The golden light of the lamps flowed softly down the walls of the VIP lounge, reflecting in the polished surfaces and the glasses of amber whiskey. The music here was muffled, as if coming from behind a thick wall. The bass didn't shake the walls but slowly pushed through the hookah smoke, dissolving into the air. The entire space seemed shrouded in a hazy veil, where time moved slower.
Park Do-yun entered with a tray. His steps were quieter than usual, but inside, everything was too loud: his heart pounded as if trying to drown out the music. White shirt, black vest—the typical waiter uniform. But in this light, he felt as if he were under a spotlight.
Yoon Seung-ho sat in the corner, sprawled on the couch, a glass in his hand. His silhouette—large, relaxed, yet dangerously focused—seemed to be the center of this golden picture. The alpha's gaze immediately caught Do-yun, and he knew: there were no accidents here.
"I want only him to serve," Seung-ho said, without even looking at the waitress who had stepped toward the table.
The words were spoken casually, but they carried authority. Do-yun stepped closer. The tray in his hands trembled when he placed the glass on the table. He made every movement slowly, precisely, as if controlling his every breath.
But Seung-ho's fingers lingered longer than they should have.
He touched Do-yun's hand as if by accident when taking the glass, but instead of pulling his fingers back, he held them there. The touch was warm, slightly rough, and commanding.
"You're trembling," he said softly, almost lazily, without looking away.
"You have a vivid imagination," Do-yun forced out. His voice was steady, but his fingers on the tray clenched so tightly that his knuckles went white.
Seung-ho smiled slightly. His hand slid across the omega's wrist, lingering near the palm. It was a touch that had nothing to do with service. Too slow, too obvious.
"You have a rich imagination," Do-yun repeated coldly.
Seung-ho chuckled slightly, but didn't withdraw his hand. His fingers slowly slid over the wrist, pausing where the pulse beat.
"Imagination has nothing to do with it. We both know there are no accidents. Even you ending up in this game is not an accident."
Do-yun frowned. "Game? This is an investigation."
"For you—an investigation. For me—business. But in the end…" he leaned closer, warm smoke touching the omega's face, "we are digging in the same direction."
He released his hand, but immediately touched it again—this time as if adjusting the shirt cuff. His fingers lingered longer than necessary.
"Partners," Seung-ho said calmly. "Forced, but partners."
Do-yun took a step back, but his heart beat faster. "I never agreed to be your partner."
"And you don't need to agree," the alpha's voice was calm but firm. "It's enough that we share a common enemy. You are looking for the truth; I am looking for a traitor. It's the same thing."
Do-yun took another step back, but his heart was racing even faster. His palms became damp. He felt the slick betraying his arousal as it secreted between his thighs.
He hated himself for it.
Seung-ho raised his glass and took a sip, his eyes glued to him the entire time. Then he set the glass down and reached out, as if to adjust Do-yun's shirt cuff. But his fingers landed on his skin and slid slightly higher, toward the elbow. The movement was simple, but there was something dangerous about it—a test, an intrusion.
The hookah smoke enveloped them, like light refracted in a fog. The atmosphere became thick, like honey.
Do-yun forced himself not to pull his hand away. He looked straight ahead, his face remaining impassive. But his body responded. His pulse hammered in his lower abdomen, and his breathing became uneven.
He didn't hate the alpha. He hated himself—for the way his body responded.
Seung-ho leaned in slightly, a smile touching his lips. "Sometimes I think your mask is stronger than many alphas'. But your hands…" his fingers paused on the wrist again. "They always tell more."
Do-yun gritted his teeth. He wanted to push him away, but passion was already raging inside. He felt the heaviness, the heat, that same treacherous reaction where blood rushed to his cock and his palms trembled with desire and fury at the same time.
He abruptly pulled his hand away, placing the tray on the table so hard that the glasses rattled slightly.
"If you're finished, I can go," he said harshly.
Seung-ho sipped his whiskey and looked directly at him again. "Think about it, Detective. Alone, you'll just be broken. With me—at least you have a chance."
Seung-ho didn't try to stop him. He just smirked lazily.
Do-yun walked out into the corridor, feeling his fingers tremble. A mixture of anger, shame, and something else swirled in his chest. And he hated himself for the fact that his body reacted faster than his mind could put up a wall.
But even more, he feared that Seung-ho understood this.