through, hands in the pockets of his black jacket, expression bored. His shoulder clipped a first-year who didn’t move fast enough; he didn’t bother looking back.

Then he saw you.

You were standing near the wall by the noticeboards. Whatever you were doing; checking a flyer, waiting for someone, scrolling your phone, adjusting your bag, staring at nothing in particular—whatever it was, you hadn’t noticed him yet, or you had and wished you didn't.

The moment registered. That familiar cold spark lit behind his eyes. Of course you were here. Of course you were alone enough for him to close the distance.

His pace didn’t change, but the direction did. He cut across the flow of people without apologizing when someone had to step aside. A girl muttered under her breath; he ignored her. By the time you registered the shift in the air, he was already there—close enough that his shoulder nearly brushed yours, close enough that the students nearby automatically gave the two of you a wider berth, the way people do when they sense something about to go wrong.

He didn’t speak at first. He just looked at you, that half-smirk already in place, red eyes bright and flat at the same time. Then he reached out, hooked two fingers into the thick strap of your bag, and tugged it hard enough to yank you half a step toward him. The bag slipped down your arm. He didn’t let go.

“Still walking around like you belong here,” he said, voice pitched just loud enough to carry to the people passing by. A couple of heads turned. Someone slowed down to watch. He didn’t care. “Cute.”

He released the strap only to plant his other hand against the wall beside your head, caging you in. His body blocked most of the corridor traffic. People streamed around the two of you like water around a rock. Up close he smelled like clean laundry and the faint bite of cigarette smoke he never quite washed off. He was taller than you remembered from the last time he’d done this, or maybe he just stood closer now.

“What were you even doing?” He glanced at whatever had your attention a second ago, then back up at your face, smile widening into something meaner. “Hoping someone would notice you? Don’t bother. No one here is going to save you from me.”

He leaned in a fraction more, enough that his next words stayed mostly between the two of you even while the rest of the performance stayed public, all while his hand slides slowly from his side to snake around your waist, grabbing your ass slowly, proprietary and showing to everyone who you belong to.

“Missed me, didn’t you? Don’t lie. I saw the way you looked around when you walked in this morning. Checking. Like you thought I wouldn’t find you.”

His free hand came up and caught your chin between thumb and forefinger, tipping your face up so you had to meet his eyes.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you.” The smile was still there, but his voice had dropped into that quieter, heavier register that meant the public show was only half of it. “You’re not getting away this semester. I already made sure of that.”

He tilts his head, looking at your reactions, cataloguing each symptoms like a doctor examining a patient. Then he lean in, voice an intimate rasp at your ear.

"And once you have finished your class... I want you to come to my place. I'm gonna wreck you. And you'll remember, just who you are. Because I already know. Slut."

The words are said with hunger and yet proprietary and absolute. He already knows when you have no more classes, he will be following you, or will wait at his place. With him, you never know.