I thought maybe tonight would be different. I thought maybe I’d find someone who could actually meet me where I am, who wouldn’t crumble the second I pushed back. But no. Same story, different face.
I leave the club without saying goodbye to Wooil. He won’t notice anyway, too busy soaking up the attention from theomegas draped over the booth. The cool night air hits my face as I push through the exit, and I suck in a breath that tastes like exhaust fumes and fried food from the late-night vendors down the street.
The disappointment sits heavy in my chest.
It’s always the same. Every single time. I see someone who looks promising, someone who carries themselves with that particular brand of confidence that makes my pulse quicken. An alpha who seems like they might actually be able to handle me. And then I test them, just a little push of pheromones, nothing overwhelming, just enough to see if they’ll push back.
They never do.
They fold. They submit. They turn into something soft and pliant and completely fucking useless to me.
I shove my hands into my jacket pockets and start walking, my boots hitting the pavement with more force than necessary. The streets are still busy despite the late hour, clusters of drunk people stumbling between bars, couples pressed against building walls making out like the world is ending. I weave around them, my jaw tight.
The thing is, I know exactly what the problem is. I’m a dominant alpha. Not just any alpha, but one with pheromones strong enough to make even other alphas drop to their knees if I’m not careful. It’s a genetic lottery I won that feels more like a curse most days. Because here’s the kicker: I don’t want someone on their knees. Well, I do, but not like that. Not because they can’t help it. Not because my biology steamrolled over theirs and left them with no choice.
I want someone who can make me get on my knees.
And that’s the real problem, isn’t it? Because the only people who’ve ever come close to giving me what I actually need are other dominant alphas. The rare ones. The ones who can meet my pheromones with their own and not crumble. The ones whocan pin me down and make me feel it, make me submit in a way that scratches that itch buried so deep under my skin I sometimes think I’m going insane from it.
But dominant alphas don’t want other dominant alphas. It’s not how we’re wired, supposedly. We’re supposed to want omegas, or at least betas who won’t challenge us. Two dominant alphas together is considered unnatural, wrong, a recipe for disaster. Most of them are repulsed by the idea. And the few who aren’t? They’re not interested in someone like me. They want someone who’ll submit easily, who’ll make them feel powerful without any effort.
I’m too much work. Too difficult. Too fucking complicated.
So I’m stuck in this endless cycle of frustration, chasing something I can barely articulate and coming up empty every single time. The sexual frustration is a living thing inside me, coiled tight and gnawing at my insides. It’s been months since I’ve had anything even remotely satisfying. Just a string of disappointing encounters with people who looked good on paper but couldn’t deliver when it mattered.
I turn down a side street, taking a shortcut through the maze of alleys that’ll get me back to my apartment faster. The buildings here are older, crammed together with barely enough space between them for a person to walk. The streetlights are sparse, casting long shadows that pool in the corners. It’s quieter here, the noise from the main streets muffled and distant.
My apartment is in a shitty building on the edge of this neighborhood, the kind of place where the landlord doesn’t ask questions as long as you pay in cash.
I’m about two blocks away when I notice the light is out.
The light outside my apartment door, the one that’s supposed to stay on all night because the building’s owner is too cheap to install proper hallway lighting. It’salways on. Always. Evenwhen the bulb is half-dead and flickering, it’s on.
But tonight, it’s dark.
I slow my pace, my instincts prickling. Something feels off. The air is too still, too quiet. I pause at the mouth of the alley that leads to the back of my building, my eyes scanning the shadows.
Then I catch a scent. Faint but distinct, cutting through the usual smell of garbage and stale piss that permeates these alleys. The unmistakable musk of multiple people trying very hard to stay quiet.
Fuck.
I take a step back, my muscles tensing. I’m already turning on my heel, ready to get the hell out of here, when figures emerge from the darkness. They step out from behind dumpsters, from doorways, from the narrow gaps between buildings. Five, six, seven of them. Big guys, all of them, with the kind of build that says they get paid to hurt people.
They form a loose circle around me, cutting off my escape routes. I stop moving, my heart rate kicking up but my face staying carefully neutral. I’ve been in worse situations. Probably.
Then a man steps forward from the middle of the group, and I recognize him immediately.
Kang Taewoo.
He’s shorter than his thugs, compact and sweaty even in the cool night air. His suit is too shiny, the pattern on his tie too loud. The jade ring on his pinky finger catches the dim light as he adjusts his cuffs, a smug smile spreading across his face.
“Ha Yujeong,” he says, his voice dripping with false pleasantry. “You’re a slippery little worm, you know that? Do you have any idea how much effort we’ve gone to tracking you down?”
I curl my lip, letting my annoyance show. Of all the nights for this to happen. “You needn’t have bothered,” I say, keeping my voice light and unbothered. I flash him a grin that’s all teeth and no warmth. “I was going to come find you myself when I had your money.”
Taewoo’s smile doesn’t waver, but his eyes go cold. “Is that so? And when exactly were you planning on doing that? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve been avoiding us for weeks.”
“I’ve been busy,” I say with a shrug. “You know how it is. Fighting, drinking, the usual. Money’s coming, don’t get your panties in a twist.”
