Chapter Text
˜”＊°•．˜”＊°• ~ ✽ •°＊”˜．•°＊”˜
1st September 2028
Flames.
The flames didn’t just rise; they sprang, alive with a vicious, chattering hunger. They didn't consume; they unravelled. The wallpaper didn't just curl; it screamed as it peeled back from the walls, revealing the blackened, weeping flesh of the house beneath.
The photographs on the mantel didn't blister; the faces within them melted, their smiles sagging into grotesque, waxy screams before vanishing with a hiss. The air itself didn't turn to ash; it became a thick, shimmering syrup of poison and cinder, each breath scraping his lungs raw with the taste of his own world turning to dust.
And yet, he was a statue in the storm. A monument to panic. His limbs were leaden, held fast by an invisible, crushing weight.
Why can't I move? The thought was a frantic moth beating against the glass of his mind.
Then he looked down.
The cast on his leg wasn't white anymore. It was a deep, glistening crimson, so fresh it looked wet. It wasn't paint. It was saturated. A slow, thick drip of it pattered onto the floorboards, each drop sizzling like fat in a pan.
Was he bleeding? The question was absurd. Of course, he was bleeding. But from where? The cast was a seamless, bloody skin.
He tried to step forward. A white-hot wire of agony seared up his leg, and his knee buckled with a sound like snapping twigs. He collapsed, his cheek slamming against the floor. The wood was blistering, the heat branding his skin, and he could feel the grain of it imprinting itself onto his flesh like a receipt for his doom.
“SUNOO!”
The voice cracked through the inferno’s roar, raw and desperate, a shard of ice in the hellfire. Hope, sharp and painful, lanced through him. He turned his head, grinding his burned cheek into the floor.
The figure in the doorway was wrong. It was shaped like a person, a silhouette against the fire, but where a face should have been was covered by smoke. Watching. Its arm extended, a limb of solid shadow, reaching not to save, but to pull him into its formless embrace.
A groan, deep and mortal, shuddered through the house. Above him, the ceiling cracked open like a rotten egg. A beam, wreathed in fire, plummeted down. It didn't just slam; it impaled the space before him, slamming into the floor with a thunder that shook his teeth in his skull and rained splinters of fiery wood down upon him.
Trapped. Caged. The heat closed in, a physical pressure cooking him in his own skin. And at the edges of his vision, the faceless thing lingered, a silent sentinel of smoke. Not moving. Not speaking. Just… waiting. For the inevitable. For him to stop moving.
Sunoo woke up gasping, a scream strangled in his throat. His hands scrambled wildly across the nightstand, knocking over a glass of water with a crash he didn't hear, his fingers finally closing around the cool base of the lamp. He clicked the switch. Once. Twice.
Light. Blinding, unforgiving light.
It flooded the room, illuminating every corner, every shadow. See? he begged his racing heart. Nothing. There's nothing here.
Dream. It was just a dream. Sunoo forced the lie down his throat like a handful of broken glass. It was the same lie he’d been swallowing since he was ten years old. The same beige living room. The same useless, blood-soaked cast. The same faceless watcher of smoke. A record stuck in a hellish groove, playing the same terror at the exact same time.
He fumbled for his phone, a lifeline to the present. The lockscreen blinked awake: a photo of him and Aunt Sakura in the kitchen, hands sunken into floury dough, their faces bright with a laughter he could no longer remember the feeling of. The digital numbers at the top read 4:00 a.m.
A mockery in stark white. Always. The flames were nothing if not punctual.
Sleep was a ghost. Maybe it had been gone for years, and all he’d been doing was haunting the bed where it used to lie.
He rose on instinct alone, his body moving like a puppet pulled by strings of ingrained dread. The hallway outside his room was a tunnel of Arctic air, the silence not empty but pressurised, heavy with things unsaid and unseen. It was a silence that watched. In the bathroom, the mirror waited for him like an open grave.
The thing that stared back was pale as a grub unearthed from damp soil. Bruised shadows, not mere circles but deep, purple trenches, were carved beneath eyes that held a glassy, animal terror.
An omega he both recognised and didn’t a stranger wearing his skin, the only version of himself that felt truly real at this witching hour. The one who was never fully free of the smoke.
His chest tightened, a band of iron. He exhaled a shaky breath that plumed in the unnaturally cold air, unscrewing the anti-anxiety pill bottle with trembling hands.
Two white little lies slipped past his lips, swallowed dry. They did nothing to quiet the phantom thrum of fire in his skull, the echo of chattering flames.
The shower groaned to life, a sound too much like the house settling before its collapse. Steam curled upward, thick and heavy, clinging to the air. It smelled of cheap lavender body wash.
And underneath it, just for a second, unmistakable—the acrid, suffocating scent of smoke.
Rise and shine, he thought bitterly
°·．¸．·°¯°·．¸．·°¯°·．¸．－>
Sunoo let out a soft sigh, the sound barely audible above the gentle hum of the refrigerator behind the counter. The last slice of chocolate mint cake, its dark layers punctuated by vibrant green frosting, sat nestled within the glass tray.
He carefully adjusted its position, a final act of care for the day's creations. Straightening up, he pushed back a stray strand of hair that had fallen across his forehead. He glanced up, his eyes taking in the warm, inviting space, and a genuine smile bloomed across his face, a smile he couldn't, and wouldn't, suppress. It was the kind of smile that reached his eyes, crinkling the corners with pure joy.
This wasn't just a bakery; it was the culmination of countless daydreams, late-night planning sessions, and a fierce belief in his vision. This was everything he had ever wanted: a charming, sit-in bakery, a haven for sweet treats and literary escapes.
Rows and rows of bookshelves lined one wall, their shelves groaning under the weight of well-loved classics, contemporary novels, and vibrant poetry collections, all waiting to be discovered. It was a space where the aroma of freshly baked goods mingled with the comforting scent of old paper and ink.
His bakery was a testament to his own personality; a delightful blend of whimsy and warmth. He had poured his heart and soul into every detail.
Handmade crochet flowers, in various shades of pastel and cream, danced from the ceiling, their delicate petals swaying gently with the soft air currents. Real flowers, carefully chosen and arranged in pretty vases, added pops of vibrant colour and a touch of nature to the interior.
The walls were painted in a palette of soft pastel colours, creating a calm and serene atmosphere. It was a place that felt like a hug, a place where patrons could escape the hustle and bustle of daily life, lose themselves in a good book, and indulge in a delicious treat.
He looked around, a deep sense of contentment washing over him. He truly loved it. Every single bit of it.
The crisp morning air nipped at the edges of his exposed skin as he straightened his slightly rumpled shirt and smoothed down the creases in his apron. He gave a final tug to his cuff, a small, habitual adjustment, before striding towards the front of the bakery.
The metal plate, a simple fixture that signified both closing time and the promise of a new day, was still firmly latched. A satisfying clunk echoed in the quiet street as he flipped it open, welcoming the early light into his small sanctuary.
Three short months ago, the very notion of owning his own establishment, a sanctuary of flour and sugar, would have been nothing but a cruel, taunting fantasy.
His own bakery, imbued with his spirit, his own creations brought to life by his hands – impossible, a distant, shimmering mirage he'd learned to ignore lest its unattainable beauty sting too sharply.
Just three months prior, Sunoo, at 23, carried the weighty distinction of being a graduate from the highly prestigious Konditormeisterschule Hamburg in Germany.
Yet, this esteemed education counted for little as he literally broke his back, shoulders aching and wrists throbbing, kneading endless batches of dough in a grimy, uninspired café. There, he was viewed by his indifferent employers and surly colleagues as nothing more than a replaceable cog, dirt beneath their worn-out shoes, his talent and passion wasted.
He was a tightly wound coil of sharp edges and a rapidly fading hope, his dreams of a quaint, sun-drenched bakery in Seoul perpetually just out of reach, a bank account always, cruelly, tantalizingly shy of enough.
It wasn't that he was entirely broke. He had been meticulously scrimping and saving every single euro since the tender age of fifteen. Every skipped treat, every second-hand book instead of new, every extra shift taken, had been a conscious step towards manifesting his dream.
It was a tangible thing, slowly but steadily growing in a dedicated savings account – a future he could almost taste, sweet and promising.
But then, at twenty-one, the carefully constructed foundation of his future cracked, then shattered. His Aunt Sakura, the formidable and loving woman who had stepped into the profound silence left by his parents' voices when he was ten, was diagnosed with aggressive breast cancer.
His aunt, despite her rapidly waning strength, was fiercely, almost terrifyingly, adamant.
"Don't you dare. That money, Sunoo-ya, is for your bakery. For your future. I can handle this."
But Sunoo saw the silent calculations in her tired eyes – the unspoken tally of skipped meals for her, the old, familiar clothes, the deliberate "forgetting" of more expensive treatments whenever the doctors listed new, often vital, options. He saw the quiet sacrifices she was already making for his sake.
How could he possibly stand by and watch? How could he bear to watch the woman who was his mother in every way that counted, make those agonising choices, slowly diminishing herself when he could help?
“I can't let you do this for me, Sunoo-ya. You’ve saved for this since you first laid eyes on ‘The Great British Bake Off’ and found your calling. I won’t be the reason you give up on your dreams, not after all you’ve poured into them.”
“I would rather give up on my dreams than give up on you.”
And so, he did. He watched, helpless, as the vibrant, colourful dream of his bakery slowly bled out, the numbers in his account draining away like sand through his fingers until all that was left was the ghost of what could have been and the stark, sterile scent of a hospital room, a constant reminder of sacrifice and a future irrevocably altered.
That, he believed, had been the definitive end of the dream. The final, crushing period at the end of a beautiful sentence.
Until, quite unexpectedly, he found a most unlikely friend in Gyuvin, his enigmatically quiet co-worker by day, and a brutal, unflinching underground fighter by night.
Sunoo had never encountered an omega quite like him. He fiercely believed in omega independence and agency, but even he couldn't reconcile the image of omegas – with soft skin, gentle scents like honey – stepping into gritty, smoke-filled basements to beat alphas and betas twice their size. And win.
But Kim Gyuvin did.
Sunoo had dared to ask him once, his voice barely a murmur over shared, lukewarm coffee after a particularly gruelling closing shift: “Why?”
Gyuvin had merely shrugged, a faint, tired smile touching his lips but never quite reaching the profound weariness in his eyes. “Because I have no one, Sunoo. The only family I ever truly had was my abusive father. Now even he’s dead. The only thing he left me with, the only inheritance of any value, is this.” He’d flexed his knuckles, freshly bruised and taped, the skin scraped raw. “Boxing. Pathetic, isn’t it?”
And without a second thought, driven by an overwhelming surge of compassion, Sunoo had pulled him into a desperate hug right there by the reeking dumpsters out back.
Gyuvin had stiffened for a heart-stopping second, a reflex of self-preservation, before melting into the embrace, his usually reserved honey scent softening with something profoundly akin to relief and a fragile trust.
They became fast friends after that, an easy, natural bond forming between them. It wasn’t hard; loving Gyuvin, with all his sharp edges and hidden wounds, was one of the easiest things Sunoo had ever done. He just wished, with a silent ache, that Gyuvin knew how easy he is to love.
Three months ago, the very genesis of their current reality, they’d been huddled together on the rusty fire escape during their meagre break, the biting cold metal seeping through their thin, café uniform shirts and into their bones.
Gyuvin, his gaze distant and weary, was gingerly nursing another split knuckle. He had looked out over the grimy, graffiti-scarred alley, the air thick with the smell of stale garbage and exhaust fumes, and said it so quietly the words were almost stolen by the whining wind.
“We could do it, you know.”
“Do what?”
“Leave this shitty place. Go to Seoul. Build the bakery. I know you’ve been saving again, Sunoo. Ever since your aunt went into remission, you’ve been stashing away every won. I know you’re only three billion won short of what you need. I can pitch in.”
“No. Absolutely not. That’s your money, Gyuvin. That’s your… your get-out money.”
Gyuvin’s laugh was a hollow, brittle sound, devoid of genuine amusement.
“And what exactly am I getting out to, Sunoo? A nicer alley? A newer pair of broken gloves? You know how it ends for omegas like me in this game. One day, I’ll piss off the wrong alpha, or I’ll take one hit too many to the head, and that’s it. My body will give out. I’ll be too slow, too injured to continue. This money… It’s just sitting there, accumulating, waiting. Waiting for a funeral I won’t be around to see because I’ll be the one in the box. Let it do something good. Let it build something beautiful.”
The raw, unvarnished truth of it hung between them, heavier than the suffocating city smog, heavier than any physical pain Sunoo had ever known. It wasn’t an offer. It was a plea, a desperate cry for salvation disguised as a financial transaction.
Sunoo stared at him, the protest dying on his lips, suddenly feeling the weight of Gyuvin's entire desolate world. He saw it then, laid bare: not just the formidable underground fighter, but the vulnerable boy underneath—the one who truly believed his only worth was measured in the damage he could take and dish out.
The one who saw his own future as a closed, grim, inevitable thing, leading to a lonely, painful end. Gyuvin wasn’t just offering money; he was, in his own gruff, broken way, asking to buy a piece of a future he didn’t think he could ever have on his own. He was asking for a lifeline, a reason to live, a glimmer of beauty.
“It’s not just my bakery. It would be ours, Gyuvin. A true partnership.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, but no more fighting. Not once we start this. That’s the condition. Your hands are for kneading dough and piping buttercream, not for getting broken in those godforsaken rings.”
A real smile, one that finally reached the depths of his soul and transformed his entire face, bloomed on Gyuvin’s lips. It was a radiant, pure smile that Sunoo had rarely seen, erasing the weariness and replacing it with genuine joy.
“Deal.”
The plan began that very night, sketched hastily on napkins stained with coffee rings, their shared excitement crackling in the air.
They’d find a small, sunny storefront in a vibrant neighbourhood that yearned for a little sweetness, a place where people could gather and feel a sense of warmth.
Sunoo, with his culinary genius, would handle the recipes, the meticulous baking, and the artistic presentation. Gyuvin, with his surprising charm, blunt honesty, and sharp mind, would manage the front of the house, engage with the customers, and meticulously handle the books. Together, they would build something beautiful.
And now, three months later, as Sunoo stood in the warm glow of his dream made manifest, he could hardly believe it was real. The morning sun streamed through the large front windows, casting dancing patterns of light across the polished wooden floors.
From deep within the kitchen came the familiar sounds of Yunjin's morning routine, the rhythmic thump of dough being kneaded, the gentle clatter of mixing bowls, the soft hum of contentment that meant one of his bakers is already on starting another batch.
Just as yesterday, and seemingly every day before, customers began to trickle in, one by one, their footsteps echoing softly on the tiled floor. They'd approach the worn wooden counter, eyes scanning the array of pastries displayed under the warm glow of the recessed lights.
Each would carefully articulate their order to Gyu, who stood by the cashier with utter happiness on his face – "A pain au chocolat, please," or "Two of those delightful almond croissants, if you would."
The morning passed in its usual rhythm of gentle chaos and sweet satisfaction. Sunoo moved between the counter and the kitchen, ensuring each pastry was perfect, each customer satisfied. The familiar routine was a balm to his earlier anxiety, the warmth of his bakery slowly erasing the chill left by the nightmare.
It was during the late morning rush that the bell above the door chimed with an almost musical quality, and a wave of scent unlike anything Sunoo had ever encountered flooded the small space.
This wasn't the sharp, aggressive pheromones he'd grown accustomed to from most alphas. This was something entirely different - intoxicating in its purity. It was summer distilled into scent: warm sand kissed by saltwater, the golden heat of afternoon sun, sea breeze with an undertone of something fresh and clean, like ocean spray catching the light.
It was the kind of scent that made you think of lazy afternoons on pristine beaches, of laughter carried on warm winds.
Sunoo unconsciously lifted his face, drawn by the olfactory promise of sunshine and serenity, his heart doing a strange little skip in his chest. When he looked toward the entrance, expecting to see someone as bright and wholesome as their scent suggested, he was met with something that made his breath catch for entirely different reasons.
The figure in the doorway was a study in deliberate contradiction.
The omega moved with the fluid confidence of someone who knew exactly the effect he had on others. Where his scent promised innocence and summer days, his appearance whispered of darker pleasures and expensive tastes.
He wore all black, but not the casual kind. This was luxury made manifest: a silk shirt that clung to his frame like liquid shadow, the fabric so fine it seemed to ripple with each breath. The top three buttons were undone, revealing a tantalising glimpse of collarbones and the hollow of his throat. Over this, a perfectly tailored blazer that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent, its lines sharp enough to cut glass.
His trousers were equally devastating, fitted in a way that was just shy of scandalous, clearly bespoke and hugging every line of his long legs. Expensive leather shoes that gleamed like obsidian completed the look, along with accessories that screamed wealth: a watch that caught the light like captured starfire, a delicate chain at his throat that disappeared beneath his shirt, suggesting secrets.
But it was his face that truly stole Sunoo's breath.
The blond omega was beautiful in the way that old masters painted angels –if angels were designed to tempt rather than inspire. His features were classically perfect: high cheekbones that could cut diamonds, a jawline that belonged on magazine covers, and lips that were full and naturally pink, curved in a subtle smile that held promises.
His eyes were warm chocolate, framed by lashes that seemed almost unfair in their length and thickness.
His hair was the colour of summer wheat, styled in a way that looked effortlessly tousled but had probably taken considerable time and expensive product to achieve. A few strands fell artfully across his forehead, and Sunoo found himself wondering what it would feel like to brush them back.
There was something almost predatory in the way that the blond omega surveyed the room, though his expression remained pleasant. His gaze swept across the bakery's occupants with the casual assessment of someone accustomed to being the most beautiful person in any room he entered.
When those chocolate eyes met Sunoo's, the omega felt pinned in place, like a butterfly caught in amber.
This omega moved through the bakery like he owned it, drawing every eye with magnetic inevitability. There was something dangerous about his beauty, something that suggested he was very much aware of his effect on others and not above using it to his advantage.
"Welcome to 'Sweet Surrender,'" Gyuvin said, his voice carrying its unusual weariness that made Sunoo want to elbow him. "How can I help you?"
Why would Gyuvin be wary of such a sweet-smelling and gorgeous omega?
When the omega spoke, his voice was like warm honey drizzled over gravel, sweet but with an edge that hinted at hidden depths. "Could I have three chocolate cakes, one pistachio cake, three strawberry cake parcels, and a honey brownie to eat here, please?"
Each word was delivered with a politeness that somehow managed to sound both genuine and subtly commanding. There was something in the way he said "honey brownie" that made Sunoo's cheeks flush, though he couldn't quite put his finger on why.
"The name for the order?" Gyuvin asked, his pen hovering over the order pad with perhaps a bit more attention than strictly necessary.
Okay, he needed to ask him what bugged him so much about this omega.
"Jake," came the reply, and Sunoo felt his heart do a complicated series of somersaults.
The name suited him perfectly, simple but somehow exotic when spoken in that voice that seemed designed to make people lean closer.
Sunoo found himself moving almost without conscious thought, gathering Jake's order with hands that trembled just slightly. His usual efficiency felt clumsy under the weight of that golden gaze, which seemed to track his every movement with amused interest.
As he carefully packed the selection of pastries, he became acutely aware that Jake had settled at a table by the window where he could watch Sunoo work. Every time Sunoo glanced up, those chocolate-warm eyes were on him, paired with a small smile that made his stomach flutter in ways that had nothing to do with breakfast.
A mischievous—or perhaps reckless—thought sparked within him. Without quite knowing why, he grabbed an extra piece of the pistachio cake and tucked it into the box, followed by an additional chocolate brownie.
If Jake was going to look at him like that, Sunoo reasoned, he might as well give him a reason to come back.
"Order 087," Sunoo called out, his voice carrying across the now-hushed bakery.
Jake approached the counter with that same predatory grace, and Sunoo felt his pulse quicken. This close, he could see the fine details that made Jake so devastating: the way his shirt strained slightly across his chest when he moved, the expensive cologne that mingled with his natural beach-warm scent, the way his lips curved just a fraction more when he realised Sunoo was staring.
"Here you go," Sunoo managed to say, his voice coming out more breathless than he'd intended as he handed over the order.
Jake's fingers brushed against Sunoo's as he took the box, and the contact sent electricity racing up Sunoo's arm. Those chocolate eyes held his for a moment longer than strictly necessary, and Jake's smile deepened into something that was definitely not innocent.
"Thank you," Jake said, his voice dropping to a register that made Sunoo's knees feel suddenly unreliable. Then, with a look that managed to be both tender and wickedly knowing, he added, "You're absolutely gorgeous, you know that?"
Before Sunoo could even begin to formulate a response, Jake had turned and glided back to his table, settling into his seat with the same devastating grace with which he'd entered.
But not before Sunoo caught the way Jake's gaze lingered on him, warm and appreciative and full of promises that made Sunoo's breath catch.
Sunoo leaned against the counter, his legs feeling suddenly unreliable, a soft, dazed smile gracing his own lips.
The morning had taken on a golden, almost surreal quality, and for the first time in years, the phantom scent of smoke was completely absent from his senses, replaced instead by sunshine and sea salt and the intoxicating promise of someone who was clearly much more than they appeared to be.
˜”＊°•．˜”＊°• ~ ✽ •°＊”˜．•°＊”˜