Baekhyun smelled like new money and disinfectant.
The kind of place where the air was too clean, the silence too curated, and the uniforms too crisp to be accidental.
Hae-won adjusted the hem of her blazer and tried not to fidget. Her first Literature class started in ten minutes, and the reading list had already been emailed—thirty titles, no summaries, and zero mercy. Which meant she'd need to get ahead. Fast.
Her fingers itched for a pen. Something about fresh notebooks made her feel calm—like if she wrote hard enough, clean enough, she could sharpen herself into something unbreakable. Or at least understandable.
Beside her, Ji-ae scrolled through the school app with military efficiency. "So Literature's in the East wing—obviously, right next to the old conservatory. Ugh, these buildings are so extra. They probably cry in iambic pentameter."
"I just want to find the library," Hae-won murmured. "Before I start questioning my whole existence."
Ji-ae gave her a sidelong glance. "Also, we're not gonna talk about last evening?"
"No."
"I think the boy looked at us"
"I know."
"He totally saw us. I think he looked at you. like— like I don't know,"
"Oh. Please," Hae-won muttered. "You are just making things up now"
"I'm just saying. If I saw him in class, I'm taking notes for fanfiction."
---
The Baekhyun library was a dream in hardbound and hush. Polished columns, ink-dark floors, skylights arched like opera halls. Even the quiet had class privilege. It smelled like linen, lavender, and secrets you weren't rich enough to understand.
She moved through the Literature section like a reverent trespasser. Her fingers trailed spines: Tolstoy, Woolf, Faulkner. She paused at the translations—two versions of The Metamorphosis in her hands. Same title. Different soul.
"That one's lazy," said a voice behind her.
She turned.
A boy stood there, tall and impassive, wearing rectangular glasses that looked like they belonged in some obscure film about French philosophers. His posture was textbook-perfect. His blazer collar sharp. The tone of his voice was dispassionate.
He gestured toward the book in her right hand. "The translation. It's diluted. The German's flattened out. Read the green one."
Hae-won blinked. "Thanks... I think."
"No problem," he said, already turning away.
"Wait—how do you know that?" she asked, not out of politeness but instinct.
He paused, halfway into the next row. "Because I've read it. In both languages."
Of course you have.
He disappeared into the next aisle without another word.
She stared after him, mildly stunned.
Her friend, minjin, would have exploded. God, she missed her.
She was immediately hit with nostalgia. She missed home.
She also needed to focus and make them proud.
She was going to see them in a week anyway.
I need to up my game. More books it is.
---
She didn't tell Ji-ae about the boy in the library. Mostly because she didn't know what to make of him. He had the kind of face that could be on a magazine—sharp jaw, pale skin, perfect hair—but the way he spoke felt like a test she hadn't studied for.
He had looked at her like he knew she didn't belong.
Maybe she did.
---
Later that day, the hallway speakers crackled to life just after lunch.
"This is an announcement for all first-year students," said a cold voice. "Attendance is required in the Grand Hall at 2:00 p.m. sharp. Dress code enforced."
That was all. No reason. No explanation.
The halls buzzed within seconds.
"Is it about the merit students?"
"Are we in trouble?" One of the merit students, Hae-won has never spoken to asked.
"Maybe it's a welcome ceremony?" Ji-ae offered.
Hae-won exchanged a glance with Ji-ae.
Something told them this wasn't about a welcome ceremony.