[Three Months Later —— MOSCOW]
Winter was loosening its grip.
Snow still clung to the edges of the city like forgotten memories, but the air had softened. The brutal cold was almost over.
Inside a Grand Russian university, a stadium-like lecture hall filled slowly—rows of students murmuring, notebooks open, phones silenced.
Then the doors opened.
He entered.
No-Gul.
As a most famous professor Of Cosmetic Science — known as Professor Vincent.
White gloves covered his hands. Thin glasses rested on his nose. A perfectly tailored, luxurious blazer framed his broad shoulders.
He looked refined—untouchable.
Whispers rippled through the hall.
"Professor Vincent is… dangerously handsome."
"Isn't this his first lecture here after a long time? The university requested him personally."
"Half Russian, half Korean—beauty like this should be illegal."
"He's already broken half the seniors' hearts…"
He stepped onto the podium with effortless authority.
"Good afternoon," he said calmly, his English flawless, touched with a faint Russian accent.
"This is an additional lecture. And today, we will discuss one molecule—
a molecule that quietly changed modern skincare."
The screen behind him lit up with a simple chemical formula.
Niacinamide.
"Niacinamide is not artificial," he continued.
"It exists naturally—in nature, and within the human body itself."
For the next hour, he was nothing but intellect—explaining formulas, research models, the evolution of skin science, and the philosophy of beauty as if it were nothing more than data and structure.
And up to this moment, this was the No-Gul the world knew.
Professor Vincent.
A composed, brilliant, handsome man—his image as clean and untouchable as the white gloves on his hands.
He stepped back from the podium.
"That concludes today's lecture."
The hall erupted in applause.
The applause finally settled.
No-Gul adjusted the mic, his white-gloved fingers calm, unhurried.
"If there are questions," he said evenly,
"raise your hand."
Hands shot up everywhere.
Front rows. Back rows. Corners.
Almost half the hall.
A low wave of excitement rolled through the students.
He pointed toward the left side.
"You. First."
A girl stood up quickly, cheeks flushed.
"Professor"
"Do you have a girlfriend?"
No-Gul waited.
Then replied calmly,
"No."
Before anyone could react—
He added, "Next question."
More hands shot up, even higher now.
"You," he said, pointing to the center row.
A boy stood, confidence dripping.
"Did you interested in boys?"
The hall burst into soft laughter.
He adjusted his glasses slowly.
Then looked at the boy—calm, unreadable.
"You," he said evenly,
"are still far too young for this kind of curiosity."
Another student stood without waiting.
"Professor Vincent, what kind of girls do you like?"
Whispers erupted again.
He smirked—just enough to be noticed.
"It seems," he said calmly,
"most of you are more interested in university rumors than in today's topic."
Laughter rippled through the hall.
"Everyone finds someone beautiful," he said.
"And everyone loves someone—eventually."
He glanced briefly at the screen behind him, then back at the students.
"But beauty," he added,
"is not tone.
Not symmetry.
Not fairness."
A pause.
"It is vision."
Silence followed.
Then he adjusted his cuff slightly and concluded, almost dryly—
"But any more philosophy," he said,
"and your lunch will digest upward instead of downward."
The hall burst into laughter again.
He nodded once—brief, polite—and walked out.
Outside, the mask began to fall.
He stepped into a private elevator reserved for faculty and researchers. The doors slid shut with a soft chime.
Silence.
He reached up and removed his glasses.
His eyes darkened instantly—cold, sharp, bottomless.
The white gloves came off.
Black gloves replaced them.
The elevator rose.
Ding.
The doors opened.
He stepped out and flicked a cigarette into the air.
It spun once—
He caught it perfectly between his lips.
Ring on his finger sparked, igniting its built-in lighter. He leaned in, the flame kissing the cigarette, and inhaled slowly.
Smoke curled around his face like something alive.
At that moment, a man approached from behind and draped a long black coat over his shoulders without a word.
More figures emerged from the shadows.
One by one, his henchmen bowed deeply.
Ahead, a chopper waited—its blades already spinning.
He walked forward and climbed in.
As the chopper lifted into the sky, the city shrank beneath him—universities, lectures, daylight lies all fading away.
Toward home.
Toward a villa standing alone in the vast white snow —dark, grand, and eerily familiar.
A villa that looked exactly like the one from the dream.
To Be Continued…