Raindrops streamed down in quick, nervous lines, as if the whole city was weeping for those who had no tears left. Do-yun stood by the window, the lights unlit, clenching the sill so tightly his knuckles were white, his omega pheromones sharp with guilt. His reflection showed a face—hard, sharp, as if carved from stone. But when he blinked, he saw another: tired, hunted, culpable.
— You couldn't have known, — Seung-ho said quietly from the depth of the room. His voice didn't cut the silence; it filled it, like a warm, dominant wind, bringing with it the stable, oaken scent of an Alpha.
Do-yun didn't turn around. — But I should have. Jeong looked me in the eye. He trusted me. And now he's gone. — His voice was muffled, each word a stone dragging him down, releasing a bitter smell of guilt.
Seung-ho stepped closer. His steps were soft, yet insistent, like a heartbeat. — You want to blame yourself—blame yourself, — he continued. — But don't lie. You did everything you could.
Do-yun spun around abruptly. His eyes flashed in the gloom, burning not only with anger but despair. — "Everything I could"? — He almost laughed, his body shaking with a suppressed cry. — If I had done everything I could, Jeong would be alive.
Seung-ho didn't answer immediately. He walked closer. The rain outside beat harder, as if adjusting to the rhythm of their strained breathing. — Sometimes "everything you could" is the limit, — he said calmly, lowering the intensity of his pheromones. — You're not a god, Do-yun. You're human.
Do-yun flinched, as if he wanted to retort, but fell silent. His shoulders trembled. A curse or a scream was lodged in his throat. Suddenly, he covered his face with his hands. — I'm tired, — he breathed out. — Tired of looking at their faces. Every time… I see their eyes.
Seung-ho didn't touch him right away. He gave him a second to breathe. Only then did he slowly, confidently lower his palm onto his wrists and gently pull his hands away from his face, as if removing a mask.
— Look at me. — His voice became firmer, commanding. — Do you see?
Do-yun raised his eyes. Seung-ho's gaze was direct, unwavering, like a man who never retreats. His Alpha pheromones enveloped Do-yun, offering safety in exchange for submission.
Seung-ho stepped closer, their breaths almost touching. — You're alive, Do-yun. You're here. And as long as you are—they haven't won.
The words sounded not like comfort, but a vow, reinforced by the Alpha's scent. Do-yun wanted to argue, but instead found his fingers clutching Seung-ho's shirt. He inhaled his scent—tobacco, spice, something warm and familiar.
— Don't do this, — he said hoarsely. — Do what?
Seung-ho smirked—briefly, without joy. His fingers touched the line of Do-yun's jaw. Slow, restrained, as if testing if it was allowed. Do-yun trembled, but didn't pull away. The omega instinct demanded solace.
And then Seung-ho leaned in closer. Their lips met—first tentative, then harder. The kiss was rough, desperate, but there was life in it. Greedy, stubborn, real.
Do-yun pushed him away with his palms against his chest, but didn't back off. Instead, his fingers slid down the fabric, towards the belt. His body burned, demanding release to drown out the pain of guilt. — We can't, — he choked out. — We can, — Seung-ho replied, pressing him against the wall. His pheromones became heavier, promising total oblivion.
The kisses deepened, their breathing hotter. Fingers slipped under the shirt, meeting skin. Do-yun shook—not only from desire, but from anger at himself. He didn't want this. And he wanted it more than anything.
A wave of desire washed over him, but at the last second, Do-yun squeezed his eyes shut and pushed Seung-ho away, sharply. — Stop. — His voice trembled. — If I… if we do this now… I'll lose myself.
Silence struck louder than screams. The rain outside was subsiding, as if it, too, was tired.
Seung-ho exhaled, clenched his fingers into fists, and stepped back. Something predatory burned in his eyes, but he held himself back, suppressing the instinct. — Fine, — he said in a muffled voice, controlling it. — I'm here.
Do-yun turned back to the window, closing his eyes. His heart hammered in his throat. He couldn't tell—had he saved himself or betrayed himself? The cold returned, enveloping his skin.
***
The morning smelled of dampness and sleeplessness. The rain had stopped, but the city was still breathing moisture—the office windows were fogged, and the gray light stung his eyes worse than a spotlight.
Do-yun entered first, holding a stack of papers. He looked like he hadn't slept at all: shadows under his eyes, lips pressed tight. Seung-ho followed him—composed, but with a tension in his shoulders that he showed to no one but him.
Folders with reports, ledgers, and call printouts were already on the table. The cold light of the lamps made the numbers and letters even harsher, as if they themselves were reproaches.
Do-yun put down the folders, the sound of the paper jarringly loud. — Something doesn't add up here, — he said, not meeting his gaze.
The silence between them was thicker than the air. Seung-ho sat down next to him, pulling one of the reports towards himself. His fingers moved calmly, but his gaze was focused.
Minutes stretched as they flipped pages, cross-checked numbers, and made notes in the margins. Only the scratching of pens and the rustle of paper were audible in the office. But beneath that silence, something was churning—what had been left unsaid after the night.
Finally, Do-yun tapped a line with his finger. — There. See? — He pulled the sheet closer. — These expenses don't match. Purchase in the name of a shell company, and three days later, a waiter disappears.
Seung-ho leaned closer, his shoulder almost touching Do-yun's. Do-yun felt the heat of his body and almost flinched. — The money is going to transport companies, — Seung-ho said calmly. — But there are no shipments.
Do-yun clenched his teeth. — They are using people as commodities. This isn't just rumors. — He fell silent, looking at the numbers. His chest tightened as if struck. Yesterday's guilt for Jeong returned, but now mixed with fury.
— Do you know what the scariest part is? — he said quietly, not taking his eyes off the paper. — They do it so casually. In reports. In numbers. As if it's just another expense line.
Seung-ho looked at him intently. A shadow of pain flickered in his eyes. — It's always like that. Evil rarely looks like a monster. More often, it's in a suit, with a report in hand.
Do-yun raised his eyes to meet his. Their gazes locked, and for a moment, everything else vanished—only this cold morning and two people held by a single truth. — Then we have to expose them, — Do-yun said quietly, but firmly. — So everyone can see what they are.
Seung-ho nodded. His hand moved, as if to touch Do-yun's fingers, but he stopped. Only his eyes spoke what he didn't utter: "I'm proud of you."
Do-yun noticed the impulse and gripped his pen harder. His heart pounded just as it had the night before when he'd almost given in. The invisible thread stretched taut between them again.
— We'll follow the chain further, — he said, forcing his voice to be steady. — I won't let anyone else disappear.
Seung-ho smirked with the corner of his lips, but without his usual irony. — That's right. Now you're talking like the person I want to stand beside.
Do-yun froze, unsure how to respond. The papers in front of him blurred, as if it had started raining again outside the windows. But he said nothing.
In the evening, the rain returned. Silvery tracks of drops covered the window glass, and the city behind them seemed like an aquarium, everything drowned in semi-darkness. Do-yun sat at the table, staring at the stack of printouts. The lamp cast a harsh light on the pages, but the lines began to blur, the numbers swam.
He heard footsteps—quiet, yet recognizable. Seung-ho placed two mugs on the table: one smelled of bitter coffee, the other of ginger tea, a scent of care. — You were planning to sit through the night again? — he asked.
Do-yun looked up, his eyes tired but stubborn. — If we stop, they win.
Seung-ho sat down next to him. His elbow almost touched his. Their silence was different—tense, but warm. — You said "we" for the first time today, — Seung-ho observed softly. — That means more than you think.
Do-yun clenched his fingers around the mug, as if burned not by the drink, but by his words. — You don't understand. If I were stronger, Jeong would be alive.
— If you were stronger, you wouldn't be human, — Seung-ho interrupted. His voice was sharp, but his eyes were soft. — You did everything you could. And now you're doing more.
Do-yun looked away. The lamp cast shadows on his face, emphasizing his exhaustion and brokenness. — Sometimes I feel like I'm breaking, — he confessed, almost a whisper. — These papers… these numbers… they're crushing me.
Seung-ho silently took his hand, pulling it out from under the table. His fingers covered his palm, firmly, like an anchor. — I won't let you break, — he said quietly. — Even if I have to hold you down by force.
There was something more than support in those words. They sounded like an Alpha's vow.
Do-yun froze, looking intently at him. The air between them thickened again, like the night before, but now there was less pain and more decisiveness. — You're too confident, — he breathed out, as if trying to shed the tension. — No, — Seung-ho smirked. — I'm just confident in us.
He leaned closer. Their lips met not suddenly, but as a natural continuation of the conversation—the kiss warm, yet piercing. There was more promise than passion inside, but the body responded instantly: the tension accumulated over the night and day broke through in their movements.
Pens, folders, and papers remained on the table, forgotten. Their fingers intertwined, as if it were meant to be.
Do-yun pulled away first, his breath ragged. — If we go further… — he began.
Seung-ho didn't let him finish, his voice low: — We already are. And there's no turning back.
He ran his palm along his neck, his thumb tracing the line of his skin. This touch was almost more intimate than the kiss itself.
Do-yun closed his eyes. For the first time in a long time, he allowed himself not to think—not about papers, nor Jeong, nor numbers. Only about the warmth beside him. But that very warmth became his strength.
He opened his eyes and said quietly, but firmly: — Tomorrow, we go to the warehouse. These documents lead there.
Seung-ho nodded. His gaze was serious, but a shadow of a smile lingered at the corner of his lips.