The moment Do-hyun slammed out of the office, Jaemin fled. No longer the calm, collected conductor, but a cornered, desperate thing, he simply ran and didn't stop, his terror an ice-cold wave in his veins. He didn't know where he was going. All he knew was that he had to get away. Away from Kang Do–hyun's furious cedar smell, which followed him like a physical presence, wrapping around his lungs and squeezing the air out. It clung to his clothes and tangled in his hair, making him feel like the man was right behind him at every turn.
He didn't stop until he reached the safety of his apartment, slamming the door shut and sliding to the floor, legs shaking, lungs burning as he gasped for breath. His sandalwood scent blocker was now failing completely, and his true floral scent, mixed with panic, filled the small room. He buried his face in his hands, trembling. The floral scent was thin and weak, quickly overpowered by the insistent cedar that clung to his skin, making his head spin with a disorienting, nauseating ache. The scar on his neck throbbed, a hot, searing burn that felt like a brand.
He had made a catastrophic mistake. He had lost control for a second, and it was enough to ruin everything he'd worked so hard to rebuild in the last few years.
He fumbled for his phone, his hands trembling so hard he almost dropped it, but managed to hit the single emergency contact.
"Hyung," he choked out as the line connected, the word a small, broken sob. "I screwed up."
The line was silent for a moment. Then, a voice, calm and full of concern, responded. "Jaemin-ah. What happened? Where are you?"
"Th-They found out," he croaked, his face crumpling. "I can't go back." He shook uncontrollably as a tidal wave of shame, fear, and defeat overwhelmed him. The careful fortress he had built for years, the meticulously constructed beta persona, had come crashing down in a single, terrifying second.
…
Over the next few days, the Seoul Philharmonic Symphony found itself a ship without a captain. The rehearsal hall, once humming with promise, was now a tomb of fractured sound. Jaemin's absence was a chasm of silence that the orchestra couldn't ignore. The Brahms concerto, which had been on the verge of beautiful cohesion, now sounded fragmented and hollow. The musicians, bewildered without their conductor, tried to continue without him, but the fragile magic of the Adagio and the Brahms was gone, and they reverted to old, bad habits. The music was a chorus of individual sorrows once again, their playing disjointed, harmony fractured.
"This is pointless!" Han Chaewon slammed her violin against her hip in frustration as they called a helpless end to another fruitless session. "We sound like a flock of seagulls in a hurricane," she muttered, angry eyes fixed on the back of Seojun's head. "All thanks to your meddling little match-making scheme."
Kim Seojun flinched, his round face flushed with shame. The easy confidence he had worn a few days ago had been replaced by a grim, miserable anxiety. "It was just a joke!" he insisted, his voice barely a whisper. "A little nudge for dramatic effect!"
"The only dramatic effect was our conductor running away," Yoon Hyeonwoo grumbled. "And now look at us."
"That wasn't a nudge, Seojun-ah," Chaewon said, her voice firm and stripped of its usual playful sarcasm. "That was a shove. And you shoved the only person who could save this orchestra right out the door."
"Shh, not so loud." Jung Eunji's eyes darted nervously to Do-hyun, who was still in his spot, his expression a mask of stone as he stared at the podium, eyes fixed on the conductor's baton lying abandoned on its lip.
As concertmaster, he had been trying to lead the rehearsals as best he could in Jaemin's absence, but his heart wasn't in it. His fury, a roaring fire a few days ago, had faded into a cold, uncomfortable remorse. The image of Jaemin's face—a mask of pure, unadulterated terror—haunted him.
He was the one who had truly shoved Jaemin out the door. The man's fear had been real, not a part of any act or manipulation or trick. He had seen the way Jaemin's hands had trembled with a desperate, failing control. He had witnessed the subtle, neutral sandalwood give way to the alluring sweetness of cherry blossoms, infused with raw, panicked distress. The conductor was a mystery, a genius, a beautiful trap, but the man was full of fear. "A survivor," Manager Park had called him.
His alpha instincts, which had initially screamed bloody murder at the deception, were now at war with each other. A part of him wanted to confront the liar who had made him vulnerable. A deeper, more primal part wanted to find the omega who was hurt and terrified and protect him.
He had created this mess. He had shouted, he had accused, and in his rage, he had broken the one thing that had been working. His alpha pride, which had felt so righteous just hours ago, now felt like a lead weight in his gut. He was a master of his craft, a genius on his violin, but what good was that now without someone to lead the orchestra, to lead him?
He couldn't manage the rehearsals. The music felt wrong, a cold, soulless thing without Jaemin's quiet, beautiful will. It was a collection of individual sorrows again, and he was tired of it. He couldn't let his orchestra, the family he had sworn to save, fall apart again.
He wanted the conversation back. He wanted the music back.
When the fourth day came and Seo Jaemin still didn't show, Do-hyun couldn't take it anymore. The grumbling of the musicians, the hollow sound of the music, and the cold, bitter taste of his own guilt were all too much to bear.
He slammed his violin back into its case with a worrying crack. "Break!" he snapped, the word echoing in the sudden, jarring silence. He didn't wait for a response. He grabbed his instrument and strode out of the hall, the worried whispers and angry stares of his fellow musicians a heavy weight on his shoulders.
He had to fix this. He had to face him. His questions were screaming for answers, and he needed them from the man he had hurt.
…
The drive to Jaemin's apartment building was a blur. Do-hyun's mind was a frantic mess of thoughts, his simmering anger replaced with a potent blend of apprehension and a primal, unfamiliar sense of a journey's end. He had a lifetime of experience with alphas, with their blunt demands for obedience and respect. He knew next to nothing about omegas besides the common facts, of their quiet strengths and hidden vulnerabilities. He had no roadmap for this, no guidebook. He only had the quiet, gnawing guilt in his gut.
He found the apartment building, a modest complex hidden on a quiet side street, and headed straight for the unit.
He was here. He was at Seo Jaemin's door.
After a long, painful moment of hesitation, he knocked, and immediately braced himself for the conversation to come. But when the door opened, it wasn't the conductor, but a young man, barely older than Jaemin, who stood in the doorway.
He was a beta, but his scent—the bright, citrusy lemon of laundry detergent—was calm and gentle, a stark contrast to Do-hyun's muted cedar. He looked at Do-hyun with a gaze that was calm but firm, a wall of soft, neutral stone.
"Yes? Who are you?" the beta asked.