"I need to head to the office," Seung-ho said abruptly, buttoning his coat.
At the threshold, he paused for a moment, returned, and unexpectedly leaned closer. His lips touched Do-yun's temple—briefly, softly, almost tenderly.
"Wait here," he said and left.
The footsteps faded. The corridor fell silent.
Do-yun was left alone.
***
The office-storage room was a cramped space with a high ceiling, cluttered with shelves. Boxes of straws, stacks of napkins, packs of disposable cups, and crates of alcohol. Seemingly ordinary bar essentials, but amidst this chaos, a desk by the window stood out.
A laptop glowed on the desk, its cold, bluish light cutting the darkness. Rain streamed down the windowpane in long, endless drops, as if time itself was draining outside. The light reflected in the droplets, turning them into silver threads.
Do-yun slowly approached the desk. At first, he simply intended to turn off the laptop, but his gaze snagged on a pile of folders carelessly left there. The top one had slipped slightly, exposing a familiar company seal.
He froze.
The seal seemed foreign here, amongst the boxes of straws and bottles. Foreign, yet too familiar.
He reached out, took the folder, and opened it.
Lines raced before his eyes: invoices, accounts, directors' signatures. At first—boring numbers: bottle counts, write-offs. But then his eyes caught something else.
"Shipment. Warehouse 27. Yongsan District."
Do-yun gripped the papers. A memory flashed: photos from a case three years ago. A missing omega. The last known traces led exactly there, to that district. Then—silence. The case had been closed too quickly, as if someone had deliberately cut the thread.
He flipped further.
"Warehouse 14. Incheon."
Again, familiar. There, he had seen an empty container, the smell of cheap cologne, and blood on the concrete floor. No one had ever explained what happened.
Page after page unfolded a picture he didn't want to piece together: dozens of warehouses, different addresses, different company names. But they were all linked by a single chain of transfers. The accounts went to various banks, but ultimately converged on structures controlled by Seung-ho's corporation.
He felt a cold sweat break out on his back.
"Damn…" he exhaled, almost soundlessly.
He remembered the woman crying at the precinct: "Please find him. He went out to the club in the evening and never came back." He recalled the photographs—young faces, those who had vanished in a blink. He remembered his own powerlessness as the cases were closed one after another.
And here they were. Dates matching the nights of the disappearances. Signatures confirming every shipment. Seals, too neatly placed, as if intentional.
He ran a finger over a line. The paper was rough, damp from the moisture. He held his breath because he felt it: these sheets connected everything he had searched for all these years.
And they connected it to the name that had become too close to him.
Seung-ho.
***
The thought burned. If he revealed these papers—everything would collapse.
Seung-ho trusted him. Left him here alone, without even considering that he might look where he shouldn't. His trust had been open, like that kiss on the temple. Warm, almost domestic.
And he sat here, holding in his hands the evidence that turned that trust into a fragile illusion.
Do-yun closed the folder, putting it back carefully, as if he hadn't touched a thing.
He took a step back. Randomly grabbed a box of straws, placing it on the edge of the desk. If anyone looked in—he was just a waiter, counting supplies.
But inside, everything was trembling.
He sat on the edge of the desk, rested his palms on his knees, and closed his eyes. The sound of the rain grew louder, almost drowning out his thoughts. But the thoughts tore through anyway.
"If this is true… if he is involved… what then?"
There was no answer.
He remembered Seung-ho's gaze—heavy, attentive. He remembered his hands, his voice. And now, every memory shattered like glass: was it care, or just part of a larger game?
Do-yun stood up, pacing the room. The boxes, the dust, the raindrops outside the window—everything felt too confining.
He stopped by the window. Outside, the city was drowning in neon, in droplets, in chaos. From above, everything looked calm, but he knew: black water hid beneath the surface.
He could walk out now, wait for Seung-ho, show the papers, ask a direct question. But the words wouldn't form.
Because if he was wrong—he would lose everything.
And if he wasn't wrong—he would lose even more.
***
The documents lay nearby, neat stacks, precise signatures. They felt cold, alien, yet each page burned him hotter than fire. Do-yun felt it: here it was, the link between the disappearances and Seung-ho's corporation. The thing that could destroy everything.
He closed the folder slowly, as if afraid the paper would loudly crunch. He got up, paced the room, but his steps were heavy. The rain outside the window poured harder, and the drops streamed down the glass in long streaks, like shadows.
He stopped at the desk, gripped the edge with his palm, and closed his eyes. Seung-ho's image flashed in his mind—his voice, sharp and calm at the same time; his hand pressing him against the wall; his lips touching his temple before leaving.
The more he thought about him, the hotter he became.
At first, it was a slight warmth, as always when the alpha's proximity broke through his blockers. But now the fire was building faster, deeper. His chest rose more frequently, his heart hammered heavily, like a drum.
He ran a hand across his neck, trying to stop the tremor. But the tremor traveled lower, to his belly, to his anus, which was responding with treacherous speed. First a barely noticeable dampness, then more and more—slick was emerging, leaving a sticky trail he felt throughout his body.
"No…" he whispered, lowering his head.
He sat on the edge of the desk, leaned forward, gripping his knees with his palms, as if he could physically hold himself back. But the heat only intensified. His skin broke out in goosebumps; his breathing became ragged.
The thought flashed: "This is the start of a heat."
He tried to banish the thought, but his body wouldn't listen. Every detail in his memory—Seung-ho's gaze, his laugh, his hand resting on his shoulder sometime before—turned into fuel for this fire.
He bit his lip until it hurt, but the moans strained to escape. He wanted to get up, leave, hide. But his legs felt leaden.
His body was betraying him again.
Do-yun clenched his fists, trying to focus on the papers, the investigation, the missing omegas. But the harder he told himself to focus on the work, the more clearly he felt everything melting inside. How his heart was beating too fast. How his anus was responding with warm oil, more and more distinctly.
He lifted his head, looked at the rain outside the window. The glass trembled in the wind, and for a moment, it seemed as if the city beyond that window was watching him, laughing at his powerlessness.
"Damn…" he exhaled into the emptiness, covering his face with his hands.
His chest felt tight. His lower abdomen was aching, burning.
He understood: he could still hide the evidence. Hide the papers, pretend he noticed nothing. But to hide himself, his reaction, what was already beginning to physically overcome him—he was powerless to do so.
And the more intensely he thought of Seung-ho, the closer the moment became when his body would take over completely.