The corridor behind the bar was narrow, as if carved out of an alien shadow. A dim bulb on the ceiling flickered, diving into darkness every few seconds and then reviving with weak light. The music traveled faintly through the concrete—not sharp and neon like in the main hall, but dull and muted, like heartbeats behind a wall. The air was saturated with the smell of cheap alcohol and damp plaster, and in this gloom, every step echoed.
Do-yun walked quickly. Almost too quickly for a man with nothing to hide. His palms still remembered the heat of the alpha's fingers, and it burned more intensely than tobacco or whiskey. He wanted air. Distance. A cold wall between himself and the alpha who was once again crossing boundaries.
"Detective."
The voice reached him before the footsteps. Low, confident, and far too calm.
He stopped. But he didn't need to turn around—Seung-ho caught up to him.
The tall silhouette appeared beside him, and the dim light slid over his cheekbone, making his features sharper, more dangerous. The scent of tobacco and cologne enveloped him so closely that Do-yun's breath hitched. He knew: there was no backing away.
"We are partners," Seung-ho said. His voice was low, but there was a firmness in it that made even the walls seem to tremble. "Whether you like it or not."
Do-yun met his gaze coldly. The mask on his face held firm. "I am working. Everything else is your fantasy."
Seung-ho smirked slightly. His hand rose, almost casually touching Do-yun's wrist. His fingers were hot and strong. It was a light movement—but it sent blood rushing to Do-yun's temples.
"Is that so?" he whispered, leaning closer. "Then why aren't you pulling away?"
Do-yun wanted to answer, but his voice caught in his throat. His body traitorously froze, and his breath hitched.
The alpha's fingers slid slowly along his palm, pausing right over his pulse point. His heart was beating so loudly that Seung-ho seemed to hear its rhythm.
"Even if we are different," he continued, lowering his voice to a whisper, "we are heading toward the same thing. You are looking for the truth. I am looking for the one who betrayed me. And the truth and the betrayer are always behind the same door."
Seung-ho's forehead almost touched his temple. Only their breaths separated them. A thin line, one step away from this closeness turning into a kiss.
Do-yun felt arousal rising in his chest. The air became thick, heavy. His body responded faster than his mind. Pheromones surged out, slick seemed to run down his skin, betraying everything he wanted to hide.
He sharply pulled away. Took a step back, straightened up, his gaze turning cold as a blade.
"Don't cross the line," he said evenly.
Seung-ho stopped, but a smile slid across his lips. Slow, dangerous.
"You call it the line. I call it the beginning."
Silence hung between them. Only the hum of the bass penetrated the walls, like a distant echo.
Do-yun turned and walked forward. His steps sounded firm and confident. But inside, everything was shaking. He could feel the alpha's gaze burning into his back, searing through his clothes, through his skin, right into his heart.
***
He stepped into the staff corridor, which smelled of dust and old wood. It was empty and darker here, but he didn't feel any lighter.
His hands were still trembling. Every time Seung-ho got close, his body betrayed him. It responded faster than his mind could build a wall. It was as if memory itself flared up: the scent, the breath, the heat of the palm on his wrist—and everything inside collapsed.
"I am a detective. I must control myself. I must hold the mask."
He repeated it mentally, like an incantation. But the harder he repeated it, the clearer he realized: the mask had already cracked.
Seung-ho was telling the truth. They had a common enemy. Their paths led to the same door. But behind that door was not only the truth. There was something he had been trying to run from all these years.
Pheromones trembled traitorously in his blood. He felt an erection. His cock responded heavily beneath the fabric, and this reaction caused not excitement, but anger. At himself. At his body. For choosing the enemy.
He clenched his fists, trying to regain his breath.
"I hate him."
But his heart beat faster when he remembered how close their faces had been. How one movement could have turned a breath into a kiss.
And he hated himself even more for wanting it.