Chapter Text
The apartment smelled like three men too broke to afford laundry.
It was a cramped second-floor unit above a fried chicken joint, which left their clothes reeking of fryer oil and despair. The floorboards creaked. The pipes groaned. And yet, somehow, it was home.
Chan shoved a stack of takeout containers off the couch and collapsed into the sunken cushions, headphones still hanging around his neck. His shirt clung damp with sweat, fingers smudged with ink from scrawled lyric notes. His back ached from another all-nighter in the studio. Worn-out jeans, a stretched hoodie, and the faint scent of eucalyptus and warm cedarwood clung to him, dulled by the cheap blockers they all wore to keep instincts in check.
His wolf paced under his skin, restless, hungry, frayed thin by the pressure of always holding back. Then his phone buzzed.
[New voicemail: CEO Park] 🐵
He stared at the screen like it had personally insulted him.
“Ignore it,” Jisung shouted from the kitchen, elbow-deep in a box of expired ramen like he might dig out buried treasure, or at least something edible. His hoodie slipped off one shoulder, stained with something that might once have been tomato sauce. His scent was strange, faint to the point of nothing. Everyone assumed he was a beta, and Jisung never bothered to correct them.
But twenty-one and still unpresented didn’t feel like a harmless quirk anymore. It felt like a question mark Chan couldn’t ignore.
“If it’s another demo deadline,” Jisung continued, “fake your death.”
“I second that,” came Changbin’s muffled voice from the floor. He was lying flat on his stomach, shirtless, surrounded by scattered lyric sheets and crumpled protein bar wrappers. He reeked faintly of cedar and smoked vanilla beneath his blocker, a grounding scent that marked him as alpha, even muted. “Tell them your instincts finally won. Happens to the best of us.”
Chan sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “It’s not a deadline. It’s worse.” He pressed play.
>“Chan-ah. Listen. I know you’re swamped, but this is a priority. We’re assigning you to a high-profile client. You’ll be producing his debut solo-starting tomorrow. His family’s paying triple the standard rate, and we need him out of our hair. You want your rent paid? He’s your problem now.”
There was a long pause. Then the voice added, almost apologetically:
>“It’s Felix. Lee Felix.”
Silence.
The room froze. Even the radiator seemed to hold its breath.
Chan froze mid-blink. Jisung stopped rustling ramen. Changbin sat up with a groan.
“Wait. That Felix?” Changbin asked, eyes wide.
Jisung’s mouth dropped open. “The spoiled omega who got kicked out of HALO Entertainment last month? For… what was it? ‘Creative differences’ and ‘biting a manager’?”
Chan buried his face in his hands, as if he could scrub the name out of his ears. “I’m gonna die.”
That night, the apartment settled into its usual rhythm, muffled music leaking from cracked headphones, the scent of overcooked eggs wafting from the kitchen, and the soft hum of a fan losing a slow battle against the summer heat.
Chan sat cross-legged on his mattress on the floor, rubbing at the tension in his neck as Jisung flopped down beside him with a half-eaten energy bar.
“You really gonna work with him?” Jisung asked through a mouthful of peanut butter, words sticking together. “Like… actually do it?”
“What choice do I have?” Chan muttered, rubbing his eyes. “Rent’s due Friday.”
“Yeah, but it’s Felix.” Jisung leaned back, staring at the cracked ceiling. “He’s… feral.”
“He’s an omega,” Changbin said, appearing with two beers and a glass of tap water for Jisung, who still couldn’t handle alcohol without falling over. “But yeah. He bites people.”
“Only managers,” Jisung corrected, grinning. “So maybe you’ll be fine.”
Chan groaned and cracked a beer open against the corner of his laptop, foam fizzing over his knuckles. “I don’t care if he eats me alive. I need the paycheck.” He took a long sip, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and added darkly, “He’s an arrogant, spoiled omega who thinks the whole world bends for him. I bet no one’s ever told him no.”
His jaw flexed as he set the bottle down with a thud. “Well, I’m not his handler. I’m not his babysitter. I’m his producer. If he wants an album, he plays by my rules.”
“Could be worse ways to go,” Jisung muttered, way too casually. Both alphas turned to stare.
“What?” He raised his hands. “I didn’t say I wanted to get eaten. I just meant—if I had to die somehow, better an omega than, like… salmonella.”
A pillow smacked him square in the face. “You’re unbelievable,” Changbin muttered.
Jisung grinned around the cushion, muffled. “I’m just saying.”
“Anyway.” Changbin shook his head, grabbing his own beer. “You really think you’ll survive a whole album with that guy?”
“No,” Chan admitted, downing half his bottle in one go. “But I’m gonna try.”
The room fell quiet. The hum of the city outside pressed against the thin walls, relentless, unbothered.
Chan scrolled through a plugin menu he wasn’t reading, the glow of the screen hollow on his face.
Then Jisung spoke again, softer this time, the bravado gone. “I want you to make it, hyung. I want all of us to make it. Just… don’t burn out before we get there, yeah?”
Chan looked at him. At the shadows under his eyes. The faint tremor in his too-thin fingers.
He wanted to promise. But his bones already felt empty.
He nodded once. “You too, Sungie.”
Changbin leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “We don’t quit. We just get meaner.”
Chan’s mouth curved, faint and tired but real. “Then I better get ready. Because tomorrow? I meet the meanest omega in Seoul.”
The room stayed quiet after that. No one laughed. No one argued. Just three wolves, breathing in the same small apartment, waiting for the storm that was already on its way.
✦ ✦ ✦
Many believed that making music was a glamorous endeavor, but that was a myth perpetuated by talent agencies and TV dramas.
The reality involved sleepless nights, meager earnings and relentless effort.
Chan juggled two part-time jobs, bartending on weekends and cleaning a local gym at dawn, just to keep his freelance ambitions alive. Barely. CEO Park, an assertive figure with a scent of leather and sharp citrus, occasionally tossed him a bone: demo projects, beat requests, and basic mixing gigs. Always the work nobody else wanted—cheap, tedious, impossible deadlines. Park knew Chan couldn’t afford to say no.
This time, at least, it was producing work. Real producing. But Chan wasn’t naïve. If Park had handed it to him, it meant every other producer on the roster had already turned it down, probably the second they heard who the client was.
Lee Felix. The omega who burned through managers like matches, who left ruined contracts and bitten egos in his wake.
Jisung was burning out too. As a music composition student at the downtown university, he strung himself thin, tutoring kids in the afternoons, pulling night shifts at a convenience store, and now interning at CEO Park’s company. Chan had pulled strings to get him in, but sometimes he wondered if it had been a kindness at all. Jisung was always tired. He scribbled songs in the margins of lecture notes, hunched over his laptop in the library, or half-asleep on the subway, earbuds in. Chan never said it out loud, but he saw the shadows under his eyes, the way his shoulders flinched when a stranger’s scent shifted too sharply in a crowd.
Changbin wasn’t doing much better. He spent his days producing tracks for underground rappers, nights running deliveries, and somehow still taught part-time at a dance studio. As an alpha, he carried presence like armor, broad shoulders, cedar-vanilla scent solid as bedrock, but lately it read more like weariness than strength. He never stopped moving. Rest, for him, meant leaning against a wall for five minutes between jobs.
Still, they made it work. Just barely. Rent split three ways. Groceries pooled. Laundry day treated like a holy ritual. No one complained, not really. Not when they were all chasing the same impossible dream, each of them running on fumes and faith, and holding each other upright when the weight of it pressed too hard.
So when Park said triple the rate, Chan listened. He didn’t want to, but debt talked louder than pride.
✦ ✦ ✦
The next morning, Chan showed up at the studio an hour early—less out of professionalism than dread. He’d already scrubbed toilets and wiped down treadmills at the gym before sunrise, first shift finished before most people woke. His hoodie still carried the sharp tang of industrial cleaner beneath the scent blocker, and his muscles ached in that low, constant way he’d stopped noticing unless he stood still too long.
Today’s studio was barely big enough for a vocal booth, a scuffed mixing desk, and two mismatched chairs. And it felt even smaller knowing who was coming.
He checked mic levels twice. Adjusted the lighting so it looked flattering but not indulgent. Rearranged the water bottles. Moved them back again. Anything to keep his hands busy, anything to keep his mind off the paycheck-shaped storm on its way.
Scent blockers were standard in studio spaces, required, even. Signs were posted outside every booth: Please mask your scent. Distraction ruins takes.
Chan’s patch itched beneath his collar, already losing potency from overuse. He’d been stretching one-week patches into two. A bad idea for any alpha. His wolf was frayed, tired, touch-starved, restless in ways Chan didn’t have time to acknowledge.
Felix had a reputation for ignoring rules. He’d walked out of contracts. Bitten a manager. Got himself blacklisted at HALO for “creative differences,” which everyone knew was code for too much trouble. If anyone was going to push back, make demands no one else dared, or turn a session into a battlefield, it would be Lee Felix.
The door opened without a knock. Felix walked in like he owned the building.
Silk pants. Cropped designer hoodie that shimmered with every step. Sunglasses indoors, less disguise, more declaration. His hair was artfully tousled, lips glossy, skin radiant, like stress had never touched him. Every inch of him screamed curated rebellion. Expensive. Untouchable. Stunning.
And unmasked. His scent spilled through the air without warning.
Chan’s throat closed. Honey and iced jasmine slammed into him like a punch to the gut, sweet, sharp, lethal. His wolf surged so hard behind his ribs he saw stars.
“You’re not wearing a patch,” Chan forced out, voice strained.
Felix slid the glasses down just far enough to meet his eyes. Blinked, slow and innocent. “They give me hives. Medical exemption.”
“That’s not—” Chan cut himself off. He dragged in air through his mouth, muscles locked tight to cage the wolf pacing under his skin. Ears pricked. Teeth bared. Ready to lunge.
“Are you the sound guy?” Felix asked, surveying the tiny studio like it offended him.
“You’re forty minutes late.”
“Fashionably,” Felix corrected, sliding his sunglasses off with a flick. “You’re just… regular late.”
Chan’s jaw ticked. “I’m your producer.”
“Oh.” Felix finally turned, giving him his full attention. His gaze dragged from Chan’s scuffed sneakers up to the rolled sleeves of his hoodie, lingering pointedly at his throat. Then he hummed, slow and pleased, like he’d just discovered a new flavor of ice cream. “You’re hotter than I expected. For someone dressed like a sad geometry teacher.”
Chan stared. “…Geometry?”
Felix smirked, stepping close enough that his scent pressed against Chan’s skin like heat off a stove. “Triangles. Angles. Very… tragic chic.”
Chan blinked, forcing his face blank.
“Don’t worry,” Felix added, lip gloss catching the light as he looked him over again. “I’m not gonna fuck you. Probably.”
Chan’s jaw locked. His wolf slammed against the bars, snarling, claws dragging down his ribs.
He couldn’t tell if it was offense or attraction, but either way, it was lethal. His chest was tight, instincts tearing at him, and for one raw second he wondered if the paycheck was worth it.
And then Felix’s scent hit him again, sharp and sweet as honey, and Chan realized the truth with a sinking dread, no amount of money was worth this. But he couldn’t afford to say no.
Felix had been in the studio for exactly eight minutes and had already tried two different microphones, complained about the water temperature (“lukewarm is offensive”), and asked if he could record lying down “for aesthetic purposes.”
Chan didn’t know if he was serious. He didn’t want to know.
Felix hadn’t so much as glanced at the song list Chan had emailed the night before.
Now he lounged in the producer’s chair like it belonged to him, flipping through lyric sheets with a theatrical frown.
“This is it?” he asked, holding one page between two fingers as though it were toxic. “These songs feel like… beige wallpaper. Like elevator music, but sadder.”
Chan pinched the bridge of his nose. “They’re the label-approved tracks. Scheduled for this week.”
Felix made a sound like a wounded animal. “Summer Love? Really? That sounds like something my grandmother would hum while dusting her Jesus statues.”
“They’re marketable,” Chan said flatly. “Focus groups liked them. And I don’t have time to babysit your taste.”
Felix twisted in the chair, sunglasses perched on his head now, golden eyes glinting. “I didn’t ask for a babysitter. I asked for a producer who doesn’t look like he just rolled out of a mop closet.”
Chan’s jaw ticked, wolf pacing behind his ribs.
“I can write better than this in my sleep,” Felix went on, breezy and cutting. “Actually, maybe I will. Right here, right now. Something darker. Sexier. Something that doesn’t sound like it belongs in a toothpaste commercial.”
Chan folded his arms. “And what does that sound like?”
Felix smirked, leaning back like he’d already won. “Too expensive for you to produce. But lucky you, I’m feeling charitable.”
Chan’s jaw flexed. His wolf bristled behind his ribs, snarling softly at the insult. He wasn’t sure if it was rage or something more dangerous curling beneath his skin.
“The mic is fine,” Chan said, for the third time. “You don’t need to sound like a crystal swan, Felix. This is a recording session, not a Chanel ad.”
Felix, now sprawled across the couch like he was mid–fashion editorial, didn’t even look up. He raised one elegant brow and stretched languidly, every movement designed for maximum effect. “Have you seen me? Everything I do is a perfume commercial. You should be thanking me for classing up your shoebox studio.”
Chan muttered something into his hoodie collar, low enough Felix couldn’t hear , not that it would’ve mattered. His wolf was overstimulated, restless. The whole room reeked of Felix’s unchecked omega scent, honey and iced jasmine, sweet enough to rot his teeth. It clung to his tongue like syrup, made his chest tight. His wolf couldn’t decide if it wanted to run or roll over.
He’d cranked the airflow. It wasn’t enough.
“Seriously,” Chan managed, pinching the bridge of his nose, “you need a scent blocker. It’s studio policy.”
Felix rolled onto his stomach, propped his chin on his hands, and kicked his legs into the air like a bored influencer. “I told you. Allergic. Can’t wear them. But sure, if you’d prefer I faint dramatically and crush your precious mixing board, I can arrange it. I look good unconscious too.”
He smirked, sharp and deliberate. “Or maybe you just don’t trust yourself around me.”
Before Chan could snap back with something deeply inappropriate, the door opened.
CEO Park stepped in, sharp suit, sharper smile, the muted trace of leather and citrus slipping through a high-grade scent blocker like authority bottled as cologne. His presence shifted the air like a drop in barometric pressure.
He always followed protocol. Until now.
“How’s my favorite producer?” he asked, voice smooth as silk.
Chan almost scoffed out loud. Favorite? Please. I’m the guy he calls when everyone else tells him to fuck off. He forced his shoulders straighter instead.
“Trying not to drown in honey and jasmine, sir,” he said carefully.
Park chuckled, the sound low and practiced, then turned to Felix, who gave a lazy wave from the couch like royalty acknowledging peasants. His scent spiked just enough to sweeten the air, honey sharpened with iced jasmine, like he was daring Chan’s wolf to twitch.
“Felix,” Park said warmly. “Radiant, as always.”
“Naturally,” Felix replied, flashing every sharp white tooth. His wolf purred underneath, smug and humming, soaking in the praise.
Chan cleared his throat, forcing his wolf back down. “Sir, about the scent blocker issue—”
“Ah, yes.” Park cut him off smoothly, folding his arms like the matter was already settled. “We’re reviewing exemption policies. For selected clients. Especially those with documented allergies and… generous sponsorships.”
Chan stiffened. His cedar-scent sharpened in the air before he reeled it back, jaw tight.
“Your parents’ contribution to the EDM initiative is remarkable,” Park continued. “Every Dream Matters. Supporting young talent across the country. We’re very grateful.”
Felix blew a kiss toward the ceiling, scent rippling sweet as spun sugar, cloying and deliberate. “See? Even my allergies are philanthropic.”
Chan’s wolf snarled, hackles high. He swallowed hard, air thick with honey and cedar and citrus.
Park didn’t blink. He only smiled, calm as a knife and Chan realized, this was the real reason rules didn’t apply, just money.
Felix sprawled across the couch like a cat in a sunbeam, wolf-purr vibrating under his skin. “Relax, Producer-nim. I’m rich, bratty, and beautiful. Think of me as your greatest challenge—” his grin sharpened, “—or your early grave.”
Then, like he’d rehearsed it, Felix tipped his head sweetly, lashes low. “CEO Park, do I really have to sing these songs? They’re not exactly… me.”
Park smiled like a wolf in a suit, all charm and teeth. “If you feel that strongly, we can be flexible. We want you to sound authentic.”
He turned to Chan. “Producer Bang isn’t just running your sessions, he writes too. Maybe he can offer something… more fitting?”
Chan blinked. “I don’t usually write for other artists.”
“Nonsense,” Park said, already dismissing his protest. “It’s time you did.”
Felix clapped once, delighted, scent spiking bright and syrup-sweet. “Finally. I knew you were hiding something. Bet you’ve got tracks buried on that hard drive, dark, sexy, begging to see daylight.”
Chan stared at him. This was supposed to be a five-day project. Five tracks. Done and gone.
Now? This was going to take much... much longer.
Park clapped Chan on the shoulder, friendly, firm, final. “Carry on.” Then to Felix, with that same polished charm, “Knock ’em dead, star.”
Felix winked. “Already am.”
The door shut behind Park like a promise.
Chan stood there a moment, exhaling slowly. His wolf was silent for once, watching. Waiting.
This wasn’t work anymore. It was survival.
A minute later, the door cracked open again.
Jisung slipped inside, clipboard tucked under one arm. He looked like he always did, slightly rumpled, a little too thin, trying to vanish into the wallpaper. But the second the door closed, he stopped dead.
His nostrils flared. His pupils blew wide. He froze, every line of him going prey-still.
The scent hit him first.
Wolf and trouble, thick in the air. Felix lounged on the couch like he’d been waiting for this exact reaction, his wolf humming smug, tail metaphorically wagging as if to say gotcha.
Chan’s cedar scent snapped sharp without warning, bristling over Jisung like a shield. His wolf surged up, ears pinned, hackles high, protective, restless, pacing.
Felix just smirked, lips glossy, eyes bright. “Well, well. What have we here?”
He rose a little from the couch, stretching lazy as a cat, wolf-hum curling under his skin. Honey-sweet scent spiked sharper, reaching for Jisung, testing him. His gaze dragged slow from Jisung’s sneakers up to the clipboard wobbling in his grip, then higher, to wide eyes and flushed cheeks.
Felix’s grin sharpened. He leaned forward, head tilting.
“Oh,” Felix purred, eyes glittering. “You’re adorable when you panic. Are you sure you’re not a Quokka?”
Jisung blinked fast. “What’s a Quokka?”
Felix’s face lit up like Christmas. “Tiny Australian animal. Always smiling. Absolutely useless at survival. You’re giving peak quokka vibes.”
Jisung tilted his head, frown softening into something more confused than offended. “…So… like… a happy rat?”
Felix gasped, delighted. “Exactly. Snack-sized, clueless, completely flustered by predators.” He leaned in, smirk sharp. “You, sweetheart.”
Jisung’s ears went pink. “That sounds like an insult.”
Felix pressed a hand to his heart, mock-wounded. “Not at all. Quokkas are national treasures. Just… very eatable ones.”
Jisung’s mouth dropped open, scandalized. “…I don’t want to be eatable!”
Felix burst out laughing, wolf-purr thick with amusement. “Oh, honey. That’s not how it works. You don’t get a vote.”
Jisung just stood there, clutching his clipboard like a shield, looking both horrified and helplessly flattered.
Then Chan stood, fast enough his chair screeched back against the floor. His wolf didn’t just bristle this time. It growled.
“Is this the intern?” Felix asked sweetly, eyes still locked on Jisung. “He’s cute. Can I keep him?”
“Jisung! Out,” Chan’s voice cracked sharp, Alpha-commanded.
Jisung flinched and scrambled, nearly tripping over his own shoes as he bolted. The clipboard wobbled, papers fluttering, and then the door clicked shut behind him.
Silence.
Chan dragged a hand down his face, teeth clenched, wolf pacing tight beneath his skin. “Booth. Now.”
Felix stretched like a cat, slow and decadent, before sliding off the couch. His limbs moved with the loose, dangerous grace of someone who knew exactly how far he could push. As he passed behind Chan’s chair, his fingers ghosted along the backrest, a touch light enough to sting.
Then he leaned down, close enough for his breath to brush the shell of Chan’s ear. His scent followed, warm and syrup-thick, curling under the collar of Chan’s hoodie until it sat heavy on his throat.
Right beneath his ear. Right where a mating bite would go.
Chan’s breath caught. His fingers clenched white around the desk. His wolf surged up, teeth bared behind his ribs, slamming against the scent patch like it could claw its way free.
Felix’s scent was everywhere, sticky, invasive, deliberate. Sweet enough to ache.
“You know,” Felix murmured, voice silk and sin, “for an alpha, you’re awfully good at following orders.”
Chan counted backward from twenty. Then ten. His wolf snarled through every number.
He slammed the booth door behind Felix with more force than necessary, sealing him inside. The moment the glass closed, Chan braced both hands on the console and exhaled sharp and shaking.
His wolf was livid, pacing beneath his skin like it had been woken by a whip. The scent patch was worthless now. Jasmine clung to his tongue, lined his lungs, coated him like a mark he hadn’t earned.
He wanted to drag that smug omega over the console and—
No.
He slammed a fist into the desk instead. Just once. Hard enough to jolt the screen. A reminder: the line was still there.
Barely, he knew he was going to lose it and the worst part? His wolf liked it.
Just as Chan reached for the mic to cue recording, the booth door cracked open again.
Felix leaned out, glossy lips curled in that devastatingly smug smile.
“Oh, Producer Bang?” Chan looked up, already regretting it.
Felix tilted his head, lashes low. “I hope you write me something really personal. Something that feels like… a secret you weren’t supposed to tell.” His eyes glittered. “Make me sound like your sin, not your job.”
Then he slipped back inside with a giggle, wiggling his fingers in a mock-wave before sealing the glass.
Chan stared at him through the booth window, chest tight. This wasn’t producing, this was hell and it smelled like honey.
Jisung slumped against the hallway wall, fanning himself with the clipboard. His hands were shaking. His ears were hot. He wasn’t sure if it was the scent or the sheer chaos that had fried his brain, but his pulse hadn’t slowed since he’d bolted from the room.
That omega had winked at him and smiled and talked about chasing.
What the hell was a Quokka, anyway?
Jisung tugged at his scent patch and checked his neck, like he might’ve spontaneously presented from sheer exposure. Nothing. Just the echo of jasmine and honey still clinging to his skin like a threat wrapped in sugar.
He let out a breath and dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, then stared at the clipboard like it might start explaining things.
“You okay?” a voice asked from farther down the hall. One of the engineers asked, he didn’t catch who.
Jisung just nodded without speaking. He wasn’t ready to unpack what had just happened.
✦ ✦ ✦
The red light blinked, Felix blinked back.
Chan stared at the glass, one hand on the console, the other clenched in his lap. His wolf was still pacing, fur bristling, hackles high, circling just beneath the skin. Felix had taken the mic like it was a fashion accessory and not a recording tool, tilting it to catch the line of his jaw. A smirk played at the corners of his lips like he knew exactly what he was doing.
Chan cleared his throat. Flicked the intercom.
“Warm-up take. Just breathe into the first verse. Let’s hear tone and clarity.”
Felix nodded once, dramatically slow. “Anything for you, Producer-nim.”
Chan ignored it. The instrumental started. A soft build. Synth-heavy and polished. Chan tracked the waveforms scrolling across the screen, forcing himself to focus.
Felix opened his mouth and moaned.
Chan jolted like he’d been shocked. His wolf reared up so violently he saw stars.
He hit stop like the button had personally insulted him.
Felix leaned toward the mic again, lips brushing it like a secret. “Oops. Was that not the vibe?”
Chan stared at him. “Again,” he said through gritted teeth. He didn’t trust himself to say anything else. Not with that sound still ringing in his ears. Not with his pulse kicking like it wanted out.
Take two.
Felix actually sang this time. Half a verse.
His voice was airy, technically good, but dripping with flirtation. Every lyric sounded like it ended in a smirk. Even through the glass, his expression screamed come get me. Head tilted. Eyes half-lidded. Lips brushing the mic like it was something worth tasting.
Chan stopped the track. Hard. “Can you not make Summer Love sound like a sex hotline?”
Felix cupped his ear like they were on stage at a stadium. “Oh? I thought you wanted it more fitting.”
“Just sing it,” Chan snapped. “Like a person. Not a… purr machine.”
Felix beamed. “That’s a compliment.”
Chan was going to lose years off his life.
Takes three, four, five.
There were moments, flashes, of real skill. A falsetto so clean it made Chan glance up before he could stop himself. And when Felix laughed after a lyric misfire, something about it sounded… right, but it never lasted.
A breath would catch wrong, or he’d deliver a line too earnestly and then he’d twist it. Exaggerate a note. Bite a word.
Tease.
By take five, Chan was gripping the console so tightly his knuckles ached.
He didn’t need this. He didn’t want this but his wolf wouldn’t shut up about it.
Take six.
The instrumental rolled in, same soft pulse. Synth shimmer, low kick, clean transitions. Polished, restrained.
Felix stepped closer to the mic, eyes half-lidded. A slow inhale. Shoulders loose. Relaxed in a way that made Chan’s skin tighten.
Then he sang and this time, he dropped his voice. Low, really low. Velvet and gravel.
The sound rolled through the studio like warm smoke and static. It hit Chan square in the chest, thick, burning, slow like honey poured through heat.
His wolf stopped pacing. Instead it snapped. Chan flinched, breath catching. The heat in his spine ignited in an instant, reflexive, primal.
Felix kept singing, like he didn’t know what he’d just done. Like he hadn’t just dragged Chan’s entire animal instinct to the surface with one note.
Chan sat frozen. Nails digging into the console. Every breath thick. The intercom crackled.
“Is that better?” Felix asked, lips brushing the mic. “I can go deeper, if you want.”
Chan fumbled and slapped the mute button like it burned him. His wolf growled loud in his head.
Oh, this was going to be a problem. A big one and Felix knew exactly what he was doing.
By take nine, Chan leaned back in his chair and exhaled.
Felix knew the moment it hit.
Chan didn’t move, not really, but his posture changed. Just slightly. Like a wolf going still before the pounce. Shoulders drawn, jaw tight, fingers clenched around the console like it was the only thing keeping him tethered.
He smiled and leaned into the mic again, voice honey-slow. “I can go deeper, if you want.”
He saw Chan flinch. Then the mic cut.
Felix’s smile widened. He lived for this. The line between professionalism and instinct. The way alphas tried so hard to pretend they weren’t affected. That they were above it.
Chan wasn’t. None of them were and Felix had made it his art form to remind them.
He stepped back from the mic and exhaled. Gave Chan time to recover. Gave himself time to savor.
This wasn’t just another performance. This was something else. Something alive.
Something he could control.
It reminded him of the first time he’d felt powerful, not because of who he was, but in spite of it. He wasn’t supposed to be here.
Not in this booth. Not in this city. Not in a room where his voice alone could bend an alpha like Bang Chan into stillness.
Not after everything. Felix had never earned his place. Not really.
Being born into the Lee family meant silk pillows, private tutors, and endless second chances. A life padded in velvet, curated for admiration. While Minho studied late into the night, bowing to every expectation with perfect precision, Felix drifted. He was the younger son, the glittering one, the omega-shaped ornament meant to dazzle but never endure.
Minho had presented first, of course, an alpha. Perfectly. No surprise, no scandal. Their parents beamed with pride.
Felix could have been anything, alpha, beta, omega, it wouldn’t have mattered. Not to them. He was the backup plan, the decoration. The one they polished, dressed up, and sent out to smile.
And when he finally presented as omega? Their disappointment still found him. Only that. Their golden boy had become something delicate, breakable, consumable. Something to display but never to trust with weight.
It carved something into him, that moment, deeper than shame, sharper than rebellion. The hunger to prove he wasn’t velvet-draped uselessness. That he could stand in a booth like this, sing like this, make wolves buckle to his voice, not because he was allowed to, but because he took it.
The booth was quiet again. Just the soft hum of the headphones. The rise and fall of his own breath. Felix smiled faintly, not at Chan now, but at memory.
He remembered the first company he joined. How they bowed to his last name but barely listened to his voice. How they praised his face, his shine, while clipping his wings in the same breath.
The training itself never bothered him. He liked the burn. The ache in his muscles. The push until he shook. But he hated the silence that always followed.
The silence after he refused to dim himself. When he showed up with gloss on his mouth. When he skipped the scent blockers. When he let himself be every inch of what he was.
That was when the whispers started. Trainers muttering. Staff exchanging looks. Until one manager finally snapped.
“Tone it down,” the man had hissed, leaning too close. “Try acting a little more submissive. You’re an omega. Decoration. Your only job is to look pretty and spread your legs.”
So Felix bit him hard. Sharp enough to leave a mark.
They never spoke of it again. But the whispers died. And Felix stopped asking permission.
The company dropped him the next day. No warning. No explanation. Just silence.
His parents paid to make the story disappear like always, again and again.
But this time, the leash was longer. This time, they gave him space, or maybe they were just tired of fighting him.
Either way, Felix didn’t care. Because when they bought him back into the industry, he didn’t come back on their terms.
He came to play. And now? He had someone worth playing with.
Felix leaned back and hummed softly to himself, smug and satisfied. Let Chan take all the time he needed, let him reset. Recenter. Pretend that flinch had never happened.
Felix could wait. He could wait all day.
There was one more thing, one last spark on the edge of his mind.
The intern.
Jisung. That faint, foggy scent that didn’t quite line up with anything. Unpresented. Maybe even unaware, but Felix knew.
He knew the way pressure smelled. The way potential simmered under the skin.
There was a secret buried in that boy.
Something hidden. Coiled. Waiting and Felix loved secrets. He planned to unwrap that one, too.
But first, Chan. Every take. Every breath.
He was going to savor him.
They’d been at it for hours.
Nine takes turned into fifteen. Then twenty. Chan lost count somewhere around the third time Felix sang the chorus like it was a sultry voicemail greeting.
Still Summer Love. Still completely useless. Not because the song was bad, because Felix refused to sing it like it meant anything.
Felix hadn’t hit the right tone once. Not because he couldn’t, because he wouldn’t.
Chan rubbed his eyes, head pounding. His scent patch had started to slip, the adhesive corners peeling with sweat. The control he usually wore like armor was beginning to fray. His wolf paced harder with every breath. Agitated. Hungry. Tired.
“Let’s go again,” he said, voice flat.
Felix’s voice purred through the booth mic. “I thought this was supposed to be a five-day project, Producer-nim. You sure we’re not edging into a five-month contract?”
Chan didn’t respond. If he opened his mouth, he might growl. He glanced at the clock.
5:43 p.m.
His second job started at seven.
He still hadn’t eaten. He was down to half a bottle of energy drink and half a pack of gum that expired two months ago. His stomach turned. He cued the track again, eyes glued to the waveform, pretending none of it was unraveling.
Felix didn’t help, in fact, Felix made it worse.
Every time Chan tried to steer the session back to neutral, Felix swerved harder. Flirted more. Pushed every button and boundary like this was a game he needed to win.
“Should we take a break?” Felix asked sweetly. “You’re looking a little… wilted.”
Chan turned the intercom off. He wanted to scream, his wolf wanted to bite.
“You know,” Felix mused through the muted glass, “if you pass out in the booth, Producer-nim, I’ll make it my album cover.”
Chan pressed his forehead to the desk.
How long had it been since he last slept? Thirty-six hours? Maybe more. His bones felt hollow, his thoughts like static.
He wished Changbin was here. Bin would’ve laughed, cracked a joke, diffused the storm. But he was knee-deep in some underground project, locked in a studio across town, and wouldn’t crawl out for at least two weeks.
So it was just Chan. Alone. Stuck with a sponsor-funded omega whose voice was equal parts silk and barbed wire. A voice that curled around his ribcage like a trap and refused to let go.
His wolf prowled beneath his skin, restless, snarling. Every breath dragged Felix’s honey-sweet scent deeper into his lungs, thick enough to choke on. The patch did nothing. His wolf hated it.
The door creaked open and Jisung peeked in. Clipboard again, oversized hoodie swallowing him like armor made of cotton and stress.
“Uh, hyung?” he said. “You’ve got a shift at Grindhaus tonight, right?”
Chan groaned into his hands. “Oh my god. Right.”
Jisung winced sympathetically. “Want me to call Ezra and tell him you’ll be late?”
“No,” Chan muttered. “I’ll run. Just, finish logging these takes?”
Jisung nodded, stepping inside as Chan got up and grabbed his bag, moving like every limb was one decision away from collapse.
Felix watched from the booth like a cat behind glass.
“Oh no,” he said, all mock concern. “Is Daddy Producer being stolen away by his real job? Tragic.”
“Don’t,” Chan warned, not bothering to look up.
“I mean,” Felix continued, lounging against the mic stand, “I just assumed you were bartending to fund a secret family. Or maybe a protein powder addiction. You’ve definitely got the tragic-hero-who-buys-whey-in-bulk vibe.”
Chan paused, halfway to the door, jaw ticking. His wolf growled low under his skin. Walk away. Just walk away.
He forced himself to keep moving.
Felix leaned into the mic again, honey-sweet and cruel around the edges.
“By the way, tell your intern to smile more. He’s got a pretty mouth.” A beat. His smirk curled sharper. “Bet he’d look perfect bite-sized, tucked in my bed like a little Quokka plushie.”
Jisung froze mid-step, face burning red, clipboard trembling in his hands.
Chan stopped dead. Cedarwood spiked sharp and hot in the air, his wolf lunging up, ears pinned, hackles high.
Felix laughed through the speakers, low and purring. “Relax, Alpha. I wouldn’t break him. Not too much.”
The chair screeched as Chan turned back, fists clenched, chest rising heavy. For one dangerous heartbeat, his wolf wanted to tear the booth door off its hinges.
Instead, he slammed his hand on the console, hard enough to rattle the monitors.
Jisung dropped the clipboard. The sound cracked against the floor, loud in the quiet room. His fingers didn’t move to pick it up. His whole body had gone still. His patch itched suddenly. His scent felt wrong, shifting. Like something under the surface was twitching awake.
Chan turned back. His eyes were darker now, flat and flint-sharp.
“Felix.”
“What?” Felix blinked innocently. “I’m complimenting the staff. Isn’t that leadership?”
His wolf growled. Show him whose mouth is bigger. Chan clenched his fists.
Not like this. Not in front of Jisung. He walked out before he did something regrettable.
The door closed behind him with a final click. Felix leaned back in the booth, smug as sin.
Jisung just stood there, cheeks burning, frozen beside the discarded clipboard.
“Don’t worry,” Felix said lightly, stretching out across the couch. “I bite management. Interns get kisses.”
He didn’t mean it. Not really, but he wanted to see what the boy would do.
How far he could push before someone barked.
Jisung made a strangled sound and bolted, out the door, down the hall, disappearing like smoke.
Felix laughed, delighted. God, this studio was going to be fun.