Chapter 7: Breakfast and Bad Blood
The email had been sent last night, a blistering, point-by-point rebuttal cowritten in the lavender haze of her dorm. Joan had poured every technical detail into it, and Joshua had shaped it into flawless, dispassionate academic language. It now sat in the professor’s inbox, a silent grenade. But sending it hadn’t drained the fury; it had just given it a target, making it run hotter and quieter in her veins.
The cafeteria noise hit her first—a wall of clattering trays and overlapping conversations, the shriek of a milk steamer from the coffee station. Morning light, thick and golden, cut through the high windows, illuminating drifting dust motes and the sleek, dark hair of a hundred students. It smelled of sugar, coffee grounds, and the faint, clean sting of industrial cleaner.
She spotted them immediately. Their table was an island of high-profile normalcy in the sea of uniforms. DK was laughing, his whole body involved in the gesture, as Mingyu animatedly recounted something, his hands carving shapes in the air. Ara sat beside him, sketching lazily on a napkin, a small smile on her lips. Joshua was sipping coffee, listening with that calm, partitioned attention he excelled at. Cheol was a silent monolith at the head, scrolling his phone, but his eyes flicked up, scanning the room like a radar sweep. They landed on her. And beside Cheol, leaning back with feline grace, was Jeonghan.
Joan grabbed a tray. The choice was simple: sit alone and scream, or walk into the lion’s den and maybe learn something. She chose the lions.
She wove through the tables, feeling stares prickling on her skin. The new girl. The one who’d been paired with Wonwoo. The one who’d gotten a sixty-eight. News travelled fast here; it was the academy’s real currency.
“Make way for the fallen star,” Jeonghan sang out as she approached, his voice syrup-sweet. He didn’t bother lowering it. Mingyu’s story died halfway through a word. DK’s laugh faded into a warm, concerned smile. Ara’s pencil stilled.
Joan set her tray down next to Joshua with a deliberate clatter. “Jeonghan. Always a pleasure to hear your voice so early. It’s like waking up to a mosquito in your ear.”
Ara muffled a snort into her teacup. Mingyu’s eyes widened, a grin tugging at his mouth. Cheol slowly set his phone down, watching.
Jeonghan’s smile didn’t falter; it widened, becoming more authentic. He loved this. “Touchy. I was just expressing sympathy. A sixty-eight.” He whistled low. “From Wonwoo, too. He’s usually so… generous with his grades. You must have really disappointed him.”
The words were a match tossed on gasoline. Joan saw the cold email font in her mind. Insufficient technique. The phantom bitterness coated her tongue again. She felt Joshua’s leg press lightly against hers under the table—a spike of solid contact.
She picked up her orange juice, took a slow sip, and looked Jeonghan dead in the eye. “Is that what he’s telling people? That I disappointed him?” She let a slow, knowing smile form. It felt dangerous on her face. “Funny. His physiological responses suggested otherwise. Quite the opposite, in fact. But I guess some people’s reports don’t match their reactions.”
The table went utterly still.
DK blinked, his mouth slightly open. Mingyu’s grin vanished, replaced by sheer, stunned absorption. Cheol’s intense gaze sharpened, focusing on her like a laser. Ara’s eyebrows climbed behind her glasses.
Jeonghan looked, for the first time, genuinely surprised. The playful mask slipped for a half-second, revealing keen, reassessing interest. He recovered quickly, leaning forward. “Oh? Do tell.”
“The appeal’s already filed,” Joan said, waving a dismissive hand. She focused on buttering her toast, her movements casual. “It’s all in the report. Very dry. Very specific. Maybe you should ask him about his inconsistent evaluations. Seems like a personal problem.”
Joshua took a serene bite of his pastry. “The citations were quite thorough,” he added, almost to himself. “One wonders about the objectivity of the original assessor.”
The dynamic had shifted. They weren’t looking at a humiliated victim anymore. They were looking at a guerrilla who’d just fired a shot back at one of the academy’s untouchable snipers.
Mingyu let out a low laugh, shaking his head. “Damn, Joan. Remind me never to get on your bad side.”
“Too late,” she said, but she shot him a glance that took the sting out. He was easy, this loud golden boy. He was a relief.
The conversation stumbled back to life, a new current of electricity running beneath it. Talk turned to the upcoming midterm practicals—complex, week-long scenarios that counted for forty percent of the term grade. Partnerships would be assigned by lottery.
“Just pray you don’t get Soo-min,” DK said with a grimace. “She critiqued my empathetic resonance last week. Said my ‘comfort vibes’ were ‘overly broad and intellectually lazy’.”
“Her feedback feels like being dissected with a rusty spoon,” Mingyu agreed.
“She’s precise,” Cheol said, his voice a low rumble. It was the first time he’d spoken. His eyes were still on Joan. “Harsh, but she’s never wrong. If she says your vibes are lazy, DK, they probably are.”
DK clutched his chest in mock agony. “Not you too, President!”
Joan felt a weight and looked up. Soo-min herself was standing at the end of their table, a tablet cradled in her arm like a weapon. Her gaze swept over them, cold and appraising, before settling on Joan.
“Joan. Professor Kwon wants to see you in his office. Now.” Her tone left no room for question.
The table quieted again. This was it. The grenade had been heard.
Joan wiped her hands on her napkin, her heart doing a hard, frantic tap against her ribs. She stood up. Everyone was watching—Mingyu with concern, DK with anxious encouragement, Ara with silent solidarity, Jeonghan with unabashed curiosity. Joshua gave her another slight, firm nod.
Cheol moved. As she went to pass his chair, his hand shot out, not grabbing her, but landing briefly, heavily, on her wrist. It was warm. The contact was startling. His eyes, dark and intense, locked onto hers.
“If he tries to bury it,” Cheol said, his voice so low only she could hear, “you come find me. The student board has oversight on grading disputes. He knows that.”
It wasn’t kindness. It sounded like a statement of fact, a deployment of resources. Coming from him, it felt more powerful than sympathy. She gave a short, sharp nod. His fingers released her.
She followed Soo-min’s rigid back out of the cafeteria, the morning light suddenly feeling harsh, exposing. The sounds of life faded behind her, replaced by the sterile echo of their footsteps on polished marble.
Soo-min spoke without turning around. “Filing an appeal was brave. Or stupid. It draws attention.”
“I wasn’t aware we were supposed to hide from attention here,” Joan replied, her voice steady.
Soo-min glanced over her shoulder, a flicker of something that might have been respect in her chilly eyes. “No,” she said. “You’re supposed to control it. He’s trying to control you. The question is, did you just prove you can’t be controlled?”
They stopped outside a heavy oak door. Professor Kwon’s name was etched on a brass plaque.
“Good luck,” Soo-min said, and it didn’t sound like a platitude. It sounded like a warning for a dignitary entering a warzone.
Joan knocked, the sound final in the quiet hall.
“Enter.”
She pushed the door open, stepping into the dim, book-lined room. Professor Kwon sat behind a vast desk, her emailed appeal printed out and placed squarely in front of him. Beside it sat Wonwoo.
He didn’t look at her. He stared out the window, his profile a cut-out of perfect, impassive indifference. But she saw the tight line of his jaw, the slight flare of his nostrils. He was furious.
The door clicked shut behind her, sealing her in with them.
The door clicked shut behind her, sealing her in with them. The air was thick with the smell of old paper and bergamot, silence stretching taut between the three of them. Professor Kwon’s fingers tapped once on the printed appeal.
“This is detailed work,” he said finally, his voice a dry rustle. He didn’t look at Wonwoo. “Unusually so for a first-year rebuttal. It reads like a clinical manual.”
“It’s factual,” Joan said. Her voice didn’t shake.
“It is.” Kwon leaned back, steepling his fingers. His gaze shifted to the window, to Wonwoo’s rigid profile. “Mr. Jeon. Your original evaluation cited a lack of technical proficiency. This document lists seventeen distinct technical applications, with cited physiological response markers. The discrepancy is notable.”
Wonwoo’s eyes slid from the window to the professor. “Self-reported detail proves nothing. It could be fabrication.”
“It could,” Kwon acknowledged. He then picked up a separate, thinner file from his desk drawer. He opened it, scanned a line. “It would be odd, however, to fabricate a methodology that precisely mirrors feedback from your past intermediate practicum. The one concerning ‘predictable technique.’ The notes from your instructor then recommended you seek partners who could… innovate.”
Joan felt the room tilt. Wonwoo’s composure cracked. A muscle in his jaw jumped violently.
“Where did you get that?” Wonwoo’s voice was a low scrape.
“All archival records are available to faculty during a grade dispute review,” Kwon said, closing the file. His tone became procedural, final. “It appears there is a previous relational dynamic here, one that invalidates the objectivity of the assessment. A mentor-protégé tension. You should have recused yourself, Mr. Jeon.”
“It wasn’t like that,” Wonwoo said, but the defense was hollow, a formality.
“The grade is voided.” Kwon stated it flatly. “You may leave, Mr. Jeon. I will speak with Joan alone.”
Wonwoo stood. For a second, his gaze locked onto Joan, and it was pure, unshielded venom—the humiliation of being unmasked, the fury at her refusal to be quietly broken. He turned and left without another word, the door closing softer this time, a whispered threat.
The silence he left behind was different. Lighter, and more dangerous.
“You’ll be given a chance for a re-evaluation,” Professor Kwon said, turning his full attention to her. His eyes were shrewd, assessing not her body, but her mettle. “A clean slate. You will perform the practical activity again now, with a newly assigned partner. Your grade will depend solely on his evaluation. Is that acceptable?”
It was more than she’d hoped for. It was a battlefield of her choosing. “Yes.”
He pressed a button on his intercom. “Send him in.”
The door opened not a minute later. The man who entered was a senior; she knew it from the subtle confidence in his posture, the effortless way he occupied the doorway. He was tall, with a quiet handsomeness and observant eyes that found hers immediately, holding a note of calm recognition.
“This is Jun,” Professor Kwon said. “Top of his cohort. He’s agreed to serve as your evaluator. Jun, this is Joan. The parameters are standard. You will both proceed to Booth Three. You may leave as soon as you are finished.”
Jun gave a single, courteous nod. “Professor.” He then looked at Joan, his expression neutral but not unkind. “Ready?”
She followed him out, down the familiar hall to the salon wing. The plush carpet muffled their steps. He didn’t speak until they reached the heavy soundproofed door marked ‘3’.
“I read your appeal,” he said simply, his hand on the knob. “It was impressive. Don’t overthink this. It’s just a technical reset.”
He opened the door. The booth was identical to the last one: the low bench, the dim light, the sterile intimacy. The door sealed with a definitive hydraulic hiss.
They stood facing each other in the muted glow. The air felt charged, but differently. Wonwoo’s space had been a cage. This felt like a blank page.
“We start slow,” Jun said, his voice a calm, steadying thing. He unbuttoned his own shirt, not with theatricality, but with a practical efficiency. His chest was defined, his shoulders broad. “You set the pace. I observe. That’s the whole job.”
Joan took a breath, the last of her anger condensing into focus. She approached him. Her fingers went to his belt buckle, the metal cool under her touch. He didn’t move, just watched her face, his breathing even.
She unfastened it, then the button of his trousers, the zip a loud sound in the quiet. She hooked her thumbs in the waistband of his pants and briefs and pushed them down in one firm motion.
The rumors were true.
He was thick, and he was long, already half-hard and heavy against his thigh. A genuine, physical shock traveled up her spine. She had never seen anything quite like it, a pronounced heft and length that seemed almost architectural. The clinical part of her brain immediately began calculating logistics, angles, capacity. The rest of her felt a dizzying spike of pure, primal challenge.
A low, soft laugh escaped him, not mocking, but acknowledging. “The rumors get around, huh.”
“They undersold it,” Joan heard herself say, her voice oddly detached. She was staring, her mind racing through technique manuals, trying to mentally map the unfamiliar territory.
“It’s just geometry,” Jun said, his tone still kind, considerate. He placed a warm, steadying hand on her shoulder. “Physics. Don’t force it. Work with what you’ve got.”
The kindness undid a last, tight knot of panic inside her. This wasn’t a punishment. It was a test. And she was done failing.
She sank to her knees on the padded floor, the plush fabric familiar under her. Up close, the reality of him was immense, veined, and flushed. She leaned in, her heart hammering not with fear now, but with a sharp, concentrating intensity.
She started by flattening her tongue against the underside, a broad, slow lick from root to tip, to taste him, to map the skin. Salt, clean soap. She took the head into her mouth, letting her jaw relax as much as she could, applying suction. It was a stretch, immediate and unforgiving.
“Good,” Jun breathed above her, his hand moving from her shoulder to gently cup the back of her head. Not to push, just to connect.
She worked slowly, methodically, her lips stretched taut around his girth. She used her hand to fist the lower portion he couldn’t yet fit, establishing a synchronized rhythm. Her other hand cradled his balls, feeling their weight, the delicate skin tightening. She focused on her breathing through her nose, on the obscene, wet sounds of her effort.
“Fuck, that’s it,” he murmured, his composure beginning to fray at the edges. His hips gave a tiny, involuntary thrust, feeding another inch into her mouth. She gagged, tears springing to her eyes, but she held, letting her throat open around the intrusion.
She pulled back, gasping, a string of saliva connecting her lips to his shining tip. She looked up at him, her eyes watering, her jaw aching. “It’s a lot.”
“Yeah,” he panted, a grin flashing across his face, wild and genuine. “It is. You’re doing fucking amazing. Just… just keep going.”
She dove back down, the challenge hardening her resolve. She took him deeper with each bob of her head, working him with a furious, dedicated concentration. She used her tongue relentlessly on the frenulum, the spot she knew from books and from Wonwoo’s hitched breath. She hummed, the vibration making his whole body tense.
“Oh, fuck, right there,” he groaned, his fingers flexing in her hair. His politeness was gone, stripped away by raw sensation. “Don’t stop. Don’t you fucking stop.”
She didn’t. She drove him relentlessly, her own arousal a distant hum beneath the focus of the task. She felt him swelling further, the head becoming impossibly full against her palate. His breathing shattered into ragged gasps.
“Joan, I’m gonna—” he warned, his voice strangled.
She locked her eyes on his, took him as deep as her throat would allow, and swallowed convulsively around him.
He came with a choked-off shout, his body bowing. The sheer volume of it was staggering, hot pulses flooding her mouth, overwhelming her capacity. She swallowed desperately, but some escaped, streaking her chin. She kept working him through it, until he was spent, shuddering, gently pulling her off by her shoulders.
She knelt back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, breathing hard. Her jaw throbbed. The taste of him was everywhere.
Jun sagged against the wall for a moment, regaining his breath. He looked down at her, his expression dazed, reverent. He quickly tucked himself away, then offered her a hand up. His grip was strong, warm.
“Okay,” he said, still breathing heavily. A slow, deep smile spread across his face. “Okay. That was… technically exemplary. And then some.” He pulled a small evaluation tablet from a shelf. His fingers moved over the screen, decisive. He showed her the score before submitting it: a stark, beautiful 98.
“Justification?” he said, narrating as he typed. “Superior adaptation to non-standard parameters. Exceptional innovative technique under physical constraint. Total responsiveness.” He hit submit. The score was locked.
He looked at her, his gaze frank, approving. “You obliterated the test, Joan. Go to your next class. Wonwoo’s ghost is gone.”
The 98 glowed on the tablet screen, a number so absurdly high it felt like a different language. Joan’s knees ached from the padded floor, her jaw a dull, persistent throb. Jun’s release was a sticky phantom on her chin, in her throat. She became aware of the mess, the physical reality snapping back into focus.
“Here.” Jun’s voice was gravelly, softened. He handed her a towel from a discreet compartment in the wall, his movements efficient. He took one for himself, turning slightly to clean the spend from his own skin with a few practical wipes.
Joan dabbed at her face, the cloth rough and absorbent. She spat discreetly into it, clearing the last of the salt from her mouth. The silence wasn’t awkward; it was the quiet of two people recalibrating after a shared physical storm.
“So,” Jun said, zipping his trousers, his back to her as he tucked in his shirt. “That appeal you wrote. That was some seriously cold-blooded shit.” He glanced over his shoulder, a smirk playing on his lips. “In a good way. A professional way.”
Joan stood, smoothing her skirt. Her legs held. “It was just the truth.”
“Truth with fucking teeth.” He finished dressing and faced her, leaning against the wall. He looked at her, really looked, his earlier clinical assessment replaced by open curiosity. “Most people would have just eaten the sixty-eight. Cried in their dorm. You went to war. I respect that.”
He pushed off the wall and opened the salon door. The hallway’s cooler air washed over them, a relief. They walked side-by-side, the plush carpet absorbing their footsteps.
“You free later?” Jun asked, his tone casual, like he was commenting on the weather. “During the lunch break, I mean. There’s a place off-campus that does unbelievable tonkatsu. Doesn’t taste like cafeteria cardboard.”
Joan blinked, surprised. This wasn’t in the evaluation parameters. She studied his profile—the offer seemed genuine, not a veiled negotiation or a power play. It was just lunch. After what they’d just done, the normality of it was bizarre, and suddenly, deeply appealing.
“Yeah,” she said, the word coming out easier than she’d expected. “Yeah, I could eat.”
“Good.” He smiled, a quick, bright thing that reached his eyes. They reached a junction in the hallway; the flow of students between classes was beginning, a murmur of voices and shuffling bags. “I’ll meet you at the main gates at twelve-thirty. Don’t be late. The crispy ones go fast.”
He fell into step beside her as they merged with the student traffic, heading toward the west wing classrooms. His presence was a buffer against the curious glances her disheveled uniform might have drawn.
“You’ve got Theories with Fick, right? Room 304?” he asked, nodding ahead.
“How did you know that?”
“I make it my business to know interesting things,” he said, shrugging. They stopped outside the heavy wooden door. The murmur of students settling inside filtered through. “Go on. Don’t want another demerit. I’ll see you at the gate.”
He didn’t wait for a reply, just gave her a slight, reassuring nod and turned, his tall frame disappearing back into the stream of bodies. Joan pushed the classroom door open, the hum of conversation washing over her. The scent of chalk dust and old wood replaced the sterile salon smell. She slid into an empty seat at the back just as the professor entered.
Ara, from the cafeteria table, was two rows ahead. She glanced back, her round glasses catching the light, and offered Joan a small, knowing smile. It wasn’t about the sex; it was about survival. Joan returned it, feeling the hard knot of the morning finally begin to unravel. She pulled out her notebook, the blank page waiting. The ghost was gone. For now, there was only the next class, and the promise of crispy pork waiting at the gate.