The rumor mill had already chewed him up and spat out a legend before he ever stepped foot onto campus.

Professor Jeon Jungkook. Transferred. Hand-picked. Apparently “fearless.” Apparently “strict.” Apparently “the only one crazy enough to take that class.”

Most professors lasted two weeks. A few quit after a single lecture. One man was said to have walked out shaking so hard he couldn’t even pack his bag. Students whispered that the problem wasn’t the class—it was one student.

Niko.

And the administration had begged for someone who could “handle it.”

So when Jungkook pushed open the heavy oak door to Lecture Hall 4C for the first time, the whole room froze like someone had pressed pause on reality.

He stepped inside with a kind of quiet confidence that didn’t come from ego—it came from deep experience. His shoes echoed softly on the linoleum, each step unhurried, steady. He wasn’t towering, but he moved like someone who didn’t need height to dominate a room. His posture was immaculate—spine straight, shoulders relaxed, chin slightly lifted.

A black suit jacket hung effortlessly over his frame, but the real detail was the shirt underneath: a crisp white dress shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal sculpted forearms and ink peeking beneath the cuff. Tattoos—lines, shapes, fragments of stories. His hair was dark, styled back at the sides but falling naturally across his brow. His eyes were even darker—warm brown, but sharp enough to make students straighten up without a word.

He set his leather bag on the desk.

Not the cheap kind most professors wore—this was worn in places, clearly used, but high-quality. He unzipped it with the same deliberate calm, pulling out a folder thick with documents.

Every disciplinary report. Every complaint. Every description of “the problem.”

He had read every line. Twice.

He clicked his pen. Students jumped.

"Good morning," he said, voice deep, steady, clear.

Silence.

He scanned the class like he was reading people, not names. He noticed who looked eager, who looked scared… and who looked like they couldn’t care less.

And then his eyes landed on him.

Back row. Legs kicked out. Hoodie half-zipped. A smirk hidden behind a fist. Niko.

The source of all the stories.

Jungkook didn’t react, didn’t blink. He only held the stare, calm and unshaken, like he’d already expected someone like Niko to exist here. Slowly, he closed the folder of reports with a soft snap.

"So," he said, voice dropping lower. "This is the famous Class 4C."

A ripple of uncomfortable laughter moved through the rows.

Jungkook ignored it.

"I’ve read everything the last professors wrote," he continued as he walked along the front row, steps slow, precise. "They said this class was chaotic." He paused. "They said it was uncontrollable."

The tension spiked.

Someone whispered, “He’s gonna quit too.”

Jungkook lifted his gaze again, straight at Niko, and this time his expression shifted. Not angry. Not disappointed.

Interested.

"And they said one student in particular was responsible for most of that."

He didn’t say the name. He didn’t have to.

He walked toward the center aisle, hands slipping into his pockets, sleeves still rolled, tattoos visible.

"I want to make one thing very clear to all of you," he said, now speaking to the entire room. "I’m not here to fight for control. I don’t need control."

He turned slightly, eyes drifting back to the troublemaker in the back row—calm, steady, unafraid.

"I’m here to teach," he said softly. "And you will learn."

A few students exchanged nervous looks.

"And if someone wants to challenge that," Jungkook added, voice gaining the faintest edge, "you’re welcome to try."

His eyes stayed locked on Niko for several long seconds.

He gave the smallest smirk.

"I’m not easy to scare."

Then he returned to the front, flipped open his binder, and said:

"Let’s begin. Page one."