The night after the underground parking lot stretched endlessly. The rain hammered on the windowsill, and the city outside the window trembled in blurred streaks of headlights, as if reflecting a troubled dream. Seung-ho wasn't sleeping—he sat by the bed, watching Do-yun breathe. For the first time in a long time, he was sleeping peacefully.
Seung-ho reached out to him, not touching. He wanted to remember this moment—of absolute silence and safety, before the world started to crumble again. His pheromones, usually sharp and cold, were soft, enveloping the space with care he didn't allow himself to express in words.
By morning, everything returned to its usual chaos. The phone rang non-stop. Seung-ho picked up, already knowing from the administrator's voice that the peaceful hour was over: — There's sabotage at the club. The fire system went off; the archive server is disabled.
Seung-ho abruptly stood up. — Who was on shift? — Only technical staff. The alarm signal came from inside.
Do-yun, standing by the window with a mug of coffee, immediately understood from his expression—the enemy had struck back. — Was it them? — Do-yun asked, his voice dry, emotionless. — Looks like it. They've moved into the open phase of cleanup. We'll have to move faster than they erase the traces.
The club greeted them with the red light of flashing beacons and a pungent chemical smell. The air was thick, humid, as if it could be cut with a knife. The siren was still howling, but Yoon and Do-yun ignored it.
The corridors were flooded with water; thin streams ran across the floor, reflecting the blinking lamps. In the server room—smoke, scorched panels, drops of condensation on the metal walls. Seung-ho immediately understood: this wasn't a fire; it was a professional cleanup.
He ran his finger over the burnt casing. The metal was cold, but rough to the touch—the trace of an acid reagent. — Too clean, — he said quietly, his voice dangerous. — They left no chances. — That means they were here no more than an hour ago, — Do-yun replied, looking around tensely. — They knew what we were looking for and preempted us.
Seung-ho turned around. — You said you managed to save backups? Do-yun nodded. — On an external drive. At home. This is our last chance. — Then we stick to the plan: the archive must be on an external server by morning.
Seung-ho wanted to say something else but noticed—Do-yun had gone pale. His hand trembled; the tablet almost slipped. — Hey… — Seung-ho stepped closer, his pheromones flaring with alarm. — What's wrong with you? — I'm fine. Just… the noise.
But his voice cracked. He tried to straighten up and immediately clutched his abdomen. The world swam before his eyes; the sounds seemed to become viscous.
Seung-ho managed to catch him. — Do-yun! — Not… here… not now, — he breathed out, pressing his forehead against him.
His body was hot, as if heat was coming from inside. Seung-ho caught a barely noticeable shift in the scent—a soft, warm note, unusually alive, almost sweet. And inside, at the very edge of his consciousness, his instincts howled an alarm: the Omega's body is changing. And it's not from illness.
The apartment greeted them with silence and the increasing rain outside the window. Do-yun sat on the sofa, covered with a blanket, staring at one point. His fingers automatically touched his abdomen, as if checking something invisible.
Seung-ho watched silently. He knew that any words would sound like pressure. — It's fine, — Do-yun said, as if justifying himself. — Just overload. — Overload doesn't cause that reaction, — Seung-ho replied quietly. He wasn't looking at Do-yun, but he felt every disruption in his rhythm. — You need a checkup.
— Now is not the time, — Do-yun looked at him for the first time. There was stubborn determination in his eyes. — If they've started the cleanup, one of the directors will disappear soon. We need that information before it burns up.
Seung-ho clenched his jaw. He hated that Do-yun was right.
The next morning, the phone rang again. Do-yun opened the message, and his fingers trembled slightly. Director Park found dead. Cause: car accident. Company files destroyed.
He silently handed the phone to Seung-ho. The Alpha read it—and slowly lowered his hand. — They've started the purge. Removing people like corrupt sectors from a disk. — The network is erasing itself, — Do-yun said. — We're too close. Evidence is disappearing faster than we can gather it.
Seung-ho looked at him carefully, as if for the first time. Paleness, trembling fingers, a slight sheen of sweat on his neck. He felt—their time was running out with every passing minute. And not just because of the enemies. He felt it on an instinctive level: something new was beginning to develop in Do-yun's body, which would require complete concentration and protection.
Seung-ho moved closer, stopping by the window where the rain washed the city into a gray haze. — We need to speed up three times, — he said quietly. — Do-yun, we barely have any time left. We need to finish this before you stop being able to fight.
Do-yun nodded, not asking questions. Words were no longer needed.
Behind the glass, the city lights flashed one after another, connecting into a complex, pulsating pattern—like a web where every line could snap at any second.
They no longer shared night and day—only space, breath, and fear. And the tighter the enemy's circle closed, the clearer Seung-ho understood: he could save the network, the company, even the city—but the time allotted to the two of them was irreversibly slipping away.