During the final session of the tribunal, Choi Seungcheol was called in.
He was immaculate in a crisp charcoal suit cut to accentuate the breadth of his shoulders. Under perfectly groomed hair, his expression was somber but composed. He didn't look like a villain. He looked like a young statesman, or perhaps a martyr who had been burdened by a terrible, unavoidable tragedy. His handsome features didn't just suggest beauty; they suggested integrity.
He didn't look at Jaemin. Not once.
"Herr Choi," Dean Valerius said, his voice softening noticeably compared to the tone he had used with Jaemin. "Thank you for coming. We understand this must be difficult for you."
"It is, Dean Valerius," Choi Seungcheol said. His voice was rich, steady, and utterly reasonable—the very embodiment of sanity itself. "I care about Jaemin. I've tried to look out for him, as a fellow Korean should, since his freshman year."
"Tell us what happened."
Choi Seungcheol sighed, a sound of perfect, measured regret.
"Jaemin was struggling. He... he hasn't been well. His heat cycles have been erratic, and Dr. Thorne's report confirms that this affected his mind. I tried to help him, to guide him, but he started to believe my notes were his own."
"That's a lie!" Jaemin stood up, his chair scraping violently against the floor. He couldn't stay silent. "You were the one asking me for help! You—"
"Seo Jaemin, sit down!" Dean Valerius roared, slamming his hand on the table.
Choi Seungcheol didn't flinch. He didn't get angry. He just looked sadly at the floor, as if Jaemin's outburst only proved his point.
"Dean Valerius, please," he said softly, raising a hand as if to calm the room. "Don't be too harsh on Jaemin. He isn't himself. It's not his fault he can't keep his omega nature under control."
"Your patience is commendable, Herr Choi," Dean Valerius huffed, glaring at Jaemin. "But the Academy cannot function on patience alone. Proceed."
After a pause, Choi Seungcheol sighed. "He became obsessed with me," he continued, his tone lowering. "Although, in full honesty, looking back... the fault partly lies with me for encouraging him."
He shook his head, a small, rueful smile touching his lips. It was a masterstroke.
"I was vain," Choi Seungcheol admitted, looking up at the judges with man-to-man candor. "To have someone clinging onto your every word like you're his world… My ego was flattered. I let him get too close. I let him into my room, let him see my drafts. I thought I was mentoring him. I didn't realize I was feeding a delusion."
Professor Baumann murmured, "That's very humble of you to admit, Herr Choi. But it's natural. Which of us hasn't been swayed by admiration?"
He looked around at the rest of the board, all of whom nodded solemnly. They saw themselves in him—the successful alpha merely tolerating the adoration of a lesser creature.
"You're not at fault for feeling that way," Professor Sato added gently.
Choi Seungcheol's smile held a precise mixture of regret and gratitude, calculated to extract the panel's strongest sympathy.
"Thank you for saying that. But I can't help feeling that if I had drawn firmer boundaries sooner, things would never have gotten to this point."
Professor Sato's understanding smile stayed. "You take too much blame upon yourself."
She shifted her attention to a pile of papers that sat on the table: Jaemin's original drafts, submitted by Choi Seungcheol by request of the panel.
"Let's return to the manuscripts," she said. "Herr Seo has produced notes in his own handwriting."
Choi Seungcheol nodded, not missing a beat. "Yes. Jaemin often sat in while I composed. I would play, and I allowed him to transcribe for me. I thought it was a good exercise for his ear training. I had no idea he was hoarding those transcriptions to build a case against me."
Jaemin felt like he had been punched. It was a lie so audacious, so completely irrefutable without a witness, that it stole the breath from his lungs. "I wrote those," he gasped. "I wrote those in the library, alone!"
"A parrot can recite Shakespeare, Seo Jaemin," Professor Baumann said dismissively, not even sparing him a glance. "That does not mean it understands the meter. Silence. Herr Choi, please."
Choi Seungcheol paused, shifting his weight, letting the silence build, as if he were hesitating to tell the next part. "We were working so closely. I thought we were friends. But when I finally refused to give him co-authorship credit for my concerto... he snapped."
The board members leaned in.
"He tried to use his secondary gender against me," Choi Seungcheol continued, staring down at his hands. His voice lowered to a hushed, reluctant tone as if ashamed of the memory. "He came onto me aggressively. He threw himself at me in the practice rooms. His scent was everywhere, trying to confuse me. It was… difficult to resist, biologically speaking, but I knew something wasn't right. When I tried to refuse him... he threatened to ruin my reputation with these false claims of plagiarism."
The room went dead silent. The board members looked at Choi Seungcheol with deep sympathy, and then turned their gazes to Jaemin.
The disgust was palpable. They saw exactly what the narrative told them to see: a sexually deviant, unstable omega, a predator trying to trap a noble alpha with false accusations.
"That's not true," Jaemin whispered, his voice cracking. "He was the one who—I… I would never use my scent on him like that. I… I loved him."
The confession was met with a cold, dead silence. It hung in the air, rejected.
"Seo Jaemin," Dean Valerius said finally, his voice dripping with condescension. "Do you have anything else to add? Anything that is supported by actual evidence, and not just your omega hysteria?"
Jaemin looked at the five faces staring down at him.
They weren't listening. They hadn't been listening since he walked in. They saw a hysterical omega and a composed alpha.
The truth didn't matter. The music didn't matter. There was no way he could win this fight.
He shook his head mutely.
"The committee has reached a decision," Dean Valerius announced, not even pretending to deliberate. He glanced down at the folder in front of him, picking up a pen.
"Seo Jaemin. Due to academic fraud, moral turpitude, and malicious slander against a fellow student, the Vienna Academy of Music hereby expels you. Your credits are nullified."
He looked up, his eyes cold behind his spectacles.
"Furthermore, we are obligated to report the specific nature of your dismissal—Predatory Biological Misconduct—to the European Association of Conservatoires."
Jaemin felt the blood drain from his face, leaving him cold. The AEC. That wasn't just Vienna. That was the entire continent. Berlin, Paris, London, Milan. It was the network that connected every major music institution in Europe.
If his file was flagged with the AEC, he wouldn't just be expelled from the Vienna Academy; he would be blacklisted from higher education in music entirely. He would never graduate. He would never hold a degree. And without that certification, no prestigious orchestra in Europe would ever look at him.
He was being exiled from the world of classical music.
"You are barred from campus grounds as of 6:00 PM today," the Dean finished, closing the file with a finality that echoed like a gunshot. "Please vacate your dorm room before that time. This disciplinary hearing is adjourned."