The night dragged on endlessly. The apartment seemed to have lost its air—too quiet, too empty. Even the city outside the window sounded muffled, as if under thick glass.
Do-yun sat on the sofa, arms crossed. Half-cold tea sat on the coffee table; the phone screen dimly glowed. The message from Yoon had arrived an hour ago:
"Checking something at the club. Don't go out."
Nothing more. No call, no short "alive" note. The silence was becoming heavy, almost tangible.
He got up and walked around the room. His fingers automatically touched objects—the bookshelf, the curtains, the back of the armchair. Everything felt foreign, as if he didn't live here, but in some scenery where they had forgotten to turn off the lights.
He approached the window. The city below sparkled with lights, but instead of the usual comfort, a chill ran through him. One of the cars in the parking lot had its headlights on, although the engine was off. He watched it for a minute, then two. The light didn't go out.
His chest tightened. Was it his imagination? Or was someone really watching?
He stepped back, drawing the curtains.
The phone vibrated again—a short signal, with no name. Do-yun frowned. On the screen—an unknown number. The message was concise:
"He is not who he seems."
He read it, then again, as if to make sure he hadn't made a mistake. His fingers trembled.
— What nonsense… — he whispered.
But his heart was beating faster. Seung-ho? No, it couldn't be. He remembered how Seung-ho had hugged him that morning, how his pheromones smelled of warmth and coffee, how he had said: "You are safe."
And yet… someone knew his number. Someone was watching.
He typed a reply: "Who are you?"
The message wasn't sent. The number vanished, as if it had never existed.
He checked the apartment. He tested the locks, flipped the light switch in the hallway—the lamp flickered and went out. Twice. He froze. The noise in the pipes, the crackling of old radiators—ordinary sounds, but today they sounded wrong.
His gaze fell on the peephole. Darkness. Only a faint reflection of his own face.
He wanted to call Yoon but stopped. If he was busy… if it ruined something important…
He returned to the sofa, sat down, and ran his palm over his face. The silence stretched. A void in his chest, like the anticipation of disaster.
He whispered, without opening his eyes: — Just answer, Seung-ho.
But the phone remained silent.
Another half hour passed. Do-yun fell asleep without realizing it—as if he had plunged into a slumber where sounds were blurred and his breathing became too heavy. In his dream, it seemed like the door opened. A short rustle, footsteps… And a familiar scent—Alpha pheromones, thick, but foreign in their nuance.
He woke up sharply, sitting upright. Silence. Only the tea was completely cold, and the phone screen was blinking with a notification:
"Connection not established."
He ran his hand through his hair, feeling a clammy cold on the back of his neck. It's just nerves, he tried to convince himself. But somewhere deep down, beneath his skin, the sensation persisted: the silence of this night was no accident.
***
The smell of smoke and sweet pheromones hit Yoon Seung-ho as soon as he crossed the club's threshold. It was always too hot, too loud here—but today the air felt different. Heavy. The sweetness of hookahs and the aroma of expensive perfumes mixed with something foreign, metallic, barely perceptible.
He walked through the main hall, where the light skimmed over the guests' faces, turning them into moving shadows. The music thumped low in his chest, but through that rhythm, something else could be heard—not noise, but a pause.
The manager stood at the bar—young, agitated, rubbing his hands when he saw Seung-ho.
— Mr. Yoon… you didn't notify us that you were coming.
— I didn't intend to, — Seung-ho replied calmly. — Inspection. Where is the head of procurement?
— Yeonsu? He's in the back room, counting the new bottles.
Yoon nodded and headed for the service corridor. The light here was dim; a chill wafted from the ventilation. Footsteps echoed off the concrete walls.
The back room smelled of alcohol and paper. Crates stood on the shelves—too neatly stacked, as if they had just been put out for show. Yeonsu looked up, spotted his boss, and paled.
— Mr. Yoon… I didn't expect you.
— Who brought the goods?
— The same supplier as always. The documents are on the table.
Seung-ho walked over. The papers lay in a stack; there were signatures, and there were stamps. But in the category column was a short word—Sample line. He hadn't seen this before.
— What does this mean? — he asked.
Yeonsu shrugged. — A new batch. They said it was by Director Lee's special order.
The name sounded like a snap in the air. Yoon Seung-ho narrowed his eyes.
— Director Lee is ordering liquor supplies? Since when?
— I received an email… internal. With his signature.
— Show me.
— I deleted it… — Yeonsu stumbled, noticing Seung-ho's gaze turn icy. — It said it was temporary, while they update the inventory.
Yoon opened one of the crates. Bottles without bright labels, just a white sticker on the neck, numbers and a series. He took one out, holding it up to the light. The liquid inside sloshed thickly, with a barely noticeable silver shimmer.
— Have you tasted this?
— No, sir. But… a few bottles have already been sent to the VIP lounge.
Seung-ho abruptly left the back room. The music here sounded duller, as if the walls knew this was no time for merriment. He walked toward the VIP zone with a fast stride, feeling the tension rising beneath his skin.
The lounge smelled of expensive cigars and vanilla tobacco. Three clients sat at one table; one was visibly swaying. The bartender stood nearby, holding a tray in confusion.
— What is happening? — Yoon's voice cut through the noise.
The bartender flinched. — He… drank the new beverage, Mr. Yoon. One of those that just arrived.
The man at the table was breathing convulsively; his face was pale. The hand holding the glass was trembling.
— Water. Now.
Seung-ho picked up a bottle with the same marking—no logos, just numbers. He sniffed the contents. The scent was sweet, but beneath it, there was a barely discernible chemical, foreign admixture.
The bartender handed over water, but the client already slumped in his seat; his breathing became ragged.
— Ambulance, — Seung-ho said curtly. — And not a word to anyone.
He turned to Yeonsu, who had rushed in after him.
— All bottles of this batch—in isolation. No one touches them.
— Understood…
Yoon ran his finger over the smooth glass. In the reflection at the bottom, he noticed a tiny print—a sign resembling a curl from the number 13.
Memory worked instantly: the same sign was on Director Lee's assistant's chain.
His phone vibrated. A message. From Do-yun.
He is not who he seems.
Yoon Seung-ho froze. The world seemed to stop; sounds fell through the music's noise. His fingers clenched tighter. He looked up—through the glass partition, he saw a security guard talking to someone in the shadows. And there was something too familiar in that silhouette.
Yoon's pheromones flared in the air, barely palpable, but sharp. People nearby involuntarily shivered.