Chapter Text
The morning light didn't grace Seonghwa’s apartment.
Instead, it slinked through the cracks, forced to squeeze between heavy, faded blackout curtains and a window frame that was more chip than wood.
A single needle of pale gold pierced the gloom, stabbing across the threadbare rug.
Everything was still, yet the silence here felt different than the one he’d grown up with.
In the sprawling, marble-floored estate of his youth, silence was a held breath, a suffocating weight that usually broke with the sound of shattering porcelain or the sharp crack of a palm against skin.
This quiet had a pulse.
The ancient refrigerator groaned in the corner, laboring through its cycle.
Further off, the muffled wail of a siren cut through the city air like a distant plea but it was the sensation against his own skin that grounded him.
He felt a rhythmic, rattling purr vibrating directly against his collarbone, a small, living warmth that defied the cold shadows of the room.
He forced his lids apart, blinking against the phantom remnants of a dream he was desperate to shed.
A dense, suffocating warmth pressed into his throat.
“Potato—”
he croaked, voice a dry rasp in the stagnant air.
“If you kill me now, your tuna-opening services expire indefinitely.”
The massive, orange heap of fur shifted in response.
Potato, a cat whose girth defied his supposed history of struggle, let out a piercing cry.
The blind animal navigated by instinct, driving a damp nose directly into Seonghwa’s socket.
Those milky, sightless eyes stared through him, vacant and demanding.
“I yield to tyranny. You win.”
Seonghwa muttered, the bitterness of the morning settling in his chest.
He shoved the coarse, scratchy duvet aside, the fabric scraping against his skin as he sat up to face the quiet rot of another day.
The instant his soles made contact with the frigid, faux-wood linoleum, a desperate scratching broke the morning's fragile quiet.
Captain, a sleek shadow of a cat missing his front left leg, struggled to gain purchase against the side of the mattress.
His equilibrium failed him, sending his lean body tumbling backward onto the rug with a dull, sickening thud.
“Steady there, brave sailor~”
Seonghwa murmured, the defensive lines of his face crumbling.
He dropped to his knees, disregarding the bite of the cold floor against his joints and gathered the three-legged creature into his chest.
Captain responded with a frantic purr that mimicked a stalling engine, head tilting to grind his chin against the sandpaper texture of Seonghwa’s jaw.
The cat’s heart hammered against Seonghwa’s palm, a reminder of things broken yet still fighting.
“Did you forget you're down a spar again, Captain?”
Seonghwa whispered into the soft fur, voice cracking with a tenderness he never allowed himself for humans.
He stood and carried the weight toward the cramped kitchenette.
“You aren't a tiger. You're just a wobbly void with too much pride.”
The apartment was a claustrophobic box, a forgotten square of space in a Seoul district that the elite scrubbed from their maps.
Walls with peeling skin held a single room that masqueraded as three.
Living, sleeping and eating areas were partitioned only by the skeletal frames of second-hand bookshelves, which leaned at precarious angles against the grime.
A thick scent hung in the stagnant air.
The musk of decaying paper, the chemical sting of lavender detergent and the persistent smell of damp earth rising from the floorboards.
To the people he used to know, this place would be a testament to a life ruined.
To Seonghwa, the squalor was a sanctuary.
Every cracked tile belonged to him.
He lowered Captain onto the floor beside a pair of chipped ceramic bowls.
The snap of a pull-tab echoed through the room, sounding like a gunshot in the quiet.
That crack served as the morning's only command.
From the bedroom, Potato emerged at a frantic trot.
The blind cat collided hard with the doorframe, orange bulk rebounding with a dull thud.
He shook his heavy, tufted head once to clear the impact before resuming his blind, unwavering march toward the scent of cheap fish.
“Slow down, you gluttonous disaster.”
Seonghwa muttered, thumb catching on the jagged edge of the lid.
“The food isn't going to vanish just because you can't see it. I’m still here, unfortunately for both of us.”
Seonghwa leaned against the stained counter and watched them eat, a rare smile ghosting over his lips.
They were a collection of discarded remnants.
Most people turned away from a cat that navigated by head-on collisions or a kitten whose grace was stolen by a speeding chassis.
He had discovered them at a shelter only forty-eight hours after abandoning his father's estate, carrying nothing but the fabric on his skin and a soul that felt pulverized.
In their quiet, fractured existence, they shared a silent language of survival.
Once the bowls were licked clean, he transitioned to his own grim ritual.
He retreated into the perpetually damp bathroom, shocking his system with a palmful of freezing water.
Straightening up, he confronted his reflection in a mirror clouded by water spots and age.
The glass revealed high, predatory cheekbones and a jawline sharp enough to draw blood.
His eyes remained a shade too dark, harboring shadows that no amount of rest could ever truly reach.
He was beautiful.
That singular fact had been a curse, a tool used by others to bend him to their will.
His mother had shared that same radiant burden as the second wife, the glittering prize meant to decorate a dinner table.
Her value plummeted the moment she birthed an omega instead of the alpha heir his father craved.
In an instant, her elegance became an insult, failing to shield her from the cruelty of the first wife.
Seonghwa wrenched the faucet handle shut with a violence that made the pipes groan, murdering the memory before it could take root.
He refused to hear the echoes of his mother’s sobbing or the thud of her suitcases being hurled down the grand staircase.
He refused to remember the suffocating stench of burnt bitter orange that his father’s household used to drown out her sweet, floral scent.
“Stop it. Just stop..”
He breathed into the silence of the room.
He moved with efficiency, pulling on his uniform.
He chose an oversized, beige sweater designed to swallow the delicate curve of his waist, pairing it with dark slacks that had seen better days.
After gathering his hair into a severe, functional clip, he reached for the final piece of his armor.
He saturated his scent glands with a thick layer of synthetic cologne.
The chemical sting of artificial pine rose up to choke his natural fragrance, buried deep beneath the smell of a cheap forest.
To anyone passing, he was a generic blur of cleaning products and musk.
His true notes of midnight jasmine and spun sugar hidden away.
In a neighborhood like this, an unbonded omega smelling like a luxury was an invitation for a predator.
“Guard the fort while I’m gone.”
Seonghwa called out, hand lingering for a moment to scratch the sweet spot behind Captain’s ear.
Potato trotted over to deliver a blind thump against his shin.
Seonghwa felt the brief, grounding weight of the cat before he straightened his spine.
“Try not to let any rogue mice stage a coup. I'd hate to come home to a new regime.”
He murmured, voice tight with the effort of holding himself together.
With one last look at the sanctuary he had built from nothing, he stepped out of the door and locked it, the click sounding like a seal against the world.
── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
The morning commute provided a sensory assault that Seonghwa welcomed, a contrast to the suffocating sterility of his past.
The air held a chill, nipping at his cheeks and forcing him to bury his chin in his collar.
Around him, the district hummed with the raw energy of the working class.
Street vendors unleashed clouds of steam from bamboo baskets, releasing the savory aroma of pork and scallions to battle the acrid exhaust of rusted buses.
Every corner felt gritty and unpolished.
It was a beautiful, honest chaos.
His destination was ‘The Dusty Tome’, a sprawling labyrinth of an independent bookstore that supplemented its income with artisan teas.
The shop was a chaotic hoard of paper and dried herbs, owned by Mr. Jung. Although the elderly beta’s vision was clouded by cataracts, his ability to detect a lie or a pretender remained razor-sharp.
The brass bell above the wooden door let out a cheerful, discordant chime as Seonghwa shouldered his way inside.
The gritty reality of the street vanished instantly, replaced by a thick, intoxicating atmosphere of roasted oolong, flickering vanilla wax and the sweet, musty decay of ten thousand yellowed pages.
It was a scent that felt like safety, a curtain between him and the ghosts of his lineage.
“You’re late.”
A gravelly voice barked, vibrating from behind a towering fortress of encyclopedias stacked high on the front counter.
Seonghwa didn't miss a beat.
He snatched a canvas apron from the hook by the door, jerking the strings tight enough around his waist to feel the pressure.
“I am precisely three minutes early, Mr. Lee.”
He countered, tone smooth and practiced as he leaned over the counter to peer at the hidden old man.
“But I’ve decided to forgive your failing grip on the passage of time. I know the transition to the digital era has been a traumatic experience for someone of your.. vintage.”
Mr. Lee's head emerged from his paper fortress like a weathered turtle.
He shoved his wire-rimmed glasses higher up the bridge of his nose, the deep grooves of a scowl carved into his forehead.
“ Cheeky brat.”
The old man grunted, voice dry as parchment.
“If you weren't the only soul alive capable of translating my handwriting for the inventory, I would have tossed you out on the curb months ago.”
“You wouldn't dream of it.”
Seonghwa replied, movements fluid as he stepped behind the cramped wooden counter.
He delivered a gentle nudge with his hip, guiding the older man aside to claim the tea kettle.
“Without me, who would prevent the dust bunnies from forming a union and demanding higher wages? The shelves would be in full revolt by noon.”
The kettle began to hiss, a low whistle of steam rising to meet the scent of old ink.
Seonghwa glanced down at the man who had given him a chance when he looked like a ghost.
“Go sit in the armchair, Mr. Lee. Your knees are crackling with enough volume to drown out the floorboards. I can handle the morning shipment.”
The tension in the shop was a comfortable weight, a contrast to lethal silences of his father's house.
Here, the bickering was a shield, a way to acknowledge they needed each other without ever having to say it out loud.
Mr. Lee huffed.
His hand cutting through the air in a dismissive arc, yet he followed the command and shuffled toward the sagging armchair in the corner.
“You possess a dangerously sharp tongue, boy.”
The old man remarked, voice dropping into a somber.
“One of these days, some alpha is going to walk through that door and bite it right out of your head.”
Seonghwa remained motionless, though his fingers clamped around the handle of the kettle until his knuckles burned white against his skin.
The heat of the metal seeped into his palm, a grounding sting.
“Let them try.”
He countered, voice like a whetted blade.
“They will find it tastes like nothing but poison. I imagine the indigestion would be fatal.”
The morning hours unfolded in a slow rhythm that settled the static in his brain.
He lost himself in the physical demands of the shop, hauling crates of poetry to the back and meticulously alphabetizing the fiction section until the spines aligned in a perfect, colorful row.
He brewed three separate pots of tea, the steam rising to dampen his forehead as he worked.
The labor was a lifeline.
He leaned into the quiet rustle of paper and the weight of the hardbacks, using the sensory details to tether his mind to the floorboards.
It was a constant struggle to stay anchored, to keep himself from slipping into the dark, suffocating waters of a past that still reached for his ankles every time he stood still.
Here, amidst the smell of brewing leaves and old ink, he could almost believe he was safe.
The shop bell shrieked with a sudden urgency, shattering the afternoon’s fragile peace.
Seonghwa froze on the upper rungs of the stepladder, fingers still curled around a spine of French poetry as he turned his head.
A silhouette stood framed in the doorway.
The man was tall, wrapped in a suit so perfectly tailored it felt like a personal insult to the peeling wallpaper of the shop.
The fabric alone likely cost more than Seonghwa’s entire existence for the last three years.
However, it wasn’t the display of wealth that caused the blood to drain from Seonghwa’s face.
It was the invisible tide that followed the stranger inside.
The scent was a physical blow.
It was arrogant and thick with the electric charge of ozone and the resinous burn of cedarwood.
An alpha had entered the room.
This wasn't a passive presence.
He was weaponizing his pheromones, forcing them into every dusty corner of the small space.
The air grew dense, demanding a submission that Seonghwa felt vibrating in the marrow of his bones.
He felt his suppressed biology revolt.
His scent flaring into a sour jasmine that curdled beneath the shield of artificial pine.
He descended the ladder with agonizing slowness, expression hardening into a mask of apathy.
The alpha swaggered toward the counter with a predatory confidence, leaning his weight against the glass display case that housed the premium matcha.
The intrusion felt physical.
He raked a lingering gaze over Seonghwa, smirk widening as he traced the slender lines obscured by the oversized sweater.
“Well~”
The Alpha purred, voice dropping into a guttural that felt like a mockery of a mating call.
“I certainly didn't expect to find something this exquisite rotting away in a tomb like this. Tell me, what is a creature like you doing wasting your time behind a register?”
Seonghwa didn't hesitate for a single second.
He snatched a damp rag and began to polish the glass counter with methodical strokes, refusing to grant the man the satisfaction of eye contact.
“I am currently accumulating the capital required to fund my retirement on a private island.”
Seonghwa replied, voice as smooth as shards of glass.
“An island where alphas who overcompensate with aggressive cologne are strictly prohibited by law. Now, how can I assist you? I’m operating under the assumption that you possess the literacy required to be here and aren't simply using our windows as a vanity mirror.”
The alpha’s smirk buckled.
His thick eyebrows knitted together, first in genuine confusion and then in a flash of rising heat.
The heavy scent of cedarwood spiked, turning acrid and sharp with agitation.
“Excuse me? Do you have even the slightest inkling of who I am?”
The man demanded, chest puffing out to fill the narrow aisle.
“I don't.”
Seonghwa said, finally lifting his head.
He allowed his dark eyes to go boring into the man with a coldness.
“Furthermore, unless your identity happens to be the author of a title I am currently trying to move off these shelves, I find the information entirely irrelevant. Now, make a choice. Do you want a book or do you want tea or did you truly walk in here just to mark the floorboards like a stray dog because we keep a mop in the back specifically for messes like that.”
In the corner, Mr. Lee erupted into a sudden bark of laughter, though he quickly buried his face behind the newspaper with a series of unconvincing coughs.
The alpha’s complexion turned a bruised shade of crimson.
He brought his palm down against the glass display case with a force that cracked through the silence like a whip.
“You arrogant little bitch.”
The man hissed, voice trembling with the weight of his wounded pride.
“An omega has no business speaking to an alpha with that tone. You clearly need to be taught a lesson in respect.”
He lunged forward, fingers clawing the air as he reached for Seonghwa’s wrist.
Seonghwa didn’t flinch.
He didn’t recoil or offer the man the satisfaction of a tremor.
A lifetime spent enduring his brother’s cruelty had cauterized his fear long ago, leaving behind a foundation of cold, petrified rage.
Before the alpha’s hand could make contact with the wool of his sweater, Seonghwa hoisted the cast-iron tea kettle and slammed it onto the counter.
The deafening roar of the impact shuddered through the floorboards.
The alpha jolted backward, eyes widening as the sound vibrated through the small shop.
Seonghwa leaned across the wood, planting his palms firmly on the counter as he invaded the alpha's personal space.
With a wrench, he forced a fraction of his scent through the synthetic barriers.
It wasn't the inviting, sugary jasmine of a compliant Omega.
Instead, it was the suffocating, necrotic stench of crushed blooms left to rot in a stagnant basement.
It was a funeral shroud in olfactory form.
“Let me make one thing exceptionally clear to you..”
Seonghwa breathed, voice a frozen whisper that seemed to drop the temperature of the room.
“The only lesson I am interested in learning is how to scrub the stench of your ego out of my floorboards. If your hand even twitches in my direction again, I won't reach for the kettle. I will reach for the boiling water inside of it. Do we have a comprehensive understanding of the situation?”
The alpha stared, pupils blown wide with a mixture of shock and dawning fear.
He was a man accustomed to the soft surrender of omegas, to the sight of them melting into the floor beneath the weight of his pheromones.
Confronted with Seonghwa’s venomous defiance and his absolute refusal to occupy the role of the victim, the stranger’s composure disintegrated.
He let out a forced scoff in a desperate attempt to salvage his dignity.
He muttered an insult about ‘defective goods’ before retreating, storming out of the shop as the bell shrieked a protest in his wake.
The heavy door slammed.
The resulting silence felt thick and suffocating.
Seonghwa released a long breath, frame trembling as his shoulders dropped by a mere fraction of an inch.
He gripped the rag and began to scrub the glass counter.
He focused all his remaining adrenaline into erasing the exact spot where the alpha’s palm had contaminated the surface.
“You know—”
Mr. Lee said, voice unusually soft as he folded his newspaper with care.
“You are going to find your grave one day acting like that, Seonghwa. A single man, especially a rare omega, cannot wage war against the entire world.”
Seonghwa didn't look up.
He kept his eyes anchored to the glass, watching the smudge disappear under his hand.
“I have no desire to fight the whole world, Mr. Lee.”
He muttered, the words sounding bruised and weary.
“I just want the world to leave me the hell alone. Is that too much of a ransom to pay for my life?”
Mr. Lee released a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of a lifetime’s worth of regrets.
The sound echoed through the narrow aisles of books.
“You are far too young to carry this much bitterness in your marrow, Seonghwa.”
The old man said, voice thickening with a quiet sorrow.
“You have a decent heart. I see the way you leave scraps for the starving alley cats at the back door. I notice how you spend your own hours meticulously taping the torn pages of the children’s stories. You wrap yourself in a nest of thorns, child, but you’re bleeding out on the inside.”
Seonghwa’s hand froze mid-motion.
The friction of the rag against the glass ceased, leaving a silence in the shop.
A painful knot tightened in his throat, making it nearly impossible to swallow.
He detested these moments.
He hated when anyone possessed the audacity to peer through the chinks in his armor.
“Thorns are the only thing that keep the predators at bay.”
Seonghwa replied.
His voice remained soft, though it trembled with a fracture he couldn't quite seal.
“And whatever bleeding I do is my own business. No one else has to clean it up.”
He turned his back to the old man, pretending to be intensely interested in the tea canisters on the shelf.
The pressure behind his eyes was a familiar ache, a reminder of the vulnerability he had tried to burn out of himself.
He reached for a tin of oolong, fingers grazing the metal, desperate for the comfort of a task to distract him from the suffocating weight of being truly seen.
── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
The remainder of the shift dragged on without further conflict, yet the residual adrenaline left Seonghwa hollow.
A profound, bone-deep exhaustion seeped into his marrow, turning his limbs into leaden weights.
When he finally flipped the wooden sign to 'CLOSED' and turned the deadbolt, the sun had already surrendered to the horizon.
The sky was a vast, mottled bruise of deep violet and slate grey.
The journey back to his apartment felt twice as long as the morning trek.
The evening air had transformed into a chill that sliced through the loose knit of his beige sweater.
He kept his chin tucked against his chest and his hands shoved into the depths of his pockets, refusing to offer even a glance to the silhouettes lingering under the flickering street lamps.
“Just a few more blocks..”
He whispered to the concrete, breath hitching in the cold.
“Just get behind the door.”
Every shadow seemed to carry the scent of ozone.
Every heavy footfall behind him sounded like the approach of a suit.
The city felt tighter tonight, the narrow alleyways closing in like a throat beginning to constrict.
He navigated the cracked pavement by memory alone.
His heart a bird trapped in the cage of his ribs, desperate for the only four walls that didn't demand he be anything other than broken.
The sight of his building brought a relief to his chest.
The structure was a decaying carcass of red brick, illuminated only by a dying fluorescent tube that hummed in the stairwell.
He ascended the three flights of stairs with a gait, keys already clutched in a white-knuckled grip.
He wrenched the deadbolt back and shouldered the door open, shedding his shoes the moment he crossed the threshold.
The transition from the hostile street to the silence of his room felt like air finally returning to his lungs.
“I'm home~”
He announced, voice sounding small and brittle in the dark.
A tiny, inquisitive trill rose from the shadows to greet him.
Seonghwa reached for the switch, bathing the room in the harsh, yellow glow of the single overhead bulb.
Potato sat anchored in the center of the threadbare rug, head tilted toward a corner of the room that held nothing but dust, yet his motor-like purr filled the space.
On the back of the lumpy sofa, Captain remained a motionless heap of black fur.
The cat cracked open a single, amber eye to verify Seonghwa’s presence before the lid drifted shut again.
The rigid tension in Seonghwa’s frame finally buckled.
The mask he had spent the day refining, the armor of a sarcastic, untouchable and frigid omega, shattered into useless shards, leaving behind only the reality of who he was.
He was just an exhausted, 27 year old man who lived for the simple mercy of safety.
He let his bag slump against the floorboards and collapsed onto his knees in front of Potato.
Reaching out, he hauled the massive orange weight into his lap, burying his face deep into the animal's flank.
The scent of dust and warm fur acted as a sedative.
Potato immediately began to knead his paws against Seonghwa’s thigh, claws snagging on the fabric of his slacks as his purr reached a roar.
“It was such a long day, Tato..”
Seonghwa whispered, the words muffled by the thick coat of fur.
His voice cracked, a sound in the quiet room.
“There were too many people. There was just too much noise for one life to handle.”
Seonghwa remained anchored to the floor for a long time, drawing the unconditional heat from the animal into his own chilled skin.
These creatures were his entire world.
They were his only true kin.
Within these four walls, there were no suffocating pack hierarchies, no predatory alphas and no eyes filled with disappointment.
It was a silent pact between two broken cats and a fractured omega, huddled together to survive the frost of a city that didn't want them.
The ache in his stomach eventually pulled him back to the surface.
He gently shifted Potato’s weight to the rug and forced himself to stand.
In the cramped kitchenette, he began the task of dicing vegetables for a bowl of instant ramen, the knife hitting the cutting board in a thud.
As the water began to hiss and bubble, his gaze drifted to the corner of the counter.
Resting beside a jar of cheap spices was a small, inexpensive wooden frame.
The photograph inside was faded, the colors bleeding at the edges, yet the woman pictured remained radiant.
She possessed an elegant, ethereal beauty.
Her smile seemed bright enough to warm the paper itself.
She held a tiny, swaddled infant against her chest.
Her eyes locked on the baby with a look of absolute, unshielded adoration.
Seonghwa extended a trembling hand, the pads of his fingers grazing the glass that shielded her features.
“Hi, mom..”
He breathed, the words barely surviving the transit from his lungs.
The grief had never truly abandoned him.
It simply evolved, shifting its weight to match the season.
On some nights, it arrived as a blade in his ribs that made every breath a struggle.
Tonight, it manifested as a leaden ache in his marrow.
It was a silent craving for the ghost of a hand smoothing through his hair or the floral trail of a perfume that no longer existed.
He hungered for the sound of a voice promising him that he was enough.
‘You are my perfect boy, Seonghwa.’
Her voice resonated within the quiet chambers of his mind, a melodic echo from a world that had burned down.
‘Never allow them to extinguish your light. You possess a strength that far outweighs their cruelty.’
“I am trying, mom. I promise..”
He murmured.
A solitary tear broke free, carving a searing path through the dust on his skin.
He swiped it away with a flash of anger, sleeve rough against his cheek.
“I am surviving. It is quiet in this place. No one can reach me here. No one can lay a hand on me within these walls.”
He turned back to the stove, vision slightly blurred by the steam.
His isolation felt like a cloak, yet he pulled it tighter around himself.
In the silence of the kitchen, surrounded by his past and the physical evidence of his broken present, he realized that survival was a lonely, exhausting victory.
He consumed his meal in silence.
The only sounds in the room were the scraping of his chopsticks against the plastic and the soft snores emanating from Captain on the sofa.
Once finished, he scrubbed his bowl, wiped the counter until it shone under the weak light and began the transition toward sleep.
He shed the day’s armor, pulling on an oversized, threadbare t-shirt that had been laundered so many times the fabric felt like a second skin.
As he slid beneath the weight of the heavy duvet, the bed shifted under the familiar arrival of his companions.
Potato immediately reclaimed his throne, settling his massive orange bulk directly over Seonghwa’s heart.
Beside him, Captain moved with a determined, three-legged shuffle until he could press his side against Seonghwa’s ribs.
“Goodnight, you magnificent burdens..”
Seonghwa whispered into the dark, hand finding the soft dip of Captain's neck.
“Thank you for staying. I know it isn't much of a kingdom but it's ours.”
Seonghwa reached out to click the small bedside lamp, plunging the room into an immediate darkness.
He squeezed his eyes shut and focused on the synchronized breathing of the two animals.
The sound acted as a tether, dragging him down into the soft edges of sleep.
He told himself he was safe.
He convinced himself he was invisible.
He had built his walls high and reinforced his fortress with silence, yet a cold realization flickered in his mind.
Fortresses were never built to stop a siege, only to buy time before the inevitable collapse.
The peace disintegrated at exactly 11:42 PM.
A series of violent explosions of sound tore through the stillness.
*BANG. BANG. BANG.*
This was not the tentative rap of a neighbor or a polite visitor.
It was a brutal demand for entry.
Someone was hammering their fist against the flimsy wooden door with enough savagery to make the frame groan and the hinges rattle in their sockets.
Seonghwa lunged into a sitting position, heart striking his ribs.
Potato erupted in a startled hiss and scrambled blindly off his chest, the orange mass colliding with the far wall in an unseeing panic.
Beside him, Captain transformed into a silhouette.
The cat’s back arched into a sharp peak, the fur along his spine bristling as a growl vibrated toward the entrance.
The assault on the wood continued.
*BANG. BANG. BANG.*
“Park Seonghwa! Open this goddamn door right now!”
The voice acted like an injection of liquid nitrogen, freezing the blood in his veins.
His breath snagged in a throat that had suddenly constricted to the width of a needle.
Instinctively, he knotted his fingers into the duvet, gripping the material until his joints burned with ache.
The recognition was instantaneous, a trauma that bypassed his mind and settled directly in his gut.
It was a voice that had been absent for three long years, yet it remained synonymous with the dull ache of bruised ribs and the terrifying click of a locked closet door.
It carried the suffocating weight of burning sandalwood and the oppressive scent of expensive leather.
His older brother.
The Alpha heir.
The golden child of the Park dynasty.
*BANG. BANG.*
“Don’t you dare play dead, you pathetic little omega! I know exactly where you are!”
The voice roared, dripping with a familiar condescension.
“I can smell that wretched, cheap pine garbage you’re using to mask your stench from a mile away. Open this door before I decide to kick it off its hinges and drag you out myself!”
Seonghwa’s thoughts fractured into shards of panic.
Cold terror clawed at his windpipe, making every gasp feel like swallowing glass.
A thousand questions collided in his mind.
He threw the blankets aside, bare soles making contact with the floorboards as he moved into the darkness.
He didn't dare reach for the light.
He drifted into the narrow entryway like a ghost.
His entire frame vibrated with a tremor he couldn't suppress.
He pressed his spine against the wall beside the door, shrinking his body until he felt as thin as the peeling wallpaper.
“Go away!”
Seonghwa forced the words past his teeth.
His voice shook with a frailty that betrayed the shell of his courage.
“I have nothing to do with you anymore! Leave me alone!”
A dark laugh vibrated through the thin wood.
“Aww~ Seonghwa..”
His brother mocked.
The suffocating weight of aggressive alpha pheromones began to seep through the gap at the floor, thick and oily.
The scent made Seonghwa’s stomach churn with sudden nausea.
“You truly believed you could simply vanish? You thought you could flee and play at being a peasant for the rest of your life?”
“I am a legally independent adult!”
Seonghwa spat back.
He tried to summon the biting, razor-edged sarcasm he wielded at the bookstore but the words fell flat beneath the crushing gravity of his trauma.
“I will call the police. You have no right to stand on my threshold!”
“Go ahead and dial!”
His brother challenged, tone smoothing out into a lethal calm.
“Let us see whose narrative the authorities prefer when the heir to the Park Corporation explains he is merely checking on the welfare of his mentally unstable, runaway omega brother. However, before you touch that phone, you might find it prudent to listen.”
“I don't care about anything you have to say!”
“Not even when the topic is our beloved father’s estate? Or, perhaps more specifically..”
A pause stretched between them like a garrote.
“The small, quiet patch of land where the second wife is buried?”
Seonghwa’s respiratory system stalled.
The blood drained from his skull with dizzying speed, leaving behind a piercing, high-pitched ring that drowned out the world.
“What did you say..?”
Seonghwa whispered.
The question was a ghost of a sound, barely surviving the transit past his lips.
“I thought that might finally pierce through your delusions.”
His brother sneered.
The sound of his voice through the wood was triumphant.
“The company is undergoing a significant restructuring. We are liquidating unnecessary assets. That includes the private cemetery plot on the eastern grounds. The bulldozers are fueled and scheduled for next Tuesday.”
“You can't do that!”
Seonghwa shrieked.
The horror eclipsed his fear, surging through him like a live wire.
He lunged forward, slamming his palms against the door until the wood bit into his skin.
He didn't care about the pheromones or the threat anymore.
The image of heavy machinery tearing into the quiet earth where his mother rested was a psychic wound.
“My mom is buried there! You cannot simply pave over her life for the sake of a ledger!”
“I absolutely can and I will.”
His brother replied.
The casual cruelty in his tone was a serrated blade.
“Unless, of course, you finally decide to make yourself useful to this family for the first time in your pathetic, miserable life. The choice is yours, Seonghwa. Do you want to be a martyr or do you want to keep her bones in the ground?”
Seonghwa pressed his forehead against the freezing grain of the wood, hot tears finally spilling over his lashes to track through the dust on his face.
He felt the phantom pressure of the walls closing in, the dimensions of his tiny, safe fortress shrinking until they threatened to crush his ribs.
The quiet, hard-won peace he had meticulously constructed over three years was evaporating into the air of the hallway, dismantled entirely by a handful of sentences.
“What do you want from me?”
Seonghwa choked out.
The fire of his defiance had been doused, leaving behind only a despair that rattled in his chest.
He slumped against the doorframe, knees threatening to buckle under the weight of his mother’s memory.
“Unlock the door, little brother.”
The Alpha commanded.
The victory was audible in his voice, tone heavy with a smug satisfaction that seemed to thicken the air.
“We have a wedding to plan and you wouldn't want to be late for your own engagement.”
── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──