The car stopped in front of a dark apartment building. The rain had passed, but the asphalt still smelled of dampness, like after a storm.
"Get out," Seung-ho said curtly.
Do-yun opened the door and stepped out. His legs felt like cotton, but his steps remained steady. He wouldn't allow himself to tremble—not now, not under that gaze.
The alpha remained in the car. A cigarette glowed in the darkness.
"Sleep well," he said softly. There was no mockery or sympathy in his words. Only certainty.
The door slammed shut. The headlights flashed, and the black sedan dissolved into the night.
His apartment greeted him with its familiar silence. Narrow walls, a low table, a bed with a hard mattress. Nothing extra. Only a desk lamp cast a soft light, pushing the corners into shadow.
Do-yun threw his jacket on a chair and sank onto the edge of the bed. In his hands, a pack of blockers. The pill in his palm seemed too small. He put it on his tongue and washed it down with water.
The bitterness dissolved instantly. But there was no relief.
He leaned forward, covering his face with his hands. His breathing was ragged, his heart was pounding too loudly. Heat still lingered in his chest. Below, slick was still flowing, despite the bitter taste of the medicine.
What is happening to me?
He had always been in control. Years of training, years of secrecy. His body obeyed him. His scent—suppressed. His mask—impenetrable.
But now... cracks were appearing.
It all started with that look at the club. It continued with touches, kisses, and broke him on the street under the cold stars. And now, even the chemistry wasn't working.
Do-yun clenched his fists.
"No…" he whispered. "I won't let this happen again."
But his body was betraying him. His temples throbbed, the thick slick was flowing again below, even though he had just taken the pill. The smell of pheromones rose slowly, like smoke. And he could feel it himself—dense, inevitable.
A disaster.
If Seung-ho felt it... if anyone else guessed... it would be the end.
He fell onto the mattress, burying his face in the pillow. The silence of the apartment was more oppressive than the music of the club. Here there was no mask, no audience. Only him—and his weakness.
His lips remembered the other's lips. His body—the weight of the other's hands. Inside, every thrust still resonated.
And when he closed his eyes, his inner vision was filled not only with Seung-ho's face but also with the past—a stranger's laugh, a stranger's breath, hands he couldn't break free from.
"Stop…" he whispered into the darkness. But his breathing grew heavier.
He wasn't afraid of Seung-ho. He was afraid of himself.
At that same moment, on the other side of the city, Seung-ho was in the gym. His hands hit the punching bag, the blows tearing through the air. Sweat trickled down his temples, his heart beating a steady rhythm. But in his mind—only Do-yun.
That coldness. That tremor. And the scent.
A scent that was too familiar.
The alpha stopped, taking off his gloves. A smirk played on his lips—predatory, satisfied.
"He'll break down anyway," he told himself. "And when he does, I'll be the first one to hear him truly moan."
The night dragged on.
In Do-yun's apartment, it smelled of pheromones. He sat on the bed, clutching the pack of blockers so tightly his fingers hurt. Inside—fear, despair, and the realization that his mask was crumbling faster than he could put it back on.