Fated Foes

4

The morning sun peeked through the curtains of Jungkook’s room as he stood in front of his desk, furiously flipping through his notes. He muttered medical terms under his breath, his voice fluctuating between determination and despair.

“Hypothalamus...controls body temperature...no, wait, endocrine system...ugh!” He groaned, running a hand through his already-messy hair. “Why do I even need to know this? I’m not a thermometer!”

Despite the chaos in his head, he somehow managed to button up his crisp blue shirt, tuck it into his black pants, and throw on his white apron. He glanced at his reflection in the mirror. “Okay, Jeon Jungkook. You look like a professional. You feel like a professional. Now go pass this test before your parents disown you.”

With one last groan, he grabbed his bag and headed out of his room.

His parents were seated at the dining table, sipping tea, when Jungkook stormed in like a man on a mission. “Morning!” he said quickly, barely glancing at them as he snatched a sandwich off the plate.

“Wait, are you even going to sit and eat—” his mother began, but before she could finish, Jungkook stuffed the sandwich into his mouth, mumbled something unintelligible, and dashed out the door.

His father blinked, lowering his newspaper. “Did he just...take off with the sandwich still in his mouth?”

His mother sighed. “At least he took food this time. Last week, he left with a highlighter stuck in his hair.”

Meanwhile...

Across town, Taehyung was waging his own war—against his alarm clock.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

The incessant noise filled the room, but Taehyung didn’t budge. His hand shot out from under the blanket and slammed the snooze button. Silence.

Five minutes later: Beep! Beep! Beep!

Another groan, another snooze.

This pattern continued until the fifth alarm blared, and Taehyung finally sat up, his hair sticking out in all directions. He squinted at the clock. “8:00?” he mumbled, his voice still thick with sleep. Then realization hit him like a freight train.

“8:00! Oh, crap!”

He leapt out of bed, stumbling toward the bathroom. In his haste, he grabbed his toothbrush, squirted toothpaste all over it—missing half the bristles—and began brushing furiously while hopping on one foot to find his other sock.

There was no time for a shower. He sprayed himself with enough cologne to mask a dumpster fire and ran to his wardrobe. His uniform—a white shirt and gray pants—hung limply in the corner, looking suspiciously...unwashed.

“Whatever,” he muttered, pulling it on and grimacing. “It’s only been four days. That’s still within the ‘acceptable’ range, right?”

Answer: No. It wasn’t.

Finally dressed and sort-of presentable, Taehyung grabbed his bag and bolted out the door, his stomach growling like a wild animal.

“I’ll grab something from the cafeteria,” he decided, patting his pockets to make sure he had money. “Priorities, Kim Taehyung. Breakfast first, class later.”

As he raced to the university, he caught a glimpse of himself in a passing car window. His hair was a mess, his shirt was wrinkled, and he reeked of perfume and bad decisions.

But instead of panicking, he grinned. “Still better looking than half the guys on campus.”

With that, he strutted into the university gates, completely ignoring the looks of judgment of peera.