Running late for university, I felt the panic rise in my chest as I raced through the streets, desperately trying to make up for lost time. It wasn’t just a typical late morning—today, everything had gone wrong from the moment I opened my eyes. My dear mother, in her usual caring way, had decided not to wake me up on time, letting me sleep until it was far too late.

By the time I glanced at the clock, I realized that I was already running behind, and the thought of disappointing my father added an extra layer of anxiety. I had never, not once in my entire life, been late to anything.

Being punctual was a principle my dad drilled into me from a young age, and I knew if I were late today, he would be furious. The consequences would be unbearable—he was a man who valued responsibility and discipline above all, and a late arrival would be seen as a failure on my part.

The drive felt like it took forever. Every red light seemed to drag on longer than usual, and the city streets appeared more congested than they ever had before. I gripped the wheel tightly, my mind racing with thoughts of what might happen if I didn't make it in time.

I glanced nervously at the clock on the dashboard, mentally calculating how much time I had left to reach the parking lot. The university gates were set to close soon, and if I didn’t make it before they did, I’d be locked out—an outcome I simply couldn’t afford. I couldn’t let that happen, not when I had so much riding on today.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I arrived at the parking lot. My heart pounded in my chest as I scanned the area for an open spot. The lot seemed unusually full, and I could already feel the pressure building.

If I couldn’t find a space quickly, it would mean I would be late for class, and worse, my dad would find out. I spotted an empty spot near the back and immediately started reversing into it. In my rush, I wasn’t as careful as I should have been.

Thud!

The sound of something crashing against my car made my stomach drop. I froze, panic flooding my mind. I quickly got out of the car, my heart sinking as I surveyed the damage.

It wasn’t just a small scrape—it looked like I had knocked into something, and now there was more to deal with than just being late. The day had spiraled completely out of control. I stood there, facing yet another problem I had created, unsure of how to fix it before it all spiraled further.

It’s a BMW, and my heart sinks as I realize what I’ve done. I’ve somehow scratched the left wing mirror, and the sheer thought of damaging such a high-end car fills me with dread. As I glance around, I search for the owner, hoping to find someone nearby who can help ease my panic, but there’s no one in sight.

The empty parking lot seems to echo my anxiety, and for a moment, I feel like I’m trapped in my own mistake. I know, deep down, that it’s entirely my fault. I’ve been taught to take responsibility for my actions, no matter how much I want to avoid facing the consequences. There’s no excuse for this, and no matter how much I wish things were different, I have to do the right thing. I can’t just walk away from this.

After a moment of contemplation, I decided to leave a note. I write down my contact information and explain what happened, offering to pay for the repairs or take any steps necessary to make things right. I carefully fold the note and stick it to the windshield, hoping that whoever the owner is will see it and understand that I’m willing to take responsibility for the damage.

Once the note is in place, I hurry to my car, my hands trembling slightly as I start the engine. I’m in such a rush to get away before anyone sees me or the note, so I drive off and find a place to park, my mind racing the whole time. I manage to park my car just in time before the front gate closes behind me, and I let out a sigh of relief. For a brief moment, I feel like I’ve escaped the worst of it.

But as I walk to my room, the weight of the situation still lingers. Once inside, I take a seat at my desk and try to shake off the anxiety. I’m in my own little world now, surrounded by my thoughts. I don’t have many friends in this new environment, and the ones I do have aren’t in my classes.

I end up going through lectures alone, sitting quietly in the back of the room, always observing rather than engaging. It’s not the worst thing in the world, and I’ve learned to make do, but there’s something isolating about it. I can’t help but think that if my friends were here, things would feel different.

Still, after class, we all meet up together, catching up on each other’s day, sharing stories, and trying to make the most of what little time we have. For now, that’s enough. But I know I’ll have to deal with the BMW situation soon, and the thought of it weighs heavily on my mind.

“Attention, guys,” one of our vice principals says, his voice firm and clear, cutting through the noise of the classroom chatter. The room immediately fell silent as every head turns to face him, his authoritative presence enough to demand our attention without any effort.

“As you all know, Mr. Leo has gone to his hometown for a while—approximately six months. During his absence, we’ve arranged for a substitute professor to take his place. I expect you all to treat him with the same respect and cooperation you would show to Mr. Leo,” he continues, his tone serious but not unkind. 

here’s a brief pause as he looks toward the door, his eyes signaling that the new professor is about to make his entrance. “I trust you’ll behave well with him,” the vice principal adds, a note of expectation in his voice.

And then, just as he finishes, the door creaks open. A figure steps inside—tall, imposing, and cloaked in mystery. The man is dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, his broad shoulders and muscular build evident even beneath the fabric

His posture is upright, confident, and he’s wearing a mask, obscuring most of his face. His presence alone is enough to make the air in the room feel thicker, charged with something unfamiliar, something that makes us sit a little straighter in our seats.

He moves slowly, with purpose, toward the front of the classroom. Each step seems calculated, his strong muscles subtly flexing as he walks. Despite his bulky frame, there’s an undeniable grace to his movements, as though he’s completely at ease in his own skin. His eyes remain forward, focused, not once faltering as he reaches the front and stands beside the vice principal.

“I’ll leave it to you, Professor,” the vice principal says, stepping back slightly, his hands clasped behind his back. His tone is respectful, but there’s a certain reverence in it, as if this new professor commands authority in a way that needs no explanation.

The man beside him gives a short nod, his deep, resonant voice filling the room when he speaks. “Of course,” he replies, his voice low but certain, with an almost magnetic quality to it. It’s a voice that feels like it should belong to someone who has seen and experienced much, someone whose very presence demands attention.

The man reaches up slowly and removes the mask from his face, the action deliberate and smooth. As the mask comes off, the room seems to exhale collectively, some of us unsure of what exactly to expect.

His face is striking—sharp features, a strong jawline, and eyes that seem to hold a depth, an intensity that makes you feel like he’s looking right through you, even though he hasn’t settled on anyone yet.

His gaze sweeps across the room, cold yet calculating. It moves over each of us, pausing for a fraction of a second on each person, studying us. When his eyes finally land on me, it feels like time itself has slowed.

For just a brief moment, his gaze locks with mine, and I swear I can feel the weight of his stare, like he’s evaluating something deep inside me. Then, just as quickly, his eyes move on, as though he’s decided I’m not worth lingering on and continuing his survey of the room.

He doesn’t smile, doesn’t even seem to acknowledge the slight discomfort his gaze may have caused. Instead, he takes a moment, as though gathering his thoughts, before he speaks again. His mouth moves, and the words come out slowly, deliberately, as though he’s testing the room, letting the tension build.

“Jeon Jungkook.” he states, his name rolling off his tongue effortlessly, his deep voice resonating in the space like a low hum that lingers in the air. For a moment, the room remains completely still. His name echoes in my mind, leaving behind a strange feeling I can’t quite place. 

There’s something about him, something about the way he carries himself, that feels both intimidating and captivating. It’s as if we’ve just been introduced to someone who is more than just a professor—someone who is capable of shaking up the very fabric of our normal routine, someone whose presence promises that the next six months will be anything but ordinary.