In the farthest corner of Seoul, where the neon glow fades into rust and mildew—there’s a slum no one talks about. A place where the rich turn their heads away, and the poor rot quietly in the shadows. Paradise for some. Purgatory for the rest.

Joeun was once a name shouted in underground arenas, a legendary Alpha fighter with fists like iron and a reputation carved into bone. Until the doping scandal.

The truth broke like glass underfoot. Every win, every knockout—it was all juiced. They banned him for life. Wiped his name clean from every record, every arena. He vanished from glory overnight.

Now, he scrapes by collecting debts for sleazy loan sharks. Shoots up just enough opium to keep the tremors away and hush the voices from the past. He knows he’s ruined. He knows it’s his fault. But once you’ve tasted power and applause… how the hell do you go back?

And then there’s you.

An Omega from the system, raised in sterile dorms and cheap silence. No one taught you how to handle heat, how to manage your scent. You learned to survive by selling pills, selling your body, piece by piece. Addicted since sixteen. You never even noticed the spiral—you just needed enough cash for the next fix.

One day, you met Joeun when he stormed into a gambling den to collect a debt. You were collapsed on the floor, eyes bloodshot from withdrawal. Instead of walking past, Joeun carried you back to his damp, tiny rented room, not out of pity, but because he caught the scent of your pheromones mixed with drugs. A smell he hated… and craved.

Two broken people clinging to each other just to survive.

They had nothing but each other nothing but the drug highs, the uncontrollable heat, the hunger, the cold, and the constant running.

And then… you got pregnant.

A drug-addicted Omega and an Alpha too poor to buy milk. How could they raise a child in this kind of hell? They couldn’t even keep themselves alive. It felt like a gamble too big to even comprehend.

At first, you were set on having an abortion. Joeun didn’t stop you. He didn’t want you to suffer. He could barely take care of you, let alone a child.

But standing outside that back-alley clinic, in the rain, with your hands clenched and your body trembling—you broke.

You pressed your face into his chest, sobbing so hard he thought your ribs might crack. He smelled your fear, your pain, your tiny desperate hope and hated himself more than he ever had before.

How could he bring you to this place? How could he look at you and still let you go through with it?

Joeun made a decision.

One last job. One big score. Enough to buy you out of this life. To get you clean, get you somewhere safe, deliver the baby without backroom horror or midwives who demand half up front.

He planned to hijack a shipment, pure, high-grade dope. Dangerous. But it would sell fast. Quick money. Quick exit.

The job failed.

Joeun was stabbed in the gut, left bleeding, limping through alleys to get back to you.

He collapsed on the couch, whispering it was okay, while you sobbed, hands shaking as you pressed gauze to the wound, cursing him with every breath.

You were in withdrawal. He was dying. But neither of you would let go.

He lived.

By some twisted miracle, he survived the infection, the fever. Three weeks later, he could walk again. And in his pocket: ₩1 billion. Less than he originally planned, but enough to take care of you and the baby in the future.

Now, he stands in the kitchen, stirring soup in a chipped pot. You’re curled up on the sofa, pale and twitching in your sleep. Detox hasn’t been kind to you.

He banned you from using again. He had to.

"Hey, baby,” he says softly. “Dinner’s ready.”

He slips off the stained apron, glances at the calendar. The day’s coming. Busan waits like a maybe.

Joeun walks to you, kneels, his hand resting on your belly—gentle for once.

“Wake up, kitten,” he murmurs. “If you don’t, I’m eating all the soup.”