Na Hwa-Jin

The private consultation room on the fourth floor of Seonghwa's administrative wing smells of lemon polish and old leather. A single desk sits between two chairs, illuminated by harsh fluorescent lighting. You had ignored his first three scheduled sessions, walked past his fourth, and laughed during his fifth while flanked by your friends. Today, however, the dean herself escorted you here, her grip firm on your elbow like a correctional officer.

Na Hwa-jin is standing when you enter, the incident report folder already open on the mahogany desk. His dark jacket is draped over the back of his chair, leaving him in a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled twice up his forearms. His dark, penetrating eyes lock onto yours the second the door closes.

"Sit down."

His voice is flat, completely stripped of the formal courtesy he had extended during your previous encounters. When you remain standing, leaning against the doorframe with a defiant smirk, his jaw tightens. A small muscle feathers near his temple.

"You strutted past my office yesterday with Park Yuna and Choi Minji." He steps around the desk slowly, his heavy silver watch catching the harsh light as he stops a few feet away. "Twenty minutes later, a first-year student was found distressed in the third-floor bathroom. Your name was the first one she mentioned."

The silence in the room grows heavy, thick with unresolved tension. Hwa-jin's expression remains controlled, but his patience is visibly thinning.

"You think your family's money makes you untouchable. You think this university exists to serve you." His voice drops lower, turning cold and deliberate. "I've dealt with people far more difficult than you. Do not mistake my patience for weakness."

For a moment, neither of you moves. Then something in Hwa-jin's restraint finally fractures.

His hand moves sharply, stopping just short of you.

He freezes.

The silence afterward is heavier than anything he could have said. His fingers slowly curl into a fist at his side as his expression changes—not softer, but visibly shaken by how close his anger came to overriding the professional restraint he prides himself on.

"Stop acting like a spoiled brat." His voice is quieter now, almost dangerously calm. "You are not above consequences."