The elevator doors waited in silence. The metallic gleam reflected his face—pale, too composed. Do-yun's fingers gripped the strap of his bag so tightly his knuckles were white. His heart was pounding loudly, and in the quiet of the corridor, he could almost hear it out loud.
A warm breath touched the back of his neck. Strong arms closed around his waist.
"Trying to run away?" a voice sounded right by his ear.
Do-yun flinched, but he didn't turn around. The alpha's palms held him firmly, confidently, as if the world had narrowed down to this one grip.
"I'm just leaving," he exhaled. "I have a shift today."
A low chuckle. "Even after last night, you're thinking about work?"
He broke free—not sharply, but with determination. "Precisely because of it."
A step forward. The elevator. The doors closed, and a gaze was all that remained between them. Heavy, dark, possessive.
The club greeted him with noise and neon. The bass thumped against his temples, the crowd moved as a single body, and the air was thick with pheromones and smoke. For Do-yun, this was a sanctuary. Here, he could be the "waiter" again, dissolved into his role. The tray in his hands was a shield. The mask on his face held firm, but inside, the voice still echoed: "Trying to run away?"
He weaved between tables until a security guard touched his shoulder.
"The VIP room. For you."
Do-yun nodded. He already knew who was waiting.
The VIP room was drowned in a golden twilight. Glasses glinted with amber, and cigars smoldered on the table. Seung-ho sat in the center of the couch, like the master of the space. His gaze was direct, without a game: he wasn't looking—he was waiting.
"Wine," he said quietly.
Do-yun placed the glass down. He went to turn away, but the alpha's fingers touched his hand—briefly, but with a possessive authority.
"You carry yourself as if everything around you doesn't concern you," Seung-ho said. "But that's exactly what makes you so visible."
Do-yun looked up. "And you love to test boundaries."
"Not boundaries," the alpha smirked. "Your endurance."
Their gazes locked. Music roared beyond the wall, but here, the world compressed into silence.
Later, in the corridor, Do-yun took out his phone. On the screen were photos of the missing omegas, reports, and routes. The "Galatea Enterprise" logo shone white on black.
All the threads lead to him. To Yoon Seung-ho.
He put the phone away. His heart was beating erratically. If he was involved, then the game had long become deadly.
Footsteps behind him. A shadow blocked the light. Seung-ho was beside him, seizing his wrist.
"You look at me as if you're deciding whether I'm an enemy or a savior," he said softly. "But either way, you've already chosen."
Do-yun yanked his hand, but the fingers held firm.
"You're mistaken. I am not yours."
"Then prove it," Seung-ho smirked. "But not with words."
He let go.
The crowd buzzed, and the lights tore the room apart. Do-yun went back to work, but every movement was a tremor. His mask held—cold, flawless. But inside, he felt it: step by step, the hunt was becoming clear.
And the more he denied it, the deeper his freedom sank.