The bass rumbled, making the glass partitions vibrate, and the light from the spotlights darted across the dance floor, where dozens of bodies moved to a single rhythm. Laughter, shouts, the smell of alcohol and perfume intertwined with thick pheromones that could choke you. Do-yoon moved between the tables, balancing a tray on his palm. His gaze was cold, focused. To outsiders—an ordinary waiter. To himself—a hunter, searching for tracks in the crowd. He noted everything: the man at the bar who looked toward the doors too often; the couple talking with too much tension; the group of young guys pretending to relax but checking their phones more often than their drinks. The job of a waiter was a mask, and he had become so fused with it that his movements were automatic. Clearing empty glasses, setting down new ones. Presenting the bill. Apologizing for the delay. Smiling. All a familiar ritual allowing him to remain invisible. But the heaviness within him did not cease. The last conversations, the latest findings—they were tearing him in two. Every face in the room could be connected to the disappearances. Every movement—another lead.
He placed the tray on the bar counter when he heard it—the noise at the entrance died down for a moment. The doors flew open, letting in a gust of cold air along with a new rhythm. He turned around. Seungho. A tall silhouette in a long dark coat. Rain-dampened hair, perfectly tousled, his stride confident, measured. A void immediately formed around him—people involuntarily stepped back as he passed. Do-yoon froze. Their eyes met for only a second, gliding past each other like blades. Not a single extra movement, not a single word. Yet it was enough to make his chest tighten. Seungho walked past, not stopping. Do-yoon felt a coldness spread beneath his stomach. He put the tray down on the counter and followed him.
***
The staff corridor met him with silence. Only the hum of the music pierced the walls, resonating as a tremor in the pipes. Here, it smelled of damp wood, metal, and something else—old sweat, cigarette smoke. Seungho didn't turn around, but his step was recognizable: confident, heavy. Do-yoon walked slightly behind until Seungho pushed open the office door.
***
It was almost dark inside. The panoramic windows overlooked Seoul, submerged in rain. A lamp on the desk cast a sharp light on papers, turning them into white patches in the gloom. Seungho sat down in the chair without removing his coat and remained silent for a long time. Do-yoon closed the door and stayed standing.
— You knew, - he finally said. His voice was steady, but there was too much tension in its steadiness. - These clubs. These disappearances. They couldn't be happening without your knowledge.
Seungho slowly looked up. His gaze was heavy, dark.
— Are you serious? - he asked quietly. - Do you think I would allow that to happen?
— What if you did? - Do-yoon clenched his fingers into a fist.
Seungho slammed his palm on the desk. The sound cut through the silence.
— You still don't believe me. After everything.
— I have reasons, - Do-yoon shot back coldly.
— What are they? - Seungho stood up. - Tell me. What is your proof?
— Proof isn't always on paper, - Do-yoon replied. - Sometimes it's in how a person looks, how they remain silent.
— So that's what I am to you, - Seungho's voice became low, strained. - A look. Silence. Suspicion.
— And who should you be to me? - Do-yoon retorted sharply. - A person I blindly trust? An Alpha whose word is law?
— I wanted to be the one who has your back, - Seungho took a step closer. - But you chose to see an enemy in me.
Do-yoon smiled bitterly.
— You're too used to people choosing what's convenient for you.
Seungho stopped very close. The lamp light cut across his profile, making every feature look hard.
— I'm used to people choosing reality over fear.
— And what is the reality? - Do-yoon asked quietly. - That people disappear in your clubs? That everyone who walks in here risks not walking out? Is that your reality?
Seungho fell silent. For a second, something flashed in his eyes—pain or exhaustion. But it immediately vanished.
— You have no idea how everything works, - he said hoarsely. - You only look at what you want to see.
— Maybe, - Do-yoon lifted his chin. - But at least I am looking.
The silence tightened like a string. Seungho raised his hand, held it near Do-yoon's face as if to touch him, but stopped himself. His lips twitched, and he abruptly leaned in. The kiss was quick, sharp, almost rough. There was no passion in it. It was a farewell kiss.
— If you've decided to see me as an enemy, - he said quietly when he pulled away, - I won't try to change your mind.
He returned to the desk, sat in the chair. The lamp again carved out his profile, hard, impenetrable. Do-yoon remained standing. His heart hammered against his ribs so loudly it felt like the whole city could hear it. The rain outside the windows streamed endlessly, washing away the lights, but not the silence between them. And that silence cracked. The crack ran along an invisible line, and both understood: if it wasn't patched, it would turn into an abyss.