Sweet Surrender, Shadowed Heart

by Angel_Egotrip, Hopewelledams

Summary:

"You misunderstand me, Sunoo. I'm not a monster. I do what I have to do. And that includes ensuring… you’re well taken care of." Sunghoon muttered softly.

"There is no 'taking care' when it comes to you. You think having me kept here, watched by your goons, is taking care of me? No. It’s imprisonment. What you do is the opposite of care. You use people like pawns." Sunoo's voice increased by every word.

"You think you know me, little fox? You have no idea the things I'd do for you. The lengths I'd go to just to have you by my side."

-------
Or, Sunoo an innocent Bakery owner with a dark past gets tangled with one of the dangerous yet beautiful packs of the underworld. Park's.

Park's are known for taking what they want and now that they have tasted the sweet Omega they won't rest till they make him theirs no matter the cost.

Updates Every Thursday

Chapter 1: The Whisper of Flames

Notes:

✨ Hi, this is Angel! ✨

Welcome (back) to Sweet Surrender, Shadowed Hearts, rewritten, reshaped, and hopefully even better than before. 💜

To my old readers: I’ve missed you more than I can put into words. Truly, it feels like reuniting with friends I haven’t seen in forever. Thank you for being patient, for checking back in, and for giving this story another chance even after everything. You’re the reason I didn’t give up when it got deleted, and I’ll forever be grateful.

To my new readers: I am so, so excited you’re here. This story has meant the world to me (and to those who read it before), and I can only hope you fall in love with it the way they did. Think of this rewrite as a chance for all of us to experience something familiar but brand new at the same time, a second first time.

I thought I’d have a whole essay to say here (and believe me, I tried), but honestly?

Nothing I write will capture just how thrilled I am to finally share this again. So instead of rambling, let’s do what we came here to do: dive right into the chapter. 🥹💜

 

˜”＊°•．˜”＊°•　~　✽　•°＊”˜．•°＊”˜

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.

˜”＊°•．˜”＊°•　~　✽　•°＊”˜．•°＊”˜

Notes:

AND THAT’S A WRAPPPP FOR CHAPTER ONEEEE 🔥🔥🔥

I really hope you guys liked the changes because… yeah, I lied 😭 I said “minor edits” but this chapter is basically a whole new baby. And honestly?? I’m not even mad about it.

Remember that one old comment that said “Sunoo feels 2D”?

And okay, yes, it was phrased very rudely (manners, people 😒), but rereading the first 10 chapters, I kinda got what they meant. After those first few, he did get better, but looking back now, I see I wasn’t showing enough of his depth in the beginning.

So this time I’m trying super hard to NOT write shallow characters. Pls tell me if I succeeded, I need the validation 🥺✨

Let’s talk about our darling omega first: SUNOO. This poor baby is traumatized™️. He was always meant to be, but now we’re actually showing it. That angst tag? Ohhh, it’s about to EARN its paycheck. 🥲

New character alert 🚨: KIM GYUVIN. Yes, he’s from ZB1 (shoutout to Hope’s bias, anyone else share it?? 👀).

And let me just say… omega bakery boy by day, underground fighter by night??? HELLO??? I’m obsessed with him already. Like, let me be self-absorbed for a sec because I love how I wrote him.

And now we finally see how much Sunoo has sacrificed for his bakery. Like, we get why it’s so important to him now - and ouch, my heart.

AND JAKE. HELLO. This omega is a walking contradiction in silk shirts, and somehow I’m not okay with it. He meets Sunoo for like half a second, and they’re already flirting??

SIRS, THIS IS A PUBLIC SPACE. Control yourselves 😭

So yeah, CHAOS IS HERE. TRAUMA IS HERE. NEW CHARACTERS ARE HERE. I AM HERE SCREAMING INTO THE VOID.

Anywayyy, COMMENT and tell me everything. Did you like the changes? Do Sunoo and Gyuvin feel more alive this time? Are you also about to thirst over Jake in silk, or is it just me?? 👀

Love y'all
xoxo

Chapter 2: The Tempest Devours the Pure

Chapter by Angel_Egotrip

Notes:

✨ HI BESTIES, ANGEL BACK AT IT AGAIN ✨

Chapter twoooo, baby!! Can you believe we made it here??

So what’s in this chapter?? drum roll pls 🥁

 

Jake being… Jake. Like silk-wrapped contradiction of a man 🤌

Sunoo continuing his bakery-boy-but-traumatized agenda 🍞🥲

Heehoon short and implied smut (cause why not)

and a little more setup for the chaos to come (hehehehe).

To my old readers: grab your snacks, hydrate, maybe grab a rosary if you were here for the OG promises 👀💦.
To my new readers: WELCOME TO THE MADHOUSE, pull up a chair and cry with us.

Okay, I’ll shut up now bc this chapter kinda speaks for itself, but just know… I’m already insane about it.

Enjoyyyy 💜

 

 

˜”＊°•．˜”＊°•　~　✽　•°＊”˜．•°＊”˜

 

1st September 2028

The honey brownie melted across Jake’s tongue as if it were a living thing, surrendering to him with a knowing, syrupy sweetness. It was rich, decadent, and profoundly sticky, clinging to the roof of his mouth with an almost possessive intimacy. 

He let the single, perfect bite linger, his eyes fluttering shut not in simple enjoyment, but in a silent, indulgent communion with the flavour. 

Indulgence was second nature to him; it was the very air he’d been raised to breathe, the currency of his existence.

He took another bite, deliberately slow, savouring the chewy, dense texture. It was a small, tactile distraction from the glowing silver rectangle that sat open on the table before him. 

His laptop hummed a soft, almost inaudible tune, a stark, cool-metal contrast to the enveloping warmth of the bakery. Around him, a familiar symphony played out: the metallic clang of pans from the kitchen, the rhythmic gurgle and whir of the espresso machine coaxing life into dark roast, the low, comfortable murmur of scattered conversations. 

It was a soundtrack he usually found comforting, a white noise of normalcy. But today, every sound felt amplified, sharpened to a point, a constant, grating reminder that he was sitting in a public place, a place of warmth and community, while harbouring something cold and insidious within.

The silver laptop glowed like a monolith, its anodised aluminium cool against the skin of his palm. 

One click. 

That was all it would take. A single, effortless tap of a key, and Kim Sunoo’s entire life would spill open onto the screen, neat and compartmentalised as a sworn confession. 

Another click, and he could delve deeper, stripping him bare of every secret: financial debts hidden from the world, personal flaws sanded down for public view, the hairline cracks in the pristine porcelain facade.

A smirk, faint and utterly self-assured, touched his lips. 

The temptation wasn’t whether to do it. That was inevitable. The temptation was in how long he could make himself wait.

A siren doesn’t sing because she wonders if she should. She sings because she wants to watch the ship sink slowly.

Now, Jake was no siren, but the power thrumming at his fingertips was its own kind of hypnotic song. 

To have every flaw, every vulnerability of another person laid out before him, organised and waiting for his judgment-it was a melody of pure, unadulterated control, and he was eager to conduct its finale.

His gaze, heavy-lidded and deliberate, slid from the screen to the flour-dusted counter across the room. There he was. 

Kim Sunoo. 

His hands, delicate yet capable, were buried in a soft mound of dough, kneading it with a fluid, precise grace that Jake found, to his own surprise, annoyingly captivating. 

A fine dusting of white flour coated his forearms and dotted the sharp line of his jaw. Jake’s lips parted in a languid, almost predatory expression as his eyes dragged over the line of Sunoo’s back, the concentration in his posture.

And then, as if feeling the weight of that intense stare, Sunoo’s head lifted. His gaze, dark and immediate, caught Jake’s across the room.

They were onyx. Dark, deep, and foxlike in their slight upward tilt. But within that darkness was a shocking, disarming innocence. 

 

Jake’s breath hitched in his throat, a strange, almost physical jolt seizing him. 

Those eyes held the profound depth of polished black stone, yet they also shone with a captivating inner light, a glimmer of something pure and utterly untainted by the world. Jake, the master of dissection and cold analysis, found himself utterly, completely mesmerised.

They were framed by a thicket of impossibly long, dark lashes - each one a delicate, perfect brushstroke against the porcelain canvas of his face. Jake swallowed hard, a sudden, unfamiliar dryness seizing his throat. 

His scrutiny deepened, taking in the skin that stretched over Sunoo’s cheekbones: smooth, almost translucent, like the surface of fresh, creamy milk. It wasn't merely pale; it was luminescent, holding the soft, internal glow of a pearl. He could almost imagine its texture under his fingertips-cool silk.

It was as if the Moon Goddess had sculpted him from a prayer answered too beautifully. 

Every line, from the elegant curve of his cheekbone to the delicate, questioning arch of his brow, seemed meticulously placed, a living work of art unfolding right before him. 

And for all his scheming, all his careful plans of conquest and dismantling, all Jake wanted in that suspended moment was to simply… keep looking. To get lost in the sheer, disarming beauty of it.

But then, something pricked at his awareness, a dissonant note in the symphony. His nostrils flared almost imperceptibly. 

Why can’t I smell him? 

There should have been something-a sweet, floral note, a sharp citrus tang,  oud, anything. 

Every Omega carried their fundamental truth in their scent, an invisible aura that spoke of their nature. Yet, where Sunoo stood, there was nothing. A blank, empty space. The realisation made his teeth grind together. 

Scent blockers. Clever. And utterly infuriating.

The spell broken, Jake’s finger returned to the smooth glass of the trackpad, pressing with an unhurried finality. The digital file split open on his screen.

Name: Kim Sunoo 

Age: 25 

Secondary Gender: Omega 

Profession: Baker/Business Owner 

Business name: Sweet Surrender 

Co-signed: Kim Gyuvin

He skimmed the rest-lists of recipes, meticulous prep times, a detailed ingredient list for a mint chocolate cake. 

Cute, he thought with a derisive internal chuckle. As if Sunoo’s true worth could ever be measured in tablespoons and oven degrees.

Jake leaned back in his chair, stretching his body with the lazy, spoiled elegance of a well-fed cat, his long legs sliding out under the small table. 

Why had he delayed this little game? Hesitation was an alien concept to him, a weakness he’d never been taught. He’d never once been denied anything.

His parents had doted, his mates had folded. 

Heeseung, for all his polished authority and commanding presence, still softened at Jake’s smallest, practised pout. 

Jungwon, the ruthless pack strategist, cracked like fine glass the moment Jake made a demand. 

Even Niki, all fierce, untamed fire and sharp edges, stilled the instant Jake said stop.

And Jay, their steadfast Beta with his clean, paper-and-ink scent, had always been the first to make excuses for him, quietly smoothing over the minor chaos Jake left in his wake.

The name Park Jake meant something in his pack. It meant he asked, and the world bent obligingly to his will.

So why, then, was he sitting here like a spectator when the object of his fascination was right there, bathed in flour and golden light?

The decision crystallised into action. 

Jake rose, his chair sighing softly against the tiled floor as he pushed it back. He crossed the bakery floor, each step measured and confident. His smile bloomed across his face like sudden sunlight-warm, dazzling, perfectly engineered to disarm and charm.

“Hi,” he said, his voice dropping to a velvet-sweet murmur, low enough to pull Sunoo’s gaze toward him like gravity.

Sunoo blinked, startled from his work. A faint flush touched his cheeks. “Hi,” he echoed, his voice softer, shyer than Jake had anticipated.

Jake let his own lashes lower, his gaze becoming hooded, intimate. 

“Do you make the honey brownie yourself?” he asked, his tone dipped in the same honey that had coated his tongue. It wasn’t a real question; it was a stage being set.

Pride sparked instantly in those profound dark eyes. “Yes, I do, actually. It’s one of the specialities here, along with the mint chocolate cake.” His voice lifted, gaining confidence as he spoke, his hands pausing their work to describe textures, the balance of flavours, the satisfying crackle of the sugar crust.

 

Jake leaned an elbow casually against the counter, propping his chin in his palm, his smile curling into something more intimate, more knowing. 

He watched Sunoo glow, not because he wanted the culinary details-he already knew them-but because pulling that light out of him, drawing that pride to the surface, felt like coaxing a piece of Sunoo’s spirit toward himself, no matter how small.

“Oh, tell me more,” Jake purred, his tone thick with feigned delight. 

He didn’t blink, didn’t look away. His gaze was heavy, smouldering, implying that Sunoo’s every word was a delicious performance designed solely for his pleasure.

Sunoo laughed then, a soft, bell-like sound, utterly unguarded. Too perfect.

The bakery continued to buzz around them, a whirl of activity and noise, but Jake’s world had narrowed to the expanse of this wooden counter, this beautiful, oblivious boy, this enigmatic omega.

He wasn’t captivated-no, Jake didn’t surrender. He indulged. 

And if his chest warmed with a strange, unfamiliar tightness when Sunoo’s smile broke wide and genuine, well… Jake was more than happy to ignore it. 

He ignored the quiet, nagging fact that this felt different, that this wasn’t one of his mere temporary fixations.

When his phone pinged sharply-a reminder from Jungwon about a pack meeting, work he had to finalise before going home-he felt a surprising surge of reluctance. 

He ended the conversation with practised grace. “I suppose I should let you get back to creating masterpieces,” he said, and the vibrant red blush that crept up Sunoo’s neck and flooded his cheeks was a reward in itself. 

It was just too much.

 

Jake had to physically clench his fist at his side, his nails biting into his palm, just to stop himself from doing something as impulsive as reaching out to pinch that blushing cheek. 

He offered one last, devastatingly sweet smile instead. “Thank you for the conversation. It was the best part of my day.”

Outside, the city air was cool and biting, a jarring slap after the bakery’s warmth. Jake felt the loss of it acutely, because that heat had felt like something Sunoo’s presence had lent him - something that had, for a moment, been his to take. 

He lifted his hand, licking the last trace of honey from his thumb, the flavour now a ghost on his tongue. The thought arrived with quiet, spoiled certainty, a promise he made to himself as he walked away:

This is only the beginning.

°·．¸．·°¯°·．¸．·°¯°·．¸．－>

 

1st September 2028

 

Sunghoon's fingers drummed against the mahogany conference table, the sound sharp and rhythmic in the sterile silence of Heeseung's corner office. 

 

The view from the forty-second floor should have been calming - Seoul sprawling endlessly below, autumn sunlight catching the glass facades of lesser buildings - but all Sunghoon could focus on was the metallic taste of fury coating his tongue.

 

"The leak is escalating," he said, not bothering with pleasantries. His scent carried that electric tension that came before lightning struck, the same energy that made lesser alphas instinctively bare their throats. "Project Chimaera specifications are circulating. Our competitors know details they shouldn't even be able to dream about."

 

Heeseung barely glanced up from his tablet, stylus moving in precise strokes across quarterly reports. 

 

The scent of mahogany and expensive wood polish hung heavy around him, undercut by honey - warm, golden, utterly unruffled. 

 

It was a scent that had been Sunghoon's anchor since the day they'd first met, could soothe his worst rages or sharpen his focus with equal ease.

 

Right now, it was making Sunghoon want to snap the tablet in half just to get his mate's full attention.

 

"I'm aware," Heeseung murmured, finally lifting those dark eyes that could dissect a hostile takeover or plan someone's complete destruction with equal precision. "Analytics flagged increased chatter three days ago. It's contained to specialised channels, not mainstream corporate espionage. Whoever's feeding information is being surgical about it."

 

Surgical. As if precision made the betrayal less vicious. Sunghoon had been in this life too long to mistake calculated strikes for mere opportunism. He knew a deliberate attack when he saw one.

 

He rose from his chair, the movement fluid despite the rage coiling in his chest. He stalked to the window, pressed his palm against the cool glass, and let his reflection stare back at him - all sharp angles and barely leashed violence. 

 

The city stretched below, unaware that predators moved through its veins.

 

"This isn't some disgruntled employee forwarding emails, Heeseung." The words came out clipped, each syllable a bullet.

 

He fought to keep the anger from bleeding through his voice - not anger at Heeseung, never at Heeseung, but at the violation of their sanctuary, at the threat creeping closer to everything he'd kill to protect. 

 

"Someone with high-level clearance is systematically feeding intelligence to our competition. Someone inside our house is trying to burn it down."

 

A mole. The word sat bitter on his tongue, but Sunghoon had learned to trust his instincts. They'd kept him alive through hostile takeovers, rival syndicate wars, and government raids. When his gut screamed danger, smart people listened.

 

Behind him, he heard the soft tap of stylus against tablet - Heeseung's thinking rhythm, as familiar as his own heartbeat after all these years.

 

"Or," Heeseung said carefully, and Sunghoon could hear him building a framework, constructing possibilities with that strategic mind that had built their empire, "we have an ambitious employee who thinks feeding select information will buy them a better position elsewhere. Corporate ladder climbing. Messy, but hardly unprecedented."

 

Sunghoon turned, letting his gaze pin his mate to that expensive leather chair. Heeseung's composure was legendary - he could negotiate billion-won deals without his pulse shifting, could smile at senators while planning their political destruction. 

 

But Sunghoon knew the tells: the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his free hand rested too casually on the desk, the microscopic tightening around his eyes.

 

His mate was worried. He just wasn't ready to voice how deeply that worry ran.

 

"You're thinking too small," Sunghoon said, moving back to the table but not sitting, his body thrumming with restless energy. "This level of breach requires planning. Coordination. Someone mapped our security protocols and found every blind spot." He leaned forward, bracing his hands on the mahogany surface, letting electricity crackle through his scent - sharp ozone that made the air itself feel charged. "This is war, Heeseung hyung. We just haven't started fighting back yet."

 

The stylus stopped moving. For a heartbeat, the only sound was the distant hum of Seoul traffic far below, the city breathing around them while they planned its hidden battles.

 

Then Heeseung set the tablet aside and really looked at him - the full weight of that strategic mind, the attention that could dissect complex financial instruments or orchestrate someone's complete social annihilation with surgical precision.

 

"War," he repeated, voice thoughtful, testing the weight of the word. "That's a significant escalation from internal investigation."

 

And it was. In their world, war meant bodies, meant blood on marble floors and enemies who simply vanished from the earth. It meant no mercy, no half-measures, no room for the kind of surgical precision Heeseung preferred.

 

"Because internal investigation assumes good faith." Sunghoon straightened, letting that electric tension bleed through every word. "I stopped assuming good faith when someone started selling our secrets."

 

He began pacing - three steps to the bookshelf lined with leather-bound volumes that had never been read but looked impressive during video calls, pivot, three steps to the window overlooking their kingdom. His body knew what his mind had already decided.

 

"If you're right," Heeseung said slowly, honey-warm voice taking on that calculating edge that meant he was shifting mental gears, "if this is deliberate infiltration rather than opportunistic greed, then we're looking at a much larger problem."

 

"I'm right." Sunghoon didn't pause his pacing, didn't soften the certainty in his voice. "The timing is too precise. The information is too targeted. Someone knows our operational calendar, our project priorities, our internal communication channels." He stopped, facing his mate directly, letting Heeseung see the cold fury in his eyes. "Someone has been watching us for months."

 

The unspoken fear sat heavy between them - if someone had been watching this closely, mapping their operations with such precision, then they knew about more than just Project Chimaera. 

 

They knew about the pack. About Jake's late nights in front of glowing screens, about Jungwon's strategy sessions that ran until dawn, about Niki's carefully coordinated disappearances that left no witnesses.

 

About Sunghoon's own willingness to burn the world down for his family's safety.

 

The air between them shifted. Heeseung's mahogany scent deepened, honey burning to amber - the scent that meant his strategic mind was shifting into threat assessment mode, when that brilliant intellect turned from building empires to protecting them.

 

"Containment protocol?" Heeseung's voice carried that same calm authority that had convinced senators to pass favourable legislation and rival CEOs to accept hostile takeovers.

 

"Already initiated. I've restricted access to Chimaera files to essential personnel only." Sunghoon's lips curved - not quite a smile, more the baring of teeth that preceded violence. "Soyeon is running discrete background checks on anyone who's accessed sensitive materials in the past six months."

 

"Surveillance?"

 

"Digital and physical. If someone in our organisation is feeding intelligence, they'll make contact with their handler eventually." The anticipation was almost sweet now, honey-dark and violent, the promise of justice served with surgical precision. "And when they do, we'll be watching."

 

Heeseung nodded, already reaching for his secure phone with movements that looked casual but carried deadly intent. "I'll coordinate with our legal team. If we're moving to active investigation, we need ironclad documentation for every step."

 

This was why they worked. Heeseung thought in frameworks, systems, long-term consequences - the architect who built their empire with contracts and legislation and carefully placed bribes. 

 

Sunghoon thought in threats, responses, immediate action - the weapon that protected what they'd built with blood and fear and absolute ruthlessness. Together, they covered every angle, every weakness, every possible threat.

 

Sunghoon's phone buzzed against his thigh, the vibration sharp and insistent. He glanced at the screen, and Han-bin's message made something predatory uncurl in his chest.

 

Distributor found. Chamber 5. Waiting for orders.

 

"There's something else." Sunghoon's voice carried new satisfaction, the anticipation of a different kind of justice. "Jay's distributor situation from Tuesday - Han-bin tracked him down. He's secured in Chamber 5."

 

The change in Heeseung was immediate and absolute. His scent sharpened, honey burning to amber, then darker - the scent of mahogany smoking in a furnace. The stylus in his hand went very still, and when he looked up, Sunghoon saw the same cold fury that had built their reputation written across his mate's elegant features.

 

"The one who cut Jay?" His voice remained level, conversational, but Sunghoon knew that tone. 

 

Beneath the corporate polish, something with claws and teeth was stirring, something that made boardroom executives sign unfavourable contracts just to escape its attention.

 

"Left him bleeding in that warehouse like garbage." The memory sent fresh fury coursing through Sunghoon's veins - Jay's torn shirt, the jagged wound across his forearm that had required twelve stitches, the way their beta had tried to downplay the injury while the pack doctor worked to stop the bleeding.

 

 The way Niki's hands had shaken as he'd helped clean the blood, the way Jake had gone silent and deadly still, the way Jungwon had started planning retribution before they'd even gotten Jay stable.

 

Nobody touched their pack. Nobody lived after touching their pack.

 

"I was about to handle it personally." Sunghoon let the anticipation bleed into his voice, electric and dangerous, the promise of violence delivered with surgical precision. "Want to come?"

 

Heeseung was already standing, straightening his tie with movements that looked casual but weren't - preparation rituals, the same way Sunghoon checked his weapons before a hunt.

 

 When he smiled, it was nothing like his boardroom expression, nothing like the charm he used to disarm senators and rival CEOs. This smile had edges that knew exactly how much pressure to apply, exactly where to cut for maximum damage.

 

"Is that even a question?" The honey in his voice had turned to poison, sweet and deadly.

 

As they moved toward the door, Heeseung's hand found the small of Sunghoon's back - a touch that was pure instinct, comfort woven through years of partnership and violence and building an empire with blood-stained hands. 

 

It lasted only a second, but it grounded something wild and vicious in Sunghoon's chest, reminded him that he wasn't just a weapon pointed at their enemies.

 

He was half of something larger, deadlier, more complete.

 

This was what he fought for. Not just the empire they'd built with careful strategy and ruthless execution, not just the respect their name commanded in Seoul's shadows and boardrooms alike. 

 

This - Heeseung's steady presence beside him, the way his mate could match his ruthlessness and temper it with intelligence, the way they could handle threats to their family with coordinated precision.

 

The way they could protect their pack together, no matter what it cost.

 

"Chamber 5," Heeseung murmured as they walked toward the elevators, voice carrying the same casual tone he'd use to discuss quarterly projections. "Han-bin's efficient as always."

 

"He knows what happens to people who hurt our pack." Sunghoon's smile was all teeth now, sharp and anticipatory, the expression of a predator who'd found prey worthy of a slow hunt. The elevator doors opened with a soft chime that sounded almost cheerful. "Some lessons are better taught in person."

 

As they descended toward the garage, toward justice for Jay and the beginning of their hunt for the mole who thought they could threaten what was theirs, Sunghoon felt that familiar satisfaction settle in his bones. 

 

This was his element - protecting what was his, eliminating threats, ensuring his pack's safety through overwhelming force and surgical precision.

 

The hunt had officially begun.

 

And Sunghoon had never lost a hunt in his life.

°·．¸．·°¯°·．¸．·°¯°·．¸．－>

The heavy door creaked shut behind him, plunging the already dim room into a deeper, suffocating twilight. Heeseung’s eyes, the colour of polished obsidian and sharp with an almost reptilian precision, adjusted instantaneously to the gloom. 

 

He didn't just see; he absorbed the nuances of the low light, the motes of dust dancing in the single, anaemic bulb hanging overhead, the faint, metallic sheen on damp concrete. The air here was a thick, unpleasant cocktail of stale fear, sweat, and something acrid.

 

The man was exactly as described, though perhaps even more pathetic in person: a truly hulking mass of muscle and poor decisions, now reduced to a whimpering, sweat-slicked knot of terror. 

 

He was strapped to a reinforced metal chair, its institutional grey scarred with countless abuses, with industrial-grade restraints. 

 

They weren't just cuffs meant to hold; they were shackles, biting deep into flesh already mottled with the promise of spectacular bruising, the skin around them raw and abraded. 

 

Each desperate, frantic thrash of his body was a study in futile, animal panic, the screech of metal against the concrete floor grating not just on the nerves, but directly on the bones of anyone forced to listen. A guttural whimper tore from his throat with every strain, a sound more animalistic than human, utterly devoid of dignity.

 

"He's a fighter," Heeseung mused internally, a cold, detached curiosity settling over him like a fine dust. It was a clinical assessment, not admiration. "Pity that instinct didn't kick in before he decided to lay hands on what's ours." 

Heeseung didn’t just sit; he claimed the space, his very presence an assertion of dominance. A simple metal chair, lighter and less scarred than the one occupied by their captive, had been placed opposite the spectacle. 

 

He lowered himself into it with the languid, almost theatrical grace of a king taking his throne, the slight creak of the chair a minor punctuation in the man's ragged breathing. He crossed one leg over the other, the polished shine of his expensive leather shoe a stark, almost insolent contrast to the grime and despair of the concrete floor.

 

"Poor planning," Heeseung stated, his voice a low, conversational murmur that cut through the man's choked gasps with the precision of a scalpel. There was no anger, no rise in volume, only a silken menace that made the captive flinch violently. 

 

"Attacking our Beta. Jay. Did you think we'd send a fruit basket in return? A strongly worded letter?" Heeseung's lips curved into a faint, humourless smile, his gaze never leaving the man's panic-stricken eyes. The question was a slow-blade taunt, a deliberate reminder of the power disparity.

 

Then, Sunghoon moved.

 

It wasn't a walk; it was a stalking pace, the fluid, effortless grace of a predator who knew the prey was already caught, already broken, a dark silhouette against the bare concrete wall. 

 

Each step was silent, deliberate, his existence announced not by footsteps, but by the subtle shift in the air, the sudden drop in temperature. 

 

The only sound was the soft, almost delicate shick of a switchblade being flicked open, the cold steel catching the dim light with a fleeting, dangerous gleam that promised pain.

 

The man’s eyes, already wide with animal fear, seemed to bulge further, a sheen of fresh tears making them gleam like polished stones. They tracked Sunghoon’s silent advance like a rabbit hypnotized by a descending hawk, mirroring the pure, unadulterated terror Jay must have felt, amplified a thousandfold. 

 

His breathing hitched, becoming shallow, panicked gulps that barely moved his chest. You could almost taste his fear – sour and thick in the air, a cloying, metallic tang that clung to the back of Heeseung’s throat.

 

Heeseung watched, a slow curl of satisfaction warming his blood, spreading through his veins like fine wine. This was justice, raw and unyielding. This was protection for what was theirs.

 

A dark, possessive thrill shot through him, a powerful, primal thrum in his very core, as Sunghoon leaned down over the bound man. The defined muscles of his back and shoulders flexed elegantly under his thin shirt, a testament to controlled strength, as he whispered something into the man's ear. 

 

The words were inaudible to Heeseung, a secret shared between executioner and victim, but their effect was immediate and catastrophic: a high, thin scream, pure, unadulterated terror, tore from the man’s throat, ragged and shrill.

 

Heeseung’s gaze drank in the scene, every detail etched into his mind: the precise, almost artistic way Sunghoon used the knife, not for messy slashes, but for carefully placed, exquisitely agonising cuts. 

 

The glint of fresh blood, a stark scarlet against pallid skin. The way his arm muscles corded with the controlled, deliberate movements, each twist of the blade, each subtle pressure, extracting maximum suffering. 

 

A familiar, heavy heat, intense and visceral, coiled low in Heeseung’s gut, a primal reaction to this display of raw power and absolute control. His mate was magnificent in his ruthlessness, a predator in his element.

 

He adjusted his position slightly, the growing tightness in his pants a secondary, though not unwelcome, concern to the main event unfolding before him. 

 

For now, he would relish the symphony of fear, the man's gasps and whimpers, the almost musical metallic drip of blood onto the concrete, watching the light of defiance in the man’s eyes gutter and die, replaced by the hollow void of utter defeat. 

 

This was their language. 

 

This was their love, expressed in the brutal protection of their own.

 

°·．¸．·°¯°·．¸．·°¯°·．¸．－>

 

The blood was gone, rinsed away, but Sunghoon still smelled it. Phantom copper clung to his skin like a shroud, burrowed into his lungs with every breath, no matter how viciously he scrubbed. 

 

Hot water sluiced down his body, initially a shocking crimson that then turned the drain water a diluted, sickly pink, like it wanted to remind him of the violence, to brand him with it.

 

He scrubbed until his skin burned, until it was red and raw beneath his furious ministrations, until the tiles blurred in a haze of steam and physical exhaustion. 

 

Jake and Niki’s entire facial expressions scrunches because their sensitive noses can’t handle the stench in the nest flashed through his mind – how could he drag that stench, that residue of death, home to their nest, to them? 

 

Soap wasn’t enough; nothing ever was, not when the stain was so deep.

 

Finally, the water ran clear, carrying away the last whispers of red. He braced himself against the cool, slick tiles, forehead bowed, breath ragged and shallow. Steam wrapped around him like gauze, a suffocating embrace. He thought he was alone - until he wasn’t.

 

A presence.

 

A sudden, intense heat pressed into his back, solid and familiar, a comforting yet commanding cage of muscle and towering height. He didn’t need to turn, didn't need to look. He knew. Mahogany. Honey. Home.

 

Heeseung.

 

Sunghoon melted instantly, a low, guttural sigh of pure release leaving his lips as he slumped back fully into the unyielding wall of his mate’s chest. 

 

Heeseung’s nose buried into his damp, slick hair, inhaling deeply, before his mouth found his mating mark, just on the nape of his neck and pressed a slow, open kiss over it, claiming him anew.

 

A shiver, both of pleasure and the lingering chill of his recent work, ran down Sunghoon’s spine, pooling molten between his legs.

 

“All clean, baby?” The low rumble of Heeseung’s voice vibrated through his bones, a deep, resonant sound that was both question and command.

 

Sunghoon could only hum, his head falling back against Heeseung’s shoulder, boneless and pliant in his mate’s grip. Safe. His. Utterly so.

 

Heeseung’s hands moved then - no soap, no scrubbing. Just claiming.

 

One wide palm splayed across his stomach, the heat of it searing through the remaining moisture on his skin, dragging him flush against the hard, yearning dick pressed to the cleft of his ass. 

 

The other hand slid up, fingers teasing a nipple with a feather-light touch before wrapping around his throat. It wasn't choking; it was merely holding, a visceral reminder of who was in control, who he belonged to. 

 

Just his.

 

Sunghoon’s breath stuttered, catching in his constricted throat. The raw violence inside him - the coiled aggression he’d forced down with such effort during the shower - snapped back to life, hotter now, filthier, responding to Heeseung’s touch.

 

“Hyung,” he breathed, his voice cracked and needy, a fragile thread.

 

“Shhh.” Heeseung’s teeth grazed his ear, a feather-light nip that promised more, his words a sinful whisper that raised goosebumps on Sunghoon’s skin. “Let me take care of you. You worked so hard for us.”

 

That hand on his stomach drifted lower, lower still. Fingers slipped between his legs, finding him already slick from water and swollen, teasing, circling, stroking until Sunghoon was arching helplessly against the tiles, a soft moan escaping him.

 

“Heeseung - fuck - ” Sunghoon gasped, pushing back against the intoxicating touch, half protest, half desperate plea.

 

“So impatient,” Heeseung chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating against Sunghoon’s ear as he slid one finger inside with deliberate, excruciating slowness. 

 

He hooked it just right, pressing against a sensitive spot, and Sunghoon’s knees buckled, threatening to give out completely. 

 

Heeseung knew Sunghoon’s body so well that he could take Sunghoon apart with just few touches and nothing drove Sunghoon madder than knowing that Heeseung knew his body like the back of his hand.

 

“My beautiful, violent baby,” Heeseung murmured into his skin, his voice thick with possessive adoration, thrusting his finger deeper with a precise, knowing motion. “So good. So deadly. All mine.”

 

A second finger stretched him open, scissoring with ease, creating a delicious, tormenting fullness, every twist wringing out broken moans and choked pleas. 

 

Sunghoon was trembling uncontrollably, panting, and utterly undone. “Hyungie, please. Please - I need you, now.”

 

Heeseung chuckled again, low and wrecking, a sound that promised oblivion. “Since you asked so nicely.”

 

And then he was there. One brutal, perfect thrust, a profound invasion, and Heeseung buried himself to the hilt, filling him utterly.

 

Sunghoon screamed, a raw, primal sound, his head slamming back against Heeseung’s shoulder, overwhelmed by the stretch, the searing heat, the sheer, crushing force. 

 

Heeseung’s arm clamped around his waist, holding him upright against the wall, while the other gripped his throat – a constant, non-negotiable reminder. Owned. Protected. His.

 

“You take me so well, Hoon-ah,” Heeseung growled into his ear, hips driving relentlessly, a punishing rhythm that stripped away all thought. “My perfect boy. My lethal mate.”

 

Sunghoon was gone, his voice dissolving into hoarse moans, gasps, sobs of pure, unadulterated pleasure. Every thrust angled cruelly against his prostate, tearing him apart and remaking him in the same breath.

 

“Gonna - Hyung, I’m gonna - ” he choked out, voice cracking, teetering on the edge.

 

“Come.” The command landed like a gunshot, sharp and absolute. Heeseung’s rhythm faltered for a fraction of a second, teeth scraping his neck. “Show them who you belong to.”

 

The words wrecked him. Sunghoon came with a shattered cry, a raw, guttural sound, white striping across the steamed glass of the shower door, his body clenching down around Heeseung like a vice, milking him.

 

Heeseung followed with a guttural roar, hips slamming deep one last time as he spilled inside him, heat flooding him in hot, heavy pulses.

 

For a long, trembling moment, they stayed there, bodies locked together, the world narrowed to the sound of ragged breath, the swirling steam, and the faint rattle of the showerhead.

 

Then Heeseung softened, nuzzling Sunghoon’s temple, pressing the gentlest of kisses into his damp, matted hair. “I’ve got you,” he whispered, his voice deep with contentment.

 

Sunghoon sagged boneless against him, murmuring weakly, his voice a ghost of itself. “M’gonna have to shower again.”

 

Heeseung’s low laugh rumbled through his chest, warm and alive and utterly content. “I’ll help.”

°·．¸．·°¯°·．¸．·°¯°·．¸．－>

 

The opulent silence of the grand estate, usually a soothing balm that wrapped around him like a cashmere cloak, now felt like a gilded cage. Every expensive furnishing, every hushed corner, every inch of polished marble seemed to press in, suffocating him with its very grandeur. 

The air, typically thick and comforting with the dominant, intertwining scents of his Alphas and Beta – the rich, earthy notes of mahogany from Heeseung; the clean, electric crackle of ozone from Sunghoon; the warm, complex aroma of aged whisky from Jungwon; the intellectual, crisp scent of ink-paper from Jay; and the grounding, smoky hint of bonfire from Niki – now felt heavy, almost viscous. 

It was a scent-marked fortress, a testament to their possessive devotion, but tonight, the very walls of his sanctuary seemed to contract, threatening to crush him.

Jake stood in the cavernous, high-ceilinged living room, a space designed for power and display, but his mind was miles away. It was trapped, not within these familiar walls, but in the vivid, sun-drenched memory of a small, bustling bakery. 

He was haunted by the ghost of a scent–something light, sweet, utterly unlike the heavy musk that defined his life–and the radiant, unguarded memory of a smile that had nothing to do with him, a smile that belonged freely to the world, not meticulously cultivated for his approval.

He didn't hear the soft footsteps, didn't need to. The shift in the atmosphere was instantaneous, a sudden, almost palpable change in the pressure of the air, a tingling static that heralded their return. 

The front door opened with a barely audible sigh, and the familiar, powerful auras of Heeseung and Sunghoon flooded the space. Their scents, usually a welcome embrace, now crashed into the room like a physical force, a tidal wave of dominant power that made the very air vibrate.

And then they stopped dead, their synchronised movements freezing midway through crossing the threshold. Jake knew what was about to happen before they even took a step towards him, his omega instincts screaming a silent warning.

The rich, grounding mahogany that anchored Heeseung's scent, and the electric crackle of ozone that always accompanied Sunghoon, stuttered, wavered. They were twisted now, not just by concern, but by a sharp, discordant note of alarm that cut through their usual composure, a sour tang of distress that instantly put Jake on edge.

They were across the room in a heartbeat, moving with a predator's silent, efficient grace that was usually reserved for hunting down threats. There was no hesitation, no wasted motion. 

Sunghoon’s arms banded around him from behind, pulling him flush against a chest that vibrated with a low, protective growl, a rumble that resonated deep in Jake’s bones. 

Heeseung was in front of him a second later, his hands coming up to cradle Jake’s face with an unsurprising gentleness, his thumbs stroking his jawline, a silent, searching gesture. 

His dark eyes, usually so composed and coolly analytical, were now sharp with an intensity that could strip paint, piercing through Jake as if trying to read the very thoughts in his mind.

“Jake-ah,” Heeseung’s voice was a low, urgent rumble, the Head Alpha peering through the controlled façade he usually wore, a crack in his carefully maintained composure. “Your scent. It’s… wrong.” 

It wasn’t just worry, Jake realised. It was the visceral, instinctual reaction of an Alpha whose entire world, whose primal purpose, revolved around the well-being of his omega. 

A single note of distress, a wavering in Jake’s natural scent, was a five-alarm fire in their tightly controlled universe, signalling an immediate, non-negotiable threat.

Usually, Jake didn't like anything more than their absolute, unwavering devotion to him. After all, he totally believed that his every inch should be worshipped like he was a god himself, his whims their sacred law. But today wasn’t the day for such self-indulgence.

“Who did it?” Sunghoon’s voice was a cold whisper against Jake’s ear, a chilling contrast to the warmth of his breath. 

His embrace tightened from merely protective to overtly possessive, a warning to any unseen enemy, or even to Jake himself. Like a coiled snake, he was already assessing, planning, his mind racing through a mental list of names and their inevitable, brutal consequences. The ozone around him sharpened, metallic and acrid, a storm waiting for a target. 

“Just give me a name, my angel. That’s all I need.”

Without conscious thought, they began pouring out their soothing pheromones, a concentrated wave of mahogany warmth and electric assurance. It was meant to calm, to claim, to override any aberrant scent, to reassert their dominance and Jake’s place within their bond. It was a sensation that usually made Jake melt into their embrace, a potent drug he willingly succumbed to, the ultimate comfort.

But today, it felt like a heavy, suffocating blanket being thrown over a fire. It smothered, yes, but it didn’t extinguish the new, strange heat burning in his chest, a flicker of something unknown and exciting. 

The memory of Sunoo’s bright, unguarded laughter was a persistent spark that their powerful, familiar scents, for all their strength, couldn’t quite snuff out. He felt a traitorous yearning for something lighter, something sweeter, more ephemeral than the heavy, dominant musk of his mates.

"I don't want to talk about it," Jake muttered, turning his face to bury it in Heeseung’s shoulder. He inhaled deeply, drawing in the expensive fabric of his shirt and the familiar mahogany scent, a grounding anchor in his sudden, confusing storm of emotions.

He could feel their silent conversation happening over his head - a flicker of eyes, a minute tightening of jaws, a tautness in their shoulders. Their devotion was a monstrous, beautiful thing; a fierce, all-consuming force. 

The slightest shadow on his mood, the faintest hint of distress, sent them into a frenzy, capable of moving heaven and earth - or ending lives - to see him smile again. The thought should have been comforting, a testament to their unwavering love. Right now, it felt like an immense weight, a suffocating expectation.

A cold shiver of realisation went through him, stark and terrifying. They wouldn’t let this go. They would track his day down to the second, meticulously dissecting every interaction, every glance. 

They would have a dossier on everyone he’d so much as breathed nearby by morning. They would find Sunoo. And the thought of their analytical, intensely possessive eyes dissecting the beautiful, fragile baker made his stomach clench with a protectiveness that shocked him with its sudden, fierce power.

He pushed back, just enough to fix them with a glare. His eyes, usually so warm and inviting, held a glint of sharp, omega steel and formidable strength.

“Don’t,” he warned, his voice dropping into the rare, commanding tone he reserved for moments when he would not be moved, a tone that vibrated with his innate authority. It was the one they all, even the formidable Head Alpha Heeseung, instinctively obeyed. “Don’t even think about digging. This is my secret until I am willing to tell.”

He held their gazes, his own a complex blend of pleading and defiance all at once. “Am I clear?”

For a terrifying second, he saw the raw conflict in their eyes - the primal need to fix, to know, to eliminate any perceived threat warring fiercely with their deeper, all-encompassing need to obey him, their omega. The tension in the room thickened, almost suffocating.

Then, a twin, reluctant nod. The tension didn't quite leave their bodies, but they yielded, their muscles relaxing by the barest fraction. The storm in Sunghoon’s scent receded to a low, simmering hum; Heeseung’s protective grip softened from a hold to a gentle caress.

He sagged against them, the fight draining out of him, leaving him unexpectedly exhausted. He let them hold him, drawing a shaky comfort from their solid, unwavering presence, even as his heart ached for something he couldn't quite name, something that lay outside their formidable embrace.

He awoke hours later, disoriented, tangled in the cool, expensive silk of his own bed. The afternoon sun had long since set, casting the luxurious room in deep, shifting shadows. 

The first conscious thought that formed in his still-hazy mind was a specific, visceral craving, an urge he hadn't known he possessed.

“I want tteokbokki,” he murmured, his voice husky with sleep, a soft, almost childish demand. “Jay’s.”

The space beside him shifted immediately. It wasn’t Heeseung or Sunghoon who stirred, however. In the dim light, he made out the sharper, more angular profile of Jungwon on one side, and the tousled, dark hair of Niki on the other, their scents a quiet, reassuring presence.

Without a word, Jungwon - ever the efficient Strategist, always anticipating needs - had his phone out, the screen illuminating his focused, unblinking expression. 

“Okay,” he said softly, thumbs already flying across the screen, a flurry of precise movements. A text to Jay would have been sent before Jake even finished the sentence, the request already in motion.

Niki, meanwhile, rolled over, his eyes glowing with a feral, almost predatory light in the darkness. He leaned in, his voice a sleep-rough growl that promised absolute, unwavering violence. “Who do I need to kill, Hyung? Just give me the name.”

It was so ridiculously, so characteristically Niki, that a genuine, unburdened laugh burst from Jake’s chest, bright and clear, shattering the last of the strange melancholy and confusion from earlier. He reached out and ruffled Niki’s hair affectionately, the younger Alpha’s loyalty a comforting weight. 

“No one, baby. No one to kill today.” He said it lightly, but the underlying truth hummed in the air between them, an unspoken pact. 

If he had given a name, Niki would have been a ghost in the night. Jungwon would have provided the address with chilling efficiency. Sunghoon would have approved the mission without a second thought, and Heeseung would have handled the aftermath, ensuring no ripples disturbed their perfect world.

Their devotion was a weapon he held sheathed, silent and powerful, utterly at his command. It was terrifying in its scope. It was intoxicating in its intensity.

And as he sank back into the pillows, waiting for his tteokbokki and surrounded by his monstrous, devoted pack, he couldn't help but wonder what they would do when they finally discovered the one thing he wanted to keep, the one secret he yearned to protect from their all-consuming love.

˜”＊°•．˜”＊°•　~　✽　•°＊”˜．•°＊”˜

Notes:

AND THAT’S ON CHAPTER TWOOOOOO 🔥🔥🔥🔥

HELLO??? DID WE JUST LIVE THROUGH THAT??? bc I am literally on the FLOOR, rolling around like a dying 😭😭😭 claws out, feral, wall-punching, hair-pulling .....SOMEONE SEDATE ME.

JAKE. JAKE. JAKE.

HELLOOOO????? My man said, “privacy is fake actually” and just invaded Sunoo’s entire existence with the audacity of a thousand suns ☀️.

Old Jake used to hesitate like “oh no boundaries 🥺👉👈” but THIS Jake? THIS JAKE SAID: “Boundaries are for weak people.”

AND THE FLIRTING??? SIR. EXCUSE ME. “Thank you for the conversation. It was the best part of my day.” SIR??????? 💀💀💀 you can’t just casually drop a line like that??

That’s not riz, that’s BLACK MAGIC. If someone ever said that to me I would literally evaporate into steam. Sunoo almost did too, but I gave him his dignity pls 😭🫶.

Also, Jake thinking “Sunoo ethereal ✨” one second and then going full CUTENESS AGGRESSION the next is the most relatable thing ever. Like, sir, pick a lane. (Actually, no, don’t. I love both.)

NOWWW HEEHOON. MY MEN. Sunghoon walking around with mafia instincts sharper than a guillotine 😮‍💨 and still being like “it’s not my mate’s fault, it’s YOURS.”

I swear one of his mates could stab a man 87 times and Hoon would just be like: “Well, why were you in their way??” AND THEN STAB THEM TOO. That’s loyalty. That’s delusion. That’s sexy.

And don’t even LOOK at me about the torture scene 😳.

Yeah, it was implied, but WE KNOW. AND HEESEUNG?? 👀 KING??? Why were you hard watching Hoon torture someone for hurting Jay? WHY.

I don’t have the therapy for this.

SHOWER SCENE. “My lethal mate.” HELLOOOOO???? 🚨🚨🚨 Sir, are you trying to kill me personally?? bc it worked. And YES, the smut was light bc it’s only chp 2- patience, grasshoppers 😏 this is a slow burn to the inferno.

AND THEN. HEEJAKEHOON SCENE. STOP IT. They smelled their omega in distress and IMMEDIATELY turned into “NAME. ADDRESS. WHICH BODY PART DO WE BREAK FIRST?”

Like??? my whole heart is gone. Pack instincts are real. 🐺💔

Anyway. I’m in shambles. CHAOS has arrived. MATES are mating. FLIRTING is flirting. I AM SCREAMING.

NOW YOUR TURN 👏 comment like you’re possessed, comment like it’s 3 am and you’ve just downed two Monster cans 😭💀 extra points if your keyboard smashes look like you got possessed by a demon mid-sentence.

Anyways, Love y'all
xoxo

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 4 of Enhypen Underworld