The faint light from the window, which had long turned into the pale glow of city lights, fell in long strips on the floor. Do-yun lay motionless on Seung-ho's chest, listening to the Alpha's deep, steady breathing. The knot had long since faded, and he had been withdrawn, but Do-yun's skin still held the trace of heat, and the air held the subtle, calm, mixed aroma of their pheromones, no longer sharp, but peaceful.
He didn't remember when he closed his eyes. The last memory was of pulling Yoon toward him, the feeling of warmth, pain, and a strange, sudden calm, and how everything inside had quietly subsided—as if the storm had finally passed, taking the doubts with it.
Seung-ho was awake. His gaze was vacant, fixed on the ceiling, as if he were trying to decipher the most complex drawing—the drawing of how to live on now. When Do-yun carefully stirred, he shifted his eyes.
— You're awake, — he said softly, his voice slightly hoarse. — I didn't sleep much either, — Do-yun replied, feeling a heavy, dull ache in his lower abdomen.
Their eyes met. There was no guilt, no regret, no habitual pretense. Only the quiet, fundamental realization that there was no turning back.
Do-yun was the first to touch his cheek. His fingers gently traced the stubble and damp skin. — Everything that happened… I chose it. I wanted it. Don't blame yourself.
Yoon chuckled—tiredly, a little bitterly. It wasn't the chuckle of a businessman, but the reaction of a man who had strayed from his planned path for the first time. — You talk as if I don't know. — And do you know? — I know. I just can't admit that my self-control collapsed because of your desire.
He leaned down and kissed his temple. Lightly, weightlessly. Without pheromones, without instinct—just a human touching a human. This touch was more precious than any forceful taking.
Bright morning light was already streaming through the window. The city outside the walls was waking up, but they still couldn't let go of each other. Yoon exhaled: — We still have to talk. About the consequences. — I know, — Do-yun replied, closing his eyes. — But not now.
He touched his lips with a short, tender kiss. — Give me a little more morning silence.
And Yoon fell silent. He simply extended his palm and ran it through his hair, feeling how the world, for the first time in a long time, had become surprisingly simple: breath—steady, heart—alive, and the bond between them—undeniable and unbreakable.
When the dawn fully asserted itself, they lay silently, listening to the city noise filtering in from the street. There was no need to speak anymore.
***
The cold of the office was sterile, like a locked safe. Glass, metal, light—everything polished to a shine, but in this flawless cleanliness, Yoon Seung-ho felt a falseness. The silence was dense, like soundproofing, as if it were hiding something alive and loud.
He sat at the head of the long conference table, but his gaze burned not through the numbers, but the paper itself. The reports had perfect signatures, straight columns of figures. Too accurate. It's not like that in business; this was a dead, calibrated precision that screamed of forgery.
Seung-ho slowly traced the tip of his pen along the date line. The font was slightly misaligned, as if the stamp had been manually applied in a hurry.
Forgery. Or a trap.
Someone wanted him to realize this. It wasn't a mistake—it was a sign, a challenge.
— Mr. Yoon, copies from the archive, — the assistant murmured, setting down new folders. His voice was deferential, but Yoon didn't respond.
He heard only the sound of the paper—a dry, sharp rustle, like cracking under snow. Everything else dissolved: only the pulse throbbing in his temples, and the faint scent of toner.
He remembered Do-yun's face when he first spoke about the suspicious documents. Yoon had considered him overly paranoid then. Now he understood: it was the opposite. Do-yun wasn't digging; they had both already been pulled into the game. The enemy had shown its cards.
Seung-ho looked up at the clock. It's almost midnight. The time when the city lived under half-light. The time when enemies make their first, irreversible move.
***
Do-yun sat on the floor in his apartment, huddled amidst opened folders. The notebook, the pen—all of it was useless. He reread the same line until the letters turned into a blur before his eyes.
His head ached dully, throbbing. Sweat beaded on his temples. A heaviness in his chest, as if the air had become viscous and dense. Too much coffee. Too little sleep, he convinced himself, leaning back against the cold wall.
Scents—that's what changed first. The usual aroma of his apartment—paper, cleaning product, a faint trace of his own pheromones—suddenly warped. A foreign note appeared: slightly sweet, almost floral, but with a disturbing, metallic undertone.
He blinked sharply. Imagination. Stress.
His phone flashed. Message: Yoon Seung-ho: I'll check the data tomorrow. Don't touch these files alone.
Do-yun chuckled tiredly. — Too late, — he whispered.
He glanced at the sheet his hand was clinging to. A report on a new batch of goods. At the bottom—Lee's signature. A signature that shouldn't be there. He remembered the man in the cap, with the heavy chain.
A chill ran down his spine. If everything was set up, then someone knew where they were looking.
He reached for his laptop to cross-reference—and suddenly lost his balance.
The world tilted. A sharp pain in his chest; his breath caught. He grabbed the table, desperately trying to catch his breath. His ears roared, as if from a sudden drop in pressure.
For a second, it seemed like someone was standing right behind him. He whirled around—empty. Only his pale reflection in the window.
He had to stop. Clumsily, sheet by sheet, he gathered the documents. His heart beat slowly, heavily, as if every movement was an immense effort.
He turned off the light and collapsed onto the bed. The city noise was distant, as if underwater. Just before sleep, a disturbing thought flashed: if the enemy is testing their reaction, they already know where to look for the answer. And the answer might not be in the papers.
***
Seung-ho closed his laptop and stood up. The lights hummed in the corridor. He was standing by the window, running his finger across the cold glass, when his phone vibrated.
Message from Do-yun: Everything's fine. I'll handle it.
Seung-ho frowned. He had read those words too many times. "Fine" meant Do-yun was alone again, digging without a safety net. He dialed the number—silence, then short beeps. No answer.
He clenched the phone in his palm. His heart pounded fast. Yoon tasted a faint flavor of iron in his mouth—a familiar, unmistakable alarm signal.
"He's in danger, even if he doesn't realize it."
The rain began as Yoon drove up to Do-yun's building. Drops hammered, leaving long streaks on the glass. He turned off the ignition and got out.
He stopped before the door. The lock was closed. No light shining through. He pressed his palm against the wood—warm. Home.
He inhaled. The scent. That same one—the light spring-like undertone of Do-yun's pheromones, mixed with the metal of nervous tension.
But now something new was mingled with it, thin, synthetic. Too sharp, too foreign.
Yoon frowned. It wasn't his scent. Or Do-yun's.
He knocked. Silence. A second. Another. Then—the shuffle of footsteps. The lock clicked.
Do-yun stood on the threshold. His eyes were clouded, with shadows beneath them, his lips dry. — What are you doing here? — His voice was quiet, hoarse. — You didn't answer. — I'm tired, — Do-yun tried to smile, but the corners of his lips twitched.
Yoon looked at him closely. — You're pale. — Just haven't slept.
Yoon stepped closer. The foreign scent became clearer. Not Alpha, not Beta, but chemically invasive, like a cheap, masking perfume. — Are you sure everything is fine? Do-yun looked away. — I said yes. Don't start. He walked into the room, sitting on the edge of the sofa.
Yoon stood behind him. What was scarier—his lie or this foreign trace in the air? He sat down next to him, without touching. — You have to tell me if something is wrong. — Nothing is wrong, — the answer came too quickly.
Yoon knew a lie when he heard one, but this lie smelled different. He leaned forward. If the enemy was playing, they had chosen a new piece. And Do-yun was the bait who hadn't noticed it.
He looked up. Do-yun was staring into space. In the window's reflection, a thin tremor of light flashed—as if someone had passed on the street, too slowly. Yoon flinched. Instinct suggested: they were being watched.
— Tomorrow we'll recheck all the documents. And everyone who had access to them, — Seung-ho's voice became cold, businesslike. — Fine. — And don't stay alone anymore.
Do-yun wanted to say something but fell silent. A heavy tension hung between them—not a quarrel, but the feeling that time was critically running out.
Yoon stood up and walked to the window. Someone was standing under the streetlamp outside. A silhouette, motionless, head bowed. Yoon blinked—and the figure disappeared. He wasn't sure if he had seen it. A test.
He turned around. Do-yun was already asleep, sitting, head dropped on his shoulder. Yoon walked closer, quietly covering him with a throw blanket.
The synthetic, foreign scent remained—thin, almost elusive. A trace the enemy had left deliberately.
That night, Yoon didn't close his eyes. He sat by the window, watching the city. Every light could be an observation; every shadow—a foreign gaze.