His apartment met him with silence.
Not the kind that soothes, but a thick, hollow silence—the kind that seems to press down from above and pin you to the floor.
Gray walls with no pictures. A low table with a teapot and a stack of papers. A narrow couch. Everything looked temporary, like a place you were ready to leave at any moment.
Do-yun set the mug on the table. Steam rose in lazy plumes, but his chest felt cold. He ran a hand over his face, lingering on his eyes as if to wipe away the remnants of the night. But the memory wouldn't fade.
Lips that burned with breath. A hand that caressed his body. The moment his muscles betrayed him and a moan escaped despite his clenched teeth.
His fingers squeezed the mug tighter. The hot ceramic burned his palms, but he didn't want to let go. The heat of the mug reminded him of the heat he wanted to escape.
"You made a mistake."
He repeated it over and over, as if driving a nail deeper into his mind.
"You allowed yourself to waver. You're weak."
He took a sip. The tea burned his tongue, bitterness piercing his throat, but his anger only intensified. That weakness still resonated in his body, even now, in the morning.
He was a detective. A former soldier. He had learned to control his breathing under fire. He knew how to hold back a scream when his body was broken by pain. But as soon as an alpha came near—a crack had appeared in the wall.
He looked down at the mug. The surface of the tea trembled because his fingers were pressing down too hard on the ceramic.
"It won't happen again. Never."
But even his own thoughts sounded hollow.
***
In another part of the city, the morning was different.
The gym buzzed.
The thud of gloves against a punching bag created a rhythm—heavy, like a pulse. The smell of leather, sweat, and sharp rubber mixed in the air. The lights overhead were harsh, cutting into his eyes.
Yoon Seung-ho punched fast, accurately, without pauses. His body moved automatically, but his mind was not on the workout.
He saw the waiter in his mind's eye—straight back, a cold face. A stranger. Someone who should have been a nobody. But his scent…
Seung-ho clenched his jaw, hitting the bag harder.
"The scent didn't lie. But it was too quiet. Too subtle."
He had seen dozens of omegas. Their pheromones were screaming—bright, sharp. This one was almost a whisper. But it was there.
And then there was the reaction. A tremor impossible to fake. A hitched breath. Lips that responded even when he turned away.
Seung-ho stopped. He exhaled sharply, sweat rolling down his temples. His heart beat steadily, but inside, a thrill was building.
"If he's an omega… he's playing a dangerous game. Hiding under a beta mask. Why? For who?"
He hit the bag again. Harder. The sound of the impact was like an explosion.
"And what if I'm wrong? If it's just my imagination? If I want to see something that isn't there?"
He smirked. He lowered his gloves. A dark, predatory look stared back at him from the mirror.
"I don't care. Even if he's a beta, he's too interesting. And if he's an omega…"
A predatory smile touched his lips.
"Then I want to hear him moan beneath me, leaking with slick."
The thought burned inside him. Dirty. Predatory. Sweet.
Seung-ho smirked, raised his hands again, and slammed his fists into the punching bag as if he were hitting not leather, but a wall he was about to break down.