INT. ZAFIRE'S APARTMENT – 7:00 AM
The sharp ding of the toaster jolted Zafire out of her sleepy daze. She rushed to the counter, forgetting to grab a plate, and now stood with a scorching slice of toast burning her fingers.
"Too hot, too hot!" she hissed, hopping on the spot as she scrambled toward the dish rack. In her flustered panic, she failed to notice the rising smoke from the frying pan. The egg she'd been cooking — sunny-side up, or at least it was supposed to be — was already scorched.
"Not again!" she cried, lunging for the stove. But the damage was done. The smell of charred yolk filled the air like a bad omen.
With a heavy sigh, she turned off the burner and surrendered.
That's it, I'm buying breakfast, she thought, defeated.
Moments later, Zafire was sprinting down the steps of her apartment building. She carried a branded bag over one shoulder and wore a neatly tucked-in long-sleeve polo over a dark undershirt. Her small backpack bounced lightly with each step, and her black shoes clicked against the pavement.
I wish we had a uniform, she mused as she walked, half-awake.
Jet lag clung to her like a second skin. With just two hours of sleep, exhaustion had become her new routine — the price she paid for choosing this path. School, work, ambition. Something had to give.
"Can I get a coffee and a sandwich?" she asked the sleepy clerk at the nearby corner store. Thank goodness for 24-hour shops.
A culinary student who can't cook… yeah, that's me, she thought bitterly, watching her reflection in the freezer door. It stung. But maybe, just maybe, that sting would push her forward.
Maybe not burning breakfast would be a good first step.
INT. STUDENT COUNCIL BUILDING – MORNING
"President Ice, the faculty wants to know—when will the orientation for the transferee be held?"
The vice president stood prim and composed, her glasses glinting slightly in the sunlight. A single loose strand of hair framed her otherwise perfect ponytail, betraying the tension beneath her calm exterior.
Stacks of folders cluttered the council president's desk like towers of neglected responsibility. The early morning sun poured through the large windows, gilding the room with light—hot, unrelenting, much like the boy seated at the center of it all.
Ice.
He didn't look up immediately, merely squinted in annoyance as the sun caught his eyes. It gave him a strangely disarming appearance—cute, even—far from the intimidating, sharp-tongued figure most students were used to.
"Transferee?" he muttered, voice low, almost disinterested. His words hung in the air, sharp yet calm, like frost creeping across glass.
The press of his neatly ironed uniform did nothing to soften his demeanor. He moved with a cool elegance, his expression unreadable, indifferent. But beneath the cold surface lay a mind that functioned like a precision blade.
In this elite culinary school, Ice wasn't just a student—he was the student. A prodigy. A storm in a pressure cooker.
No one questioned how a high school senior had become SSC President before even stepping foot into the university proper. His advancement had been rapid, relentless. Rules bent. Standards rewritten.
He was Ice—untouchable, revered, and resented in equal measure. The cold prince of the academy.
"I left the student's file on your desk," the vice president added, motioning with a nod.
Ice reached for the folder—oddly out of place among his otherwise flawless organization. He frowned. That wasn't like him. He never misplaces things.
Opening it, a small photo slipped out—an ID-sized picture of a girl. She had a gentle smile and luminous eyes, framed by soft hair that seemed to catch the light just right. There was something effortlessly graceful about her, like the kind of person who could brighten a room just by walking in.
But Ice didn't linger on the picture. His gaze dropped to the handwritten notes below.
Eligible for second-year status due to prior culinary experience.
His jaw tightened.
Without hesitation, he grabbed the red marker on his desk and drew a hard circle around the sentence. Twice.
"Unacceptable," he muttered under his breath.
INT- CLASSROOM -7:30 AM
The first day of the semester had arrived.
The classroom buzzed with a low, drowsy hum—rustling backpacks, yawns hidden behind hands, and the quiet tapping of keyboards. Some students stared blankly at the whiteboard, others still hadn't fully accepted that break was over.
Then the door creaked open.
Silence fell like a dropped curtain. The professor entered, composed and calm, her presence drawing every eye.
"I hope you all had a restful break," she said, her voice warm but firm. "Before we begin, I have a small announcement."
She paused just long enough to let curiosity bloom.
"You have a new classmate joining us this semester. Please welcome her kindly. Ms. Asfault, come in."
The door opened again—and it was as if the lights in the room got brighter.
Zafire Asfault stepped in, her every movement brimming with cheerful energy. Her long hair, glossy and wild like a river of black silk, bounced with every step. Her skin was as pale as porcelain, but her expression sparkled with life.
"Good morning, everyone!" she beamed. "I'm Zafire Asfault—but my friends call me Fire! And I really hope you'll be my friends!"
She bowed with enthusiasm—almost too enthusiastically. The entire room was instantly lighter.
Her smile could've powered the school for a week. It wasn't just warm—it was alive, magnetic in a way that made people want to smile back.
The professor smiled faintly. "Ms. Asfault, you're seated next to Mr. Atlas."
Zafire glanced at the chart, then made her way across the classroom with a cheerful bounce in her step, scanning for her mystery seatmate.
And there he was.
Sitting perfectly still at his desk. Back straight. Eyes on the board. Not even a twitch when she approached. His hair fell in neat layers around a sharp jawline, his expression unreadable.
He didn't look up as she slid into the seat beside him.
She sat down, peeked at him again. Nothing. She wasn't used to silence. Or to being ignored.
Especially not on purpose.
The professor began the lesson. "Today, we'll be learning how to cook recipes from various cultures. The goal is not just to cook, but to understand their traditions."
Zafire slouched with a sigh. This would've been fascinating—if she weren't sleep-deprived and sitting beside a human wall.
She tried to pay attention, but her body was in protest. Her legs bounced under the desk. Her fingers tapped rhythmically against her notebook. Her brain—still half in a different time zone—drifted in and out of the lecture.
She had flown in from Gangnam just hours ago. Two hours of sleep, max. Not ideal.
She yawned.
Then glanced at her seatmate again.
Still no reaction. Not even a blink?!
She leaned toward him slightly.
"Hey there! I'm Fire!" she whispered, her voice chipper and bright like a morning TV host. "What's your name?"
She extended her hand in an overly friendly shake. A few students turned their heads.
He didn't move. She blinked. Did he seriously just ignore her?
Her expression twisted into disbelief. She pulled her hand back slowly, as if she'd touched something cold. Rude.
But she wasn't giving up.
Zafire Asfault didn't not get responses. This was new. This was... interesting.
She tapped the edge of his desk with her pinky. "Psst! Hello? Mister I'm-too-cool-for-words? Are you always this quiet, or is it just me?" she said with a playful grin.
Still nothing.
She sighed dramatically, then leaned her cheek on one hand, pouting like a bored kid in detention. He didn't flinch.
She narrowed her eyes at him. He wasn't ignoring her out of shyness—no, this was intentional. Like a cat watching a bird and pretending not to care.
"Okay. Be mysterious. See if I care." She crossed her arms, muttering to herself. "But I will get you to talk. One way or another."
The boy finally turned. Just for a second.
His eyes, a clear and distant gray, met hers—and something flickered there. Amusement?
A tiny smirk played at the corner of his lips.
And then, just like that, he looked away again. He wasn't ignoring her because he disliked her.
Was he playing hard to get? Or just… uninterested?
Either way, he had her attention now.
And whether he liked it or not, she wasn't going to let this go.
She didn't come here to stand out for her modeling career. She wanted a fresh start, a quieter life. But maybe… making one friend wouldn't hurt.
Especially if that friend was the quiet mystery sitting next to her.