The morning began with a deafening silence. The club was asleep, but the city was already stirring—the hum of cars beneath the windows, glints of sunlight reflecting off the walls. Do-yun sat at the kitchen table, forehead pressed into his palm. Coffee cooled before him, its bitter, sharp scent irritating his senses. He used to love it; now nausea crept quietly but insistently.
He pushed the cup away. Pheromones still lingered in the air—a faint, warm undertone, completely unlike his usual spring scent.
Yoon appeared in the doorway.
— You didn't sleep well, — he said quietly, a statement, not a question.
Do-yun didn't lift his head.
— Just… can't stop thinking.
— Thinking, or… your scent?
Do-yun looked up sharply. Yoon didn't smile—he simply observed with unerring precision. His suit was sharp, but his eyes carried a fatigue that no sleep could relieve.
— We have the archived data, — Yoon said, steering the conversation to business. — A new batch of "supplies."
Do-yun frowned.
— That was supposed to stop after we…
— Supposed to, — Yoon cut in coldly, — but it didn't.
***
The office greeted them with sterile light, the smell of paper and coffee. Every step echoed unnervingly in the quiet.
Yoon set the printed files on the table.
— Look, — he said.
Tables, signatures, routes. Everything seemed impeccably clean. Too clean.
— There's nothing new here, — Do-yun said, flipping through the sheets. — Everything we've already seen.
— That's exactly the problem, — Yoon replied. — Everything is too neat.
He traced a line with his finger, eyes sharp.
— Director Park conducted transactions through a fund that's been officially closed for years. Yet money still flows.
Do-yun looked up.
— Through the club?
— Through people connected to it. Temporary staff who vanished. A chain from Jeong.
Yoon leaned closer, pointing to a column of figures.
— These payments aren't just contracts. They're transfers for "material."
Do-yun's fingers clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms.
— Material… —
— Yes. Omegas.
The air between them thickened, confirming what had been feared but unspoken. This was no theory—this was fact.
Yoon rubbed the bridge of his nose.
— Everything comes from inside. Someone is controlling supplies directly from the Council.
— But who?
— I think we already know who's pulling the strings—Lee and his "assistant."
Do-yun said nothing. His pulse hammered in his temples; the air felt viscous.
Yoon turned the page.
— There's one more thing. — His voice dropped. — The latest reports mention a "special type," with heightened compatibility. Rare… among omegas.
He looked up at Do-yun. The Omega didn't immediately understand the implication.
— Are you saying…
— I'm saying you need a checkup. Now.
Do-yun looked away sharply.
— We are not discussing this here.
***
The apartment met them with gloom and silence. They entered almost simultaneously, as if the door had closed not just on the room, but on an entire world of tension.
Do-yun tossed the keys onto the shelf, unable to take another step. Yoon walked to the window and paused.
— I shouldn't have pressured you like that.
— No, — Do-yun interrupted softly. — You're right. I'm just not ready to admit it.
He stepped closer. In the darkness, their outlines blurred; words became unnecessary.
Yoon turned. His eyes held fatigue and something else—the shadow of fear he couldn't hide.
Do-yun raised a hand to his face.
— You don't have to be strong all the time. — And you shouldn't pretend everything is fine.
His fingers slid along Yoon's neck, stopping at his collarbone. Yoon didn't move. The air was saturated with their scents—heavy, intertwined, warm and anxious.
They didn't speak, just breathed. Every inhale thickened the silence.
Yoon leaned in. Their lips met briefly, a test, a confirmation. This kiss wasn't passion—it was trust.
Do-yun froze as Yoon's fingers traced along his back, holding him.
— Not now, — he whispered.
— I know, — Yoon replied. — I just… needed to make sure you were here.
He pressed his forehead to Do-yun's.
— We're close, — he said quietly. — But if they're listening…
— Then let them, — Do-yun whispered, eyes closed. — Silence is louder than words anyway.
Late at night, wind trembled against the window. Yoon lay awake. Do-yun slept beside him, breathing unevenly. A trace of pheromones lingered on the pillow—warm, deep, impossible to ignore.
Yoon ran his hand over Do-yun's shoulder cautiously. If it's true…
He couldn't finish the thought.
Outside, the city hummed, a foreign organism living by its own rules. And in its rhythm, Yoon realized: the enemy was near—but so was something he could no longer consider safe: his own uncontrollable feeling and the invisible threat that Do-yun refused to acknowledge.