The door to the office stood silently, polished wood gleaming under the corridor lights.
Grassia stood just in front of it, arms hugging her sides, fidgeting nervously while rubbing her hands together.
Her gaze kept darting from the handle to the floor to the wall beside her, then back to the door again.
The air outside the office felt heavier than it should've.
"Is he even in his room?"
She muttered to herself, barely above a whisper.
She reached up and tucked a section of her short, dark brown hair behind her ear, more out of nervous habit than necessity.
Hesitating for a moment, she leaned forward, inch by inch, just about to press her ear against the door to listen for any sign of life inside—
The door opened.
With absolutely no time to stop herself, her balance tipped forward and she fell with a startled, gasped "Wha—!" right into the office.
Face down.
Right on the pristine maroon carpet, threaded with black and golden designs that now felt significantly more humiliating beneath her cheek.
Papers rustled.
She looked up.
A woman stood before her, light brown hair falling gently around her shoulders, light brown eyes blinking as they looked down at her.
In one hand she held a stack of papers, and the other still rested calmly on the now open door handle.
'Oh no...'
Grassia winced inwardly as she scrambled to her feet, dusting off her skirt as quickly and casually as humanly possible.
As if casually recovering from social death was an option.
"Oh Miss Clara... I-I was wondering if the Senior Professor was around..."
She stammered, her voice cracking, words tumbling over one another as her hands flailed uncertainly in the air.
Clara turned her head slightly, giving a simple glance toward the back of the office.
Grassia followed her gaze.
There he was.
Senior Instructor Noel.
Sitting at his desk.
Expression unreadable.
Eyes focused.
Staring at her.
Stone-faced.
A tension pierced through her like a cold wind.
Panic tightened in her chest.
Her stomach dropped so hard she was sure it physically shifted downwards in her body.
First impression? Dead. Gone. Vaporized.
She wanted to dissolve into the floor.
Crawl into a vent.
Escape to a different school. Different city.
Maybe a different plane of existence altogether.
What did he think of her now?
Probably something like-'Unbalanced.'
Or 'Infiltrator. Possibly rabid.'
"..."
She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
Instead, she just stared down at the regal carpeting below her feet, a pattern so intricate she considered counting the shapes to calm herself.
"Class representative?..."
Noel said suddenly, his voice calm but direct as he placed a few papers down on his desk.
"What?"
She responded, eyes snapping up in sheer confusion.
"You're here to apply as the class representative for my ME class, right? I assume..."
Her thoughts shattered.
"No—I mean yes—but wait—actually that's not—uh—"
She fumbled.
"I mean, technically yes, I could do that but that's not—I was... ugh—"
'Why am I like this?'
In her mind, chaos bloomed.
Lumi's voice floated up like a haunting echo from earlier.
"You're in his class, right? So it'll be easy for you to talk to him... Just ask him to come to the Club Room. That's all."
She wailed mentally.
'Lumiiiiiiiii!!'
This was all Lumi's fault!
Her plan, her idea, her trap!
Grassia had come here to ask Noel to visit the club room so Lumi could give him an apology gift.
That was it! Simple!
But now—NOW—she was applying for a job!?
"Y-Yeah, class representative!"
She said with a forced smile and the enthusiasm of a small animal backed into a corner.
"That's me!"
'I'll just ask him after I'm done...'
She reasoned in her head.
'Maybe. Probably. If I don't die first.'
Noel narrowed his eyes slightly.
"Then why did it take you so long?"
Grassia barked out a laugh and scratched the back of her head, eyes shut tight as if shielding herself from reality.
"Hahaha! I guess I got... lost?"
She winced at her own answer.
It was not even an answer.
When she finally dared open her eyes—
He was standing right in front of her.
A paper extended toward her.
"Fill this."
Noel said, completely unmoved.
She blinked up.
He was tall.
Really tall.
She had to tilt her head to meet his eyes.
Yellow. Intense. Sharp.
They reminded her of Nox's eyes.
But unlike Nox—whose thoughts and emotions were always painted across his face like a book left open—Noel's were impossible to read.
It was like staring into a beautifully carved mannequin.
"…with really great style and fashion sense," she said out loud.
…
"…What?"
Noel muttered.
'Shit.'
"I said you have a really amazing taste in fashion... hahaha..."
She said, choking out the words with another awkward laugh, hands flapping nervously like she was trying to fan herself into another dimension.
If embarrassment had a physical weight, it would've crushed her by now.
She wanted to bite her tongue off.
She wanted the office to be hit by a meteor.
She wanted to sprint into the woods and never return.
Noel simply sighed.
"Just fill the form..."
He said flatly.
"Yes sir!"
She said with the automatic reaction speed of a trained soldier under duress.
She scurried over to the high raised table on the other side of the office, checking her uniform for a pen.
Nothing.
Not even a stray pencil.
She patted every pocket, inside and out, with a panicked rhythm like she was performing a clumsy magic ritual.
Clara wordlessly handed her a pen, watching her with a calmness that only made Grassia feel even more like a storm in human form.
"Thank you—sorry—I just—thanks..."
She blurted.
She glanced up.
Noel was looking directly at her with a....RAISED EYEBROW?!
She jolted.
Her grip on the pen tightened.
'He definitely thinks I'm an incompetent idiot...'
She groaned internally.
Fighting through the embarrassment, she filled out the form with the precision of someone trying to reclaim her last shred of dignity.
Once done, she approached his desk again.
"I'm done..."
She said quietly, offering the form like a prisoner offering a confession.
Noel took it, scanning it briefly.
His eyes moved across the lines, unreadable as always.
"I'll notify you if you qualify by the end of the week..."
He said.
'Sir, just tell me I'm never getting the position...not even in a million years...'
Grassia thought to herself.
"I still have to give the other contenders a fair chance."
Noel continued talking.
Grassia nodded quickly.
"You may leave," he added.
She stood there. Clutching her skirt. Frozen.
Debating.
To ask, or not to ask.
That was the question.
But the words wouldn't come.
"..."
[Noel's POV]
"…"
Are all my students weird?
I asked myself, looking at the girl standing stiffly before me, her hands clasped tightly in front of her skirt like she was trying to hold together the last shreds of her dignity.
Her name, I recalled as my gaze drifted briefly to the form she had just submitted.
'Grassia Saint Gress'.
So she was from that household.
A noble one—no, a prestigious one.
One of those with a long-standing reputation wrapped in centuries of etiquette, political alliances, and the kind of family history you read about in the Academy's history textbooks.
Yet here she still stood.
Why?
I was quite sure I had told her to leave. Politely. Clearly.
But instead, she stood rooted to the floor like a marble statue of guilt.
Her eyes flicked between me and the floor, caught in some personal dilemma that apparently involved a great deal of skirt-clutching.
Don't tell me she's one of Noel's victims as well.
But I had no memory of ever interacting with her before this moment.
No records. No scolding. No absurd behavior reports. Nothing.
Well apart from the current awkward situation.
And from the blue tie draped neatly around her uniform collar—without even needing to look at the form—I could tell she was a first-year.
So what exactly was keeping her here?
"Something else you wanted to inquire?"
I asked.
Her head snapped up.
Her eyes wide—round and trembling like a cornered puppy.
I felt a bead of sweat trail slowly down the side of my face.
She opened her mouth.
And then everything happened at once.
"I—Okay—So! Actually! My friend! She's the one who—she wanted to see you! And give you a gift! Because of the other day! And she didn't know how to approach you—so she told me—because I'm in your class—and she thought it'd be easier—and I was just going to say that but then you asked about the rep thing and I thought well that doesn't sound bad and then I filled the form but now I feel bad because I was lying—kind of—but also not really because I think I'd like to try being rep now—!"
Her words collided into one another like wild horses breaking loose in a thunderstorm.
"And now I'm here..."
She added in a tiny voice, her volume slowly decreasing as her breath gave out and she deflated.
"And I'm sorry…"
She stared at the floor, her shoulders slightly hunched, waiting.
Waiting for the inevitable scolding.
To be told she'd wasted my time.
To be kicked out.
I didn't say anything for a second.
Even I could hear how sharp my question had sounded before.
"So you just accepted to fill in the form so I can accept your request?"
I had asked, tone direct and even.
But with how this character was built, how my voice naturally carried—how the system etched [Formal Speech] and [Intimidation] into my behavior—
It must've sounded like a blade at her throat.
She visibly flinched.
"I'm sorryyy..."
She wailed softly, her hands curling tighter around the fabric of her skirt.
"A student asking a professor of such matters is outrageously insane... a high-ranking instructor at that...!"
She buried her face slightly, like she wanted to vanish.
Out of the corner of my eye, Clara leaned against her desk, arms folded, watching the scene unfold like it was a private comedy performance.
She smiled.
I sighed.
"Okay..."
I said at last.
"Where do I meet this friend of yours?"
Instantly, her head jerked up.
Her entire face lit up like sunrise breaking through storm clouds.
"This way!"
She chirped, already halfway out the door like a bird given sudden permission to escape its cage.
I stood from my desk, straightening my coat, and followed after her.
Clara met my eyes as I passed by.
She covered her mouth with one hand, clearly trying not to laugh.
I closed my eyes for a moment.
Another bead of sweat slid down my cheek.
And then I left the room.
***
There we stood at the door.
"…"
"The Embroidery club room?"
I muttered under my breath, more to myself than anyone else.
But Grassia, standing beside me, heard it.
"Yes…"
She answered softly.
Without another word, she stepped forward and opened the door.
There was a sudden murmur of commotion from within—voices, movement, the flutter of fabric and chairs being scooted—but it quickly settled.
I took that as my cue to enter.
As I stepped inside, my eyes immediately landed on the girl standing next to Grassia.
The pink-haired girl.
The same one I had bumped into just a day ago.
And of course—one of, if not my sister Hana's favorite character in the RoFan game.
'Sigh... I had a feeling I'd run into her again.
Just not here... not like this.'
Her appearance was unmistakable.
Pink hair styled into two neat twin buns, soft strands falling naturally over her face like silken ribbons.
But unlike our first encounter where she wore the standard dark blue academy skirt, her attire now had more personality—more flair.
She wore a crisp white blouse beneath a navy blue corset-style vest, cinched tightly with shining silver buttons.
The vest emphasized her delicate frame, and the high-waisted dark blue shorts added a playfully dignified charm.
Long lavender gloves reached just below her shoulders, cut off at the fingers to reveal her hands—small, graceful, and trembling slightly with contained energy.
A brown leather belt looped around her waist, completing the ensemble with utility and style.
"Hello, Mister!"
She greeted with an eager wave and a bright voice.
There was a moment of awkward silence that followed.
The kind that hangs in the air when one person remembers something mortifying the other has already forgotten.
She fidgeted with her gloved fingers, visibly nervous but determined to speak.
"I… I just wanted to say I'm really, really sorry about the other day..."
She began, her voice a little fast but sincere.
"For ruining your shirt with that ink…
I know you said it wasn't a big deal, and not to worry, but I still felt really bad about it!"
Her cheeks flushed as she brought out a small paper bag—decorated carefully with floral patterns and a sky blue ribbon handle.
"So… I made something. As an apology gift."
She handed it to me, both hands extended like she was giving me something far more important than it appeared.
I blinked.
Then, after a glance at both Grassia and the girl—whose name now echoed faintly in my memory as Lumi—I accepted the bag and peered inside.
Tucked neatly within was a folded shirt, pristine and white.
I pulled it out, holding it up in my hands, letting the soft fabric catch the light.
It wasn't just well-made.
It was meticulously crafted.
Clean stitching. Elegant seams. And most notably—the collar.
Black, with a golden thread design that immediately caught my eye.
Embroidered onto one side of the collar was the MET emblem.
But unlike the standard, towering version engraved, this one was different—smaller, more refined.
Stylized.
Designed like a crest rather than a brand.
It almost had an old-world touch to it, something classical yet modern.
A personal artistic flourish.
Around the edges of the black collar was a border of gold thread as well, gleaming faintly under the lighting.
The contrast with the stark white shirt made the entire piece stand out as something wholly unique.
"Please like it…"
Lumi said, her voice small again.
She clutched her hands tightly, her blue eyes looking up at me with expectation and nerves swimming behind them.
I noticed them then.
Her hands.
Small bruises. Tiny punctures. Pinpricks that hadn't fully healed yet.
Not old ones, either—fresh, barely a day old.
She had stayed up making this.
The same day we had met.
"…How could I not accept this."
I muttered quietly.
Her face lit up like the first warm ray of dawn on a snowy morning.
She practically beamed with pride.
"Thank you…"
I added.
The two girls smiled together.
Grassia giving a small, content nod beside her.
But then—
The door to the clubroom suddenly swung open.
The sound echoed slightly against the walls, the air in the room shifting with the sudden entrance.
My focus was still on the shirt in my hands as I began folding it carefully to place it back in the bag.
But then—
A scent.
Familiar.
Soft.
Sweet.
Tinged with a kind of warmth that twisted something deep inside my chest.
My head turned instantly, as though on instinct.
And even before my eyes fully registered her face—
I knew.
White hair.
Crimson red eyes that glowed like embers beneath moonlight.
And a beauty that didn't belong in this world. Ethereal. Untouchable.
I had seen her once before.
At the welcome party.
For only a fleeting moment—before she had turned and disappeared.
But now, she was here again.
Standing in the doorway as though the world had parted to let her in.
The hairs on my arms rose.
The warmth that spread through me was unmistakable.
Not heat—but a tide.
A rush of something soft and overpowering.
The kind of flutter that seizes your breath, the pounding in your chest when time slows just for a second and all the noise disappears.
This wasn't recognition.
It was something deeper.
Something the body remembered before the mind could catch up.
This…
…was this body's ex-fiancée.
Melissa Saint Roseblood.
At that moment, I expected this body to naturally replay a memory it had once shared with her.
But the memory that surfaced…
Wasn't from this body at all.
---
The rain fell like a curtain drawn across the city—hard, cold, and unrelenting.
They stood on the edge of a narrow street in Mapo-gu, near their old apartment.
The place where they had once laughed over cheap takeout and stayed up talking about dreams too big for their paychecks.
It should have been familiar.
It should have felt like home.
But now, it was the place where it would all fall apart.
Ju-Won stood in the rain, his dark coat soaked through, his hair plastered to his forehead.
His fists were clenched at his sides.
Across from him, the girl—his girl—was already crying, mascara smudged, lips trembling.
"Don't do this…"
She choked out.
"Please don't say it."
He looked at her, eyes bloodshot and tired.
Not just from the rain.
From everything.
"I don't deserve you..."
He said, voice hoarse.
"I wake up every morning feeling like I'm running out of time.
I'm twenty-nine and still stuck in a job that barely covers our bills.
My savings account looks like a joke.
I can't even treat you to a proper dinner without calculating how it affects rent."
She shook her head violently, rain mixing with her tears.
"I don't care about that!
Ju-Won, listen to me—it doesn't matter to me!"
She shouted, stepping forward.
"I love you.
I love you even when you're wearing the same two sweaters all week.
I love you when you're quiet because you're too tired to speak.
I love you when you're scared to dream because you think you'll disappoint someone.
I want to be there!
I want to be the one who gets to stay through the bad days too!"
Ju-Won's voice cracked, frustration spilling from his chest.
"You say that now..."
He said.
"You say that when we're still in this tiny bubble of youth, when it still feels romantic to struggle, when love feels enough because we don't know what it's like to really fall apart."
She tried to interrupt, but he raised his voice—not in anger, but in desperation.
"What happens five years from now?"
He asked, his voice nearly a whisper beneath the thunder.
"What happens when I still haven't figured things out?
When your friends are getting married, traveling, living full lives—and you're still here waiting for me to get my shit together?"
He stepped closer, the rain now between their words and skin.
"What if…
What if this is the best version of me you'll ever get?
What if this fleeting moment is all I have to give, and it never gets better?
Will your love still be enough?"
Her mouth opened—but no answer came.
She stared at him, eyes wide, throat tight.
The words were there—somewhere—but none could meet the weight of the question he'd just given her.
He turned away slightly, his chest rising and falling like a man holding in everything he wanted to scream.
But then she spoke—voice low, broken, honest.
"It's not always about the spark..."
She said, more to herself than him.
"It's not about fireworks or perfect lives or climbing ladders together."
She looked up at him again, lips quivering.
"Sometimes love is just choosing to stay.
Even when the spark flickers.
Even when it's not beautiful.
Even when it hurts.
And unlike you... I
… I would've stayed."
Her voice cracked.
She finally dropped her head into her hands and began to cry—not soft, not quiet, but the kind of sob that came from a soul aching with the truth that love wasn't always enough.
And in that moment, under the soft glow of a broken streetlight and the relentless storm of Seoul's sky—
They both cried.