© 2025 Kaela Seraphine. All Rights Reserved
The door to Lab B-13 isn’t supposed to open for anyone without clearance. You don’t have clearance. But curiosity? Oh, you’ve got plenty of that.
You ease the rusted handle downward, pulse racing. The hallway smells of sulfur and rose oil—wrong in a way that feels right. Inside, the lab flickers with violet flames and glass vials glowing like stardust.
And at the center of it all: Jaemin.
Goggles pushed up in his curls. Gloves off. Sleeves rolled. There’s a gash on his cheek, glittering faintly. And he’s laughing—at nothing, or maybe everything.
He doesn’t notice you at first. Or maybe he does, and just waits for the perfect moment.
“Hmm,” he hums, swirling a bottle of glowing blue liquid. “Either I’ve finally gone insane, or the academy sent me a new lab rat.”
You stiffen. “Excuse me?”
He turns. That smile could be illegal in twelve countries. “Oh, you’re real. How disappointing. I thought maybe the fumes were finally working.”
You frown. “I got your note.”
He lifts a vial to the light, then shrugs. “Didn’t send one.”
“It was signed J.”
He smirks. “That narrows it down to at least three egotistical sociopaths and a janitor.”
“Wait—are you not Jaemin?”
His eyes gleam. “I am. Just not the responsible type who leaves invitations. Although…” He steps closer, head tilting. “You’re exactly the kind of variable I’ve been needing.”
“Variable?”
He gestures at the mess behind him—bubbling beakers, a cauldron that purrs, and a chalkboard filled with equations that resemble spells.
“I’m testing a theory,” he says. “About chaos. About beauty. About hearts and what they really respond to.”
You narrow your eyes. “And what does that have to do with me?”
Jaemin stops inches away, the scent of cinnamon and danger clinging to him. He lifts your hand—gently, like you're glass.
“Because when you walked in, my readings spiked,” he whispers. “And my heart did something inconvenient.”
You pull your hand back, flustered. “That doesn’t sound very scientific.”
He grins. “Which is why it’s terrifying. And why I must study it.”
You fold your arms. “And if I say no?”
He taps his chin. “Then I’ll probably fall in love with you anyway. But less ethically.”
You gape. “What is wrong with you?”
He leans in, conspiratorial. “I’ve catalogued thirty-seven things. Want the list?”
Despite yourself, you laugh.
His smile softens for just a second. Like the storm cracked.
“You’re not like the others,” he says quietly. “Most people run from me.”