INT. ZAFIRE'S APARTMENT – 7:00 AM
The sharp ding of the toaster jolted me out of my sleepy daze. I rushed to the counter, forgetting to grab a plate, and now stood with a scorching slice of toast burning my fingers.
"Too hot, too hot!" I hissed, hopping on the spot as I scrambled toward the dish rack. Flustered and panicked, I failed to notice the rising smoke from the frying pan. The egg I'd been cooking — sunny-side up, or at least it was supposed to be — was already scorched.
"Not again!" I cried, lunging for the stove. But the damage was done. The smell of charred yolk filled the air like a bad omen.
With a heavy sigh, I turned off the burner and surrendered.
I'm buying breakfast. Defeated.
Moments later, I was sprinting down the steps of my apartment building. I carried a bag over one shoulder and wore a neatly tucked-in long-sleeve polo over a dark undershirt. The bag bounced lightly with each step, and my black shoes clicked against the pavement.
I mused as I walked, still half-awake.
Jet lag clung to me like a second skin. Exhaustion had become my new routine — the price I paid for choosing this path. School, work, ambition. Something had to give.
"Can I get a café crème and a bread roll?" I asked the sleepy clerk at the nearby corner store. Thank goodness for 24-hour shops.
A culinary student who can't cook… yeah, that's me, I thought bitterly, watching my reflection in the freezer door. It stung. But maybe, just maybe, that sting would push me forward.
Maybe not burning breakfast would be a good first step.
The sharp screech of tires tore through the air as I dashed across the street. My heart jumped—just inches away, a car skidded to a halt.
A moment of silence. Then the blare of a horn shattered it, again and again.
"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" I cried, bowing over and over in frantic apology. Oh god! That was scary.
The driver didn't even roll down the window. After a few more impatient honks, the car sped off, leaving me standing there—breathless and shaken.
sigh
That morning, I arrived in the city that would be my new home.
After dreaming about this for so long, I was finally here—not to run away from my career, but to follow another dream. While continuing my work as a model, I had decided to study at one of the best culinary schools in the country.
The bus was full of students heading to the same school. Outside the window, tall buildings and clean streets passed by. This was a modern coastal city, known for its creativity, diversity, and beautiful scenery.
Somehow, it felt familiar. Many parts of the city reminded me of home in Asia—the little shops, the morning smells from food stalls, the sound of scooters and chatter. It made me feel more at ease.
The bus stopped in front of a large school gate. Students hurried off, chatting and laughing. The campus was huge and impressive—shiny new buildings with glass walls, greenhouses filled with plants, and even a simple gym. It was modern, but it still had a relaxed, friendly vibe.
This was exactly why I chose this school. It had great reviews and a peaceful atmosphere. It felt like a good place to learn, to grow, and to experience a bit of a normal life—even if just for a while.
Time check: 7:23 a.m.
"Oh no! I'm going to be late! I better run!"
INT. STUDENT COUNCIL BUILDING – MORNING
"President Ice, the faculty wants to know—when will the orientation for the transferee be held?"
The vice president stood prim and composed, her glasses glinting slightly in the sunlight. A single loose strand of hair framed her otherwise perfect ponytail, betraying the tension beneath her calm exterior.
Stacks of folders cluttered the council president's desk like towers of neglected responsibility. The early morning sun poured through the large windows, gilding the room with light—hot, unrelenting, much like the boy seated at the center of it all.
Ice.
He didn't look up immediately, merely squinted in annoyance as the sun caught his eyes. It gave him a strangely disarming appearance—cute, even—far from the intimidating, sharp-tongued figure most students were used to.
"Transferee?" he muttered, voice low, almost disinterested. His words hung in the air, sharp yet calm, like frost creeping across glass.
The press of his neatly ironed uniform did nothing to soften his demeanor. He moved with a cool elegance, his expression unreadable, indifferent. But beneath the cold surface lay a mind that functioned like a precision blade.
In this elite culinary school, Ice wasn't just a student—he was the student. A prodigy. A storm in a pressure cooker.
No one questioned how a high school senior had become SSC President before even stepping foot into the university proper. His advancement had been rapid, relentless. Rules bent. Standards rewritten.
He was Ice—untouchable, revered, and resented in equal measure. The cold prince of the academy.
"I left the student's file on your desk," the vice president added, motioning with a nod.
Ice reached for the folder—oddly out of place among his otherwise flawless organization. He frowned. That wasn't like him. He never misplaces things.
Opening it, a small photo slipped out—an ID-sized picture of a girl. She had a gentle smile and luminous eyes, framed by soft hair that seemed to catch the light just right. There was something effortlessly graceful about her, like the kind of person who could brighten a room just by walking in.
But Ice didn't linger on the picture. His gaze dropped to the handwritten notes below.
Eligible for second-year status due to prior culinary experience.
Former fashion design student.
His jaw tightened.
"I bet she can't even cook breakfast." he muttered to himself.
Without hesitation, he grabbed the red marker on his desk and drew a hard circle around the sentence. Twice.
Why are there so many idiots wandering around lately?
He gripped the steering wheel tighter, the memory still fresh—just this morning, some girl had sprinted right in front of his car. No warning, no hesitation. He'd slammed the brakes so hard the tires screamed in protest.
She'd stood there bowing and apologizing like her life depended on it, but the damage was done. He was almost late because of her reckless stunt.
"Unacceptable," he muttered under his breath.