Chapter Text
1712 days gone.
Summer pressed in, thick and relentless, seeping into skin and making the air waver. Heat pulsed from the walls, turning the narrow hallway hot and stifling. The windows gaped open, hoping for a breeze that never came.
In the hallway stood a mirror, large enough to capture two small figures pressed together in its dusty surface. Their bodies squished together, sticky with sweat. Both were barely tall enough to see their full faces without standing on tiptoes, small hands pressed against the glass, leaving smudged fingerprints.
The little girl in cherry-beaded pigtails and summer dress stared at their reflection, brow furrowed in concentration, as if trying to solve something extremely important.
The little boy beside her wore a faded black shirt with a fraying collar and gray shorts that went past his knees, his small frame nearly identical to hers. They stared together, the boy equally transfixed.
“That’s me.” Seonghee’s voice comes out high and clear as she points to her own reflection, then swivels to Seongwoo. “And that’s you.”
They lean in, moving as one. When Seonghee tilted her head, Seongwoo followed, their reflections aligning so perfectly that it unsettled them both.
“I look like you?” Seonghee frowns. “I’m not a boy!”
Seongwoo squints at the mirror. “You look like me.”
Seonghee presses her cheek against Seongwoo’s, both faces still round with baby fat, warm skin sticking together in the humid air.
Perfect mirror images—the same soft brown hair, delicate eyebrows arching in identical curves above wide, doe-like eyes, the same straight mouths with clearly defined cupid’s bows, the same slightly pointed noses that wrinkled when they concentrated.
Only their hair set them apart. Seonghee’s hair falls longer, unruly, and wavy, caught in pigtails with cherry beads that clicked when she moved. Seongwoo’s was shorter, straighter, the ends curling softly at his neck.
Seongwoo touches the spot under his eye. “I have a dot?” His voice lifts at the end, soft and wondering.
Seonghee’s eyes widen. “I do too!” she squeals, the sound bright and piercing.
They frowned together and watched as the same crease formed between their brows.
Seonghee glared at the mirror, her small face scrunching with intensity, then she softened it. The alpha relaxes her lips, then her face shifts to something quieter, not quite angry, but the kind of look that made her tummy feel funny when her Mama gave it to her. She practiced it in the mirror, brows drawing together just a little, lips pressing thin.
Seongwoo watches his twin, head tilting. “What are you doing?”
Seonghee tried on faces, watching her own eyes in the glass, searching for the right one. “I’m trying to look like Mama when he’s mad.”
"Hmm!" It still didn’t look right. She covered her nose and mouth with both hands, leaving only her eyes peeking out, and tried again.
Seongwoo gasps, recognition lighting up his face. “That’s Mama!” His finger shoots toward the mirror, jabbing at Seonghee’s reflection with sudden certainty.
“I knew it!” Seonghee bounces on her toes, cherry beads clicking, her voice sharp with excitement. “My eyes look like Mama’s!” She jumps and points at the mirror. “You try!”
Seongwoo nods, face scrunched in focus. He copies Mama’s look—brows drawn, lips thin—and it fits right away. “Oh!” He points at the glass, then at Seonghee. “I look like Mama, too!” Then he takes notice of something else, “But Mama’s hair looks different,” Seongwoo points out, his small brow furrowing.
“I look like you but not Mama?” Seonghee’s voice wavers, her face scrunching up in confusion.
Seonghee, hungry for answers, ran to their mother, Seongwoo close behind. They found him in their room, folding laundry on Seongwoo’s bed, neat stacks growing in careful rows.
Seonghee climbs onto the bed, moving with the slow care of a four-year-old, trying not to ruin the neat piles. Her bare feet leave small dents in the mattress. Seongwoo presses close to Sieun, his head just reaching Sieun’s shoulder as he leans in.
“Mama!” Seonghee announces, pointing to the beauty mark under her eye. “Me and Seongwoo have dots on our faces.”
“And the same hair!” Seongwoo tugs at a strand of his own, his small voice earnest. “But you don’t.”
“Yes,” Sieun smiles at them, setting down the shirt he’s folding, “you do.”
“Why?” Seonghee asks.
“Because you’re twins,” Sieun says, hands still moving to fold clothes, “and twins sometimes look alike.”
“Didn’t you make us, Mama?” Seongwoo’s voice is small, uncertain.
Sieun’s hands went still over the laundry, his voice softening as he met their curious gazes. “I did, but someone else made you with me.”
“Me and Seongwoo look like two people?” Seonghee’s face scrunches up, holding up fingers that she thinks are two.
“You do.” Sieun gestures for Seonghee to sit on his other knee, and the small alpha scrambles to do so.
“Papa looks nice?” Seongwoo asks.
Sieun blinks, trying to clear up a distant memory, “He does.”
“But I wanna look like mama. Mama’s pretty.” Seonghee pouts.
“No, you’re pretty, Keum Seonghee,” Sieun pinches Seonghee’s cheeks playfully.
“Papa,” Seongwoo says to himself, “Where is he?”
Sieun inhales and blinks rapidly. “He’s not ready to meet you yet.”
“We look like our papa?” Seongwoo asks, his voice small and wondering.
Sieun pauses, “You look like my children.” He tucks strands of Seonghee’s unruly hair that have spilled from her pigtails, “But most importantly, you look like yourselves.”
2434 days gone.
“Sieun-ah.”
Suho’s voice from behind startles a gasp from the omega. Sieun spins around, heart hammering, one hand instinctively pressed to his chest.
“Hey, it’s just me,” Suho says, approaching Sieun carefully, hands raised in a calming gesture. His expression shifts from concern to something deeper—worry etched in the lines around his eyes. “You’re gonna tell me what that was?”
Sieun stares at him.
He’s never told anyone about his past—despite years of unsubtle questions about it and the twins’ father. Sieun always gives vague answers to make them stop asking. Hyuntak knows some of it, but not the complete story, and the alpha has always been Sieun’s first line of defense whenever someone tries to ask too much.
Thankfully, they can take the hint and respect his decision not to reveal much. It’s one of the things Sieun loves most about his friends in this place, even when the rest of the small population eyes him with judgment, his friends never did. They give him space to breathe, to exist without explanation. They’ve built a friendship on trust rather than transparency, and for that, Sieun is endlessly grateful.
“I will,” Sieun manages, his voice small, “Just not—”
“Today,” Suho finishes for him, understanding coloring his features.
Sieun’s throat tightens. “I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t say sorry.” Suho steps closer, his presence steady and grounding. “You don’t owe anyone your pain, Sieun-ah. Not until you’re ready.”
Sieun does want to unburden himself, to tell his friends about his past—to share the weight that’s been crushing him for years. It’s not that he doesn’t trust them. If anything, he trusts them too much, which is precisely why he can’t speak.
Every secret he keeps is a shield, protecting the people he loves from becoming targets. The less they know, the safer they remain. Just like keeping the twins safe by never speaking of their father, by letting that man exist only as a ghostin Sieun’s nightmares, never in their waking world.
“You ready to go back to work?” Suho asks gently, his voice pulling Sieun back from the edge of his spiraling thoughts.
Sieun thinks of his children.
Every instinct screams at him to run—to sprint straight to them, scoop them into his arms, and disappear into the night before dawn breaks. Find another village, change their names, build another life of lies and fear. He’s done it before. He could do it again.
But even as the urge claws at him, Sieun knows he can’t. Not this time.
They’ve built a life here, something real. Maybe not for Sieun—he wakes each day pretending the past isn’t waiting for him—but for his children, it’s real. This is where their family lives. Sieun can’t watch his children’s faces shudder with confusion and loss as he tears them away from everything they’ve come to love.
He can’t run away again, not when running would hurt them more than staying ever could.
Sieun tugged at his sleeve, fingers brushing the small burn on his wrist. “I think so,” he says finally, voice steadier than he feels.
Suho swings a comfortable arm around Sieun’s shoulders, the other omega’s steady scent anchoring him. The weight is familiar and warm, and for a moment, the burden on Sieun’s chest eases.
“Let’s go back before Baku starts asking questions.”
The small office tucked behind the restaurant’s kitchen smells of old paper and brine. Salt air seeps through the warped window frame, mingling with the musty scent of aging ledgers stacked haphazardly on small shelves. The cramped space barely fits the cluttered desk wedged between them, its surface buried under invoices, receipt books, and columns of numbers scrawled in fading ink.
Sieun’s pen hovers above the page, motionless. His gaze is fixed on nothing—or perhaps on something only he can see, something far beyond these four walls.
Humin glances up from his own ledger, brow furrowing as he watches Sieun’s vacant stare. The omega hasn’t moved in the past few minutes, hasn’t spoken. “What’s got you thinking so deeply?”
Sieun blinks, startled, his attention snapping back to the present. “Nothing.”
Humin studied him, unconvinced. The alpha noticed a tension in the omega's shoulders that wasn’t there earlier and sighs. “We’re done.” He reaches across the desk and plucks the pen from Sieun’s fingers. Sieun looks up at him, confused, almost dazed. “I’ll finish up here.”
Sieun rose slowly, slinging his bag over his shoulder. No word of protest from the omega. His movements were mechanical, as if his body moved without him, mind drifting somewhere darker he couldn’t quite leave behind.
“Hey.” Humin’s voice softens as he stands, resting a hand on Sieun’s shoulder. The touch was steady and warm, grounding. “If there’s anything you need, anything bothering you—” He gestures at himself with a lopsided smile, trying to coax some lightness back into the room. “Uncle Baku is here.”
Sieun’s expression softens, just barely. A flicker of gratitude breaks through the fog in Sieun's mind. “Thank you, Huminie.”
That night, after Sieun tucked the twins in and kissed their foreheads, he closed his bedroom door with a soft click. The heavy silence that pressed in felt too close, constricting around his ribs.
The omega stood for a moment, listening as their breathing evened out—two small, steady rhythms that should have soothed him, but only made the dread in his stomach twist tighter.
In Sieun’s room, he knelt by his nightstand, fingers shaking as he slid open the bottom drawer, the wood scraping softly. Beneath clothes he never wore and a stack of yellowed receipts, his hand closed around a cold and cheap burner phone.
Sieun stares at the dark screen, breath shallow. He hadn’t turned it on since the day he promised to accept help only if he couldn’t stand alone. Once he’d settled—built something, albeit fragile—he’d shut it off, buried it under old receipts and fabric, pretending it was gone.
He didn’t want to turn it on. He didn’t want to see what waited in that small, glowing screen. Every instinct told him to shove it back, pretend he’d never seen the wolf on that alpha’s wrist.
But he has to know.
The omega drew a breath that did nothing to steady him, then presses the power button. The screen flickers, light washing over his face. His heart hammers as the device lights up, each second dragging out, endless.
He waited, throat tight, hoping the screen would stay blank. Hoping there were no words waiting to set his world on fire.
2438 days gone.
The sound of muffled cries from the room next door jolts Seongwoo from sleep. Panic creeps through his chest as he scrambles out from beneath the heap of his covers. His bare feet meet the wooden floor.
For a moment, the small omega hesitates in the half-dark, fear coiling tight as he strains to listen. The cries are soft and unmistakable. They slice through the fragile night. He glances at the shadowy shapes of his room, then bolts desperately toward the only comfort he knows.
Seongwoo darted across the room, shadows shifting around him, until he reached his sister’s side. Seonghee lies curled beneath her blanket, brown hair fanned across her pillow. Her brow is knotted in distress as though the same cries that woke Seongwoo up are also twisting her dreams, pulling at her even in sleep.
A sliver of moonlight carves across her scrunched-up face, illuminating the tension etched deep into her delicate features.
Seongwoo hovers close and gently shakes his sister’s shoulder. “Seonghee-yah, wake up,” he whispers, his voice barely more than a breath.
At first, the small alpha's frown deepens, and she lets out a groggy, “Hngh,” clinging to the last threads of sleep.
“Seonghee-yah, wake up, it’s Mama,” Seongwoo whispers urgently, his small voice cracking with fear.
Seonghee’s eyes snap open as another desperate cry shreds the silence. The sound jolts the small alpha awake, her body tensing. She bolts upright so quickly that Seongwoo staggers back, startled. She throws off her covers in a flurry and grabs his wrist, as together they sprint toward their mother’s room.
Without hesitation, the twins burst through their mother’s door and rush to his bedside. Their mother is tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, his face twisted in agony as he cries out in his sleep. “Alpha, you don’t—” their mother sobs, “Don’t have to do this.”
Seongwoo freezes at the edge of the room, terror rooting him in place. Seonghee climbs onto the bed, her knees sinking into the mattress as she clings to her mother’s arm. “Mama?”
Sieun’s breath comes in ragged gasps. Seonghee shakes her mother harder, fear flickering in her eyes, but she steels herself—trying to be brave, trying to be the strong alpha who can protect her family. Still, her voice wavers and cracks as she pleads, “Mama, please wake up.”
Sieun jerks awake, his gaze darting wildly until it lands on his daughter at his left and his son at his right—both faces pale with fear. “What—Did I—Oh, did I wake you two?” he asks, voice trembling between shaky breaths.
Sieun exhales shakily as they nod. He opens his arms to both children. “I’m so sorry, my loves. Mama is sorry,” he whispers, voice thick with guilt.
“Bad dream, Mama?” Seongwoo asks, his voice small.
Sieun can barely force out a word. “Yes.” His voice is hoarse and trembling, as though he’s trying to hold himself together while he stifles an unspoken pain.
Seonghee wraps her arms tighter around her mother, “It’s okay, Mama,” she whispers fiercely, as if her conviction alone could shield them all. “We’re here now.”
Sieun’s lips tremble. He lets out a choked, watery laugh, pulling both children closer. “I know, baby. Thank you for saving me.”
Sieun doesn’t remember falling back asleep.
He remembers only the nightmare, his children’s small arms anchoring him to the present—and now their gentle warmth on either side as morning spills through the thin curtains, painting stripes across tousled hair and peaceful faces.
Sieun glances at the clock on his nightstand, careful not to jostle the kids awake. They need the rest after last night’s ordeal—after being woken by nightmares that should have been his alone to bear.
Guilt gnaws at him, knowing he’s burdened his children, forcing them to be brave and rescue him from terrors meant for grown-ups. His children have always been happy, but Sieun knows his episodes are leaving bruises that will hurt once they finally understand what they were.
It’s been days since the familiar dark ink has bled back into Sieun's life. Days spent waking up in cold sweats, stumbling through work exhausted, his friends watching him with concern—and now it’s crept back into his dreams, forcing his children to absorb his unease.
It’s like those first days after he moved to the village, when anxiety clung to him like a second skin. He finds himself constantly glancing over his shoulder, half-expecting to see someone lurking just out of sight. The fear never fully faded, but now its return feels like vengeance.
Sieun tells himself he’s ready, but readiness is a bitter thing. It means he never truly believed the past would stayburied. He’s been waiting for the other shoe to drop, and now he can hear it falling. After years of looking over his shoulder, he feels its shadow creeping closer with every anxious breath.
Now, more than ever, Sieun has to protect his children. Even if he can’t shield himself, he must keep them safe. When it comes, Sieun knows he will go. He will not fight, will not risk drawing his children into the undertow of his past. He would rather vanish quietly and take the weight of his secrets than see the terror in their eyes or let them become collateral from choices he made long ago.
Sieun is prepared to face the devil himself if it means his children never have to know that hell. He would bargain away anything, even his own happiness, his life, for their safety. The thought of separation forms a painful lump in Sieun’s throat. He gazes down at his children, sleeping soundly.
Sieun looks at their sleeping figures. Seongwoo had slipped from Sieun’s chest, curled now, small and warm, against his side. Seonghee sprawled across his chest, her hair wild and tangled, framing her face. Their eyelids fluttered, lashes trembling as they drifted through dreams. The beauty marks beneath their eyes—small dots that marked them as twins, as his—caught in the light.
Sieun pulled them closer, covering them in his scent, as if holding them tight could keep the world and his fears away. The omega could already see the hollow ache that would bloom in their small chests, the confusion and sorrow that would take root if he left. Their bright spirits would wilt, dimmed by questions too heavy for them to carry.
Sieun’s heart broke in anticipation. His children were far too young for that kind of pain. He knew too well the lonely ache that lingers after being left behind, but if the price of their peace was his absence, Sieun would pay it. It’s better they grow up untouched by the darkness that followed their mother.
Sieun swallows the lump in his throat and steadies his breath, gently nudging the children awake. The twins groan simultaneously, burrowing deeper into his arms. “It’s a school day. Let’s get you ready, or you’ll be late.”
“No school,” Seonghee mumbles, eyes squeezed shut. “Don’t wanna.”
It was rare for the small alpha to want to skip. She was always the first out the door. Sieun’s brows drew together. “What do you mean, sweetheart?”
Seongwoo stirs, rubbing his eyes and glancing at Sieun. “Mama.”
Sieun turned to his omega son. “Darling, don’t you want to go to school?”
Seongwoo glances at his sister, then pouts. “Don’t wanna leave you,” he says, the words simple and sure. The resolve in his face—that fierce need to protect his mother—mirrors someone’s expression perfectly. “What if you get scared when we’re gone?”
Sieun’s heart aches at their worry. He manages a small smile, though his voice came out shaky. “Is this about last night?”
“Yes, you looked so scared, mama!” Seonghee’s mouth turns down like she was fighting back a sob.
Sieun held them both in his arms. “Oh, my darlings. I’m so sorry. You’re right, the nightmares are scary,” Sieun says, doing his best to keep his voice steady, “but as a grown-up, it’s my job to deal with them.”
They listen to their mother intently.
“Mama is stronger than he looks,” Sieun continues, “and having you both safe and happy makes me braver than I ever thought I could be.”
Seongwoo looks up, voice barely a whisper. “You’re really okay?” His brows drew together, mirroring Sieun’s worry.
“No, don’t wanna leave.” Seonghee wraps her arms tighter around Sieun’s neck, clinging with all her stubbornness. “Seongwoo can go. I’ll stay with you, Mama. I’ll protect you.”
“Seonghee-yah. You don’t need to do such a thing.” Sieun’s smile was tender, aching. “Besides, who is going to take your brother to school? And it’s not fair to him if we hang out without him, don’t you think?”
If only she knew how much Sieun could fight. But no strength could lift the weight of his secrets. Some enemies couldn’t be beaten back.
Sieun pulls them close. “As long as you come home to me, Mama will be okay.” His words hung in the quiet, steady but fragile, broken only by the ticking clock and the soft rustle of pajamas.
Seonghee is the first to break the silence, “Hmph. Okay. But if you get scared.” She pauses as the thought comes to her, “Will you call Papa Gogo?”
Sieun hesitates, “I think Gogo might be busy, sweetheart.”
Seonghee shook her head, thoroughly certain that the older alpha would come if they called. Her eyes lit with a stubborn glow. “He’s not busy! He told me if something happens, or if we need him, we can call! He said he’d always be there.”
Sieun’s heart squeezes, grateful and aching for how much Seonghee trusted the older alpha. “I’ll remember that,” he says softly.
Seongwoo, voice barely above a whisper, asks, “You promise?”
Sieun gathers both twins into his arms and kisses the tops of their heads. “I promise.”
2443 days gone.
The phone lit up several minutes after midnight.
They’re coming to get you, Sieun.
And with it came the first crack in the life Sieun had built.
He barely managed to reach the sink before he started throwing up.
Sieun doesn’t sleep.
The omega went immediately to his bedside drawer, hands already shaking as he pulled out the documents he’d kept hidden. The walk to the kitchen table felt endless, each step weighted on the way to his doom. Papers, birth certificates, medical records—he spread them all across the surface, the rustle of paper as loud as the heart beating out of his ribs. He labeled them carefully, annotated them in neat handwriting despite the tremor in his hands, despite knowing each stroke brought him closer to goodbye.
Sieun stared at the big, bold letters in block NEXT OF KIN, then paused, pen hovering. His throat tightened before scribbling Go Hyuntak beneath it, the name of the man who’d become his friend that his children loved more than anyone. The pen pressed hard against the pristine paper, imprinting his fear and promise into ink, the indentation deep enough to show through to the page beneath.
Then the letters. His hand cramped and hurt as he wrote, but he didn’t stop. One for each person who’d shown him kindness when he had nothing to offer but secrets. The omega addressed the family he’d found in the village, his friends who helped him raise the twins when he was drowning in fear and sleepless nights.
In the pristine paper, he gave explanations—vague enough to keep them safe, specific enough that they’d understand. Tearful requests to protect his children. and promises that none of this was their fault.
Sieun wrote a note to Hyuntak about money, his vision blurring as the pen moved across the page. The cash was hidden beneath the loose floorboard in the twins’ closet. The account numbers he’d memorized. Instructions on how to access it all, how to use it for Seongwoo and Seonghee’s future—school fees, emergency funds, the life Sieun had scrimped and saved to give them in case Sieun finds himself in a grave.
He wrote apologies for the explanations he could never say out loud, for the secrets that would die with him if things went wrong. Warnings of the possibility he might never return, words that made his hand shake so badly he had to stop and breathe.
He apologized for the burden, for making Hyuntak carry the responsibility for the safety of two children who would wake up the next day, wondering where their mama had gone. The ink smudged where a tear fell, but Sieun didn’t rewrite it. The omega will let Hyuntak see his fear and let him understand how much this costs.
Dawn bled through the blinds, painting the kitchen table in pale light that made the scattered papers look almost sacred. Sieun’s eyes burned with exhaustion and adrenaline, his vision swimming as he stared at the letters spread before him—final words to people who’d become his family, goodbye notes he prayed they’d never have to read.
When he was finished, every muscle ached from hours of hunching over the kitchen table, from the tension coiled so tight in his shoulders he thought his bones might crack. His hands trembled as he gathered the letters into a neat stack, tucking them into an envelope and placing them carefully on the surface—a farewell rendered tangible, a goodbye made real.
Sieun padded to the twins’ room on silent feet, easing the door open with care. The hinges whispered softly.
Inside, the air was warm and sweet with the scent of children—baby shampoo and clean cotton and something indefinably theirs.
The omega stood in the doorway and allowed himself to watch their small faces. Seongwoo curled on his side, one hand tucked beneath his cheek, lips parted slightly in sleep. Seonghee sprawled across her bed, blanket kicked to the floor, her hair a wild tangle across the pillow. Their chests rose and fell in perfect rhythm, oblivious to the storm gathering just beyond their walls.
Sieun’s throat tightened. He memorized every detail—the curve of their eyelashes, the beauty marks beneath their eyes, the way Seongwoo’s fingers twitched in his dreams, the way Seonghee blew raspberries in her sleep. If this was the last morning he’d see them like this, peaceful and safe, he wanted to carry it with him wherever he was going.
The sun’s glare and the hum of the schoolyard assault Sieun’s sleep-deprived eyes, but he marches on, forcing one foot in front of the other.
The bell hasn’t rung yet. Kids swarm the front of the school in their bright clothes and loose lines, voices overlapping in the air that makes his head pound, shoes scuffing the pavement in rhythms that feel too loud, too normal, too alive for what he’s about to do.
Just before the glass doors, Sieun pulls both children to the side of the entrance, away from the other parents who smile and wave goodbye without a second thought.
The omega’s mind races—every worst-case scenario, every possible outcome, every way this could go wrong—but he masks his face into careful neutrality, something more gentle and unsuspicious.
He crouches down and adjusts Seongwoo’s backpack straps with trembling fingers. He forces himself to steady. He reaches to fix Seonghee’s hair, tucking a strand behind her ear.
When he speaks, “Listen,” his voice is his usual gentle tone, though it costs him everything. “Later, mama won’t be able to pick you up.”
“Why?” Seonghee’s frown is immediate, her little brow furrowing in that way that’s so achingly familiar it makes Sieun’s chest constrict.
“Because you two are going on an adventure,” Sieun lies with teeth that looked like excitement, even when the words taste like poison on his tongue.
“What kind?” The small alpha’s eyes light up despite her suspicion, and Sieun hates himself for using her trust against her.
“The kind where you can have a sleepover at Gogo’s place. He will get you after school, and then you can watch movies with him in his living room.” Each word is rehearsed, practiced in the dark hours of the morning, until it sounds natural instead of desperate.
Seongwoo, his face colored with soft, delightful surprise, asks, “On a school night?”
Sieun smiles, as much as he can, as real as he can, “Just this once.”
Seongwoo’s eyes widen, and his small mouth begins to stretch wider. “Really?”
“Really,” Sieun nods with eagerness. “There’s going to be lots of popcorn, and you’re going to have so much fun.”
The smile on Sieun’s face feels brittle, like porcelain about to shatter. He can feel it threatening to crack, to reveal the terror underneath, the knowledge that this might be the last time he sees their faces in morning light.
Seongwoo’s excitement dims, his small face falling. “But you’re not coming?”
“Mama will be a little bit busy tonight, so I can’t join you.” His own voice sounds so helpless to his ears, the words hollow and thin, as fragile as the lies holding them together. “Gogo will watch over you while I’m gone.”
Sieun forces himself to breathe through his nose. His own words echo—while I’m gone—ringing so loud in his skull they sound like a death knell.
“Okay!” Seonghee throws her arms around him, and Sieun catches her instinctively, holding her small body against his chest. “I’m going to miss you, mama.” Then her voice goes all authoritative, and adds, “Mama, make sure to come get us, okay? I love Papa Gogo, but I love you more.”
The words pierce him like a blade. “And I love you,” Sieun says, eyes heavy, he has to blink the moisture out.
Seongwoo follows suit, wrapping his arms around Sieun’s neck, his voice muffled against Sieun’s shoulder. “You will tuck me in tomorrow?”
Sieun can’t breathe.
His lungs refuse to work, his throat closing around, unable to say what he wants to say. The lie tastes like ash and bloodand the death of hope.
The omega pulls them both closer, one arm around each small body, feeling their heartbeats against his chest, memorizing how steady it sounds, how unaware, how trusting. Sieun breathes in the scent of their hair, commits the weight of them to memory, the way Seonghee’s fingers clutch his shirt, and Seongwoo’s breath warms his neck.
“Yes, I will,” he whispers into Seongwoo’s hair, the promise breaking apart even as he speaks it. “I will see you soon.”
Sieun holds them for one more second, two, three—knowing he should let go, knowing every moment makes this harder. “I love you both so much. Be good today at school and be good for Gogo, okay?”
He feels them nod on his shoulder, then he releases them, hands lingering on their shoulders as he forces himself to step back. He watches them adjust their backpacks, watches Seonghee grab Seongwoo’s hand, watches them wave as they push past the doors.
Sieun stands frozen on the pavement, watching until they disappear through the doors. Even then, he can’t move. Parents brush past him, the morning crowd thinning, but he remains rooted to the spot where he last saw them, his hands still shaped around the ghost of their small shoulders.
When he finally turned away, his cheeks were wet.
Sieun calls Hyuntak next. “Are you home? Can you meet with me?”
The smell of sharp gochujang in the tteokbokki mingling with the rich, blood-dark scent of soondae rises in the air. It should be comforting. The twins love it, always tugging at his sleeve to stop here, their faces lighting up before they’ve even ordered. But right now, the smell makes Sieun’s stomach turn.
Seonghee loved it here, and Seongwoo did too. They often begged to stop by, their small voices pleading in that way he could never refuse. Sieun used to think they were too young for food this spicy, this heat that lingers on your tongue.
But they never flinched. Sieun recalls the first time Seonghee tried it by mistake, how she said, mama, my mouth feels funny but she wouldn’t stop chewing. How Seongwoo ate it quietly, sauce smeared across his neutral face even as it flushed red.
They leaned into the spice the way their father always did—eager, fearless, like the burn was never something to be afraid of.
They were their father’s children, Sieun thought, and the realization sat heavily in his chest. He could see it in the way Seongwoo’s eyes watered, but he kept eating anyway, the way Seonghee grinned through the heat. They carried pieces of a man they’d never met.
The door behind Sieun swung open, the chime echoing loudly, disrupting Sieun’s thoughts. When Sieun looked up, Hyuntak was sitting in front of him. Hair damp, droplets of water on his white shirt.
Sieun glanced past the glass, partially obscured by the restaurant’s signage, and his blood ran cold. They were positioned across the street with a perfect view—their car parked at an angle that commanded the entire block, elevated slightly where the road sloped upward.
The positioning was deliberate, strategic. They’d been following him since he dropped the children off, watching from their perch like hawks surveying prey.
Sieun says a little prayer that they didn’t get to see the twins’ faces. Anyone who had seen his children’s father would make no mistake—those were his children. The resemblance was damning and inescapable.
Later, Sieun would deal with those three alphas tailing after him, once he had managed his affairs, starting and ending with Go Hyuntak.
“Sieun-ah,” Hyuntak’s voice cuts through the noise of the restaurant, sharp with concern, brows etched with worry. “Everything alright?” His eyes scan Sieun’s face—the tremble in his hands wrapped around nothing, the bruise-dark circles carved beneath his eyes.
Sieun exhales, “Can I...” No. He shouldn’t give Hyuntak a choice.
When Sieun speaks again, his voice comes out small and exhausted, but resolved. His throat feels raw, scraped clean by sleeplessness and fear. “I have to ask you something.”
Hyuntak frowns but nods nonetheless.
Sieun licks his dry lips. “I have to go somewhere, and I need someone to watch the kids.”
“Of course,” Hyuntak agrees immediately. “I can take them for the night. It’s no big deal.”
“Gogo,” Sieun’s voice starts to break, fracturing around the edges. His chest tightens, ribs constricting around his lungs. “I might be gone for longer than that.”
Hyuntak blinks. Sieun watches realization dawn across the alpha’s face—understanding blooming in his eyes, then denial chasing it away. Hyuntak’s smile comes out wrong, too tight at the edges to be real. “I’m sure the whole weekend will be fine. You’ll call to check on them, right?”
Sieun glances outside again, drawn by instinct and dread. In the split second, he sees all three men, leaning over their car like predators at rest, their gazes fixed on him through the glass. They’re watching and waiting.
One of them straightens, checking his watch. The casual gesture sends ice through Sieun’s veins. The weight of their attention presses against his skin, suffocating, a countdown he can feel in his pulse.
Hyuntak grabs Sieun’s hand from across the table, his grip warm and solid and desperate. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
Sieun shakes his head, “I can’t.”
Sieun’s fingers twitch in Hyuntak’s hold, torn between clinging and fleeing. For one desperate moment, he wants to tell Hyuntak everything—the wolf etched across his womb, the alphas outside, the years of running, the father his children have never known, and what he truly is.
The confession sits in his throat, sharp and choking, but the words won’t come. The omega doesn’t want them to because telling Hyuntak would only paint a target on his back.
Sieun looks outside again, panic spiking through his veins. What if they see this? What if Hyuntak’s affection, so visible and warm across the table, reaches the wrong eyes? He can’t risk anyone else, not his friend, not after everything. Sieun breaks free from Hyuntak’s grasp, the loss of warmth immediate.
Sieun risks a glance one more time.
Hyuntak finally notices and frowns, “What are you look—”
Sieun snaps, “Don’t look.”
Sieun opens his backpack with trembling fingers and pulls out the large envelope—thick, heavy with the weight of his entire life distilled into paper and ink. He hands it across the table. “Everything is in there.”
Hyuntak stares at the envelope, then at Sieun, confusion flickering across his face. “Sieun, what—”
“Everything you need to know,” Sieun cuts him off, voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. “Everything you need, so you can take care of them for me.”
“I don’t understand.” Hyuntak’s voice drops, something dark creeping into it. “Are you giving them away?”
Sieun shakes his head, desperation bleeding through every word. “Not away. To you.” His voice cracks. “I’m giving them to you.”
“Why on earth would you do that?”
“I ran away from someone who doesn’t do forgiveness. I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it. I can’t hope for mercy. I can’t risk them.” Sieun bites his lip hard enough to taste copper, fighting to hold himself together, but the defeat bleeds through anyway—in his trembling jaw, his red-rimmed eyes, the way he can barely meet Hyuntak’s gaze. “I don’t know if I’m coming back, Gogo.”
“You can’t be serious.” Hyuntak’s voice rises, cracking at the edges, desperate for an answer that makes sense. His scent, which has always been comforting, turns sour. “Your children are here. Your life is here.”
“My children are my life, and this is where they’ll stay. I have to make sure of it.” Sieun’s voice hardens, resolve settling over him like armor. It’s the only way. The only choice that keeps them safe. “If I come to him alone, then he would never find out about them. That’s what I want. He can’t ever find out about them, because he’ll take them, and I’d rather die.”
The alpha’s frown deepens, and eyes the envelope from the outside, “You’ve thought this through.” The cruelty of the situation was dawning on him.
“I didn’t sleep.” Sieun shrugs, the gesture small and defeated. His shoulders feel like they’re carrying stones. “I had no choice.”
“Why me?” Hyuntak asks.
Sieun answers like it’s the easiest thing in the world, though his heart is shattering with every word. “They trust you. It has to be you. They will feel less scared with you.” Because you’re the closest thing to a father they’ve ever known, he doesn’t say. Because they love you.
Hyuntak pushes the envelope away, his hand trembling as it slides across the table. “I can’t accept this. I can’t accept you leaving.”
“Please.” Sieun’s voice cracks, desperation bleeding through. He can feel time slipping away, each second ticking closer to his doom. “You have to. I don’t have much time.”
Hyuntak looks at him, eyes glassy with unshed tears that catch the fluorescent light. His voice wavers. “What do I tell them when they start asking for you? Not just the children, but our friends?”
“Tell them I’ll call, or I’ll see them the day after.” Another lie. It sits bitterly on Sieun’s tongue, joining all the others he’s told today.
“But you won’t.” Hyuntak’s voice breaks completely now, raw and accusing. “How am I supposed to tell Seonghee her mother left? And Seongwoo, that his mother might never come back? How am I supposed to take care of them when their bodies start to ask for their mother? When they wake up crying for you? Waiting for a call that might never come? Or one that does and will break their hearts?”
Sieun doesn’t answer because he doesn’t know. There are no words for this kind of pain, no script for how to abandon your children to save them.
He thinks of Seonghee’s fierce little face, insisting, Mama, I will protect you. Of Seongwoo’s whispered question, You’ll tuck me in tomorrow? The promise he’d made, knowing it was a lie. His throat closes around the memory, and he has to look away from Hyuntak’s desperate eyes.
The omega’s silence is the only honest thing he has left to give.
Hyuntak begs, “Just tell me what’s wrong. Tell us what’s wrong. We can figure it out together.”
“It’s better this way.” Sieun’s voice is hollow, scraped empty. “I don’t need to drag anyone else. Not anyone, not my children, and not you.” He believes it. He has to believe it, or he’ll fall apart right here.
“You’re being cruel,” Hyuntak says, voice low and wounded. Each word lands like a blow. “Leaving us all behind like this.”
Sieun stands up on unsteady legs and moves to sit next to Hyuntak, the booth seat creaking beneath him. His cheeks are wet with tears he doesn’t remember shedding.
For a moment, they just sit there—two people breaking apart in a restaurant that smells like the twins’ favorite food. They’re alone. The normalcy of it makes everything worse.
Sieun cups the alpha’s face, feeling the dampness there too, and makes no move to brush either of their tears away. The alpha who’d become his children’s Gogo, who’d taught Seongwoo to tie his shoes and listen to Seonghee’s chatter, who’d never asked for more than Sieun could give, until now. The omega mutters, “I’m sorry, I can’t give you more.”
Hyuntak leans into his touch, his skin warm beneath Sieun’s palm. “I don’t need your sorry. I need you alive. Your children need you alive.”
Sieun kisses his cheek, lips pressing against salt and warmth and everything he’s about to lose. The gesture feels final.
He pulls back just enough to meet Hyuntak’s eyes one last time, memorizing the exact shade of his eyes, the way worry creases his forehead, the stubborn set of his jaw even through tears, the scar on his nose that Sieun never really asked how he got.
Sieun wants to say more—thank you, I’m sorry, I love you like family, please don’t let my children forget me, please teach them how to be good people—but his voice won’t work anymore.
“Good-bye, Gogo.”
Sieun left Hyuntak there and wiped his own tears with the back of his hand, the wetness cool against his skin, and forced his legs to move.
Each step felt mechanical, disconnected from his body as he navigated the familiar streets. He walked until he turned sharply into an alley, the shadows swallowing him whole.
The alley was narrow, barely wide enough for two people to walk side by side—too tight for a car to follow. The three alphas who’d been tailing him since the school would have no choice now. They’d have to face him directly, on foot, with nowhere left to hide.
Sieun wove through a maze of connecting alleys, his footsteps echoing off brick walls stained with age and neglect. He could hear them behind him—the scuff of shoes on pavement, the low murmur of voices coordinating their pursuit. He can smell them.
Finally, he reaches a dead end, a wall of concrete blocking his path. He stopped, back straight, and waited. The footsteps grew louder, closer, until they were right behind the omega.
Sieun stopped walking. He stood perfectly still, facing the wall, his breath steady despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Without turning around, he spoke, his voice cutting through the alley’s stillness. “Do you know who I am?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.” The voice came from behind him, familiar in a way that made Sieun’s stomach twist. He remembered it—from a week ago, in the restaurant.
“You didn’t know who I was,” Sieun says, his voice flat, matter-of-fact.
“But you knew.” The response was immediate, almost accusatory.
Sieun turned slowly, deliberately, until he faced all three of them. All three stood in dark suits that made them appear intimidating, but Sieun couldn’t help noticing how young they were.
They stood in a loose formation, blocking the alley’s entrance. The one with the cross necklace stood in the center, flanked by the other two. Sieun met his gaze directly, unflinching. “It took you a while to come get me.”
The alpha shifted his weight, and the cross necklace at his throat caught the light filtering down from above, gleaming silver against his dark shirt. “I didn’t know who you were,” he repeats, his expression carefully neutral. “It was all a coincidence.”
“I’m assuming he knows?” Sieun’s voice remains steady.
“That’s why we’re here.”
The alpha reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, the movement slow and deliberate. He glanced down at the display, his expression unreadable as light from the screen washed over his features.
Then his eyes lifted, fixing on Sieun with an intensity that made the omega’s pulse quicken—as though comparing the image on screen to the omega before him, verifying his suspicions about Sieun’s identity.
What came next took Sieun by surprise—all three alphas folded their bodies in half, bowing to him with unmistakable deference.
“My name is Choi Yoojoon,” the familiar alpha says, gesturing to his left, “This is Oh Minjoon,” then to his right, “and Park Doyoon.” His voice was steady and formal. “We’ve come to take you home.
“Are you really Yeon Sieun?” Yoojoon asks, his voice cracking slightly despite his attempt at composure. His pulse hammers beneath his skin, each beat echoing in his ears.
They found him.
For a moment, it feels as if everything might be alright, as if the clock might turn back, as if Keum Seongje will finally draw breath again and live.
The omega looks at him with an expression that could freeze fire—unimpressed, unmoved, exhaustion carved into every line of his face. Dark circles shadow his eyes, and sweat beads along his brow, trailing down his temple. His chest rises and falls with measured breaths, as though he’s forcing his body to remain calm. “If I say I’m not?”
Yoojoon responds calmly, “I wouldn’t believe you.” The young alpha clears his throat. “May I ask you a question?”
Sieun studies him with a gaze that seems to peel back layers, as if searching for something hidden beneath Yoojoon’s carefully maintained composure—weakness, perhaps, or deception.
The silence stretches between them. The young alpha’s voice is quiet when he finally speaks, almost gentle. “We saw you with—” The alpha gestures a small child’s height, afraid to actually say the word child, as if speaking it aloud might confirm a suspicion he desperately hopes isn’t true. “Are they yours?”
Sieun’s response comes out sharp, “No.”
Minjoon shifts his weight, curiosity bleeding into his voice. “Who are they?”
“Someone else’s.” Sieun answers, clipped and deliberately unhelpful.
Doyoon takes a step forward, his jaw tight. “Whose?”
“A friend’s.”
Yoojoon presses on, desperation creeping into his carefully controlled tone. “Why were they with you?”
“I was doing a friend a favor.”
Each word from Sieun is a wall, another barrier thrown up between them.
“Everyone thought you were dead.” The young alpha continues with another question. "Why didn’t you come back?”
The omega sighs, the question dragging across him like a blade through skin. His expression shutters into indifference. “You alphas have a lot of questions.”
Yoojoon answers, and there’s something raw in his voice now, like Keum Seongje’s grief has bled into him. “You’ve been away for a long time.”
Sieun sighs, the sound heavy with years of accumulated bitterness. “Clearly not long enough.”
Yoojoon asks the question that matters most, the one that will confirm everything. “Do you still have it?”
“What?” Sieun asks, feigning ignorance, but something flickers in his eyes—recognition, perhaps fear.
But Yoojoon knows what he means. The tattoo. The mark on his womb. The permanent claim that cannot be erased, no matter how far Sieun runs.
Yoojoon lets the omega pretend. He lets Yeon Sieun have this moment of denial, this last shred of dignity before the truth strips everything bare. “If you were hyung’s, you would have it.” The words hang in the air like a challenge, like a prayer.
Sieun lets out a small, humorless laugh, the sound brittle enough to shatter. His eyes glitter with something dangerous—defiance mixed with resignation. “Do you wanna see it?”
Minjoon hisses from behind Yoojoon, alarm sharp in his voice. “Yah, don’t get familiar. Hyung will kill us.” There’s genuine fear there, the kind that comes from knowing exactly what their hyung is capable of.
Yoojoon ignores him and nods, his throat tight. “I want to see it.”
The young alpha needs proof. He needs to see with his own eyes the mark that binds this omega to Seongje, the permanent brand that declares ownership. He needs to know he was not wrong, that getting his hyung’s hopes up is not in vain. He needs that last, desperate hope that they are not lost—that his hyung can still be saved.
Sieun deliberately lifts his gray shirt, the fabric rising to reveal pale skin. His fingers hook on the waistband of his pants, pulling them down just enough to expose his lower abdomen. The mark is there, dark and unmistakable, carved across the soft skin of his belly in intricate black ink—a wolf, as dark as an eternal warning. The same wolf that marks all of Keum Seongje’s possessions. The same wolf that means Sieun belongs to someone who does not let go.
Yoojoon feels tears prick at his eyes, hot and unwelcome.
Yoojoon’s voice is small when he speaks again, almost fragile, stripped of the authority he’d tried to project. “Why did you leave?”
Sieun laughs, but there is no warmth in it—only bitterness. “I would ask you. Why would I not?” He pulls his shirt back down, covering the mark, hiding the evidence. “But you’re one of his. He can do no wrong in your eyes. It would never make sense to you. Why would I leave?” He shakes his head, the gesture weary, defeated. “It doesn’t matter. I want you out of here.”
Doyoon steps forward, his voice hard as steel. “Not without you.”
“If I refuse?” Sieun’s gaze is sharp, challenging, his body coiling with tension like a spring about to snap.
Doyoon bites back, his expression hardening into something cold and professional. “It would not be in your best interest.” The threat is implicit, hanging in the air between them.
“Why? Because you three outnumber me?” Sieun’s voice drips with contempt, his posture shifting into something more dangerous, more ready.
Minjoon warns Doyoon directly. “Doyoon-ah, show some respect.”
“Yeon Sieun-sshi, I don’t doubt you can fight.” Yoojoon’s voice is low, almost a warning. “But even if you put us down now, even if you kill us with your bare hands and leave our bodies in this alley to rot, he will not stop. He will send more men. Then more. He will mobilize every resource, call in every favor, tear this place brick by brick, and burn this place down if he has to. If that fails, he will come himself.” The young alpha takes a breath, his next words heavy with inevitability. “You can run again, disappear into another city, maybe a different country. Fake another death. But how long before you are too tired to keep running? How long before you slip up, before you’re too exhausted to stay vigilant? You cannot run forever.”
Sieun looks at him, eyes cold with disbelief and something that might be disgust. “He must be so proud.” The words are laced with venom, each syllable a condemnation.
The omega takes one final breath, his shoulders dropping in resignation, the fight draining from his body. When he addresses Doyoon, his voice is flat, empty. “Take it out.”
Doyoon’s brow furrows in confusion. “Take what out?”
Sieun says pointedly, his gaze fixed on Doyoon with eerie precision, “The needle that you’re about to poke at my neck, where is it?” He tilts his head slightly, exposing the vulnerable column of his throat. “The sedative. I know you have it.”
Doyoon looks at him, and for a moment, his professional mask slips—wonder and awe flickering in his eyes. How did Sieun know? They’d been so careful.
“You should do it now,” Sieun says, baring his neck slightly, the gesture both a surrender and a threat. The omega eyes Yoojoon intensely. “Before I kill you with my bare hands.”“
Did we really have to do that?” Minjoon asks, arms wound around the back of the front seat as he studies Yeon Sieun’s sleeping figure beside him. A slight redness marks where they withdrew the needle. His body sways with each turn of the vehicle.
Doyoon shrugs, still watching Sieun warily in the rearview mirror. “He’s the kind of person who can convince a man like Keum Seongje he’s dead and disappear without a trace.” He pauses. “Well, almost.” He glances at the others before his eyes return to the road. “Even if he didn’t ask for it, we couldn’t risk it.”
“He’s right,” Yoojoon adds quietly from where he’s sitting in the passenger seat.
“We should restrain him once we get to the mansion,” Doyoon adds as he takes a turn. “Just in case.”
0 days gone.
Sieun wakes to two certainties.
First—his entire body is restrained on a wooden chair.
Coarse rope wraps tight around his torso, arms, and thighs, the fibers biting through the thin fabric of his shirt. His wrists are bound behind his back, the angle pulling at his shoulders. His legs are secured to the chair's front legs, ankles lashed so tightly he can feel his pulse throbbing against the restraints.
Even knowing his body is completely immobilized, he still attempts to twist and pull, testing the bindings, searching desperately for any give, any weakness. There is none.
Second—he's probably going to die. Soon. Maybe even in minutes.
The inevitability sits heavy in his chest, cold as the basement air seeping into his bones. He thinks of two small faces he'll never see again, two voices calling for mama that will go unanswered. This isn't how he wanted his life to end, but ever since he made that decision years ago, he can't say he didn't see this coming. There's nothing to do but let the hollow, dreadful feeling settle, heavy as stone.
Sieun blinked, his vision swimming, dark spots dancing at the edges as he fought through the lingering fog of sedation. His head pounded with each heartbeat, a dull throb behind his eyes. He forced them to focus, letting his blurry vision adjust to the room.
He scanned his surroundings, cataloging every detail with the desperate focus of a trapped animal. No windows—just bare concrete walls and water stains. There are no windows. The absence of the world outside felt deliberate, designed to strip away hope. The room itself was a message: this is the end for you.
It certainly felt like it.
The absence of any outside light makes it impossible for Sieun to tell the time. How long has it been? Is the sun up? Has it set? How high is the moon in the sky? Are his children at school right now, or has Hyuntak already picked them up? Are they asking for him yet? He doesn't know. He could have been here for hours or days, and he wouldn't be able to tell.
This basement—cold and dim—has haunted Sieun's nightmares for years.
A memory slams into him, bile rising in his throat.
The omega had been here before.
Years had passed, yet the images clung to him. He tried to repress them, to keep them from solidifying into full scenes, but they pressed against his mind—relentless, refusing to die.
No gasoline pools on the concrete now, but his throat tightens anyway, phantom fumes clawing at the back of his mouth. The smell is a ghost, but it feels real enough to make his stomach lurch.
Then came the sounds—high-pitched pleading that cracked into screaming, words dissolving into anguished shrieks. The wet, ragged noise of flesh meeting concrete, of bone giving way, of someone breaking apart piece by piece until they were no longer human, no longer alive.
Someone on their knees, completely drenched—hair plastered to their skull, clothes clinging to trembling limbs, water or gasoline or both dripping from their chin onto the stained floor. Sieun, please, don’t let him kill me.
It should have faded by now, but the memory refused to leave. It ambushed him in quiet moments—while washing dishes, while tucking in the twins, while staring at his reflection.
Just like everything else in his past, he’d pushed it down, buried it beneath layers of new routines and forced smiles—but it always clawed its way back to the surface anyway, dragging him under.
He remembers the smell of cigarettes, strong arms wrapped around him—arms that should have been a fortress but eventually revealed themselves as a cage. He remembers the hollow promises whispered into his ear, poison dressed as a lullaby. I’ll always keep you safe. Always.
Sieun had just stood there then, petrified and helpless, realizing too late that the warmest embrace could be the cruelest trap—that promises of safety were just another word for captivity.
The door hinges creaked, metal scraping against rust-caked metal, reeling Sieun back from the memory lane.
Sieun smelled him before he saw him—an alpha from his past, approaching in a three-piece suit, wearing an expression that didn’t seem to change over the years.
The familiar alpha stands tall—narrow eyes, calculating gaze—illuminated only by the single overhead bulb that flickers intermittently, throwing his face in and out of shadow.
The alpha crouches to meet Sieun’s eye level, fingers gripping the omega’s chin and tilting it upward. “Look at me.”
Sieun’s gaze lifts to meet those narrow, calculating eyes. “Are you hurt?” the alpha asks.
Sieun closes his eyes and shakes his head.
“Where are they?” The question comes quietly, as if ears are pressed against every wall.
"Safe," Sieun answers. Then, quieter, "Is he going to kill me?"
The alpha's response comes measured and even—cold, disengaged, though a trace of regret lingers beneath the surface. "That would be a possible outcome."
Sieun exhales sharply. "Possible outcome." The phrase almost makes him laugh. "Of all people, I thought he would never be unpredictable to you." He pauses, studying the alpha's face. "Since when is he unpredictable to you?"
"Since you disappeared."
Sieun doesn't know what to make of that, but his heart sinks deeper with dread. He licks his dry, chapped lips. "Where is he?"
The alpha's eyes give nothing away. The silence stretches between them like a dark abyss. "He'll be here soon."
Sieun takes in the suit the alpha is wearing—polished, expensive, the kind that could pay off half his bills. "Is there a party going on somewhere?"
The alpha shrugs, "Something like that."
"You look nice,” Sieun says. "You've always looked nice." Sieun lets his gaze travel over the alpha once more. "Do you have an omega now? You must."
“How could I have one? What happened to you did not set a good example for the rest of us.” The alpha plays with the omega’s attempt at mundanity, despite their situation—pretending Sieun is not a captive but an old friend. “I don’t think it’s wise to let someone have so much power and hold over you, don’t you think?”
"I agree," Sieun mutters. A small smile tugs at where laughter can’t form, not with the ropes constricting his ribs. So he smiles instead, even though it hurts.
“If it helps,” the alpha says, his tone gentler now, almost tender. “You look well. You could look better, but you look well.”
Sieun’s smile wavers, threatening to crack. “I look well for someone that’s about to die?” His voice catches on the last word, betraying the fear he’s trying so hard to mask.
The alpha’s jaw tightens. “You might be the best one yet.” His eyes flicker with sorrow. He looks away briefly, as if the sight of Sieun bound and helpless is too much to bear. “I am sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Sieun whispers, his throat tight with unshed tears. He swallows hard. “My only regret is that they didn’t know more of you.”
The weight of what he’s leaving behind settles over him like a shroud—two small faces who will grow up with only fragments of their uncle’s kindness, never knowing the full measure of the man who tried to protect them.
Sieun’s mind wanders to what he's left at home, to who he's left behind—the crushing realization that he might never see them again.
Their faces—Seongwoo's gentle eyes, Seonghee's fierce little frown. The sound of their soft footsteps pattering across the floor, always running, always in a hurry to reach him. Their small laughs, bright and uninhibited, echoing around the apartment until it felt like the walls themselves were smiling.
So loud it makes Sieun think the terrors that held him are gone for good—because that is what truly matters.
Sieun fights the tears welling up in his eyes, blinking rapidly, but it’s useless. They spill over anyway, carving hot tracks down his cold face.
The alpha watches him, unable to look away, something that looks like regret etched into every line of his face.
A moment later, the door creaks open for the second time, cutting through Sieun’s quiet sobs.
The scent hits Sieun instantly—overwhelming, unmistakable—curling through his senses like smoke, like poison, like a drug he’d spent years trying to quit. The scent seeped into him, through his skin, into his blood.
The omega grinds his teeth so hard, his jaw aches, fighting the urge to bare his neck, fighting every instinct screaming at him to submit, but the omega could only think, I’m back to where I started.
Tension hung heavily in the air, but only Sieun was suffocating.
"Baekjinie."
The sound of his voice cracked something open inside Sieun—something he'd kept locked away for years, buried so deep he'd almost convinced himself it didn't exist anymore. More tears run down Sieun's cheek, followed by another, and another.
The omega is helpless to stop or wipe it away, not with his hands bound tightly behind his back. He had no other choice but to wear his vulnerability like a threadbare suit of armor—leaving him exposed and out in the open.
"Is my omega finally awake?" The glee in his voice is twisted with malice and sinister intentions.
Sieun remembers how that voice used to lure him in, like a siren calling him to his doom before he knew any better.
"Yes," Sieun hears Baekjin say before the alpha schools his face with indifference, like he's no longer Sieun's friend, no loyalty to the omega.
A silhouette of another alpha is lit under the dim lights, broad-shouldered and commanding even in shadow. He steps forward slowly, deliberately, wearing the face of Sieun's worst nightmare—and yet, in such a sick, paradoxical way, also the greatest thing that's ever happened to him. The father of his children. The man he once loved. The monster he's been running from.
For years, Sieun has held back from saying his name out of fear that he'll somehow materialize from thin air, but here he is, standing right in front of him.
Keum Seongje.
He stands tall, commanding, owning the entire room and everyone in it with his mere presence. Dressed impeccably because Keum Seongje has always been beautiful in the most dangerous way. Grinning at Sieun like he's drawing him back to an inferno disguised as paradise, like the past years never happened, like Sieun never left.
"Hello, my love," Seongje purrs. "I have missed you."