The VIP lounge was hazy with smoke. The light from the lamps flowed softly over the black leather couches, reflecting in the glasses and glinting off the amber of the wine. The air was heavy with the scents of tobacco, expensive perfume, and the overheated static of music that seeped through the walls as a muted bass.
Do-yun set the tray on the table and took a step back. Ice clinked, and crystal rang. But the loudest sound seemed to come from him—his heart was hammering in his chest, and his breathing was far too sharp.
The blockers were failing. He felt it clearly: a faint trail of pheromones leaked through his mask, a treacherous scent that drifted into the air. If another alpha were here, they would catch it. But in the lounge, there was only one—the one whose gaze held him more tightly than any hand.
Yoon Seung-ho sat in the center of the couch as if it were a throne. He gently swirled a glass in his fingers, but there was no hint of nonchalance in his eyes. He took a slow sip, as if deliberately prolonging the pause, and leaned forward.
"You know," he said quietly, almost lazily, but there was a metallic edge to his voice, "in this world, an omega is always at a disadvantage. Too easy to break. Too easy to use."
Do-yun didn't flinch. His face remained cold and impassive, but his fingers under the table clenched the fabric of his trousers until it hurt.
With a smirk, Seung-ho continued, as if savoring every moment.
"That's why you hide. Isn't it? So no one sees that you're weaker."
The world seemed to shrink to those words. The noise from beyond the wall, the laughter of the guests, the clinking of glasses—everything disappeared. Only the two of them remained.
Do-yun looked up, his gaze like ice. But the icy surface was cracking—his pulse was beating too fast.
"You think too much about things that are not your business."
"On the contrary," the alpha's voice became softer, deeper, "it became my business the moment I smelled you."
The words were so close that the heat of his breath brushed against Do-yun's ear. The silence thickened, heavy as a rope around his neck.
Do-yun inhaled—a sharp, too-obvious breath.
And then Seung-ho said something he hadn't expected:
"But I'm not going to give you away."
The words caught in his throat. He had prepared for pressure, for a threat, for another attempt to dominate him. But not for this. This was why the unease grew heavier. The danger felt even more intense—because behind this "mercy" there was always a price.
"Why are you telling me this?" he asked evenly, though his voice wavered just a fraction.
"Because," Seung-ho leaned back on the couch, swirling his glass, "I want you to decide for yourself what you will do when you're with me. Will you be afraid? Or will you stop hiding."
Their gazes locked. The alpha's dark eyes held the thrill of a hunter, a challenge. The omega's cold gaze held stubbornness, a desperate effort not to falter.
The world around them went on with its noise: the music blared, someone laughed loudly, glasses clinked. But here, in the semi-darkness, only this conversation existed.
Seung-ho smiled faintly, his lips glistening in the lamplight.
"Let others see an omega as a weakness. I, however, never mistake weakness for what I desire."
The glass in his hand swayed, and the amber liquid inside flashed in the crystal, a mark left behind by his words.
Do-yun stood opposite him, holding the tray, and felt a dull tremor rise in his chest. His face showed indifference, his movements were precise, but deep in his mind, a voice was already ringing out: danger, a trap, and you are already inside.
Chapter 16
Rain had been falling for several hours. The narrow streets of Seoul were drowned in neon: the pink signs of bars reflected in puddles, and the green crosses of pharmacies blinked like an erratic pulse. Taxis sliced through the asphalt, leaving long trails of water behind them.
Park Do-yun stood in the shadow of an old shop's awning, smoking. The cigarette burned down quickly, its bitterness biting at his lungs. It was a habit he had long wanted to quit, but on nights like this, it came back on its own.
In one hand, his phone; in the other, a folder. On the screen were diagrams, tables, and reports. In the folder, the same data, but with his own annotations. Right now, he wasn't a waiter. He wasn't a mask. Now, he was himself—a detective who was putting together a picture that was too big to see in its entirety.
The case involved an increasing number of missing omegas. One disappeared every two or three weeks. They were young. Most were without family or connections. Their names dissolved into official reports, but their photographs told the same story: wary gazes, as if each of them knew their life would end too soon.
Do-yun spread the photos on the damp windowsill. Water dripped down, blurring the ink, but the lines of their routes still converged at a single point: warehouses on the outskirts. And another line led to a corporation.
Yoon Group.
Official investors and club sponsors. But beneath the layers of pretty numbers were shadows: shell companies, transfers, deals. And most importantly—the name.
Yoon.
He tried to convince himself it was a coincidence. The name was too common. But his heart hammered just as it had on the night Seung-ho's gaze had burned right through him.
In a cafe on the outskirts, he ordered black coffee and spread out his papers.
"Omega, twenty years old. Disappeared after his shift."
"Omega, twenty-three. Last seen at the club."
"Omega, nineteen. A bracelet found at the warehouse."
All of them—with no trace, no bodies. The intervals matched too perfectly. Like a delivery schedule.
He scribbled a note: "shipments."
But as he looked at the photographs, he felt something old and forgotten stirring inside him. His body remembered other hands, another's weight, that night where his "no" went unheard. And now, the faces of the missing were no longer just evidence. They were a reminder.
Do-yun squeezed his pen so hard it cracked in his fingers.
You have to think about the case. Only the case. Everything else is a burden.
But the burden was getting heavier.
When he reached the outskirts, the city ended. The narrow roads dissolved into darkness; streetlights were dim, their light reflected in puddles. The metal gates of the warehouses loomed like a wall.
Do-yun took out his camera and snapped a few pictures. One warehouse had a sign that read: "Galatea Enterprise." Inside was darkness, but fresh tire tracks near the gate gave away recent traffic.
He took a step closer—and stopped.
A scent lingered in the air. Not cigarettes. Not rain.
Pheromones.
Barely detectable, but too familiar.
He turned around sharply. Nothing. Only water dripping from the roofs. But his heart pounded harder.
He's here?
Do-yun slowly inhaled, listening. The silence felt like a mockery. But his instinct told him: he had been noticed first.
And then—movement.
A shadow slid between the rows of warehouses. Distinct, like a real figure. A person. He stood motionless, looking straight at him.
The distance was too great to make out his face. But the gaze... he could feel it. Like a touch. Like a brand.
The shadow took a step back—and disappeared.
Do-yun was left alone in the rain and metal. His fingers gripped the camera, but his legs didn't move. An instinct honed over years screamed: not now. He had no weapon, no backup, not even a plan.
He took a deep breath. The pheromones still lingered, light, almost mocking.
I've already been seen.
The thought hit him colder than the water on his collar.
Do-yun retreated into the shadows, turned around, and walked away, quickening his pace. His heart beat in time with the rain. He knew he would return here again. But this evening was over.