Chapter Text
Bae Dahae is never late. She is at least five minutes early to any arrangement, including her appointment at the new nail salon she wanted to try out.
Her nails are often chipped and untidy, and even though her work doesn’t permit her long acrylics or flashy colors, she likes to make an effort and look presentable whenever possible.
So she steps inside the small manicurist place where several stations are occupied and the women are politely chatting amongst each other.
Dahae gives her name to the middle-aged receptionist and is promptly seated at the first available manicure station. It’s bright and airy inside, a modern yet minimalist interior. Dahae likes it immediately.
The manicurist introduces herself with a smile, then asks Dahae what she would like. She looks nice, friendly, with round cheeks and warm eyes.
“Gel polish, neutral colors,” Dahae says, allowing her right hand to be taken as she hangs her purse on the back of her chair with the left. She’s a little out of breath since she speedwalked from the train. “Just make them look nice, please.”
And the manicurist starts work. Says how Dahae has elegant, young hands. Asks her age. Dahae says she’s 25.
They chit chat about the weather and about the recent news while Dahae’s fingers soak in warm, rose-scented water.
They move on to dramas, to the scandal surrounding the divorce of two most popular actors on the scene, to how excited the manicurist is about an upcoming romantic comedy starring one of her favorite leading men.
It’s pleasant. Dahae relaxes because the manicurist works quickly but efficiently - worthy of the high online ratings the salon has garnered - and her nails seem to be in good hands.
Then the manicurist asks what Dahae does for a living.
“I’m a social worker,” she says, then pauses. Perhaps she shouldn’t reveal the name of the institution she works at.
“Oh? Is that interesting?” the manicurist asks, already applying a coat of clear base polish on Dahae’s right hand. “I’m not sure what kind of duties a social worker has.”
“Well, to me it is,” Dahae says. “I mostly work with children who were left without parents or any other immediate family. At… an orphanage.”
“Ah, sounds like a difficult job.”
“It’s not easy,” Dahae agrees. “There are some complicated cases. But it is rewarding, in the end, seeing the children thrive and progress despite the adversities they faced at a young age.”
“Have you…” The manicurist lowers her voice, looks around her to check whether the other employees and clients are paying attention or not. “Have you ever seen him? ”
Dahae doesn’t have to ask to know who he is. She wishes people would just use his real name, instead of speaking about him as if he was some kind of a monster. Something to be feared and avoided at all costs. Not even addressed properly.
“Park Jimin?” Dahae deliberately asks, feeling an unwarranted spike of satisfaction at the manicurist’s appalled face. “Yes, I have. In fact, I work at the orphanage he is at.”
The manicurist widens her eyes. “Oh, you poor thing.”
Dahae purses her lips. She has to be careful what she says. The wrong word could cost her her job or worse.
“Is it absolutely horrible?” the manicurist presses on, moving to a soft, nude shade for the color. It matches Dahae’s skin tone perfectly. “I can’t imagine being in close proximity to that… that… creature. Or whatever he is.” She shudders, though Dahae can’t tell if it’s fake or not. “Awful, just awful.”
“It’s not that bad, actually,” Dahae weighs her words. She wants, needs to be honest without sounding like she is… well, breaking any kind of a law. “Jimin is… nothing special. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
Jimin is nice. He is more than nice. His smile is bright and radiant and he is always kind to people, even when people are not kind to him. He moves with an easy dancer’s grace, and his curiosity is nothing short of inspiring. He is always looking to learn new things, always meeting Dahae with excitement and a warm greeting.
Dahae wishes saying those things aloud wasn’t against the rules.
“Nothing out of the ordinary?” the manicurist hisses. Suddenly, Dahae wishes that her opinions were as nice as her manicuring skills. “I heard he can get pregnant!” she whisper-shouts, and Dahae ducks her head, resisting the urge to swipe her hand away.
It’s okay. It’s fine. This woman is not the first person who’s talked about Jimin like this and she certainly won’t be the last.
“His anatomy allows him to get pregnant, yes,” Dahae says, forcefully composed. “He’s a wolf, after all.”
She doesn’t mention that, technically, there are human males who can also get pregnant. This woman’s bigotry likely runs very deep.
“A monster,” the manicurist mutters to herself, then once more directs Dahae’s hand to the UV lamp sitting on the table. The side of her face lights up in glowing purple as the lamp counts down sixty seconds. “Can’t wait to have him out of the city.”
Dahae keeps her mouth shut.
Because that’s the sentiment, isn’t it? That has been the general atmosphere in the city ever since Park Jimin, an omega wolf, was found as an infant on the doorstep of a hospital almost 21 years ago.
The entire population rippled with the news. The entire country, most likely. Dahae herself had been only a toddler at the time, but later she’d read the archived headlines. She could imagine the terror, the outrage of the residents.
They protested against the wolf baby. Wrote petitions for him to be left out in the woods, exposed to the elements. They yelled over each other, vehemently agreeing that a wolf in the city was dangerous. That he could go berserk, kill people, eat them alive, that his presence would draw in the other wolves from the wild and they’d slaughter everyone.
Of course, no such thing happened. Despite the still negative attitude towards Jimin’s existence, in the last two decades it has become clear that he is no more or less dangerous to society than an average 20-year old boy.
A boy locked up in an orphanage. Allowed only to set foot in its yard, with strict supervision and armed guards at all times, as though they expect him to start ripping throats out at the blink of an eye.
Ridiculous, all of them.
“Well,” Dahae says, offering her left hand to be soaked in rose water. “He’ll be gone soon enough.”
There are laws set in place for just such occasions.
Couples and future parents go through endless screenings. Prenatal tests, bloodwork, genetics… Everything to make sure that the baby they conceive is human and not wolf.
Still, some slip through the cracks. Jimin is not the first or the last wolf to be born to human parents. Parents who then abandon their baby for fear of what might happen to them when they’re found out.
And so there are laws for that. On the first waxing crescent moon following the wolf’s 21st birthday, they are to be marched to where the nearest wolf packs supposedly live and to be left there to find their kin.
Jimin is turning 21 in a little less than a week. Dahae doesn’t want to think about that. Her throat tightens at the mere thought of what waits for him once he is driven out of the orphanage.
“Can’t wait for the fucking day,” the manicurist says, shaping Dahae’s nails into a blunt square. “I already organized a small get-together with my family, so we can watch the send-off on TV.”
They will all be celebrating. Once the day comes, just before dawn, they will take Jimin into the mountain towering on the horizon, already covered in snow even though it’s only October; one of the many wolf regions across the country, where no one who values their life ever ventures.
The entire city will rejoice. People will gather outside the orphanage with balloons and cameras and excited cheers. Dahae hopes they at least won’t throw anything at Jimin.
She hopes no one will see her cry when he’s stuffed into a car and taken away.
She has lost her will to continue this conversation, and the manicurist seems content to finish her work mindlessly chattering about something or other. Blankly, Dahae watches her nails go from rough and ugly to cute and elegant.
The manicurist did a remarkable job.
Dahae is never coming back to this place.