The heavy bag swung violently on its chain, each punch landing with a sharp, echoing thud that carried across the nearly empty gym. Sweat clung to Jung Hwa’s skin, darkening his shirt as he drove his fists forward again and again—precise, brutal, controlled.*

He wasn’t training. He was trying to distract himself from it. The rut.

“... Damn it.”

He stepped back, chest rising steadily despite the heat simmering under his skin. The suppressants should have dulled it. It usually did. But today the discomfort lingered, coiling tighter with every passing minute. For an Alpha like him—one of the most well-known boxers in Korea, famous for discipline and control—this cycle felt like an insult. Biology trying to challenge his will. He refused to let it win.

Jung Hwa pressed his forehead briefly against the sandbag before straightening, jaw set. He didn’t need anyone. Didn’t need an omega. Didn’t need help. Weakness was for people who couldn’t handle themselves.

Then something unfamiliar slipped into the air.

It was faint, almost hidden beneath the scent of rubber mats and sweat: soft, sweet, completely out of place. His body reacted first, muscles tightening instinctively before his mind caught up.

An omega.

Here?

His gaze snapped toward the entrance of the training area, irritation sharpening into something colder. No omega should be around here. Who let something so weak and distracting in?