The music roared like the heart of a beast, and the vibrations sank into his bones. The club pulsed with life: neon lights fractured the darkness with flashes, smoke rose to the ceiling, reflecting the light, and the crowd moved to a rhythm that drowned out even one's own thoughts. Everyone here was dancing, drinking, and laughing, but for Park Do-yun, it was all just a facade. Beneath the merriment lay the same thick danger that existed in the precinct corridors.
The tray in his hands felt like a shield, but he knew: it was a shield made of glass. One solid hit, and everything would shatter.
He could feel the gaze. Not for the first time in recent days—on the streets, in storefront reflections, in rainy back alleys. But here, among hundreds of faces, this stare seemed to burn through the smoke.
Do-yun turned his head—not directly, but with a sidelong glance, as if checking an order. A shadow flashed in the mirror behind the bar. A feeling that was too familiar: footsteps that matched his own. A silhouette repeating his route. Something inside him clenched.
"Again."
He quickened his pace. Squeezed between people, passed the stage where the music was hitting the air even harder. His lungs burned. Every time, he told himself he was mistaken. That it was just nervousness caused by recent events. But his heart didn't lie.
The crowd was like a sea: waves of people crashed together, pulling at him, trying to drag him under. But among those waves, someone was following him. He felt it on his skin, in his breath, in every nerve.
In the corridor leading to the staff room, the noise quieted. Walls with peeling paint, sparse lamps, dim light. He stepped inside, hoping to gain a few seconds of silence. But just as the door closed behind him, a shadow stopped at the entrance.
His pulse hammered against his temples.
Do-yun wanted to pretend he was just walking on, but his back broke out in a cold sweat. One second more, and he would turn around. One second more, and he would be exposed.
And then, someone touched his shoulder.
"Don't look back," a low voice cut through the silence.
Do-yun flinched. He was spun around and pressed against the wall. The cold of the concrete hit his back, and the scent hit his face: expensive perfume, the faint smoke of tobacco, and beneath it all—that same predatory aroma that he couldn't hide from.
Yoon Seung-ho.
"You're attracting attention again," he said softly. His lips barely moved, but his eyes looked as if they were stripping away his defensive layers one by one.
"Let go," Do-yun exhaled.
Seung-ho didn't move. His palm held Do-yun's wrist tightly, the other resting against the wall nearby, blocking his escape. He was closer than the rules allowed. Closer than the air itself allowed.
"If I let go, the person following you will get even closer," he said with that lazy confidence that infuriated more than any threat.
Do-yun wanted to argue, but at that moment, he felt it: they were not alone. The shadow was still standing at the entrance. Someone was watching.
Seung-ho leaned in. His breath brushed against Do-yun's neck, sending shivers down his skin.
"Sometimes the best way to hide…" his voice became a near-whisper, "…is to pretend you're busy."
And before Do-yun could process what was happening, the alpha's lips covered his.
The kiss hit him hard. Sudden, sharp, and devoid of gentleness. It was supposed to be just a cover. A mask. But everything exploded inside him.
Do-yun wanted to push him away. To say "no." But his body wouldn't obey. A hot wave rose from within, and his breathing became ragged. His palms pressed against Seung-ho's chest, but instead of pushing, his fingers clutched at the fabric of his shirt.
The kiss spread through his veins, warm and burning. The world narrowed to one breath, one pressure of lips. The crowd beyond the door vanished; the music became an echo, hazy and distant.
Seung-ho kissed him as if he wanted to prove: there were no observers here, no enemies—only them. Demanding, insistent, making Do-yun's every gasp a confession of weakness.
He was breathless when the alpha pulled back for a second. Their foreheads almost touched, their breaths mingling.
"See?" Seung-ho said, looking straight into his eyes. "To them, we're just a couple in the corner. No one will notice."
Do-yun swallowed. His heart was pounding as if it wanted to tear through his chest.
"You've… gone too far."
Seung-ho smirked, his fingers tracing his cheek, leaving a fiery trail. "Are you sure that was me?"
The words sounded gentle, but they carried more danger than any threat.
Do-yun pulled his hand free, pushed off the wall, and walked past him. Each step was difficult, as if his legs were filled with lead.
"Don't do that again."
Seung-ho remained in the shadow. Only his smile—slow, dangerous—flashed in the dim light.
"Too late, Detective."
When Do-yun returned to the main hall, the music hit harder. But now, every bass note was an echo of their kiss. The crowd laughed, shouted, and danced, and he felt that with every passing second, he was losing control.
He knew: the enemy was still nearby. Somewhere among those faces. But that wasn't the most frightening thing. The most frightening thing was that Seung-ho had felt more than he should have.