The walk to the Dean's office was quiet. I hated this part of the campus—the long, polished hallways of the administration building that felt too cold and a bit too perfect. Every footstep I took in my heels seemed to echo against the marble, a constant reminder that I didn't quite belong in this world of old money and ancient traditions. I kept thinking about the look on Ji-hoon's face when I handed him that zero. He hadn't even blinked. Most students would have been in tears or begging for extra credit. He just looked through me like I was a pane of glass.
I knocked on the heavy oak door. "Come in," a voice called out.
Dean Moon was sitting behind a desk that looked like it belonged in a museum. He didn't look up from his tablet for a long time, letting the silence stretch until it felt uncomfortable. He was the kind of man who used silence as a weapon.
"Sit down, Ms. Chojoyce," he finally said. He sounded tired, but his voice had that sharp edge that meant he wasn't in the mood for excuses. "I've been looking at the mid-term reports for your English Literature seminar."
"I assume this is about Kang Ji-hoon," I said, keeping my voice as professional as possible.
"A zero percent," Moon said, finally looking at me. His eyes were like flint. "In a college of this caliber, a zero isn't just a failure. It's an insult to the institution. His family is one of our primary benefactors, Ms. Chojoyce. They expect results, not empty grade books."
"He has the ability," I argued, leaning forward. "He's brilliant when he actually speaks, but he refuses to engage with the curriculum. He told me he had nothing to say about the essay prompt. How am I supposed to grade silence?"
Moon leaned back in his leather chair, tapping a gold pen against the desk. "I don't care if he has nothing to say. I need him to pass. The board is already looking for reasons to tighten the budget for international staff. If his average stays this low, he's out. And if he's out because he couldn't pass a basic English course, I'll have to wonder if you're the right fit for this faculty, Ms. Chojoyce."
The threat was clear. My visa, my apartment, my entire life in Seoul was tied to this contract. He was holding my future over my head because a boy in a black hoodie decided he didn't feel like participating in society.
"What exactly are you asking of me?" I asked.
"You will tutor him. Personally. Two hours every day after his last lecture. You meet in the library. No excuses, no missed sessions. You make sure he passes the final with at least a B, or we will both be having a very different conversation at the end of the semester."
He waved his hand, dismissing me before I could even protest. "He's already waiting for you in the West Wing library. Don't waste his time, and more importantly, don't waste mine."
I walked out of the office, my blood simmering with a mix of anger and nerves. I moved through the quad toward the library, pushing the heavy double doors open. The room was mostly empty, the scent of old paper and dust lingering in the air. In the very back corner, hidden behind a row of ancient encyclopedias, was a single figure.
Ji-hoon was sitting with his heavy black boots up on the mahogany table, flipping a silver lighter over and over in his hand. Click. Catch. Click. Catch. The sound was rhythmic and annoying.
"Feet off the table, Ji-hoon," I said, dropping my bag onto the chair across from him with a deliberate thud.
He didn't move for a long beat. Then, slowly, he let his legs drop. He looked at me with those dark, unreadable eyes. "So, the Dean sent his favorite new recruit to play savior? You're persistent, Ms. Chojoyce. I'll give you that."
"I'm not here to play anything," I snapped, sliding his failed paper toward him. The red '0%' looked even more aggressive in the afternoon sun. "I'm the person making sure you don't get me fired. Open your book."
Ji-hoon didn't touch the book. Instead, he leaned forward, his elbows on the table, bringing him close enough that I could smell the faint scent of peppermint and something metallic on him. "You're wasting your time. I don't need to know how to analyze Shakespeare when I already know how my story ends."
"And how does it end?" I asked, crossing my arms. "With a dropout certificate and a disappointed family?"
"In a place people like you don't even know exists," he muttered, a cold smirk touching his lips.
I looked down at his hands, which were gripped around the silver lighter. Up close, the bruises on his knuckles were even worse than they had been in class. One was split open, the skin dark and angry, barely beginning to scab over. "Did you get those in your 'story' too? Because those don't look like library injuries, Ji-hoon."
He caught me looking and quickly pulled his hand back, shoving it into the pocket of his hoodie. The wall was back up. The quiet, failing student was back, and the dangerous rebel I'd glimpsed for a second was gone.
"Just teach the lesson, Teacher," he said, his voice flat and dismissive.
"Fine," I said, opening my own copy of the text. "We're starting with the modernism section. Page forty-two. Read the first paragraph. Out loud."
The next hour was a slow-motion battle. He read the words in a low, bored monotone, but he didn't stumble once. His English was near-perfect, his pronunciation better than half the students who were getting A's. He was failing on purpose, and the realization made my skin prickle. He wasn't struggling; he was resisting.
Every time I tried to push him to explain a metaphor, he'd give me a one-word answer or just stare out the window at the flickering neon signs of the city beginning to wake up. He was a rebel in the truest sense. He wasn't loud or aggressive; he was just... absent.
As the library clock chimed six, Ji-hoon stood up abruptly. He didn't ask permission.
"Time's up," he said, zipping his bag.
"We aren't finished with the analysis," I reminded him, my pen poised over my notebook.
"I have somewhere to be." He started to walk away, his stride long and confident.
"Ji-hoon," I called out.
He stopped but didn't turn around.
"I'll see you here tomorrow. Same time. If you skip, I'm going straight to the Dean, and we both know what happens then."
He let out a short, dry laugh that didn't reach his eyes. "You really care about this job, don't you? It's almost cute."
He walked out, leaving me in the shadows of the library. I waited a few minutes, trying to calm the shake in my hands, before packing my own things. When I finally left the campus and started walking toward the subway station, I decided to take a shortcut through a narrow alley lined with small bars and glowing PC-bang signs.
I stopped dead when I saw a familiar black hoodie near a side exit of a dimly lit club.
Ji-hoon was standing in a dark doorway, flanked by two older men who looked like they belonged in a crime drama. One of them handed him a thick, cream-colored envelope. Ji-hoon didn't look like a student anymore. He stood tall, his jaw set, looking like someone who dealt in things much darker than English literature.
I stayed back in the shadows, my heart hammering against my ribs. This was the secret. This was why a zero percent grade didn't scare him. He was playing a much more dangerous game than I had ever imagined.
He tucked the envelope into his jacket, nodded to the men, and disappeared into the maze of Seoul's backstreets.
I stood there for a long time, the cold night breeze finally hitting me. I was supposed to be his teacher, but as I watched him vanish, I realized I was tutoring a man I didn't know at all—and a man who might be far more dangerous than the Dean ever warned me about.