7:45 a.m.
Alan was already standing in front of the engineering building lobby, checking his watch every few seconds. Campus was filling up with hurried footsteps and the smell of cafeteria coffee, but his focus was locked on one thing: the main entrance.
"You could've just walked away and be nice guy."
The line played back again. Okay. Time to put it into practice.
Being nice guy started with the easiest thing: appearance.
He straightened his white dress shirt, still stiff from the packaging. His slacks were pressed flat without a crease, dress shoes polished to a shine.
Too formal? Probably. But he needed a different impression this morning.
The moment Alina's figure appeared in the distance, Alan straightened up.
"Morning, Alina." He kept his voice as neutral as he could manage, even though his pulse had already picked up.
Alina approached, her eyes taking in his whole look from the ground up. A small smile settled on her lips—and Alan immediately felt like he'd shown up in the wrong outfit.
"Morning, Alan. Who are you waiting for?"
"Nobody," he said. Too fast.
"Wow… you look so different."
"I bought this last night. Wanted to try it out," Alan said, going for casual. "Does it work?"
"Spin around."
Alan did it—a stiff, slightly ridiculous rotation that felt even more ridiculous inside his own head. He could feel Alina's eyes running over every detail.
"You look great. Very formal for a Tuesday morning," she said lightly.
Alan winced. There was a trace of something uncertain in it. "Yeah? Maybe I should find a different look."
Alina laughed—a sound that made getting up before seven feel worth it.
"Just be yourself, Alan. Wear something you're comfortable in."
"Noted. Thanks." Alan held her gaze a beat longer than usual, reading it—was this working, or was it coming off as weird?
"Come on, let's go in."
They walked side by side toward their buildings.
"What time's your first class today?" Alina asked.
"Not until later."
She glanced over, eyebrow lifting. "If your class is later, why are you on campus this early?"
Checkmate. Alan looked sideways, his brain spinning for the most plausible explanation.
"Oh—I've got a presentation. Wanted to get a head start on the slides."
A thin smile, forced into place.
What he could not let slip: that he was only here to see her. And yes—he had already memorized her schedule.
"Okay. Bye, Alan."
Once Alina disappeared through the door, he finally let out a long breath.
He turned around and nearly walked straight into a professor in the corridor.
Without overthinking it, Alan gave a polite nod—something he had never done before.
He was aware Alina might still be able to see him through the classroom window.
Good.
The old Alan—who bounced basketballs in the hallways and thrived on causing a scene—was trying to retire.
The collar of his dress shirt was already uncomfortably warm. But for that smile of hers just now, he'd deal.
Shortly after, Alan headed downstairs and out of the building with no real destination.
His feet moved on their own—autopilot—toward the basketball court.
He grabbed a ball from the storage rack.
Bounced it. Once. Twice.
No real intention to play.
He shot toward the hoop.
Missed.
He retrieved it. Tried again.
Missed.
Again. Again. Again.
His fingers trembled around the ball.
He couldn't figure out why.
The only thing running through his head was Alina's face.
The only thing he could hear was her voice.
His chest felt tight—like a rope looped around his ribs. Every time he thought about her, it pulled tighter.
'What the hell.'
This wasn't regular stress.
He slammed the ball down hard.
The sound cracked through the empty court.
A frustrated shout came out—rough, aimed at no one in particular.
Alan dropped flat on his back in the middle of the court.
Punched the floor. Lightly.
Eyes shut.
He had no idea what was happening inside his own body.
One thing was clear: this wasn't normal.
A group of students in judo uniforms jogged past the court in a tight formation. Yuki was at the front—but his eyes caught Alan immediately, flat on the ground in the middle of the court.
"Keep going to the dojo!" Yuki called back over his shoulder.
"Yes, Senpai!" they answered in unison.
Yuki tapped the senior beside him to take the lead, then cut off toward the court and scooped up a basketball.
"Alan!"
He hurled it hard.
Alan sat up—not fast enough. The ball caught him square in the face. Right on the nose.
Yuki cracked up.
"What's going on with you? You're always on it—you'd normally catch that or at least duck. That was just sad."
Alan rubbed his face, wincing. Not even annoyed. He didn't have the energy for it.
He got up and dropped onto the nearest bleacher. Yuki stood in front of him, still casually bouncing the ball.
"Yuki," Alan said after a few seconds of silence. "I need your help."
"With what?"
"I'm trying to get closer to Alina. Get her attention."
"Okay." Yuki glanced at Alan's outfit—the effort was painfully obvious. "What does that have to do with me?"
"I don't know where to start… I've never been in a relationship."
Yuki's fingers froze. The ball rolled off and hit the floor with a quiet thud. He turned to look at Alan, eyes wide. Then the laugh came—loud, echoing across the empty court.
"Alan—the Alan—with all the girls who—has never—"
Yuki looked like he was about to announce it to the entire campus. Alan immediately slapped a hand over his mouth.
"Alright, alright. I'll shut up."
Alan let go. Yuki picked the ball back up—this time, he actually listened. They sat side by side on the bleachers.
"A baby," Yuki muttered, barely holding it together, shoulders still shaking. "An actual baby."
"Are you done?"
"Not even close." Yuki's grin stretched wide. "When am I ever going to get to have this over you? Look at your face—like a kindergartner. Completely clueless. Zero experience. This is adorable."
"Can we be serious for one second?"
"I was dating in middle school. You're so green, man. Where were you during your teenage years?"
"I'm decades older than you. You're the child. Stop being smug."
"My stomach hurts—" Yuki pressed a hand to his side, still catching his breath. "Okay. Deep breath. Where do we even start?"
"I don't know what the next move is."
"Hold on." Yuki raised a hand. "Before we get into it—I need to ask. Are you sure about Alina?"
"Yeah."
"Good. That means I can make a move on Sakura." Yuki nodded, satisfied. "Alright, what do you need from me?"
Alan clicked his tongue. "I need advice. I genuinely don't understand how girls think."
Yuki's eyes went wide again.
"Nobody does." His voice slowed into something deliberate. "Girls in the same friend group who've known each other for years still manage to fight. They're complicated."
Alan said nothing. Just listened.
"More complicated than any algorithm you've ever touched," Yuki continued, steady. "They're wired for meaning. Tone off by a fraction—a compliment lands as a dig. Guys are almost always wrong in their eyes."
Yuki took a breath.
"And if they mess up—even if you try to point it out gently—there's no guarantee they'll take it. So you need patience. And you need to choose your words carefully, or you'll hurt them without meaning to." He paused. "Also—and trust me on this—when something's wrong, they don't want you to fix it."
Alan glanced over. "Then what do they want?"
"To be heard. To be held. To feel like someone cares and is paying attention."
Yuki let that sit for a second.
"And one more thing—once she's made up her mind about something, your job is to go along with it. Not debate it."
Alan nodded—small, but he was filing all of it away.
"So… listen and be present. Don't try to problem-solve."
Yuki pointed at him like he was delivering a critical briefing. "Step one. And read a romance novel from a woman's perspective. It'll give you more insight into how they think. Might help you understand Alina better."
"Okay. What about when we're hanging out—what do I talk about?"
Yuki pressed a hand to his own forehead. "That depends on the girl. What you need to focus on: keep the conversation relevant to her. Be a good listener. Respond when it matters. And pay attention to her expressions."
"I can't read faces."
"Microexpressions. There are books on it. You like reading and researching—figure it out."
"Alright. I'll try. Thanks, Yuki."
"Learn from experience. From mistakes. From the feelings themselves. Don't forget that. Good luck."
Alan turned and headed for the library. His head was full of new vocabulary: complicated, sensitive, listen, patient, go along with it.
All of it cycling through a brain that had previously only made room for code, servers, basketball, and game strategy.
Eleven a.m. The library was quiet—just the hum of a printer and low voices from the front desk.
Alan had tucked himself into the very back corner, hidden behind a stack of thick books he'd deliberately checked out: Personality Psychology, Social Relations, and Facial Expressions.
He was attempting something he'd never trained for: being a functioning human being.
He'd barely gotten through a few pages when a shadow fell across his table.
"Alan? Since when are you here?" Alina's eyes went straight to the titles stacked in front of him.
Alan reflexively shut the book in his hands. He shifted the pile sideways, clearing space as if he'd been saving it for her all along.
"Not long. Just sat down," he said, keeping his voice even.
"Is this part of the presentation?" Alina still looked skeptical.
"No, just reading for fun."
Alina didn't blink. Alan knew how this looked—a computer science student suddenly knee-deep in psychology texts.
"That's impressive. Looks like you're taking it seriously. I'll move to the next table so I don't bother you—"
"Hey, don't." Alan's hand moved faster than his brain, reaching out to keep her there. He met her eyes. "I'd rather you stayed. I can finish this tomorrow."
"You sure?"
"Yeah, this is just light reading," Alan said, stacking the books into a neat pile. "What are you working on?"
"I need to get started on a data structures assignment. Haven't touched it yet and I've already lost all motivation."
"What's the assignment?"
"Implementing a Linked List for student records."
Alan raised an eyebrow. "Oh. That one. I can help."
"Seriously?"
The way her eyes lit up—Alan immediately moved his chair closer.
"Broad strokes first: start with the basics. Build your insert function, then delete, then display. For visualization—sketch out the node diagram on paper so the pointer flow clicks before you write a single line. Then test incrementally. Don't try to build the full menu at once—test each small function first. And pick whatever language you're comfortable with—C and C++ are tougher because you're managing pointers manually, Java's a bit more forgiving since references are handled for you."
He watched the way her expression shifted—the slight crease between her eyebrows when something wasn't landing, the small nod when it clicked. Alan didn't mind repeating himself two, three times.
Alina stayed focused. Eyes locked in.
That was what made him want to stay—even as his brain was still quietly processing everything he'd just read about microexpressions.
Two hours passed. The assignment was about halfway done—until a loud, unmistakable growl broke the silence between them.
Alina's face went red immediately. Alan held his smile back so she wouldn't feel any worse about it.
"Break time. Go eat," he said, keeping his voice easy.
"You're not coming to the cafeteria?"
"Nah. I ate already." A lie. He didn't want her to feel like she owed him anything.
"I'll bring you back a sandwich. I know it's not much, but it's the least I can do," Alina said, genuine warmth in her voice as she packed up her things.
"Sure."
"I'm so relieved. Normally a data structures assignment wrecks my whole day—back and forth debugging, errors everywhere, losing my mind by hour two."
"It's rough when you don't know the approach. Hey—what time do you head home? We can leave together."
Alina gave him her time, thanked him again with real sincerity, and walked off.
Alan leaned back in his chair, watching her go. He knew people wrote him off as dead weight. But today, he'd shown up as something different. Not just the guy with the jump shot—someone Alina could rely on.
He glanced back at the stack of psychology books, then allowed himself a quiet smile.
Code could be debugged. Girls? No error logs. No stack trace.
But Alina had smiled just now.
So maybe he wasn't completely off track.
Four p.m. Alan leaned against the side of the car, phone pressed to his ear.
"Alan, do you have a girlfriend now?" His mother's voice came through, bright with curiosity.
"Uh… not exactly, Mom. It's complicated."
"Oh come on, introduce her to me. I can't be the last to know."
"It's not the right time yet. I'll tell you when it is."
"But I want to meet her. What's her name?"
"Alina Hamish."
Silence dropped over the line.
"Mom?" His brow furrowed.
"It's nothing. I'll call you back later." She hung up.
Alan slipped his phone into his pocket, frowning. His mom was never quiet—she always had a follow-up question about campus, about his time, about everything. But she'd gone completely still the moment she heard Alina's name. Something was off.
"Alan—sorry to keep you waiting."
He pulled himself out of the thought. "It's fine."
They got into the car. The cabin felt slightly stiff.
Alan kept his eyes on the road while Alina worked through the radio stations. To fill the silence, she started talking about her day.
"I'm still annoyed about that morning class. We walked in and he just assigned work without explaining anything—like he genuinely thinks we can download the material directly into our brains or something." She gestured in front of her, clearly still worked up.
"Professor Harits, right? That's just how he is. The strong-and-silent type, except replace 'strong' with 'impossible' and 'silent' with 'piling on homework,'" Alan said easily, just to keep the conversation going.
"Exactly! And his face—he never looks anything but done with everyone. I wanted to ask a question and my hands were already shaking before I even raised them."
"Here's a tip: with a notoriously brutal professor like that, you have to learn to earn his attention. Find a gap in his logic, push back with a solid argument. Your grade will climb on its own."
"How am I supposed to earn anyone's attention when looking at him makes me want to go home?"
"Think of him like a strict system. Once you understand his syntax and logic, everything runs smoothly."
They both laughed—until a car ahead slammed to a stop without warning.
Screeech—
Alan hit the brakes hard. Both of them lurched forward, held back by the seatbelts.
Up ahead, things had already gone sideways. A heavily tattooed man was beating someone in a tie into the ground. The dull crack of each blow made it through the car windows.
Alan's grip on the steering wheel went white-knuckled. His jaw locked.
Alan… don't even think about it—" Alina grabbed his arm, her voice unsteady.
"They're not going to stop on their own," Alan said, eyes sharp.
"It's dangerous—look, one of them has a metal pipe!"
"Alina. If no one breaks it up, the whole road stays blocked."
"Call the police!"
"Alina. This will take two minutes. Trust me."
"But—"
Alan got out of the car. Alina's voice cut off behind him.
The moment he stepped close enough, something in the air around him shifted.
"Back off." His voice was low. It didn't need to be loud.
Within seconds, Alan moved. He didn't need many steps to make both men stumble back and lose whatever nerve they had walking in with.
The tattooed man's eyes landed on Alan—and there it was. Recognition. The kind that didn't need words. The kind that said 'this is not someone you want to test.'
Both of them turned and left without looking back.
Alan returned to the car, pulled Alina—who had gotten out—back inside. Engine on. They pulled away.
"They knew who you were?" Alina asked quietly.
"Probably," Alan said, eyes straight ahead.
"Why are they scared of you? Even that night at the bar—when you were drunk—people still seemed to think twice before they came at you."
"I used to run pretty deep in these streets. Never went down in a fight. Word spreads."
"And what were you fighting about?"
"The usual. A lot of people don't like me. A lot of people have something against me."
"Why?"
"Who knows. For taking up space, for existing, for being Alan Bernard. People who hate will always find a reason to justify it."
"There've been so many people like that lately," Alina said, almost to herself. "Everyone's on edge. There was a little kid crying in the car in front of us. Where are the police when you need them? Collecting a paycheck and doing nothing."
"Yeah. I get it."
"Someone needs to do something. This affects everyone."
"Hey—let it go. Your head's already full. You've got the committee, you've got class—you don't need to take on the police department's job too."
Alina crossed her arms. Lips pressed into a pout that said she wasn't quite ready to let it go.
When they reached her apartment, Alan held the car door before she could step out. He looked at her—something more deliberate in it than usual.
"Let's go somewhere tomorrow."
"What, out of nowhere?"
"You said after being sick you wanted to clear your head. Tomorrow's your day off. Good timing."
"I'm really down for that." Alina nodded, suddenly animated.
"Great. I'll pick you up at nine."
"Deal."
Alan watched her disappear through the front door of her building. Only then did he get back in the car, pulling the door shut with a soft click.
He reached for his phone. Typed quickly.
'What happened earlier? Mom called, and the second she heard Alina Hamish's name she went completely quiet.'
The message sat there, finished.
His thumb hovered over send.
A few seconds passed. Just the hum of the air conditioning and streetlights blinking outside.
Then—delete.
Every word gone. Screen dark.
Alan tossed the phone onto the dashboard. Eyes fixed forward.
He didn't need to ask Airin. If there was an answer out there, he'd find it himself.
Tomorrow wasn't the day to go digging into the past.
Not the day for questions about bloodlines, old clans, or warnings that had been buried for a reason.
Tomorrow was for Alina.
And for the first time in his life, Alan chose to focus—not on the threat moving in the shadows, but on the one thing worth protecting.