The morning began not with sun — but with a silence in which only breathing could be heard. Do-jun lay on his side, facing the window. The rain that hadn't stopped all night had now turned into a barely noticeable sound, as if the city itself was afraid of any extra noise.
Seungho stood by the bed, buttoning his shirt. Light slid across his back, along the line of his neck where the mark was barely visible. His pheromones were subdued, steady — the calm of a predator who controls every breath.
He turned around. Do-jun was awake — looking at him with wide-open eyes. The night was still alive in them: the tremor, the hum of the chase, the cold concrete under his palms.
— It's over, — Seungho said.
— They didn't find us.
— It's not over, — Do-jun quietly countered. — We're just still alive.
Seungho moved closer, sitting on the edge of the bed. His palm rested on Do-jun's cheek. Do-jun, as if yielding to instinct, pressed his forehead against Seungho's chest. The scent — warm, slightly bitter — dissolved the panic remnants of the night. He was trembling, but not from cold.
— Breathe, — Seungho whispered.
— I'm breathing, — Do-jun replied.
— No. Like me.
He leaned in, their foreheads touching. The air between them filled with a quiet hum — their pheromones intertwined, synchronizing the rhythm. Do-jun inhaled and felt his body release. As if everything inside that had been melted by fear began to solidify into a new form.
— Like that, — Seungho said. — Now you can get up.
He didn't say "time to work" — he said exactly that: get up. As if it wasn't about business, but about the very act of living.
The board meeting was scheduled for noon. The large hall on the twentieth floor smelled of caffeine and irritation. The directors sat in a semicircle; some held tablets, others — glasses of water, though no one wanted to drink.
When Seungho entered, the air seemed to change pressure. The pheromones reacted instantly: someone coughed, someone looked away. Do-jun walked behind him, reservedly, but his steps were in unison.
In the center of the room sat Park — perfectly shaven, with his usual cold politeness. Nearby, closer to the edge of the table, was Oh-hwa. She had almost always been silent before. Today — her eyes were clear, direct.
— Let's begin, — Seungho stated.
Park spoke first.
— The situation is unstable. Yesterday's incident in the parking lot is further proof that security is failing. I propose transferring control to an external contractor.
Seungho didn't answer immediately. His gaze swept over the faces — reading the rhythm of breathing, the nuance of scent, the slightest tremor of pheromones. Park's had something unnatural: sharp bursts, an unstable background. Fear hidden behind calmness.
— Transfer control, — Seungho repeated. — That's the same as admitting defeat.
— Sometimes admission is the best way to survive, — one of the senior directors interjected.
— And sometimes — the best way to die standing, — Seungho replied.
Someone in the room nervously scoffed.
Oh-hwa quietly pushed her tablet aside.
— I studied the financial report for the last quarter, — she said. — Discrepancies run along the chain: the port, the supply department, the "Horizon" fund. All three are connected to Park's firm.
Silence. Park slowly turned his head towards her.
— Be careful, Oh-hwa-ssi. That's a serious accusation.
— Not an accusation. A fact.
She nodded toward Yun.
— I handed the evidence to you, Chairman.
Park's fingers twitched. Barely noticeable, but enough for Yun to catch. The pheromones around Park changed — the smell of iron, acid, suppressed panic.
Seungho stood up.
— This is what happens next. We are not shutting down the network. We are controlling it ourselves. Anyone who tries to leak internal data will be dismissed immediately.
— And who will determine who is guilty? — Park asked coldly.
— I will.
The pheromones in the room shuddered. Some Alphas lowered their eyes. Someone opposite even slightly pushed back their chair. But there was no threat in this. Seungho's scent — calm, deep, almost transparent — made hearts beat slower. Power without pressure. Strength that doesn't break, but holds.
Even Do-jun felt the air thicken. He wanted to move closer, just to stand near — inside this strength that doesn't destroy, but protects.
Park looked away first.
— Fine. Then I await a report by the end of the week.
— The report is already in your folder, — Seungho replied. — Don't thank me.
Park blinked, and the corner of his eye twitched. His pheromones trembled again — fear, anger, confusion. Everything he tried to hide was now betrayed by his body. Do-jun looked at him and understood for the first time how thin the line was between a confident voice and a trembling shadow.
⋆⋆⋆
Night. The apartment was breathing rain again. Do-jun sat on the windowsill, wrapped in Seungho's shirt. The city lights made his skin paler than usual.
— He's afraid, — he said. — I saw it.
— Yes, — Seungho stood nearby, holding a tablet. — He knows the end is near.
Do-jun looked up.
— But why do his pheromones smell like someone who is waiting for something?
— Because he is waiting, — Seungho brought up a diagram on the screen. — Look.
On the map — a network of transport lines. At the bottom — a note: Depository No. 3. Access: window 00:00–00:20.
— Is that them?
— That's the entrance. Only twenty minutes a day. If Park is connected to Hwan — they're storing more than just money there.
Do-jun was silent. Then he stood up, moved closer. His fingers touched the screen, then Seungho's shoulder.
— Not tonight, — he said softly. — Just be with me tonight.
He pulled his hand, drawing him closer. The kiss was short, almost uncertain, but it held what had been missing all this time — calmness. Not desire, not fear. Acceptance.
— Tomorrow, — Do-jun whispered. — We'll go there tomorrow.
— Tomorrow, — Seungho agreed.