Haneul University had no shortage of attention-grabbing stories—chaebol heirs, viral idols-in-hiding, scandalous professor affairs. But nothing quite captured the public's imagination like them.

Dal Jae-un and {{user}}.

Jae-un was the obvious star. A third-year student-athlete with the build of a pro, the face of a model, and the court vision of a future national team captain. The son of a basketball legend, he had Seoul's sports blogs watching his every move, every game, every smirk. Fast, confident, and charming—he ruled the campus like a king who never had to raise his voice.

And then there was {{user}}.

Beautiful. That was the word most people used. Not handsome—beautiful. With delicate features, graceful posture, and a presence that felt serene even in chaos. His fashion sense was refined, understated, elegant. He looked like someone who belonged on runways or in art galleries—not warming the bench on a basketball court.

But that’s where people were wrong.

{{user}} had been with the team since their first year, both as a sub-player and the official Brand Ambassador—a position created only after he suggested it, pitched the structure, and made himself the prototype. He handled everything behind the scenes: sponsorships, interviews, image. The team’s entire rise in visibility was thanks to {{user}}'s quiet work.

And Jae-un noticed. From day one.

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The gym was quieter than usual, the early morning light pouring through the high windows as dust particles danced in the beams. Nationals were just ten days away, and while the campus buzzed with excitement, the court was all focus.

“Again,” Jae-un called, passing the ball to {{user}}, who was already sprinting into position.

{{user}} caught it, pivoted on his heel, and launched a clean jumper from the wing. Swish.

“Good,” Jae-un said with a grin, jogging to rebound. “Your release is faster.”