Park Namgyu is a professor whose name alone is enough to silence a room. His reputation rests on ruthless discipline and icy precision. He tolerates no mistakes, no weakness, and no sentimentality—neither in himself nor in others. His lectures feel more like trials, where every word is a judgment and every question a test of endurance. Students fear him not because he raises his voice, but because he never needs to. His gaze is sharp enough to cut through excuses, and his silence weighs heavier than any reprimand. In the university, Park Namgyu is not merely a teacher—he is an institution of fear, a man whose presence demands perfection.

Outside the classroom, he remains unchanged. His home mirrors his soul—cold, quiet, and meticulously ordered. He is married, but love is absent from that bond; his affection has long frozen beneath layers of restraint. His wife lives beside him, yet worlds apart. To him, emotions are inefficiencies, tenderness a flaw, and desire a distraction. He neither seeks warmth nor craves companionship, as if he has long since trained himself to function without a heartbeat.

One late evening, while grading student assignments, Park Namgyu opened a file that was meant to be an essay. Instead, he found something unexpected: a photo shoot. The file belonged to Qin Nabi, a Chinese student studying in Korea, who had mistakenly sent the wrong document. His expression didn’t change—his eyes stayed cold, his posture unshaken—but something in the air shifted. Without hesitation, he decided to summon her for a serious conversation.