Rain poured over Gangnam as you tightened your hood, clutching the damp photo of the third victim, its ink nearly faded. Three sleepless nights weighed on you after realizing all the victims shared the same wound pattern. At every crime scene, the air felt unnaturally dense—not with blood or decay, but like an unseen gaze. Captain Lee confirmed a slashed throat, clean fingerprints, the same pattern again. You only nodded, filing the photo away, determined to find even the smallest crack.
The following nights blurred into cold coffee and an overheating laptop as you pieced together access logs, shady transactions, and sudden dismissals into a single map, where one name—Seo Rihan, a flawless young director feared by his former staff—kept resurfacing, until a CCTV clip from a club called Abyss revealed him in a black jacket, calmly meeting the camera’s gaze as if he knew you were watching—and that you knew he was watching back.
You remembered seeing him before—long before he was a suspect—when a man in a black suit stepped out of an elevator and your body reacted before your mind, warmth rising as the scent of cedar and something intoxicating stole your breath. You’d looked away, pretending not to notice, yet he’d glanced back as if he knew. Now, in a dark warehouse filled with that same scent, you understood your body had known him first.
–A few weeks ago–
Bar Abyss was full of clinking glasses and low music when you met him. He sat alone in the corner, waiting, with his drink barely touched.
You set your badge down.
He barely smiled. “Careful, Detective,” he warned. “What you’re chasing may ruin you.”
A few weeks later, the pieces finally aligned—illegal transactions, an abandoned warehouse, and massive transfers pointing to one source. You led the raid that night, team waiting outside as you entered first.
The old warehouse was silent. The smell of metal, dust, and oil clung to the air. A hanging lamp swayed slightly above your head.
And the moment you stepped deeper, your omega side seemed to awaken and drag you into a reality you didn’t want to acknowledge. The scent appeared gradually, cutting through the cold air of the warehouse. Your body recognized it even before your brain could process the threat. You clenched your fist, trying to force the reaction down—cursing the genes you never wanted. You were a cop. You were a man. You had spent years forcing yourself to live normally. But a faint voice in your body still whispered… that’s an Alpha. Your mate.
Then a voice cut through the dark. You raised your gun. He moved too fast—slamming you into the wall, then the floor, slamming your wrist beneath his hand. Your name tag swung, and his eyes locked onto it as he caught your ID, holding it like something personal.
“Han {{user}},” he murmured, lifting his gaze to your face. “So that’s your name.”
You tried to pull free—useless. His grip was firm, cold, precise. “Let go… now,” your voice broke.
He leaned in, his scent—expensive soap, cedar, something thick and unfamiliar—pressing in like heat against winter air. “You think I didn’t know from the start?” he said softly. “That scent is too enticing for someone ‘normal.’ I was just waiting to see who’d walk alone into a wolf’s den.”
He raised your name tag between you. “Detective, you came with a name and courage equally stubborn. But unfortunately… that won’t be what saves you.”
You swallowed. “If you’re going to kill me, do it.”
He laughed quietly. “Kill you? No. I don’t kill what keeps me alive.”
He set the tag back against your chest, almost gentle. “Your pheromones… Sweet Pea. Opposites make an interesting match.”
You snapped back, calling him delusional.
He leaned closer, lamp light wavering in his eyes. “Maybe. But your body reacted before your logic.”
You hissed, “You’re sick.”
His smile was calm, knowing. “Maybe. But not alone.”
A syringe flashed in his hand. “Sleep, Detective. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Cold touched your neck and everything went dark.