The night city was breathing rain. The wet asphalt gleamed, and the streetlights reflected in the puddles as fractured patches, like shattered stained glass, every movement seemingly fixed in the mirror-like, cold surface of the streets. Drops drummed on car roofs, streamed down coat collars, and the entire world felt enveloped in a transparent, yet suffocating film where everything was visible too clearly.
Do-yun walked beside Seung-ho, his collar up, hands in his pockets. His omega pheromones were compressed into a tight knot, and the sharp, instinctive feeling of being watched never left him. It was as if every camera lens—a red, pulsating dot on a pole, a black eye above a storefront—was focused specifically on them, marking a target.
— Too exposed, — Seung-ho said, stopping at an intersection. His voice was low, dry, and his control over his own pheromones felt like a shell of ice.
Do-yun looked up. A camera flashed red, and further down the street—another, and another. A whole line of unblinking eyes.
— Cameras are logging us every few seconds, — he said quietly. — If you connect the trajectory, it'll show where we've been and where we're going. Seung-ho nodded. — That means someone knows our moves in advance.
The words sounded like a cold sentence, underscored by the rustle of the rain.
It was warmer in the car, but uncomfortable. The smell of dampness and gasoline mixed with the barely perceptible tension of the Alpha. Rain streamed down the glass in diagonal lines, and the wipers squeaked them away again and again with a dry, irritating sound. The headlights of oncoming cars blurred into hostile, murky reflections.
Seung-ho drove in silence, but the tension in his broad shoulders was evident; his jaw was clenched. Then he finally spoke: — Kang was predictable today. Loud, brazen—a typical predator in a meeting. But others put me on alert. Do-yun turned to him. — Park and Lee?
— Exactly. — Seung-ho narrowed his eyes, his fingers tapping the steering wheel in a hard, nervous rhythm. — Park was always a shadow. In years of working with him, I barely heard more than three sentences from him at meetings. But today, he spoke confidently, expanded on Kang's ideas, provided figures and examples. That wasn't improvisation. It was prepared. And paid for by someone. — So he knew there would be a provocation, — Do-yun said quietly. — Or he proposed it himself, becoming the intermediary, — Seung-ho added grimly. — And also—he was receiving messages throughout the meeting. His phone screen flashed every ten to fifteen minutes, like a timer. He even covered the phone with a folder, as if hiding evidence.
Do-yun frowned, mentally comparing the details. — He was in contact with someone right during the board meeting. An accomplice. — Yes. And that "someone" is more important to me right now than his words.
— What about Lee? — Do-yun reminded him. — Now that's even stranger. — A dry, joyless smirk flickered in Seung-ho's voice. — He always strives to interject, emphasize his significance, fight for attention. But today—nothing. Yet it wasn't calm. He was nervous. He kept fidgeting with his pen, checking his watch, flipping through papers, though he wasn't reading them. He was waiting for a signal. — I noticed, — Do-yun nodded. — He left first after the meeting. Quickly. Almost ran. Didn't even say goodbye, — Seung-ho added. — As if he was in a hurry to get somewhere. As if he had completed his part and now had to report.
A heavy, viscous silence hung in the car. The sound of rain filled the space, but Seung-ho's words had already dug into Do-yun's consciousness.
— Do you think they're connected? — he asked at last. — I think, — Seung-ho replied firmly, his voice devoid of doubt, — that we have underestimated those who seemed like background for too long. Today, the background spoke, and it turned out to be part of the trap's scenery.
Do-yun looked at him. There was a confidence in Seung-ho's voice that usually calmed him. But not now. On the contrary—for the first time, he felt that this confidence could come at too high a price. Against the backdrop of his straightforward strength, Do-yun sensed his vulnerability. Something sharp tightened in his chest. Fear. Not for his own skin, but for his Alpha's life.
Seung-ho started the engine but didn't move. For a moment, he sat, staring straight ahead, as if seeing through the rain.
— It's a scheme, — he said softly. — I don't know all the details yet, but I'm sure: the disappearances are part of one game. And those behind it know us better than we think. They know our rhythm and our weak spots.
Do-yun clenched his hands so that his knuckles turned white. He wanted to say that he, too, had seen the signs, but the words caught in his throat, paralyzed by fear. Instead, he only nodded.
— So, they're waiting for our next move, — he uttered. — Yes. And they'll be ready for it, — Seung-ho confirmed.
The rain intensified. Streams flowed down the windshield, and it seemed as if the city behind the glass was trying to conceal them in its watery shroud. But the feeling of being watched didn't disappear. The cameras were still looking.
Do-yun caught sight of a camera again. — Do you feel it? — he asked quietly, breaking the command for silence. — Yes, — Seung-ho replied, not taking his eyes off the road. — We're under surveillance. Every move is being recorded.
Do-yun bit his lip. — That means… they can calculate everything. Even simple things like our route home. — Exactly, — Seung-ho said. — So now we have to think not only about what we do, but also what they expect us to do. We've been cornered into predictability.
The thought sounded like a sealed trap.
When they turned into the courtyard, the rain quieted, but the feeling didn't vanish. The lights above the entrances flickered, leaving patches of light on the wet concrete. A door slammed in the distance; someone walked quickly past without looking back.
Do-yun froze, listening. His heart hammered too loudly, echoing in his temples. — Just a neighbor, — Seung-ho said, catching his omega's alertness. But he, too, lingered his gaze on the empty courtyard.
They entered the building. Their steps echoed hollowly on the stairs. On every landing—a camera, and even here, in this old building, its red eye seemed redundant, intrusive.
The apartment was dark and quiet. Only the sound of rain outside the window remained the same.
Seung-ho tossed his coat aside, went to the kitchen, and poured himself water. Do-yun stood by the window, looking at the streetlights blurred by the streams. He felt his throat tighten, how much he wanted to say: I'm afraid for you, stop. But the words wouldn't come out.
Seung-ho returned, setting the glass on the table. — We must be prepared for the fact that the next steps will be attacked. At any cost.
Do-yun turned around. — Do you think it's Park? Or Lee? — I think, — he answered after a pause, — it's one of them. Or both. Otherwise, the coincidence is too smooth and orchestrated.
He stepped closer. For the first time in a long while, he wanted not to argue, not to prove, but just to hold him, lock him safely away. Seung-ho was as confident as always, but that was precisely what was frightening. Too direct. Too open. And the enemy always struck at the most vulnerable point. And Seung-ho's most vulnerable point was his own fearlessness.
The thought pierced him so sharply that his breath hitched: If they know your moves—then they are preparing a strike against you.
— Seung-ho, — he said, but there were no more words. Only his name.
The Alpha looked at him attentively, expectantly, with a gentle yet demanding dominance. But Do-yun couldn't do it. He only gripped his hand, clutching his wrist. He couldn't say: "You are my vulnerability."
The cameras outside the windows blinked red. And somewhere out there, in the darkness, someone was already folding their route into a scheme.
Do-yun understood: if he made a mistake—he would lose Seung-ho. And he, Do-yun, had to become the shield.