A strange noise hung over the club—not a lively sound, but a broken one, as if music was playing against a backdrop of anxiety. Waiters whispered behind the bar, the manager typed furiously on a tablet, and security guards stood aside, exchanging worried glances. The air was heavy with the scent of alcohol, sweat, and nervousness.
Do-yun entered from the staff entrance, pulling on an apron. His steps were quiet but alert. He immediately sensed: something was wrong. Employees' gazes slipped away from him too quickly—a sign that everyone knew about the problem but was afraid to speak.
— What happened? — he asked, approaching. His voice was level, slightly tired—like a person who simply doesn't want to get involved but must.
The manager flinched as if caught off guard.
— One of our... waiters. He disappeared. — He lowered his voice. — Haneul. Young, only started a week ago. We thought maybe he left with a client, but he hasn't returned. The phone is silent.
Do-yun frowned, taking a tray from the rack as if merely resuming work.
— Disappeared or ran off? It happens.
— We checked everywhere, — the bartender interjected, clenching her fists. — Even the back room. He's gone. And it's terrifying.
Seung-ho appeared almost silently, like a shadow, in a perfectly pressed suit, not a single drop of rain on his shoulders. The staff immediately fell silent. His pheromones, cold and dominant, made the nervousness instantly subside.
— When was he last seen? — He didn't raise his voice—he didn't need to.
— About thirty minutes ago, Mr. Yoon. In the alley behind the kitchen.
— Cameras?
— They stopped recording. For five seconds.
Seung-ho looked at Do-yun. Just a moment, but it was enough—five seconds meant too much in their game. He curtly snapped:
— Check the exit.
And walked towards the office where the servers were. For him, five seconds was a professional message.
***
The alley behind the kitchen was narrow and smelled of damp leaves and oil. A dim lamppost cast long, distorted shadows on the asphalt. Do-yun walked to the end of the corridor, skirting the dumpsters, and froze.
On the ground lay a spilled pack of cigarettes and a small silver keyring engraved with the name: "Haneul." The cigarettes were soaked, but on one of them—a trace of fingers. Not just an imprint, but a barely noticeable trace of oil. Too clean, too fresh.
He crouched, staring at the spot. This was no accident. This was a trace. Left deliberately to be found.
— You're looking in the wrong place, — a voice sounded behind him.
Do-yun spun around. A man stood in the shadows, wearing a black hooded jacket, his face obscured by a mask. The voice was muffled, yet strangely confident, as if this conversation was merely the continuation of something begun earlier.
— You're not just a waiter, — he said. — The apron doesn't suit you. Why are you pretending?
Do-yun didn't move, only shifting slightly sideways to maintain distance.
— We don't serve late guests, — he said evenly. — The club is closed.
The stranger smirked.
— Then why are you still here, Do-yun?
The name was spoken quietly, almost affectionately. A chill ran down his spine. He knew his name. This wasn't a random thug.
Do-yun took a step back. At that moment, a low, familiar sound of footsteps echoed from the depths of the alley. Heavy. Confidence. Yoon.
— Get away from him, — Seung-ho's voice was level, but steel resonated within it. His pheromones, suddenly thickening, hit the air like a physical threat.
The masked man slowly turned his head.
— Mr. Yoon, — he drawled. — What a surprise. I didn't think you'd come down to the back exit for one waiter.
In response—silence. Then—a quick movement, a flash of metal. A knife flew from the attacker's hand—precise, fast.
Seung-ho reacted instantly. He seized Do-yun by the shoulders, sharply pulling him closer, and the blade whistled past an inch from the wall. The instinct of protection was immediate and unconditional.
— Go! — Do-yun shouted, but Seung-ho didn't move.
He had already stepped forward. There was something dangerous in his pheromones—not just threat, but domination. The air became thick, heavy, and even the rain seemed to freeze.
— You made a mistake, — he said quietly, looking straight at the mask. — This time, the hunt isn't yours.
The attacker paused for a moment, then backed away, slowly, as if testing their reaction.
— We're not hunting. We're collecting debts, — he said. — But you, it seems, have forgotten who you belong to, Yoon-ssi.
The phrase hung in the air like poison. Do-yun saw Seung-ho's jaw clench. He wanted to ask, but he knew—now wasn't the time.
The stranger vanished as quickly as he appeared. Only a wet track on the asphalt and the cold scent of foreign pheromones remained behind.
Seung-ho stood motionless, shoulders raised, breathing steady, but his eyes... There was fear in them. Not for himself.
Do-yun touched his arm.
— Did you know him?
— Once, — Seung-ho replied. — A long time ago. From old scores.
— He knew who I was. He knew my name, Seung-ho.
— Yes. —
— So, this is a trap. And Haneul was just bait.
Seung-ho slowly nodded.
— And that means they are no longer coming for both of us. They are coming for you.
When they walked out into the street, the rain had intensified. Passersby huddled under umbrellas, and the city glowed with red car lights, like veins under the megalopolis's skin.
Do-yun walked in silence, feeling the weight of Seung-ho's gaze on his back.
Seung-ho was beside him, restrained, but his fingers clenched and unclenched in his coat pocket.
— You must not come back here alone again, — he finally said.
Do-yun looked at him, his eyes glistening slightly from the rain.
— They are coming for me not because I'm weak. They are coming for what I know.
— I know, — Seung-ho said. — They are coming for you because now you are my weak point.
He said it without drama, simply as a fact, a confession made in the pouring rain. Do-yun didn't answer. But, for the first time in a long time, he didn't want to argue. The danger was as close as possible, and the only reliable anchor was the Alpha beside him.