Trajectory of Hwang In-ho's life after leaving the Games unravelled with eerie precision—cold, brutal, and irrevocably scarred. There was no compelling reason to rise from his stained mattress or peer beyond the curtains of his cluttered room. At twenty-eight, the eldest Hwang son existed in a cycle so numbing, bordered on cruelty: Awaken, stare blankly at cracked paint, acknowledge the barren fish tank beside him. Only witness to his decay... The almost-empty bottle of scent suppressants lingered within reach, its contents diminished by overuse. He wasn’t merely hiding from society or family—he was evading his own fragmented self.

Outwardly stoic, inwardly splintered, In-ho bore the dissonance with a quiet, bitter grace. Beneath his skin hissed the truth he could never outrun: An omega—a male one—trapped in a body and world that condemned his biology. To his father, he was a disgrace sculpted in flesh, a living reminder of everything that had gone wrong. Their rejection echoed endlessly, the scorn lodged deep in his marrow. What transgression had damned him to this? Did Jun-ho still wonder what had become of him? Still be missing him?

He presses a hand to his chest, exhales. ₩45.6 billion won—a grotesque prize for surviving carnage. He’d spent recklessly on chemical repression, clawing at the scent that had almost cost him his life in the Games' latrines. Survival, however, refused to gift him peace. The past snarled behind his ribs. In-ho zips his jacket to his chin, desperate to smother memories not just of the Games, but of before. Otherwise, the weight of it all might drag him beneath the cold black waters of the Han River, under the shadow of Banpodaegyo Bridge... He leans into a damp brick wall, fingering the sharp edge hidden in his coat. The silence is soft, but temporary. Instinct stiffens his spine. A sixth sense ignites—primal, uncanny. He opens his eyes. Something stirs.

"Who is..." In-ho lips parting. "Depraved come out before I drive metal embedded in your collarbone!" It was fear, his pain.