The music in the hall was deafening, but here, in the club's service corridor, there was an almost dead silence. Only the muffled bass penetrated the walls, echoing heavily in his chest. People were leaving: some hastily pulling on jackets, some saying "see you tomorrow," others still looking for a lighter by the exit. Do-yoon walked slowly, with the same calm face as always, until the last bartender slammed the storage room door shut. Then he turned aside.
The door to the warehouse-office was ajar—as if someone had forgotten to close it, as if someone was in a hurry. It always smelled of paper dust, stale fabric from old uniforms, ink, and the slightly damp wood of the floor. The room was small, but cluttered with shelves. On one—boxes with glass straws and plastic cups, on another—folders with reports and invoices, and lower down—stacks of signed and forgotten documents. Do-yoon closed the door behind him but left a crack so that the hall noise didn't vanish completely. Complete silence was alarming. He turned on the desk lamp, and the warm yellow light spread across an island in the darkness. Everything else was plunged into shadow.
He sat down at the desk. In front of him were chaotic stacks of papers—as if they had been sorted through and thrown back without order. Folders of different colors, signatures, stamps. He pulled out the first one. Nothing at first. Ordinary purchase reports: alcohol, snacks, equipment. Signatures of the warehouse manager, accounting stamps. But flicking further, he noticed discrepancies: deliveries dated to days when the warehouse was officially closed. Expense reports listed boxes that he had never actually seen in the club. He paused. Brought the sheet closer to the light. The signature at the bottom: "Lee." The name that had surfaced repeatedly in conversations. The name employees whispered.
He continued searching. Paper after paper. One invoice featured the address of a warehouse in an area where a young Omega had recently disappeared. Another—a write-off "due to defect" of three whole boxes, but the inspection report was missing. It all pointed to one person. Director Lee.
Do-yoon leaned back in his chair, running a hand over his face. The lamp's heat stung his eyes. Other cases flashed in his memory—just as strange. A woman asking for protection. A man who disappeared in a club where everything was "too clean." The papers were signed there too. The evidence disappeared there too. He hadn't made it in time then. But now, the evidence was right in front of him. If Seungho is not guilty... then who is?
The tapping of rain outside the window grew louder. He heard someone pass down the corridor—heavy footsteps. Do-yoon instantly switched off the lamp, freezing in the dark. The steps approached, stopping at the door. A shadow flickered in the crack. He held his breath. Seconds stretched into eternity. The steps moved away. The door didn't open. He turned the light back on—but his heart was pounding faster. He stacked the papers more neatly than they were before, so no one would know they had been touched. But he lingered over one page a little longer. It listed a delivery to a club branch—exactly one day before the last Omega disappeared. And again, Lee's signature. Do-yoon squeezed the sheet, then slowly put it back. He's inside. The enemy is inside. And the enemy has a name.
He turned off the lamp and stood up. He paused for a second by the window: the glass was covered in drops, the rain washed away the neon, and the city looked blurred, as if hiding its secrets. Stepping into the corridor, he put the waiter's composure back on his face. But inside, he was boiling. Every step echoed in his chest like a drumbeat. The more he thought about the discovery, the hotter he felt. His knees buckled, his heart hammered as if trying to break out. He felt the wetness between his thighs, the traitorous anal producing oil, and he even began to catch the scent of his own pheromones. He quickened his pace, as if trying to run away from himself. But the thought burned: Lee.