Chapter Text
For Harua, psychology wasn't just a university course: it was a survival manual, a meticulously designed shield against the chaos and irrationality of the outside world.
He had spent the entire vacation locked in his room at his parents' house, reviewing dense scientific articles on human behavior, organizing his colorful post-it notes by order of relevance, and visualizing a perfect semester. He wanted peace, silence, and absolute academic focus. No distractions. No parties. And, above all, no unnecessary and unhygienic relationships or biological interactions.
At twenty-one, Harua proudly (and with a good dose of stubbornness) held the unofficial title of the most puritanical omega on campus. While his classmates used their first years of college to explore their instincts, go to fraternity parties, and collect casual experiences, Harua preferred to keep his hormones under the strictest analytical control. He was a virgin, had never even come close to experiencing his heat cycle in the presence of an alpha, and considered modern flirting an inefficient and primitive waste of time.
In fact, to ensure he would get through the rest of his degree without being bothered by the hormonal dramas that plagued the omega dormitories—which he considered veritable centers of emotional instability—Harua had made a drastic and coldly calculated decision: to change institutions and falsify his medical exams in the HYBE University system, formally registering as a "Beta."
The strategy seemed foolproof. Betas were neutral, predictable, and, above all, left alone. Thanks to this plan, the faculty office had allocated him to one of the mixed-gender apartments in block C. According to the descriptive floor plan, the accommodation was small, designed with a functional and streamlined layout: a common area consisting of an integrated living room with half a kitchen, a single shared bathroom in the center, and two identical single bedrooms on each side. Harua was certain he would be sharing that clean space with another peaceful, quiet beta focused on engineering or accounting.
To ensure the "Beta" charade was absolutely irrefutable, Harua had also developed a severe visual camouflage. Physically, he was a handsome guy—something he considered a statistical disadvantage that would attract unwanted attention. He possessed a lean build, narrow shoulders, and very fair, almost porcelain-like skin, with delicate facial features, long eyelashes, and expressive eyes. To hide all this, he sabotaged himself daily through what his infamous roommate would later call "the voluntary ugliness kit."
Harua intentionally adopted a slightly hunched and arrogant posture, keeping his nose in the air and an expression of deep, clinical disdain to ward people off. He wore completely unfashionable, baggy clothes, lacking any sense of style, and in shades of worn brown and gray—"you dress like a sixty-year-old academic from a 1970s public university," would be his neighbor's future diagnosis. To complete the disguise, he wore thick, black-rimmed glasses that were bizarrely large and wrong for his face shape, breaking any visual harmony of his features. Combining this with daily doses of strong, laboratory-grade suppressants that completely anesthetized his omega and scent patches that masked his natural blackberry and vanilla scent, Harua felt like an invisible force.
The torment began on Tuesday afternoon, as he dragged his last and heaviest box of social psychology books through the main door of dorm 304. He was sweaty, his thick glasses slipping down the tip of his nose and the rough fabric of his beige twill pants itching his legs.
As he placed the box on the Formica table that divided the compact kitchen from the living room, the door to the left room—number 304-A—opened with a dramatic bang.
It wasn't just an ordinary door opening. For Harua's sense of smell, which even under the influence of strong suppressants still retained the inherent sensitivity of his nature, it was an apocalyptic event. A gust of hot wind, laden with a dense, oppressive, and ridiculously masculine scent of fresh mint, amber, and the purest alpha testosterone, hit the integrated environment like a punch.
From inside the room emerged a monument of almost six feet three inches tall, wearing absolutely nothing but baggy gray sweatpants that defied gravity, so low at the hips that the elastic of his dark boxer briefs was showing.
Harua stopped beside the kitchen counter, his hands still resting on the cardboard box. His brain simply locked up.
The guy was Maki. Simply the most depraved alpha on the entire campus. Great, Harua!
The second-year physiotherapy student was an alpha who seemed to have been specifically designed to illustrate a luxury human anatomy textbook. His bleached, unruly blond hair was completely messy, with a few damp strands falling over his forehead, indicating a recent shower. His shoulders were absurdly broad, connecting to a robust chest and an abdomen so sculpted that Harua, in his puritanical shock, felt a pang of academic irritation. Maki's arms were thick, with bulging veins that clearly screamed he spent hours in the gym manipulating bizarre weights.
Maki dried the back of his neck with a face towel, the muscles in his back contracting in a way that made Harua's stomach clench instinctively. Harua's omega, buried under layers of suppressants and psychic denial, did a pathetic somersault in his chest, feeling immensely and dangerously drawn to that blatant display of physical vigor. Seeing an alpha walking around like that, half-naked in the shared space they were supposed to share, awakened feelings and thermal reactions in Harua that he didn't even know his body was capable of producing.
When the blond turned his head and noticed his new roommate paralyzed beside the sink, wearing clothes three times too big and hideous glasses, his dark eyes gleamed with a spark of pure interest and amusement. He instantly perceived, with the sharp instinct of a social predator, that the old-fashioned-looking boy had become completely unnerved by his presence.
Reducing the distance between them to zero with just two long, barefoot steps across the vinyl floor of the living room, Maki invaded the personal space that Harua so fiercely protected, placing his large hand on the kitchen counter, right next to the box of books.
— Hey! New neighbor? — Maki's voice echoed through the small space. It was deep, resonant, and irritatingly friendly. — I'm Maki. Physical therapy, second year.The guy at the reception told me the other room had been occupied by a beta. Nice to meet you!
Harua blinked repeatedly behind his thick glasses, feeling his cheeks burn a vivid red that contrasted violently with his pale skin. He swallowed hard, forcing his posture to straighten with his usual defensive arrogance. He adjusted his glasses with his index finger and adopted his best clinical disapproving expression.
— Harua. Third year of Psychology — the omega's voice came out less sharp than he had planned. — And I strongly suggest you return to your room and put on appropriate upper clothing. This common area is small, and sharing an integrated living room and kitchen requires minimum standards of decency and hygiene. The dispersion of evaporated fluids through your post-shower perspiration onto the counter where food is prepared is a primary vector of contamination.
Maki let out a loud, genuine laugh, throwing her head back. The movement caused his abdominal muscles to contract obscenely.
— Wow, Harua-chan! You talk like an old book — Maki said, stretching his muscular arm to give Harua's shoulder a casual pat, which was covered by a brown plaid button-down shirt.
— Don't touch me! And don't you dare call me 'Harua-chan' — the omega took a dramatic step back, pressing his back against the compact refrigerator, dodging the touch as if Maki carried an infectious disease. — We don't share the slightest level of biological, chronological, or social intimacy that justifies the use of a diminutive and affectionate suffix. It's Harua-san to you.
Maki crossed his arms over his bare chest, a lopsided smile widening as he saw his neighbor's despair masked as intellectualism. Harua's arrogant rigidity was the most amusing thing he had seen at the start of that semester.
— Relax, Harua-chan. Muscles need to breathe, you know? It’s pure biological science. The muscle fascia becomes extremely tense with the use of tight or heavy clothing after a workout, impairing the body’s thermal homeostasis. As a future physiotherapist, I have a medical justification for not wearing a shirt indoors. You take care of the mind, I take care of the body. We complement each other.
— That’s not science, it’s chronic narcissistic exhibitionism associated with a severe deficit in social cognition — Harua retorted, his knuckles white from the force he exerted gripping the strap of his backpack. — Excuse me. I’m going to organize my belongings in room 304-B. And I demand that, when I return to this common area, your chest be properly covered.
Harua practically marched the remaining three steps to his room door, entered, slammed it shut enough to make the glasses in the kitchen cupboard rattle, and turned the key three times.
He dropped his backpack on the single bed and collapsed into the wheeled chair in front of his study desk, his heart pounding like a drum against his ribs. His hands were trembling slightly. This was a methodological disaster.
He was a man of science!
He shouldn't be destabilized by a brainless alpha who used anatomical terms to justify his own lack of clothing.
But the stark truth was that Maki's magnetic aroma and overwhelming physical presence had triggered all the alarms in his repressed nervous system.
— Rationalize, Harua. Evolutionary psychology explains this. It's just a primitive neurochemical reaction to the stimulus of a dominant alpha specimen — he whispered to himself, taking a deep breath of the room's air, which thankfully still smelled of his neutral cleaning products.
He opened his laptop with a violent snap. The stress needed to be channeled academically. If he was going to be forced to share wall to wall and bathroom to bathroom with a compulsive flirtatious maniac who treated fabrics as optional accessories, he would document the decline of that particular civilization on his own terms.
He created a text document in a hidden, password-protected folder. Thin fingers flew across the keyboard with a therapeutic fury:
RESEARCH PROJECT: CLINICAL OBSERVATION DIARY
Study Title: Behavioral Analysis, Exacerbated Narcissism, and Modesty Deviations in the Primitive Alpha Specimen (Room 304-A)
Subject Analyzed: Maki (Physical Therapy, Second Year)
Methodology: Non-participant direct observation (and strictly involuntary).
Field Notes - Day 1:
The subject presents a total absence of basic social barriers and severely inadequate attire for social interaction in a shared environment. He uses superficial physiotherapy jargon ("muscle fascia tension") to legitimize behavior clearly geared towards self-exhibition and a pathological search for visual validation.
He demonstrates an irritating and manipulative insistence on using the suffix "chan" as a clear attempt at psychological destabilization and undermining the authority of this researcher. It's clear that my self-proclaimed "Beta" status makes him believe there's no need for territorial respect.
Preliminary diagnosis: Hypertrophied egocentrism combined with compulsive, evasive flirting.
Threat level to my spiritual peace and academic integrity: Critical.
Harua slammed his laptop shut, releasing the pent-up air. He was ready for the cold, silent war of the dorm.
The problem with waging war with a lazy neighbor in such a confined space is that the enemy simply doesn't recognize the concept of boundaries.
Exactly thirty minutes later, as Harua began stacking his precious volumes of radical behaviorism on the shelf, someone knocked on his door. It wasn't a polite knock. It was three rhythmic, heavy knocks, imbued with unbelievable audacity.
Harua let out a heavy sigh, rolling his eyes behind his thick glasses. He walked to the entrance and unlocked the door, opening it just a tiny crack, holding the door frame with his body to prevent any physical intrusion.
To his complete lack of surprise (and renewed despair), it was Maki.
The alpha had made the "immense effort" to continue wearing the same low-slung gray sweatpants, remained completely barefoot and absolutely shirtless. His chest still displayed the opulence of someone who crossed the dorm as if he owned the building, and he held an empty black ceramic mug between his large fingers.
Seeing the crack in the door open, he instantly leaned forward, placing his open hand against the wooden door frame, right above Harua's head, forcing the false beta to look up and face that immensity of golden skin and defined muscles. The scent of fresh mint invaded Harua's room without asking permission.
— Hi again, Harua-chan! — Maki hissed, his lopsided smile glistening with the malice and amusement of someone who knew exactly the effect he had on his neighbor's rigidity. — A Greek tragedy has occurred in 304-A. The wiring in my desk outlet snapped, and my electric kettle won't turn on. Would my favorite psychologist neighbor, with that brilliant mind of his, have a little space in his outlet to save the life of a poor alpha who needs caffeine to study palpation anatomy?
Harua looked at the empty mug. Then, involuntarily, his eyes traveled down Maki's neck, lingering for two full seconds on the prominent collarbone, counting the abdominal muscles that were inches from his face. Feeling his body burn in a way that defied all his suppressants, Harua forced his eyes back to the alpha's dark, mocking irises.
— No — Harua uttered, her voice coming out in a cold, cutting tone, though her heart was practically leaping out of her chest. — Use the outlet in the communal kitchen. Or have some cold coffee. Goodbye.
With a swift movement, Harua pulled the door shut and slammed the key hard across Maki's face, immediately turning it in the lock.
On the other side of the wood, Maki's loud, resonant, and malicious laughter echoed through the small dorm, followed by her provocative words:
— Thank you for your hospitality, Harua-chan! See you at dinner!
Harua leaned his back against the locked door, slowly sliding down until he was sitting on the floor of the room, hugging his knees. He hid his flushed face in his arms, letting out a muffled groan of pure frustration.
This would be, without a shadow of a doubt, the longest, most chaotic, and hormonally dangerous semester of his entire university life.