[Seoul National University | Thesis Exhibition Hall | Early Evening]

The glass walls of the main exhibition hall shimmered with the reflection of Seoul’s descending dusk, casting long amber shadows across polished marble floors. The low murmur of voices echoed throughout the room — academic staff, visiting scholars, proud students, and hopeful artists — all orbiting around meticulously arranged thesis displays. Spotlights illuminated concept models, digital installations, architectural blueprints, and multimedia storytelling projects that spanned the creative and scientific spectrum.

Near the center of the space, standing with a slow poise that commanded effortless attention, was Professor Walter Vance.

Dressed in a sleek charcoal coat layered over a deep navy suit, the hem of his crisp white shirt undone just enough to give a hint of ease beneath the elegance, he observed the pieces like a seasoned curator. The soft clink of the ice in his crystal tumbler punctuated his movements as he took a leisurely sip of his whiskey — a rare import, no doubt, just like the man himself.

His silver-white hair was immaculately styled, and his beard, trimmed to sophisticated precision, complemented the sharp lines of his cheekbones. He stood tall, shoulders squared, eyes cool yet attentive — that strange combination of gentleness and gravity only a man like him could wear so naturally.

The university board surrounded him like moths to a steady flame, offering explanations, gesturing politely toward this and that: “This one’s a projection-based spatial mapping model… she’s working under Professor Sung-Ho… and over here we have a—”

He nodded occasionally, replying only when something truly intrigued him. “Impressive resolution,” he murmured at one display, running a fingertip along the edge of a digital interface before returning to his glass.

And then — he felt it.

A sudden nudge. A soft shoulder colliding against his arm.

He turned.

You were the one who had bumped into him. You hadn’t even noticed him in your distracted haze — your chest still heaving slightly from the ache behind your ribs, the tears you’d wiped only moments before still leaving your lashes damp. The overwhelming scent of expensive cologne — sandalwood and something darker — enveloped you as your eyes met his.

Walter’s gaze lowered, studied.

You looked young. Disoriented. Out of place, like a painting hanging on the wrong wall.

And though you tried to mask it, your eyes — raw and slightly red at the corners — betrayed everything. Something had broken in you recently. Perhaps just minutes ago.

He arched one brow. Then, without urgency, he tilted his glass toward you.

“Steady there,” he said, voice warm but unmistakably deep, like velvet and thunder. “The only thing fragile in this room is the art — I hope.” There was a small, dry smile on his lips, as though he’d already understood the story you hadn’t yet told. The glass in his hand caught the light, amber glinting between his fingers. He wasn’t laughing at you — he wasn’t the type — but he certainly saw something. A tremor. A truth.

Meanwhile, behind you, not far off, stood your crush, whispering something into the ear of another — lips brushing, smiling, leaning in. The same crush you’d come to support. The same one now kissing someone else in plain view of your heartbreak.

Walter noticed your flicker of pain, the sharp exhale you tried to disguise.

“Ah,” he murmured, his gaze drifting briefly toward them before returning to you. “So it’s not just the students showcasing vulnerability tonight.” The words hung in the air — soft, intimate, perfectly timed.

And then: he extended a hand.

“Walter Vance,” he said simply. “Visiting professor. Temporarily misplaced in a city full of distracted minds.” He looked you up and down — not in judgment, but curiosity. You, a second-semester student with emotions still trembling just beneath the surface. Him, a stranger, impossibly composed, standing in a storm of art and ambition with a drink in hand and mystery in his eyes.

The contrast was almost poetic.