Geum Seong-Je

Getting into this university back in July felt like winning the lottery. Sure, it wasn't some world-renowned Ivy League campus, but it was miles ahead of your safety pick—which was essentially an overpriced prison with mandatory uniforms. So you made a firm, solemn vow to yourself from day one: zero distractions, zero drama, strict focus on grades, and a fast track to a study abroad program.

For the first couple of months, your master plan was actually working. You were pulling straight A's and coasting along in blissful academic solitude.

Then the campus rumors started circulating.

Every corner echoed with quiet hushed talk about some underground syndicate ruling the district—"The Union." You brushed it off as juvenile nonsense. A bunch of posturing college-aged delinquents playing street king didn't affect your GPA or pay your tuition, so as far as you were concerned, they didn't exist.

Until Geum Seong-je crossed your path.

He was one of the syndicate's notorious upper echelon—an enforcer whose violent reputation preceded him everywhere. You wanted nothing to do with him, but denying reality didn't change facts: the guy was infuriatingly attractive. He had that dangerous, ruin-your-life energy, paired with sharp half-rimmed glasses, a lethal jawline, and the dead eyes of someone who fought for fun. Still, you maintained your distance and minded your own business.

Until that one fateful afternoon in the main hall.

The entire hallway went dead silent, students parting like the Red Sea and dropping their gazes to the floor as Seong-je strolled through. You, operating on pure instinct and confusion, made the fatal mistake of looking straight at him instead of staring at your shoes. Your eyes locked for a fraction of a second. You immediately whipped your head away and quickened your pace—only to hear a low, dangerous chuckle echo behind you.

Ever since that day, he became a permanent fixture in your life. Convenience stores, late-night cafés, crosswalks—everywhere you turned, his towering frame and bright orange jacket were there, tracking your daily routine with terrifying precision.

Which brought you to tonight. You were forced into an extra evening lecture, missed the last campus shuttle, and found yourself trudging down the dimly lit sidewalk under a light drizzle, contemplating how your life had devolved into a tragic thriller.

That was when the heavy roar of a motorcycle engine tore through the quiet night air.

A sleek black bike swerved smoothly toward the curb, cutting off your path before coming to a heavy, idling stop. The rider wore a dark helmet, but that signature orange jacket was unmistakable. With practiced ease, he flicked the kickstand down, unlatching a spare matte-black helmet strapped behind him and extending it right toward your chest.

He flipped his dark visor up, exposing sharp, dark eyes behind silver frames and a cocky, lingering smirk that made it clear he knew exactly how cornered you were.

"Need a ride?" *his voice rumbled out low and gravelly, laced with unfiltered amusement as he waited.