The roof starts leaking before my alarm goes off.
I know because the sound wakes me—soft, rhythmic, irritating. Drip. Drip. Drip.
I lie there for a few seconds staring at the low ceiling, listening, counting the drops as they hit the plastic basin I placed beneath the crack last week. I'd told myself I'd fix it over the weekend.
I didn't.
Of course I didn't.
I sit up slowly, rubbing my face with both hands. My body feels heavy, like I didn't actually rest even though I slept. The room is cold, the kind of cold that creeps into your bones and stays there all day. Morning light filters through the thin curtains, pale and weak, revealing the familiar clutter of my rooftop apartment—folded clothes on the chair, instant noodle cups stacked neatly by the sink, paperwork spread across the small table I also use as a desk.
It's small. Barely enough for one person.
But it's quiet.
That alone makes it worth it.
I stand and step carefully around the basin, avoiding the damp patch on the floor, then face the mirror by the door. My reflection stares back at me: dark circles under my eyes, hair slightly messy, tie already hanging loose around my neck even though I haven't tightened it yet. I can fix my hair and tie but not my situation.
Twenty-four.
Alpha.
Assistant manager.
None of those words feel like they belong together.
I adjust my collar, fingers moving automatically, and try not to think about home. About my parents' house, where everything was orderly and controlled and suffocating. About how my instincts were always treated like something dangerous. Something to be managed.
"Don't stand like that."
"Lower your voice."
"Stop looking at people like that."
"You're making everyone uncomfortable."
I learned early how to shrink myself.
By the time I manifested as an alpha, it wasn't a surprise. Everyone had been waiting for it like a ticking bomb. After that, nothing I did was just me anymore. It was always my instincts. My nature. My fault.
Moving out during my senior year of high school hadn't been dramatic. No shouting, no slammed doors. Just quiet disappointment and a suitcase that felt heavier than it should have.
I finish tying my tie and grab my phone.
Right on cue, it vibrates.
Manager Choi:
Bring two iced Americanos on your way in.
And don't be late again.
I stare at the message for a second longer than necessary.
I wasn't late yesterday.
Or the day before that.
But it doesn't matter.
I type back a simple Yes, sir and slip my phone into my pocket.
Outside, it's raining.
Not the dramatic kind—just a steady drizzle that soaks into your clothes without you noticing until it's too late. I lock the door behind me, open my umbrella, and start down the narrow stairs from the rooftop. By the time I reach the street, water has already crept into my shoes.
Perfect.
The walk to the subway is familiar. Too familiar. Same convenience store, same streetlight. I blend into the morning crowd easily, instincts pulled tight and buried deep.
The train is packed.
Bodies press close, scents mixing in the air—coffee, rain, cheap cologne, something sharp and nervous from a young omega nearby. I keep my gaze down, breathing slow and even. Being an alpha in tight spaces is a constant balancing act. Too much presence and people flinch. Too little and they walk all over you.
I've mastered being nothing at all.
StarLink Entertainment rises out of the rain like a glass monument to exhaustion. I stop by the café across the street, order two iced Americanos, and wait. The barista doesn't look at me. No one ever does.
By the time I reach the office, my shoulders already ache.
I place the drinks carefully on Manager Choi's desk and bow.
"Good morning."
He hums in acknowledgment, eyes never leaving his monitor. "Fix the paperwork I sent you last night. It's a mess."
"Yes."
I leave before he can find something else wrong.
The day blurs together after that. Emails. Scheduling. Fixing mistakes that weren't mine. Apologizing to people who don't even bother remembering my name. At one point, a senior snaps at me for not anticipating a change that was never communicated.
I bow again. I always bow.
By the time afternoon hits, my head is pounding.
At five thirty, I walk up to the rooftop lawn, grabbed the railings, eyes closed, breathing deeply. One minute. That's all I allow myself. Enough to reset. Enough to keep going.
The door opens. Footsteps. Huh! they're walking towards me.
And something in me tightens. I look at my side
tailored coat, neat hair, posture straight despite the tension radiating from him. Han Euno.
I recognize him immediately, who wouldn't. Their family owns South Korea
But now he's here.
"Lee Jisung."
Hearing my name from his mouth sends an unexpected jolt through me.
"Yes?" I answer, straightening automatically.
He walks closer, eyes fixed on me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. Up close, his omega scent is unmistakable—clean, elegant, faintly sweet. It curls around my senses before I can stop it.
I shove my instincts down hard.
"What can I help you with?" I ask.
"Do you have a minute?"
"I'm still on the clock."
"That's fine," he says calmly. "This won't take long."
He stops a step away. Too close. My heart picks up speed, not from attraction—at least, not yet—but from the sheer strangeness of the situation. Omegas like him don't seek out alphas like me. Not exhausted assistant managers with cheap ties and wet shoes.
He studies my face, eyes sharp, calculating.
Then he says it.
"Let's play house."
For a moment, I'm certain I misheard.
"…I'm sorry?"
"Be my husband," he continues, tone steady, almost casual. "For a few months. You won't need to work. I'll pay you."
The rain starts pouring again, loud enough to drown out the city.
I stare at him, brain refusing to process the words.
"Your… what?"
"My husband," he repeats. "It's a contract arrangement. Temporary."
I let out a short, incredulous laugh before I can stop myself. "You've got the wrong person."
"I don't," he says.
There's something desperate beneath his composure now, something tightly controlled. "You're not connected to any conglomerate families. You don't have political ties. You're an alpha, but you're… quiet."
Quiet.
No one's ever called me that like it was a good thing.
"I need someone like you," he says.
I should walk away.
I should bow, apologize, pretend this never happened.
But instead, I just stand there—soaked shoes, aching body, empty apartment waiting for me at the end of the day—and stare at a man who looks like he's offering me a door out of everything I know.
"This is insane," I say quietly.
"Maybe," he agrees. "But it's also simple."
Simple.
Nothing about my life has ever been simple.
I look at him again, really look this time. At the tension in his shoulders. At the way his fingers grip the umbrella too tightly. At the careful distance he's keeping, even as he asks me to step into something impossibly intimate.
Dangerous.
And yet—
For the first time in a long while, someone is looking at me like I'm an answer, not a problem.
"I need time to think," I say.
He nods immediately, like he expected that. "Of course."
He reaches into his coat and hands me a card. Black. Minimal. Just a name and a number.
"When you're ready," he says. "Call me."
Then he turns and walks back into the building.
I stand there long after it pulls away, rain soaking through my clothes, card clenched tightly in my hand.
Somewhere deep inside, something I've kept buried for years shifts.
And I know—
Whatever I choose next will change everything.