The morning began with a deafening silence. The club was asleep, but the city was already waking up—the hum of cars beneath the windows, glints of light on the walls. Do-yun sat at the kitchen table, his forehead pressed to his palm. Coffee was growing cold in front of him. The smell—bitter, sharp—irritated him. He used to love this aroma; now, nausea crept up on him, subtly but insistently.
He abruptly pushed the cup away. Pheromones still trembled in the air—a faint, warm undertone, completely unlike his former spring scent.
Yoon noticed it from the doorway. — You didn't sleep well, — he said in a low voice, not asking a question.
Do-yun didn't lift his head. — Just can't stop thinking. — Thinking or your scent?
He looked up sharply. Yoon didn't smile—he simply stated a fact with unerring accuracy. He was wearing a sharp suit, but his eyes held a heavy fatigue that no amount of sleep could relieve.
— We have the archived data, — Yoon said, steering the conversation to business. — A new batch of "supplies." Do-yun frowned. — That was supposed to stop after we… — Supposed to, — Yoon cut in coldly, — but it didn't.
***
The office greeted them with sterile light, the smell of paper, and coffee. But now, every step echoed with a sensitive, anxious sound.
Yoon entered first, placing the printed files on the table. — Look, — he said.
Tables, signatures, routes. Everything looked impeccably clean. Too clean.
— There's nothing new here, — Do-yun said, flipping through quickly. — Everything we've already seen. — That's exactly the problem, — Yoon replied. — Everything is too neatly compiled.
He ran his finger across the date line, his gaze becoming sharp as glass. — Director Park conducted transactions through a fund that has been formally closed for a long time. But money is still moving through it. Do-yun looked up. — Through the club? — Through people connected to it. Temporary staff who disappeared. A chain from Jeong.
Yoon stepped closer, pointing to a column of figures. — These payments aren't just contracts. They are transfers for "material." Do-yun clenched his fingers into a fist, his nails digging into his palm. — Material… — Yes. Omegas.
The air between them seemed to freeze. This was confirmation. Not a guess, not a theory—a fact that pierced like a knife.
Yoon slowly sat down, rubbing the bridge of his nose. — Everything comes from inside. Someone is controlling the supplies directly from the Council. — But who? — I think we already know who is pulling the strings—Lee and his "assistant."
Do-yun was silent. His pulse pounded in his temples; the air grew viscous.
Yoon turned the page. — There is one more thing. — He hesitated, his voice dropping lower. — The latest reports mention a "special type." With heightened compatibility. This is rare… among omegas.
He looked up at Do-yun. The Omega didn't immediately grasp the implication. — Are you saying… — I'm saying you need a checkup. Now.
A heavy silence. Do-yun abruptly looked away. — We are not going to discuss this here.
***
The apartment met them with a gloomy silence. They entered almost simultaneously—as if not just a door but a whole world of tension had closed behind them.
Do-yun tossed the keys onto the shelf but couldn't take another step. Yoon walked to the window and stopped. — I shouldn't have pressured you like that. — No, — Do-yun interrupted, his voice very soft. — You're right. I'm just not ready to admit it.
He walked closer. In the darkness, their outlines merged, and words no longer held meaning.
Yoon turned. His eyes shone with fatigue and something else—the shadow of fear he couldn't hide. Do-yun raised his hand and touched his face. — You don't have to be strong all the time. — And you shouldn't pretend that everything is fine with you.
Do-yun's fingers slid along his neck, stopping at his collarbone. Yoon didn't move. The air was saturated with their scents—heavy, intertwined, the smell of anxiety and a new, warm note.
They didn't speak, just breathed. With every inhale, the silence grew thicker, closer.
Yoon leaned in, and their lips met—briefly, like a test, like a confirmation of reality. This kiss wasn't about passion but about the unbreakable trust they both feared losing.
Do-yun froze, feeling Yoon's fingers slide along the line of his back, holding him. — Not now, — he breathed out. — I know, — Yoon replied. — I just… needed to make sure you were here.
Yoon pressed his forehead to his. — We're close, — he said quietly. — But if they're listening to us… — Then let them listen, — Do-yun whispered, closing his eyes. — Silence is louder than words anyway.
Late at night, when the light in the window trembled from the wind, Yoon lay sleepless. Do-yun was sleeping next to him, but his breathing was uneven. A trace of pheromones remained on the pillow—new, warm, with that same deep note that wouldn't leave his mind.
He ran his hand over Do-yun's shoulder, cautiously. If it's true…
The thought broke off. He couldn't finish it.
Outside, the city hummed—like a foreign organism living by its own laws. And in this rhythm, Yoon realized: the enemy was indeed near. But closer now was something he himself could no longer call safe—his own deep feeling and the invisible, yet palpable, threat that Do-yun refused to see.