Chapter 2: First Invitation

Nabi didn’t think the email was real at first.

From: Professor Seo Ryu Han

Subject: Portfolio Critique

Yu Nabi, your submitted portfolio caught my attention. I would like to offer some one-on-one feedback before final selections for the exhibition are made. If you're available, please meet me at Studio 6A, Wednesday, 4 PM.

– R.H.

She stared at the message, blinking once. Then again. The cursor hovered over the screen, taunting her like a dare.

It wasn’t uncommon for professors to offer critique. It wasn’t even unusual for Ryu Han to select students for private feedback—he was known to mentor the best. But Nabi?

She wasn’t top of the class. She was unpredictable. A mess of talent and emotional chaos. Even Professor Yoo Dambi once told her she was “a wildfire—dazzling and destructive.”

Still, Nabi arrived five minutes early.

Studio 6A

Studio 6A sat tucked at the far end of the Fine Arts Building — a space few dared to enter without explicit invitation. Though technically part of the university, it was understood, without being said, that Studio 6A belonged to Professor Ryu Han.

It wasn’t listed on any student schedule.

There was no posted timetable.

But everyone knew.

He worked there.

He painted there.

He critiqued there — not with mercy, but with brutal precision.

The tall windows spilled in cold afternoon light, casting angular shadows across the varnished floors and empty easels. The air was always thick with turpentine, linseed oil, and the quiet authority of ownership.

His ownership.

It was the kind of silence that didn’t invite entry — it warned against it.

Because stepping into Studio 6A without his permission wasn’t just a boundary crossed.

It was a line willingly walked into — and no one knew how far the consequences would go.

He was already there. Ryu Han stood beside one of her canvases—The Withering Girl—the one she had almost torn apart before submission. The piece was messy, expressive, lines bleeding into each other, as if trying to escape the form entirely.

“I didn’t expect this from you,” he said without turning around.

Her throat tightened. “You said you wanted to offer critique.”

He finally turned to face her. His gaze was unreadable. But intense.

“I did. Sit.”

She obeyed, folding her arms in her lap like a schoolgirl being scolded. Her heart pounded—not from fear, but something stranger. Sharper.

He stood in front of the canvas again, hands in his coat pockets.

“You don’t care about technique,” he said. “You care about release. That’s dangerous. It either births genius or disaster. No in-between.”

Nabi looked up at him. “So which one am I?”

He tilted his head, almost amused. “I haven’t decided yet.”

The silence between them stretched, thick with something she couldn’t name. He took a step closer.

“You paint as if you’re confessing sins no one asked you to admit. That kind of rawness—if you’re not careful—will expose too much. Even to the wrong people.”

Her lips parted, but no words came out. Her stomach twisted.

“Why did you submit this?” he asked.

“Because I wanted you to see it,” she said before she could stop herself.

The air shifted.

His eyes narrowed ever so slightly, a flicker of something dark behind the calm exterior. “You wanted me to see you.”

Her breath hitched. She hated how true it was.

He turned away again, breaking the tension as he reached for another canvas—one of her abstract pieces.

“You’ve got potential, Yu Nabi. But you’re careless with your gift. If you want it to matter, I suggest you learn control.”

She swallowed. “Will you teach me?”

Another pause. Then he said, almost absently, “We’ll see.”

Then he left her standing there, with her canvases, her trembling fingers, and the taste of something dangerous blooming under her tongue.

That evening, Nabi sat cross-legged on the dorm floor while Seol Ah painted her toenails black and hummed an old indie song. Na Eun and Jae Wook were curled up on the beanbag chair, laughing over something dumb on his phone. Yu Han leaned against the balcony door, watching the city lights, arms folded.

“Tell me again what he said,” Seol Ah prompted. “Verbatim.”

Nabi groaned, falling back onto the carpet. “I already told you. It wasn’t a big deal. Just a critique.”

“Right,” Seol Ah drawled. “Because all professors lean in and whisper about control and rawness and genius like they’re casting a damn spell.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

Yu Han didn’t speak, but his jaw was tight.

Na Eun tilted her head. “Do you… like him?”

Nabi hesitated. “No. I mean—he’s… he’s intimidating. That’s it.”

Seol Ah snorted. “Everyone’s intimidated by hot professors who talk like villains and smell like bergamot.”

Jae Wook raised an eyebrow. “I swear, you girls are dangerously into this man.”

“He noticed her,” Seol Ah said, pointing her brush like a sword. “That’s the real drug. When someone you think will never see you suddenly does.”

Nabi felt the words settle in her chest. Because it was true. Being seen by Ryu Han didn’t feel like admiration.

It felt like a fuse had been lit.