The club hummed like a giant organism, fueled by music and pheromones. Neon lights sliced at the eyes, and smoke clung to the floor, mixing with the scents of alcohol and cheap perfume. People laughed, shouted, danced—for them, the night was a celebration. For Do-yun, it was a source of anxiety.
He moved through the hall with his tray, habitually registering every small detail. Someone at the counter exchanged a quick glance with a bouncer. A guest, dressed too neatly for the club, held his phone as if awaiting a specific call. The bartender casually tucked a bill into his pocket, not the register. All of this was the "noise" he knew how to filter. But today, one thing held his attention: an empty spot among the waiters.
Jeong hadn't shown up.
The young Omega he often crossed paths with in the changing room and at the service station. Jeong always smiled—too broadly, as if afraid he'd be fired if he showed any fatigue. But he was punctual, meticulous, and never missed a shift without warning. Today, he simply didn't come in.
— Maybe he's sick, — someone from the staff offered. — Or found a better side job, — another dismissed.
Do-yun remained silent. His gut told him otherwise. Jeong wasn't the type to leave without a word.
***
The changing room greeted him with silence. A stark contrast to the noise of the main hall. Metal lockers, the smell of detergent and cheap deodorant, damp towels on the hooks.
He stopped at the familiar locker. The lock wasn't engaged. The door was ajar. Inside, a neatly folded uniform hung. On the shelf—a phone, a wallet, keys. Everything a person brings for a shift.
Do-yun ran his fingers over the shirt collar. The fabric was dry. It didn't look like Jeong had planned to leave in the rain. He had intended to return. But he hadn't.
The phone. Do-yun picked it up. The screen wasn't locked—an ordinary, cheap phone with a cracked screen protector. Last call—to his mother, three days ago. Last messages—to his shift colleagues. No hint that he planned to disappear.
Do-yun put the phone back. And then his fingers brushed against something at the bottom of the locker. A small business card. White, with gold embossing. A name, a number. No company, no title—just the words: "If you want to change your life—call."
He remembered. A few weeks ago, sitting on the steps by the service entrance, Jeong had shared with him, smiling a little guiltily: — Can you imagine, some man in the club told me I was "not in the right place." Left me a card. Said, "If you want to drastically change your life—call." At the time, Do-yun had brushed it off. Thought: just another rich client playing generous. Now, the memory stung like a knife. Not an accident. A thread.
He pressed the card into his palm and looked around the changing room more carefully. No signs of struggle. The shelf was neat. The locker wasn't forced. But it was too perfect—as if someone had deliberately left everything untouched. "To make it look like he left willingly."
Do-yun sat on the bench. His thoughts raced. Who knew Jeong was working tonight? Who had access to the changing room? Who could approach him and take him away while everyone else was busy in the hall?
There were too many possibilities. But one fact was clear: the enemy is acting here and now.
***
He squeezed the card tighter. The paper was damp from the moisture on his fingers. "If I delay—the next one will disappear."
He could no longer hide behind the role of a waiter. The mask was convenient, but now it was only getting in the way. He was a detective. And it was time to be one again.
***
The changing room door creaked. Do-yun spun around abruptly. But it was just one of the bartenders, coming in for his jacket. — You're still here? — he asked in surprise. — Yes, — Do-yun answered coldly. — Checking the schedule.
The bartender shrugged and left. Do-yun was alone again. With the business card in his hand and a heavy certainty in his heart: the enemy wasn't somewhere outside. He was inside. He breathed the same air, drank in the same hall, smiled just like everyone else.