“Didn’t smell right,” I mutter, which is the understatement of the century. They smelled wrong in a way that made my alpha instincts scream danger.
Wooil gives me a weird look but gets distracted by the omega nuzzling into his neck. I take another drink and try to shake off the lingering unease.
It keeps happening throughout the night. Omegas approach our table drawn by the concentration of alpha pheromones, and while my friends go glassy-eyed and eager, I either can’t smell them at all or find myself actively repelled by their scent. One omega smells so wrong that I have to excuse myself to the bathroom just to get away from them, my stomach churning with nausea.
I splash water on my face in the dingy club bathroom, staring at my reflection in the smudged mirror. The bruises on my neck are still visible above my collar, dark purple fingerprints that make me think of Suha’s hands wrapped around my throat. The memory sends a pleasant shiver down my spine, so different from the skin-crawling revulsion I felt when that omega touched me.
What the hell is happening to me? I’ve never had this kind of reaction before. Omegas have always been just background noise, pleasant enough to look at but ultimately uninteresting. Now they’re actively making me feel sick.
I head back to the table, determined to shake off whatever weird funk I’m in. Maybe I’m just tired. Maybe my body is stillrecovering from last night’s marathon session and my senses are all out of whack. That has to be it.
But as soon as I slide back into the booth, another omega appears at my elbow like they’ve been waiting for me. This one has honey-colored hair and a dress that leaves very little to the imagination. They lean in close, one hand landing on my thigh as they smile up at me.
“Hey there,” they say, their voice pitched low and sultry. “I’ve been watching you all night.”
The smell hits me immediately and I have to fight not to physically recoil. It’s wrong, all wrong, like fruit that’s been left out in the sun too long. Sweet in a way that makes my stomach turn. I can feel my lip curling in disgust before I can stop it.
“Not interested,” I say, more sharply than I intended.
They blink, clearly taken aback by my tone. “Oh, come on. Don’t be like that.” Their hand slides higher up my thigh and I jerk away like they’ve burned me.
“I said no.” I stand up abruptly, nearly knocking over my beer in the process. The omega stumbles back, looking hurt and confused.
Wooil glances up from where he’s been chatting with his own omega companion, frowning. “Yujeong? You good?”
“Yeah, fine. Just need some air.”
I push my way through the crowd toward the exit, my skin still crawling from where the omega touched me. What the fuck is wrong with me? I’ve never acted like this before. Sure, I’ve never been particularly interested in omegas, but I’ve never been actively repulsed by them either.
The cool night air hits my face as I step outside and I suck in a deep breath, trying to clear my head. The club’s back alley is quieter, just the muffled thump of bass and the distant sounds of traffic.
I make my way through the streets, hands shoved in my pockets, trying to make sense of what just happened. The walk helps clear my head a little, the cool air washing away the lingering nausea from being around those omegas. But the confusion remains, settling heavy in my gut.
I use the backdoor this time to get into Wooil’s pawnshop the next afternoon, still feeling like I’ve been put through a meat grinder but in significantly better spirits than yesterday. The soreness has settled into a pleasant ache, the kind that reminds me exactly how I earned each bruise.
Wooil glances back from behind the counter where he’s examining some piece of jewelry through his magnifying glasses. He takes one look at me and smirks.
“Back for round two of showing off your battle scars?”
“Fuck off,” I say cheerfully, helping myself to his mini fridge. I grab a cider and crack it open, taking a long drink before dropping onto his couch with a groan.
Wooil follows me back, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. “So how was the rest of your night? You bailed pretty early.”
I frown, the good mood dimming slightly as I remember the weirdness from last night. “Yeah, about that. Something strange happened.”
“Strange how?”
I take another sip of my cider, trying to figure out how to explain it. “The omegas at the club. I couldn’t smell them properly. Or when I could smell them, they smelled wrong. Like, actively gross.”
Wooil’s eyebrows climb toward his hairline. “Gross?”
“Yeah. The guys were going crazy over them, saying how sweet they smelled, but I either got nothing or this nasty rotting fruit smell that made me want to gag.” I shake my head, still confused by the whole thing. “One of them touched me and I nearly threw up. Had to leave because I couldn’t stand being around them.”
Wooil is quiet for a moment, studying me with an expression I can’t quite read. Then he pushes off the doorframe and comes to sit in the chair across from me, his face settling into something serious.
“That alpha gangster guy bit you, right?” he asks.
I blink at the sudden change in topic. “Yeah? Like a lot. Why?”
