The third week of the term began with blood on the field.
Not literal blood—Sohae wouldn’t permit that unless it served a lesson—but the symbolic kind. The kind of bruised pride that left deeper scars than fists.
Jeon Jungkook stood at the center of the combat training arena, jaw slick with sweat, his breathing slow and even. The air was filled with the pungent tang of dominance, raw and heavy. His opponent—a Beta third-year named Ryu—was on the ground, coughing, his shirt torn open at the collar where Jungkook had nearly ripped the scent tag from his throat.
Jungkook didn’t care about the match.
He’d won it effortlessly.
He always did.
But something in him still simmered as he stared down at the fallen boy. His blood felt tight. Hot. Off-balance. The world had stopped making sense the moment that name appeared above his on the digital board.
> Kim Taehyung.
An Omega.
A no-name.
A whisper with a pulse.
He hadn’t just taken the top score—he’d stolen it from Jungkook. The throne Jungkook had built over years of perfect performance. Untouchable, worshipped, feared. Everyone at Sohae knew their place.
Except Taehyung.
And that…that was unacceptable.
**
“So what are you gonna do about him?” Jisoo asked that night, flipping through her makeup case on Jungkook’s dorm couch. The elite suite smelled like vanilla and musk, the scent masks on full power. Jungkook lounged in his leather chair, gaze fixed on the fireplace screen, which flickered silently.
“I haven’t decided yet,” he said, voice calm, lazy.
She glanced at him, raising a brow. “That’s not like you.”
He gave a small smirk. “He’s just a scholarship case. He’ll break on his own.”
“You sure?” Jisoo twirled a brush in her fingers. “Because the way he looked at you during combat lecture…he wasn’t scared. He wasn’t impressed, either.”
Jungkook’s smile vanished.
No one dared to look at him without fear. Without awe. That was the rule.
He stood up, moving toward the window. The campus lay quiet beneath a pale crescent moon, its towers black against the night sky. Somewhere in one of those wings, Taehyung was probably reading. Studying. Still believing he could rise.
He didn’t know what pissed him off more—that Taehyung was challenging his rank, or that he didn’t even seem to know it.
“Let him breathe a little longer,” Jungkook murmured. “Then I’ll remind him what it means to lose.”
**
The next day, Jungkook passed Taehyung in the hallway.
Their shoulders brushed.
Taehyung looked up—instinctively, gently—and froze when he met Jungkook’s eyes.
Jungkook leaned in, slow and low, just enough for his scent to bleed into the space between them. Smoke. Spice. Something hot that made other Omegas blush or tremble.
But Taehyung didn’t blush.
He flinched.
Just barely.
Jungkook saw the twitch at his throat. The tightening of his grip on his books. But there was no submission in his posture. No bare-throat gesture. He just looked…tired.
Worn thin.
And Jungkook didn’t like that either.
He stepped back, gave a mocking smile, and walked away without a word.
**
It began subtle.
Jungkook didn’t need to get his hands dirty to make a point. Not yet.
The next week, Taehyung’s seat in the library was always taken—by students who’d never stepped foot there before. His assigned lab partner changed without warning. He started receiving late notices for assignments he knew he’d submitted. Professors looked at him with quiet confusion, wondering where the spark had gone.
It wasn’t enough to ruin him. Yet.
Just enough to shake the floor under his feet.
Just enough to make him doubt himself.
Jungkook watched from afar, arms folded, eyes cold. Every tremble of Taehyung’s hand, every glance over his shoulder—it felt like fuel.
Until something unexpected happened.
One day, after practice, Jungkook caught a glimpse of Taehyung sitting alone behind the greenhouse, cradling a bruised hand. Not fresh. Not alarming. But real.
Jungkook paused.
Taehyung didn’t see him.
The Omega had his back to the academy. His blazer was wrinkled, his scent mask loose. A faint trail of his real scent filtered into the air—delicate, trembling lilac and crushed leaves.
It was nothing like the sickly-sweet perfume most Omegas used.
It was raw. Honest.
Painful.
Jungkook turned away before he could understand what it made him feel.
**
“You’re getting obsessed,” Seojin told him during alpha training week. “I don’t get it. You’ve destroyed people for less than what this Omega’s done.”
Jungkook didn’t answer.
He sat alone in the sparring room, gloves off, knuckles red.
He didn’t know what this was.
It wasn’t about pride anymore.
It wasn’t even about the rankings.
It was the way Taehyung looked at the world. Like he was too soft to survive it. Like he didn’t know how beautiful that made him. How dangerous.
Jungkook hated it.
But he couldn’t look away.
**
Then came the midterm mock results.
> 1. Kim Taehyung – 98.5%
Jeon Jungkook – 98.3%
Again.
The halls were quieter this time.
No one dared joke. No one commented. Jungkook’s fury was legend now—like the eye of a storm, beautiful from a distance, deadly up close.
He saw Taehyung walking toward the lecture wing, slow and distracted. He looked thinner. Paler. Exhausted.
He walked past Jungkook like he didn’t exist.
And that—that was the final crack.
**
That night, Jungkook sent a message to his inner circle.
> "Meet behind Omega Wing. 2am. Bring gloves."
No questions asked.
**
The bruises were small.
No broken bones. Nothing obvious.
But when Taehyung limped into class the next day, hair falling into his eyes, lips pale and trembling—Jungkook didn’t look at him.
Not once.
Because for the first time in his life, the victory didn’t taste sweet.
It tasted like ash.
And he didn’t know why.
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