#81. Opium Poppy
#81. Opium Poppy
December. The last month of the year and the one announcing the End of Semester had arrived.
The final two weeks of November, when trench coats were finally okay, had passed before we knew it, and weather close to real winter was repeating itself.
"Echwi!"
Na-eun's head lost its balance and shook back and forth.
"What's up. Caught a cold?"
I readjusted the red couple's scarf we'd matched on reluctantly through tears after the kiss mark incident.
"Dunno. Sneeze is coming out. Echwi!"
In the end, we'd become the most famous Campus Couple in the College of Architecture, so we were just openly holding hands and walking around school.
There still seemed to be people whispering about us when we wandered around campus, but compared to the early days when the video first leaked, this was nothing.
If I really took a Leave of Absence, wouldn't all this fuss just disappear like it was never there?
No. Was I being too optimistic? This.
"Oppa. Did you do the Reinforced Concrete Class assignment?"
"...There was an assignment?"
Na-eun snorted like it was ridiculous.
"Yeah. It said to solve the practice problems and submit them."
Ah. Fuck.
"No way, with one week left till the Final Exam."
"Oppa has one week left till the Final Exam, so why aren't you going to class. You gotta attend diligently."
Feeling awkward at the festival of spot-on truths, I scratched my head.
December was objectively a happy month.
My birthday, Christmas, and the End of Semester.
How great is that.
But the process until the sweet end of December was no different from hell for me.
Any architecture student would sympathize.
The final deadline.
The last D-10 that choked you like a noose every semester.
I always thought about it.
Wasn't there a world line where you just take exams and the End of Semester comes?
When everyone else finishes exams and goes haha-ho-ho skating, couldn't I join in too?
While others were done and playing, us architecture students had no choice but to burn our final life flames.
If architecture students aspired for design firms, the Portfolio was something you had to care about several times more than grades.
Most firms looked at the students' tool skills, model-making ability, design sense, etc., so they weren't that hung up on grades themselves.
At most, design grades?
Of course, public corporations or construction companies were a bit different, but even then, if you couldn't do design, nothing worked out.
This goddamn subject was worth a whopping 5 credits.
Even if you got A+ in two subjects, blowing this one meant it was all meaningless.
"...Can I copy it?"
I stealthily checked Na-eun's mood, hoping she'd hand over the assignment willingly.
"With just your word?"
Sigh. Ah. Just show me.
Even in this emergency, my girlfriend demanding payment was just wicked.
"I'll buy you food."
"Kidding. I can show you, but Oppa. Class starts in 10 minutes—can you finish?"
"...Piece of cake."
You think I haven't copied before?
I'd honed my answer sheet copying control since high school Performance Assessments.
10 minutes was more than enough.
"It's two A4 pages, and you gotta draw the rebar cross-section too—sure you're good?"
"Ahh... Drawing too? What the hell."
I'd hated the geometry parts in math problems forever.
Ugh. Hate even looking at it.
I rushed into the lecture hall and started copying Na-eun's assignment faster than anyone.
"...And meanwhile, your handwriting is seriously trash."
"Hey. Don't talk to me."
"You're a novelist—why's your handwriting this bad?"
"Who writes with pencil or pen in this day and age."
No bullshit, my typing's probably twice as fast as yours.
My body, optimized for Manuscript Deadlines, was accustomed to miraculous typing speeds.
If I was over an hour late, the comments would explode.
[Breaking news. Han Gyeo-ul late again.]
Basic type.
[Author-nim! Is 10 PM Argentina time by any chance?]
Sarcastic type.
[Where's Han Gyeo-ul? Where's Han Gyeo-ul? Where's Han Gyeo-ul? Where's Han Gyeo-ul? Where's Han Gyeo-ul? Where's Han Gyeo-ul? Where's Han Gyeo-ul? Where's Han Gyeo-ul?]
Spamming type.
The types of nagging readers were getting more subdivided as days passed.
I thought it was grateful yet blood-boiling to have people waiting for me like that.
Anyway, brain off and pen flying till it wore out, I managed to copy about 3/4.
"Ah. Whatever. For the last one, I'll just say I don't know."
"The last problem's worth the most points—do that first."
...Ah. Why tell me now.
Annoying as hell, but I couldn't whine more to the illustrator-nim who'd even shown me her assignment.
With a deep sigh, the Professor-nim started calling attendance.
"Okay. Think I've called everyone... Last time I assigned practice problems, right? Where's the class rep?"
The venerable slave class rep naturally stood and began collecting assignments.
Today's class was the last before the Final Exam, so progress was minimal.
But kindly, the Professor-nim dropped hints on which parts exam questions would come from, and students scribbled notes on pages with unprecedented focus.
"Finally, questions? Ask now. Email later's fine, but if I check late right before the exam, it could be trouble."
Luckily, those who didn't need Q&A could leave first, so Na-eun and I escaped the lecture hall.
"Oppa. Predicted GPA this semester?"
"Me? Hmm..."
Me. Lee Min-ho.
A 3.5 GPA guy.
Truth is, before discharge, it wasn't even 3.5.
My freshman and sophomore years were prime fuckup examples of male campus trash.
Drinking with the boys, skipping class, getting fucked F's in multiple subjects.
After discharge, checking my full transcript made my head spin.
No need to seek out regret stories separately.
This one transcript page was regret incarnate—what more did I need.
But I'd gritted my teeth, shaped up, lived diligently, pulled the average near B+, so I felt really lucky.
"Like... 3.8? Hope so."
"Not bad."
We went down the stairs and turned toward the student cafeteria.
"You?"
"Just gonna let it be if I pass 3.5."
Realistic.
Truth was, Na-eun didn't seem to need to try that hard.
She could just keep doing illustrator work.
Personally, I thought Erotic Illustration artist was a more stable gig than Erotic Novelist.
And with her skills, she could probably break into game original art too?
Novels felt like tightrope walking—you never knew when the plot would tank or readers drop off.
But art? Just keep drawing pretty consistently, and the risk was way lower, in my opinion.
I ordered pork kimchi stew.
Na-eun ordered shrimp fried rice.
We had no hobby of eating under excessive spotlight, so we grabbed a corner seat and picked up spoons.
"So, thought of a name?"
"Not yet. Got the story roughed out, though."
I hadn't nailed the direction for the new character episode in [I Imprisoned Her], so I'd posted a 3-day hiatus notice.
"Occupation's illustrator, right?"
Over the weekend, under Na-eun's relentless bombardment, I'd caved and decided to make the next Heroine a freelance Illustrator.
"You know this is Controlling, right?"
"Whassat?"
"Grabbing and shaking."
Pork and kimchi on glossy white rice, I shoved the spoon in my mouth.
"...Handjob?"
At her out-of-nowhere ambush, I nearly sprayed pork bits in her face.
"Ah. Hey. I told you not to say that shit out loud."
"Our image's been ruined forever anyway. And it's not like I said it to Oppa—what's the big deal."
"Ah. True, but signal before turning."
Ugh. Seriously. Gives me chills every time.
My girlfriend, auto-handjob reflex to "grabbing and shaking."
Is this normal?
"Anyway. Controlling usually means in novels, readers gaslighting the author to do this or that."
Truth is, writing [I Imprisoned Her], I never dealt with Controlling.
Just banging Heroines one by one—what was there to control?
If anything, all-ages novels had more headaches that way, from what I'd read.
"Oppa. So doesn't that make me actual Shadow Power?"
"...You think I'm gonna be president or something? No power, what Shadow Power."
I blinked at Na-eun's random remark.
"Yang Guifei shaking the Erotic Novel King."
Her hands cupping cheeks, face in ecstasy.
"How's that? Doesn't it suit me? The Yang Guifei concept?"
Her eyebrows curved into a coquettish eye smile.
"Your Highness. This girl Han Na-eun wishes to be Your primary consort."
A fox-like voice that'd devoured a hundred men flowed from her throat.
But me, author Han Gyeo-ul.
No way I'd allow Controlling that easily.
"The only thing you can grab and shake is my cock."
In solemn historical drama tone, I replied softly to her words.