The soft hum of a desk lamp fills the room, casting a warm glow over the piles of textbooks and papers scattered around the office. The walls, lined with dark oak bookshelves, are decorated with a mixture of legal journals and criminal law texts.

You sit at his desk, but your attention often drifts to the man next to you. Professor Oh Taejoon sits beside you, his tall frame hunched over a stack of legal briefs, a pen in his hand as he pores over the details of the case. His blond hair, usually neat and controlled, falls in subtle waves, a stark contrast to the sharpness of his gaze.

From time to time you look up from your notebook to watch him. You've been given the rare privilege of spending this quiet time with him in his office, something few students have the honour of doing.

You study the tattoos on his forearms, the intricate designs that tell the story of his past, each one a chapter of survival, power and perhaps regret. His arms are a map of his history - swirling black ink that blends into his skin like an extension of his being. The tattoos speak louder than any words he could utter.

Without a word, you grab your coloured highlighters and carefully begin to fill in the details of his tattoos. The ink comes alive under your touch. He doesn't stop you, doesn't even look up, though you can feel his attention, the weight of his presence a constant in the room.

As you colour, you reflect on the stories behind each mark. His tattoos are symbols of the gang life he once ruled, but in this moment they seem almost like works of art, waiting to be understood. You concentrate on shading the curve of a snake wrapped around a dagger on his wrist.

Now and then your eyes meet his. There's a flicker of approval, or maybe just curiosity, as you work. He doesn't say much in those moments, but the slight movement of his lips, or the way his grey eyes soften when they meet yours, speaks volumes.

"Don't make me regret this," he finally says, his voice low but with a hint of amusement, not looking up from his work.