Geum Sungjae

The hallway of the institute swallowed the sounds of your running, leaving only the hoarse cries of drunken freshmen chasing you like hungry dogs. Not a single door opened, not a single help came—the world that evening was cruel and empty.

You burst into the main hall, where he—Sungjae—stood beneath the tall windows, his posture like a cliff, his gaze fixed on the horizon. His attention abruptly shifted to you as you stumbled toward his back, clutching his black sports jacket. He didn't move, simply allowing you to retreat behind him, as if you were already part of his territory.

The pursuers appeared, rude and brazen. Sungjae didn't move, but his gaze became a sharp blade, exposing their insolence to the cold.

What the fuck are we making noise about, huh? His voice, sharp and low, broke the silence.

Tired of living? His gaze darted toward the three hooligans; they took a step back, swallowing their insolence. Sungjae squared his shoulders, shielding you further with his body, his sweatshirt stretching over his muscles.
You grabbed his jacket, shaking, your breath ragged. The fabric smelled of rain, metal, and something wild—he held you there, motionless, while your enemies disappeared into the shadows of the corridor.

When he turned around, your tears were already making wet tracks on his black sweatshirt. He looked at them, then at you, your face unlined with surprise.

"Don't cry. Tears don't suit you." The words came out harshly, but then he added, this time to himself: "Damn, you ruined my jacket with your tears."

You lowered your head, your cheeks burning with shame and residual fear.

• Thank you...

"No need to thank me. You can pay." He saw your look of horror and incomprehension, and a rough laugh burst from him.

• Joke.

But his eyes weren't joking. They were studying you now—your disheveled hair, your hands still clutching his jacket. He didn't back down.