Chapter 1: PROLOGUE
Chapter Text
The night was heavy with the smell of iron and ash.
Somewhere deep in the forest, a wolf howled—broken, desperate—before the sound cracked into silence, the kind of silence that pressed against the ribs like a weight too cruel to bear.
Seungcheol knelt in the blood-soaked earth, his hands trembling as he gathered Jihoon’s body against his chest. His mate’s skin had already cooled, lips drained of color, eyes closed in a stillness that would never break again. Jihoon’s blood clung to him, warm at first but cooling too fast, seeping into the creases of his palms, staining him in ways no amount of scrubbing could erase.
His mate’s heartbeat was gone.
The bond—silent.
The world—hollow.
Seungcheol waited. For the sharp rip through his chest, for the unbearable tearing of his soul as the mate-bond severed. He braced himself for the collapse, for the familiar story that every Alpha knew: when one mate dies, the other follows.
But nothing came.
No consuming darkness.
No shattering pull dragging him into death.
No final breath to echo Jihoon’s.
Only the cruelty of survival. Only the merciless reminder that he was still alive.
Alive, while Jihoon was not.
The pack lingered at the edges of the clearing, eyes lowered, too afraid to come close. Their Alpha—once proud, once warm—was hunched over in the dirt, drenched in grief, his fury simmering like wildfire beneath his skin. They didn’t understand. None of them dared to whisper the question out loud, but it pressed in the air like smoke:
Why was he still breathing?
From that night on, Seungcheol’s heart turned to stone. His laughter, his warmth, the softness he had once reserved for Jihoon—all of it buried beneath ice and ash. The world would never touch him again. Not his pack, not fate, not even the moon itself.
Or so he thought.
Because far away, under the same silver moon, another boy lived untouched by this tragedy.
Yoon Jeonghan was only eighteen that night.
While death gripped the forest, Jeonghan’s world remained human and ordinary. He sat in a cramped living room with his friends, their voices filling the space with laughter. A cake sat in front of him, eighteen flickering candles painting his face in gold. They teased him for closing his eyes too long while making a wish, nudging him until he finally grinned and blew the flames out in one breath.
To Jeonghan, it was just another birthday. Another year of studying, of silly dreams, of late-night talks with friends who promised forever. He didn’t notice the full moon outside the window, silver light tracing the slope of his cheek. He didn’t notice the faint stirring in his blood, too quiet to be felt, too patient to reveal itself.
For three years, he would go on like this—ordinary, blissfully unaware. Human.
But fate does not sleep.
It waited. It lingered in the marrow of his bones, hidden until his twenty-first birthday. Until another night under a full moon, when the candles were lit again, and the laughter of his friends carried through the air. Until the moment his skin burned and a mark bloomed across his neck like fire, branding him with a destiny he had never asked for.
He didn’t know what it meant. He didn’t know that the mark tied him to the Alpha who swore never to love again.
And when their paths collided—when grief met innocence, when stone met fire—neither knew if the bond would save them…
or destroy them both.
Chapter 2: Blood Moon
Chapter Text
The forest trembled with the sound of war.
Snarls ripped through the air, feral and violent, colliding with the pounding of paws against the earth. The night was silver-lit, the full moon casting fractured light through the canopy, but beneath that glow the ground was already painted black with blood. Iron and ash clung to every breath, thick and choking, a cruel reminder of the battle raging under the ancient trees.
Seungcheol’s wolf tore through the chaos like a storm.
Massive, black as pitch, his fur slicked with the blood of rogues that had already fallen beneath his claws. His golden eyes burned, sharp and commanding, locking onto every enemy that dared lunge at his pack. Each strike of his paw shattered bone, each snap of his jaws silenced another snarl, but no matter how many rogues fell, more came pouring from the shadows.
‘Too many,’ he thought, fury laced with desperation. ‘There are too many tonight.’
And always—always—his instincts sought the steady pulse of one wolf among the madness.
Jihoon.
Seungcheol’s ears twitched, picking up the rapid thrum of Jihoon’s heartbeat over the cacophony. He turned just enough to see him—a smaller wolf, fur the color of storm clouds, sleek gray streaked with crimson, darting between rogues with a dancer’s grace. Jihoon’s movements were sharp, lethal, each strike calculated. His claws sliced throats, his fangs tore through flesh. For every drop of blood staining his pelt, two rogues fell at his feet.
Their bond thrummed faintly between them, like a taut string. It wasn’t words, but Seungcheol pushed through it anyway: Stay alive. Stay with me.
Jihoon didn’t answer, but his gray ears flicked back, just enough of an acknowledgment to steady Seungcheol’s chest for a heartbeat.
And then, the forest tilted.
From the shadows, larger rogues surged—wolves twice the size of the rest, scarred and rabid, their eyes glowing with that unhinged hunger that made even seasoned fighters falter. Jihoon darted forward to meet them head-on, reckless as always, too stubborn to yield. He was fast, a streak of gray cutting through blackened bodies, his jaws closing around one rogue’s throat.
But another came from the side.
Seungcheol saw it before Jihoon did. A hulking rogue, its fangs bared, its claws raised. He roared and lunged, but the distance was too great, the seconds too short.
The rogue’s jaws clamped onto Jihoon’s flank.
The crack of ribs echoed, sickening, followed by Jihoon’s strangled yelp. His body twisted under the force, gray fur torn, blood spraying hot into the night air. The bond between them screamed, pain lancing through Seungcheol’s chest as if his own flesh had been ripped open.
No!
He barreled through rogues in a frenzy, his claws leaving carnage in his wake, his massive frame unstoppable. But by the time he reached Jihoon, the gray wolf was already on the ground, his breaths shallow, his eyes glazed with shock. Blood pooled beneath him, soaking into the earth, steaming in the cold night.
Seungcheol shifted without thought, body cracking back into human form, knees hitting the dirt beside him. “Jihoon!” His voice broke as he pressed his hands against the gaping wound, crimson spilling through his fingers. “No, no, no—you hold on. You stay with me, do you hear me?!”
Jihoon’s gray fur flickered, his own body trembling as he shifted back too, but the change was incomplete, jagged. His form bled between wolf and man, his chest shuddering, skin pale under the wash of moonlight. Blood bubbled at his lips when he tried to breathe, each exhale more shallow than the last.
“Cheol…” Jihoon’s voice cracked, soft but clear enough to tear Seungcheol apart. His trembling hand lifted, fingertips brushing weakly at Seungcheol’s cheek. “You shouldn’t… look at me like that.”
“Don’t—don’t you dare.” Seungcheol’s voice shook as he pressed harder against the wound, trying to stop the bleeding, though his hands were already slick and useless. His golden eyes darted wildly, searching for help, but the pack was still locked in battle. He was alone. Alone with the one thing he could not lose. “You’re going to be fine. Do you hear me? I’ll drag you back myself. Jisoo will heal you. Just—just stay awake, stay with me—”
Jihoon coughed, blood staining his lips scarlet. Still, he tried to smile, small and bitter. “Always… the stubborn Alpha.” His voice was hoarse, each word dragged from lungs that could barely hold air. “Cheol… I knew it might end like this.”
“Don’t say that!” Seungcheol snarled, tears burning hot at the corners of his eyes. His voice cracked, feral and human all at once. “You don’t get to say goodbye. You’re mine. You’re my mate! That bond doesn’t end tonight!”
Jihoon’s eyes softened, the gray in them dimming but steady, unwavering as they locked on Seungcheol. “Mate bond… doesn’t mean forever,” he whispered, voice trembling, fading. “It means… I was lucky. Lucky to love you. To be loved… by you.”
“No,” Seungcheol said fiercely, his voice breaking on the word. His hands shook as he cupped Jihoon’s face, smearing blood across his pale skin. “Don’t twist this. You are my mate, Jihoon. The Moon doesn’t decide for me. I did. I chose you. Always you.”
Jihoon’s breath rattled in his chest, but he forced a laugh, broken and soft. “Cheol… you and I… we always knew. The bond never snapped into place. Not once, in all these years.” His eyes flickered, storm-gray clouding with tears. “But that never mattered, did it? You made me yours anyway.”
Seungcheol bit down on a sob, shaking his head furiously. “Stop. Don’t talk like it wasn’t real. Don’t you dare.”
“It was real,” Jihoon said firmly, though his voice was barely more than a rasp. His bloodied fingers trailed down to Seungcheol’s chest, pressing weakly over his heart. “Stronger than anything. Stronger than fate. Because you loved me… even when the Moon stayed silent.”
Seungcheol’s tears spilled over, hot and unrelenting. “Then why—why does it have to end like this? Why you? Why not me?!”
Jihoon’s hand slipped, barely hanging on. His breaths grew shorter, faster, the shallow rhythm of a body losing its battle. Still, he smiled faintly, as though trying to soothe Seungcheol even in his final moments. “Because… you’re the Alpha. You have to stay. The pack… needs you.”
“I need you!” Seungcheol roared, his voice shattering in the night, louder than the clash of claws and teeth still raging in the distance. His forehead pressed to Jihoon’s, desperate, clinging. “I don’t care about anything else. Without you, I’m nothing.”
“No,” Jihoon whispered, shaking his head weakly. “You’ll find… you’re so much more. You always were. Even without me.” His lashes fluttered, his eyes dimming. “And maybe… someday… the one who was meant for you… will find you.”
Seungcheol growled low, guttural, furious. “There is no one else. Do you hear me? No one. I’ll never—never—accept anyone but you.”
Jihoon gave a faint, knowing smile, as if he’d expected that answer. His hand slipped fully from Seungcheol’s chest, falling limp against the blood-stained earth. “That’s why I can go,” he murmured, barely audible now. “Because I know… I was loved. More than fate ever promised me.”
Seungcheol’s heart wrenched, a sound tearing from his throat that wasn’t human at all. He pressed his face to Jihoon’s, clutching him as though sheer force could anchor him to life. “Don’t leave me. Please, please… stay with me.”
Jihoon’s gray eyes opened one last time, storm-clouds clearing just enough to meet Seungcheol’s golden ones.
“I’ll always stay. Just… not the way you want.”
And then, with one final, trembling breath, the bond between them shattered.
It wasn’t a snap. It was a ripping, a tearing, as though Seungcheol’s soul had been clawed out of his chest. He choked, his entire body seizing, waiting—expecting—the void to take him too. That was what the bond should do. Mates did not live without each other.
But death never came.
Instead, breath dragged itself stubbornly into his lungs. His heart kept beating. His body kept living while Jihoon’s grew still in his arms.
Alive. Alive, while Jihoon was not.
Something inside Seungcheol broke, irreparably.
His head snapped up, golden eyes burning. His body trembled, not with grief, but with something darker—feral, primal, monstrous. A sound ripped out of his throat, no longer a man’s, not even a wolf’s, but a thing made of grief and rage. It shattered through the battlefield, making rogues falter mid-strike, their ears flattening in fear.
Then Seungcheol shifted.
But this shift was not clean, not natural. His body warped with a violence that made even his pack recoil. His wolf emerged monstrous, larger than before, black fur bristling, his teeth bared in a snarl that promised death. His golden eyes glowed like molten fire, and when they locked on the rogues, they sealed their fate.
He moved.
One swipe of his paw crushed a rogue’s skull, splattering bone and brain against the dirt. His jaws snapped down on another’s spine, shaking until it broke like dry wood. He ripped through bodies with no rhythm, no strategy—only carnage. Rogues screamed, howled, begged in submission, but there was no mercy left in him.
He tore open throats so violently that blood sprayed in arcs, coating his muzzle. He ripped out entrails, letting them spill steaming onto the earth. One rogue turned to run. Seungcheol overtook it in two strides, slamming it into the ground so hard the soil cracked, then tearing its heart out between his teeth.
Another cowered, belly up, whining for mercy. Seungcheol’s jaws closed around its head and crushed.
The pack did not dare intervene. They stood frozen, horror in their eyes as their Alpha lost himself entirely. What prowled the battlefield was not Seungcheol. It was grief given flesh.
By the time silence fell, the earth was littered with bodies. Not one rogue remained breathing.
Seungcheol stood in the center, chest heaving, muzzle dripping crimson, his black fur matted with gore. His golden eyes flickered back to the spot where Jihoon’s gray body lay—small, still, stained dark with drying blood.
His wolf frame trembled, and the snarl on his face crumbled into something broken. He staggered forward, collapsing beside Jihoon. The massive wolf pressed his head against Jihoon’s still body, nudging once, twice, desperate for a response that would never come.
The night ended with a howl so raw, so broken, it made the moon itself seem dimmer.
The howl of an Alpha who had lost his mate—and would never be whole again.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the world, the forest was not filled with screams and the iron scent of blood. Here, the night was soft. It was gentle. It smelled not of smoke or dirt, but of sugar, fresh bread, and the faint trace of buttercream icing. The sky stretched over the city just as silver as the one above the battlefield, but instead of reflecting blood-soaked fur and broken vows, it shimmered against glass windows, neon lights, and laughter that trickled down narrow streets.
Inside a cramped apartment with walls too thin for secrets, the sound of music and chatter filled every corner.
“Eighteen years old, Han!” Seungkwan announced, raising his cup of soda like it was champagne. “Officially an adult, which means—no excuses now. You need to start acting your age.”
“Seungkwan, you sound like his mom,” Minghao muttered from where he sat cross-legged on the floor, casually peeling the label off a bottle of water.
“Excuse me?” Seungkwan gasped, dramatically pressing a hand to his chest. “I am not nagging—I am guiding. There’s a difference!”
The group erupted into laughter, Jeonghan the loudest of all. His head tipped back, hair falling around his face like a curtain, eyes glinting in the golden light of eighteen flickering candles. The cake in front of him looked lopsided, decorated with strawberries and hastily piped icing that spelled his name unevenly. The wax from the candles dripped dangerously close to the frosting.
“Make your wish already before this thing collapses,” Hansol teased, nudging Jeonghan with his elbow.
Jeonghan grinned. “You guys are so bossy. It’s my birthday, shouldn’t I get to drag this out as long as I want?”
“Drag it out tomorrow. Right now the cake is in danger,” Seungkwan shot back.
Everyone laughed again, but as the sound faded, Jeonghan leaned forward, his smile softening. He closed his eyes.
The noise dulled around him, the voices of his friends fading into something distant, like echoes in a tunnel. He felt the warmth of the candles brushing against his skin, the cool night air sweeping in through the cracked-open window. The city smelled alive—fried food from a vendor down the street, exhaust fumes, the faint perfume of someone walking by.
And yet, beneath all that, there was something else.
A tug. A hum. Something strange and fleeting, like invisible strings brushing against his ribs. It lasted only a heartbeat, but it was enough to make him falter.
Jeonghan’s brows pinched faintly, though his friends didn’t notice. Somewhere deep down, he knew this wish he was about to make—about finishing school, about taking care of his younger sibling Chan, about keeping his friends close—wouldn’t be the whole truth. Because there was something else waiting for him, something he couldn’t name yet.
He blew out the candles.
The room exploded with cheers. Hansol shook his shoulders dramatically, Seungkwan clapped like he’d just seen a miracle, and Minghao muttered something about wax getting into the frosting.
“Happy birthday, Hannie!” they chorused, their voices overlapping in messy affection.
Jeonghan opened his eyes and smiled again, wide and bright. The pull in his chest was gone, replaced with warmth as his friends dragged the cake closer, someone already cutting uneven slices.
He let himself be pulled into the noise and sweetness of it all, even as the silver moonlight lingered through the window, brushing across his cheek like a silent reminder.
Because somewhere, on the other side of the world, that same moon had just borne witness to death, love, and a choice that defied fate. And Jeonghan, eighteen and radiant in the glow of candles, didn’t yet know that his life was quietly shifting toward the weight of that same destiny.
The cake was half-eaten by the time Jeonghan’s little apartment began to quiet down, frosting smeared across paper plates and laughter still echoing faintly through the walls. Chan had already gone to bed after insisting he wasn’t tired—only to fall asleep the moment his head hit the pillow, one of Jeonghan’s old hoodies swallowed up around him.
The older boy had tucked the blanket around his younger brother before returning to his friends, a smile tugging gently at his lips. Eighteen. Somehow it didn’t feel all that different, and yet—somewhere in his chest—it did.
“Rooftop?” Hansol suggested as he carried the last of the cups to the sink. His voice was casual, but he tilted his head toward the window where the silver glow of moonlight spilled in. “It’s too nice a night to waste indoors.”
“Mm, I like that idea,” Minghao agreed, already pulling himself to his feet with the kind of elegance Jeonghan always envied. “Besides, if we don’t move, Seungkwan will eat the rest of the cake by himself.”
“I will not!” Seungkwan sputtered, cheeks puffing. “I was just making sure it doesn’t go to waste.”
“Uh-huh,” Jeonghan teased, grabbing the last two plates and stacking them. “We’ll save you the biggest slice, Kwannie. Come on, let’s go before the moon hides.”
The rooftop was nothing glamorous—just a flat expanse of concrete with rusting railings, the kind of space no one paid attention to. But tonight, it was theirs.
They settled on an old blanket Jeonghan dragged up, the city sprawling beneath them in a maze of flickering streetlights and neon signs. Above, the full moon hung heavy and luminous, clouds drifting lazily across its pale face.
For a moment, none of them spoke. The city’s hum filled the silence—distant car horns, the faint buzz of a karaoke bar somewhere down the street, the laughter of strangers below. And yet here, it felt quiet. Almost reverent.
“It’s so bright,” Jeonghan murmured, tilting his head back until the silver glow painted his face. “Like it’s close enough to touch.”
Hansol stretched his arms behind him, lying flat on the blanket. “I read somewhere that the moon controls more than just tides. They say it messes with people too. Makes them restless.”
“Restless?” Seungkwan scoffed. “Please, I don’t need the moon to make me restless. Exams do that just fine.”
The group laughed, but Minghao’s voice cut softly through the humor. “In China, they say the full moon is for reunion. Families… lovers. Everyone looking up at the same sky.”
Jeonghan’s lips curved, though his chest tugged faintly at the word lovers. “That’s kind of nice. Makes the world feel smaller.”
Seungkwan, ever the dramatic, threw an arm around Jeonghan’s shoulders. “Don’t get sentimental now, birthday boy. You’ve got years ahead of you for love and fate and all that cheesy stuff.”
“Years ahead,” Jeonghan echoed, but his gaze lingered on the moon. Something about its glow made him feel exposed, like it saw more than it should.
Hansol, who’d been quiet for a beat, hummed. “Do you ever think… maybe some people really are tied together by things like this? Like strings you can’t see. Fate, destiny, whatever you call it.”
“Sounds suffocating,” Seungkwan said immediately.
Minghao raised a brow. “Or maybe comforting.”
The conversation lingered like a shadow, their voices low and thoughtful, until Jeonghan’s laugh broke it. “Well, if fate really exists, it better be on my side. I’ve got too much to do to let destiny mess it up.”
They chuckled, the heaviness easing.
But even as they shifted into stories and teasing again, Jeonghan couldn’t shake the way the moonlight clung to him. Too bright. Too watchful. He brushed his hands across his knees, grounding himself in the familiar warmth of his friends around him.
Still, when he caught Minghao studying him quietly out of the corner of his eye, he wondered if maybe he wasn’t the only one who felt the night pressing a little differently on his skin.
And somewhere beyond the noise of the city, deep in a forest Jeonghan had never seen, wolves howled to that same moon, their voices threaded with grief and promise.
Chapter 3: The Weight of Silence
Chapter Text
Years had a way of changing everything.
The forest was quieter now, but only because fewer dared to set foot in it. Under Seungcheol’s reign, rogues who had once prowled freely were hunted down with relentless precision. The territory stretched wider than before, stronger, safer—at least on the surface.
But to those who knew him best, safety had come at a cost.
Seungcheol was no longer the same Alpha who had once led with warmth. His voice, once rich with patience, had cooled into steel. His golden eyes, once lit with fire and laughter, had dimmed into something colder, like a blade forged for war. He spoke less, smiled never, and carried Jihoon’s absence like a scar carved into his very soul.
Tonight, the war council gathered in the longhouse. The scent of woodsmoke curled in the air, mingled with the earthy musk of wolves and the faint tang of blood from training grounds outside. A map lay stretched across the table, the flicker of candlelight throwing shadows over its surface.
Mingyu leaned forward, tall and broad, his dark hair falling over his brow as he tapped at the ink-marked lines. “The eastern border is still vulnerable. If we don’t send more patrols, rogues will test it again before the month ends.”
“We’ve already doubled patrols,” Jun countered, his voice calm but edged. The Beta sat straighter, his analytical eyes sharp. “The men are exhausted. We can’t stretch them thinner without risking mistakes.”
Seungcheol stood at the head of the table, silent, arms folded across his chest. His gaze lingered on the map but seemed fixed on something far beyond it, jaw tight.
Jisoo’s soft voice broke through the tension. “Cheol,” he said gently, his hand resting against Seokmin’s arm. “They’re right. The warriors need rest. Pushing them harder won’t fix the border—it’ll only break them.”
For a moment, there was no answer. The fire popped, shadows shifting.
Then Seungcheol’s voice came, low and flat. “Weak wolves break. Strong wolves endure.”
Wonwoo’s brow furrowed, his hand tightening around Mingyu’s wrist. “That’s not fair, Cheol. They’re already giving you everything.”
“Not everything,” Seungcheol snapped, the growl in his tone making the others stiffen. His golden eyes flared, cold and merciless. “Until there are no more rogues left to threaten us, they haven’t given enough.”
The silence that followed was heavy. Even the fire seemed to quiet.
It was Soonyoung who finally spoke, his voice unusually soft for someone so full of energy. “Cheol… this isn’t just about rogues, is it?”
Seungcheol’s head lifted sharply, eyes locking onto him. “Careful,” he warned.
But Soonyoung didn’t flinch. “You think we don’t know? You think we don’t remember Jihoon too? You’re not the only one who lost that night.”
The words landed like a stone dropped into still water. Mingyu shifted uncomfortably, Jisoo looked down, Seokmin’s hand tensed protectively over his mate’s, and Wonwoo’s lips parted as if to speak—but no one dared break the silence.
Seungcheol’s jaw worked, his chest rising and falling in sharp bursts. For a moment, the Alpha they once knew flickered through—the man who had laughed, who had teased Jihoon until his ears turned red. But then it was gone, smothered under years of grief and rage.
“You remember wrong,” Seungcheol said finally, his voice colder than the winter wind. “Because if you remembered, you’d understand why I can’t afford mercy.”
Mingyu, ever the one to shoulder the storm, finally spoke, his deep voice steady. “We understand more than you think, hyung. But driving the pack into the ground won’t bring him back.”
Seungcheol’s hands clenched at his sides. For a moment, he looked like he might snap, might lash out with words or worse. But instead, he turned away, staring into the flames.
“Meeting’s over,” he said flatly. “Double the patrols. That’s final.”
One by one, the others exchanged glances, frustration and grief etched into their faces. But they obeyed. That was what they always did.
When the room had nearly emptied, Mingyu lingered at the doorway. His tall frame cast a long shadow across the floor, his dark eyes fixed on Seungcheol.
“Cheol,” he said quietly. “Jihoon wouldn’t want this.”
Seungcheol didn’t turn, his gaze locked on the fire. His voice was a whisper, almost too soft to hear.
“Jihoon doesn’t get a choice anymore.”
And with that, Mingyu left him alone—alone with the fire, alone with the silence, alone with a grief that no war could ever burn out.
By the time the sun began to sink, bleeding orange across the horizon, the longhouse was empty. The murmurs of his pack had scattered back into the compound, and Seungcheol, restless and suffocating within walls, had wandered farther than he intended.
His steps carried him down the worn path through the forest, a trail he had avoided more times than he could count, yet always found himself drawn to when the air grew too heavy in his lungs.
The tree waited for him.
It stood at the edge of the cliff, roots gnarled deep into the earth, its branches stretching like arms into the fading sky. Beneath it, the ground was disturbed only once, years ago, when they had buried what was left of Jihoon—ashes and fragments of bone, nothing near enough to capture the soul that had burned so fiercely in life.
Seungcheol stopped a few paces away, the evening breeze tugging at his dark hair, carrying with it the distant crash of waves against the rocks below. He lifted his gaze to the horizon, the fiery smear of the sun setting into the ocean.
This was where they used to sit. Jihoon at his side, small frame curled against him, silver-gray eyes reflecting the light of the moon as though they belonged to it. They would sit in silence more often than not, the kind of silence that had weight, that was comfortable, that was theirs. Jihoon never needed to fill the air with words. Seungcheol had always been loud enough for both of them.
“Why do you like this spot so much?” he had once asked, voice teasing, when Jihoon tugged him by the wrist up the steep incline to the cliff’s edge.
Jihoon had shrugged, plopping down with no grace at all, his gray eyes fixed on the silver moon climbing into the sky. “Because it feels like the world stops here. Like it’s just us. No duties. No pack. No bond.”
Seungcheol had laughed back then, throwing himself down beside him, stretching out his legs with the casual arrogance of an Alpha. “You make it sound like you hate being tied to me.”
Jihoon’s lips had quirked faintly—half amusement, half something softer. “I don’t hate it. I just like knowing you’d still choose me, even if you weren’t bound to.”
And Seungcheol had answered without hesitation, “I did choose you. I’ll keep choosing you.”
Now, years later, the memory hollowed him out.
Seungcheol lowered himself to the ground, his back against the familiar bark of the tree, golden eyes tracing the scarlet streaks of sunset across the horizon. The cliff felt emptier than ever without the soft brush of Jihoon’s shoulder against his, without the quiet cadence of his voice grounding him.
“You’re still stubborn, even in death,” Seungcheol muttered, the words rolling out like smoke. His voice held no tremor, no crack. Just cold steel wrapping around something fragile. “You left me with promises I can’t keep. You left me to carry this alone.”
He tilted his head back against the tree, closing his eyes, feeling the rough bark dig into his skull. The bond that had once tethered them was silent now, an ache without sound. He had expected it to break him the night Jihoon died. He had prayed for it to end him. But it hadn’t. Instead, it lingered like a ghost, faint and cruel, as though the universe had decided survival was punishment enough.
The wind carried the faint scent of salt and pine. For a fleeting moment, he swore he could smell Jihoon too—wolf musk and the faintest hint of earth after rain. His chest tightened, but he didn’t move, didn’t reach for it. He wasn’t foolish enough to chase phantoms anymore.
“I won’t come undone for you,” he whispered, almost a snarl. “Not again.”
And yet, even as the words left him, Seungcheol’s hands curled into fists against the soil where Jihoon’s ashes rested, the soil where their nights had once been full of quiet and warmth. His heart, traitorous and tired, beat the same way it always had here—like it remembered what his mind refused to.
The sun dipped lower, staining the world in blood-red light. Seungcheol sat unmoving, as if carved from the same stone as the cliff itself, a sentinel locked in mourning.
Somewhere deep down, in a place he would never admit, he was waiting. Waiting for a sign, for a voice, for a reason to believe that choosing Jihoon hadn’t doomed him to a lifetime of emptiness.
But nothing came. Only the waves crashing below, and the silence of a bond long gone.
The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, leaving only the silver glow of the full moon to wash the world in pallor. The cliffside was hushed, save for the restless crash of waves far below.
Seungcheol remained at the base of the tree, unmoving, a sentinel carved from shadow. The hours slipped by unnoticed. The night air bit colder now, threading through his thin shirt, but he didn’t stir. His golden eyes stared at the horizon though there was nothing left to see—only the dark line of the ocean and the endless sprawl of stars above it.
The silence suited him.
It was better than voices, better than the weight of concern pressing from his pack. They thought he didn’t notice the way their eyes lingered on him, or the way they paused before speaking, careful, as though their words might fracture him like glass.
He wasn’t glass. He was stone.
And yet, beneath his curled fists, the dirt was damp with the memory of blood and ash.
The faint crunch of footsteps came from behind him.
Seungcheol’s ears twitched—wolf instincts ever alert, even in his stillness. He didn’t turn, though. Whoever it was had already been scented: pine smoke and steel, steady and grounding. Mingyu.
The younger Alpha didn’t announce himself right away. He stopped a few feet back, as though testing the air. Respectful distance. Wise.
“You’ve been gone too long,” Mingyu finally said, voice low, careful not to disturb the stillness of the cliff. “The others are restless.”
Seungcheol didn’t answer. His eyes remained fixed on the moon, cold and sharp, a pale echo of the one he’d once watched from this very spot with Jihoon curled against his side.
Mingyu exhaled softly through his nose, then stepped closer. “Cheol… You can’t keep doing this.”
At that, Seungcheol’s jaw tightened. He tilted his head just enough to glance at Mingyu, his golden eyes cutting like blades. “Doing what?”
“Disappearing. Sitting here like the dead will answer you back.” Mingyu’s voice was steady, but his hands curled loosely at his sides, betraying the tension he carried. “The pack needs an Alpha. Not a ghost haunting a cliff.”
The words struck sharp, but Seungcheol only huffed, a sound halfway between bitter laughter and disdain. “The pack has an Alpha. I lead. I fight. That’s all they need.”
“They need more than that,” Mingyu pressed, his brows furrowed. He took another step forward, his tall frame casting a shadow over the seated Alpha. “They need someone who feels. Someone who gives them reason to follow—not just fear.”
Seungcheol’s lips curved, humorless. “Feelings didn’t save him.” His gaze flicked to the ground beneath the tree, that small patch of earth heavy with memory. His voice dropped lower, harsher. “Feelings didn’t stop him from bleeding out in my arms.”
Mingyu’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, his eyes following Seungcheol’s to the disturbed soil. For a moment, neither spoke, the weight of that night pressing heavy between them.
Finally, Mingyu crouched down, bringing himself to eye-level with Seungcheol. His voice was quieter now, stripped of command, softened into something almost brotherly. “You know he wouldn’t want this.”
Seungcheol’s eyes snapped back to him, sharp and feral. “Don’t.”
But Mingyu held his gaze. “He wouldn’t. You know it. Jihoon loved you too much to see you rot like this.”
Silence followed, long and tense. The only sound was the sea clawing at the rocks below. Seungcheol’s hands dug into the dirt at his sides, claws threatening to break through. His chest burned with an ache he refused to name, the memory of gray eyes and a quiet smile gnawing at his ribs.
At last, he dragged in a breath, low and ragged. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t hear his voice every night, telling me to keep going?” His words were venom, but his tone cracked at the edges. “I can’t, Mingyu. Don’t you understand? I can’t.”
Mingyu’s face softened. He didn’t reach out—he knew better than to touch when Seungcheol’s grief ran this wild—but his voice held the weight of something steady, unwavering. “Then I’ll carry what you can’t. I’ll hold the pack when you falter. But don’t you dare give them nothing. Don’t you dare make his memory into ashes when it was fire.”
Seungcheol’s breath caught. He looked away, back to the moon, to the place where Jihoon once sat, where silence had once been peace and not torment.
The wind carried over the cliff, lifting the strands of his dark hair. He let it pass, let it cool the fire in his chest that threatened to burn him hollow. Finally, he muttered, barely audible, “You should take the others home.”
Mingyu lingered, searching his face for more—any crack in the armor—but there was nothing. Only the cold Alpha, carved from grief and silence.
At last, Mingyu rose to his feet. He didn’t push further. He didn’t leave, either. He settled against the tree on the other side, close enough to guard, far enough to respect.
The two Alphas sat in silence, the moonlight washing them both silver.
Seungcheol didn’t thank him. He never did. But in the steadiness of Mingyu’s presence, in the refusal to leave him entirely alone, there was a fragile tether—thin as spider silk—that kept Seungcheol from falling off the edge of the cliff with his grief.
And for now, that was enough.
The dorm was never truly quiet. Even in the late hours, when the hallways outside were hushed and the neighbors’ doors closed tight, some kind of noise still clung to the walls: the whirr of the fan, the occasional bark of a stray dog echoing from the street below, Chan humming under his breath while solving equations he claimed he didn’t like but clearly enjoyed.
It was a kind of noise Jeonghan had grown used to — comfortable, lived-in.
This particular evening found the two of them in the cramped kitchenette, trying and failing to prepare dinner.
“Hyung,” Chan said, crouched near the stove as though squatting low would magically fix his problem, “why is the rice sticky again?”
“Because you don’t wash it properly,” Jeonghan replied, deadpan, slicing cabbage on their only cutting board.
“I washed it three times.”
Jeonghan snorted. “Then maybe you just have bad karma.”
A sharp laugh escaped Chan, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he tried to salvage the pot of rice while Jeonghan stirred vegetables in the pan. The scene was imperfect — two mismatched plates on the table, a flickering bulb overhead, the faint smell of burnt garlic clinging to the air — but it was theirs.
They ate together the way they always did: shoulder to shoulder, talking about everything and nothing.
“Groupmates are useless,” Jeonghan said between bites. “I swear I’ll just end up doing the care plan myself.”
“You always say that,” Chan teased. “And then you do it anyway.”
“That’s because I don’t want to fail.”
“That’s because you’re a control freak,” Chan countered, grinning when Jeonghan shot him a glare.
It was easy with Chan, easier than with anyone else. They had built this rhythm out of necessity. When their parents died — too suddenly, too unfairly — silence had been unbearable. The dorm chatter, the bickering, the laughter they forced through cracked voices… all of it had kept them afloat.
And when the lawyer told them, months after Jeonghan turned eighteen, that there was something left for them — savings, land, proof that their parents had thought ahead — it was like breathing after drowning. Not riches, not a miracle, but enough to whisper: We didn’t forget you. You’re still ours.
For Jeonghan, that knowledge carried weight. It was why he worked so hard. Why he couldn’t let himself crumble.
The next morning began before dawn.
The alarm rang at five, sharp and insistent. Jeonghan groaned, pressing the heel of his palm to his eyes before dragging himself upright. The room was still dark, curtains drawn, the faintest gray hint of morning leaking through the cracks.
Chan stirred in the other bed, voice muffled. “Hyung… too early.”
“I have duty today,” Jeonghan replied, pulling on his white uniform. “Go back to sleep. Just don’t forget your eight o’clock class.”
“Mmh.”
Jeonghan leaned over to nudge him anyway, tugging the blanket down. “I mean it. No more skipping.”
“You sound like Mom again,” Chan mumbled, squinting at him through messy hair.
The words should’ve stung, but instead they settled softly between them. A reminder, a comfort.
By six, Jeonghan was out the door with his notes and lunchbox in hand. The jeepney ride was noisy, packed with students and office workers, but he hardly noticed — his mind already racing through case studies and vitals. Nursing demanded everything, and Jeonghan gave it willingly.
Classes bled into hospital duty, and by the time he stepped out of the lab that afternoon, his feet ached and his shoulders sagged.
“You look like the ghost of yourself,” Minghao observed as he approached, ever blunt.
Jeonghan accepted the water bottle Minghao held out, drinking greedily. “Remind me why I chose this course.”
“Because you like helping people?”
“Because I was cursed in a past life,” Jeonghan muttered, making Minghao laugh quietly.
Minutes later, Seungkwan’s voice rang from across the courtyard. “There he is! Hannie, you survived!” He bounded over, arms full of snacks. “I told you, hospital duty makes everyone look like death. Don’t worry, you’re still prettier than half our batch.”
“Wow, thanks,” Jeonghan deadpanned, though his lips twitched.
Hansol joined them soon after, quieter, earbuds dangling from his pocket. He tossed a bag of chips toward Chan, who had tagged along after his own class, and settled into the grass with them.
It became a routine: sprawled on the university lawn, trading stories, eating whatever snacks Seungkwan bought, laughing at Minghao’s dry one-liners and Hansol’s quiet jokes. Jeonghan cherished these afternoons, the way they carved out a small space where exhaustion didn’t matter.
Here, he wasn’t just a nursing student, or an older brother carrying responsibility. He was simply Jeonghan.
Nights in the dorm ended slower.
After studying at their shared desk — Jeonghan with notes spread wide, Chan bent over equations — they usually ended up by the window with whatever snacks Chan could afford. Tonight it was biscuits.
The city outside glowed under streetlights, cars humming in the distance, shadows of neighbors moving behind curtains.
“Hyung,” Chan said softly, breaking a biscuit in half, “do you think Mom and Dad would be proud?”
Jeonghan froze for just a second. He always did, when the question came. Then he forced his shoulders to relax.
“I think they’d be more than proud,” he said, staring at the moon outside. “We’re not perfect, but… we’re here. We’re trying. That’s enough.”
Chan leaned against him, quiet.
The silence stretched, not heavy but thoughtful.
And when Jeonghan finally ushered him toward bed, flicking the lights off, the thought lingered: Three more days until twenty-one.
He didn’t know why the number made his chest ache — like the moon itself was pressing down on him — but he carried the weight quietly, alone, as he drifted into restless sleep.
Chapter 4: Twenty-one
Chapter Text
The days leading up to Jeonghan’s twenty-first birthday passed in a blur of routines.
Morning classes, late-night reviews, hurried meals squeezed between his shifts at the hospital and his friends’ endless chatter. Chan kept teasing him about “finally being legal enough for everything,” while Minghao rolled his eyes and reminded him that Jeonghan already lived like a fifty-year-old married man anyway. Hansol and Seungkwan whispered too obviously about “the plan” whenever he walked into the room, and Jeonghan pretended not to notice just to keep them satisfied.
Life felt ordinary. Comfortable, even.
And then the night came.
The dorm was quiet after lights-out, the corridors hushed except for the occasional creak of pipes or the muffled laughter from other rooms. Chan had gone to bed early, claiming exhaustion after an entire day of engineering plates. Jeonghan lingered by the window of their small dorm unit, chin propped on his hand as he stared at the city below.
Twenty-one.
He thought of his parents. He always did on his birthdays. His mother’s gentle voice, his father’s warm laugh, the way they used to make birthdays feel like a festival even when money was tight. A lump formed in his throat, but he swallowed it down. He had Chan. He had his friends. That was enough.
At least, it had always been.
The city below glimmered with lights, blurred gold and silver against the black sky. Somewhere in the distance, fireworks cracked, faint and out of season. Jeonghan smiled faintly, thinking of how his mother used to sneak sparklers into the yard and wave them around like they were the grandest fireworks display in the world. He could almost hear her voice—
“Another year older, my angel. Make it count.”
His chest tightened.
The clock on the wall ticked softly, its hands crawling toward midnight. He didn’t know why he stayed up. Maybe because he was waiting for something. Some part of him—a child’s foolish part—half expected the night to gift him a sign.
And in a way, it did.
At exactly midnight, a strange sensation stirred deep in his chest. Not pain, not yet, but a hum. A vibration that seemed to echo through his ribs. His breath hitched, sharp, and he straightened in his seat.
“What…?”
The hum turned into heat, warmth flooding his veins like wildfire. It spread fast, curling through his arms, his throat, his skin. He stumbled back, the chair legs scraping across the floor. The world tilted, colors sharp and dizzying.
Then came the burn.
It started on his left shoulder, searing so fiercely he gasped. His hand clawed at the fabric of his shirt, tugging it down to reveal—
—lines.
Dark and curling, twisting across his skin like ink that had been waiting years to surface. They glowed faintly in the moonlight streaming through the window, a brand alive and pulsing. Jeonghan’s chest rose and fell fast, his pulse racing.
“No, no, no…” His voice broke into the silence.
The lines spread slowly, curling into a mark he couldn’t name. He staggered toward the mirror, nearly tripping over Chan’s backpack on the floor. His reflection looked back at him, pale and wide-eyed, sweat dripping down his temples.
The mark was real. Not imagined. Not fading.
“What the hell is this?”
He pressed his palm flat over it, desperate to feel nothing, to wake up from what had to be a nightmare. But the skin was hot, alive. The mark thrummed faintly under his touch, like a second heartbeat.
Confusion curdled into fear.
He thought about the hospital, about all the diseases he had studied. Was this some form of rash? Some rare dermatological case? A genetic illness waiting for adulthood to bloom? His mind raced with diagnoses, none of them making sense.
It didn’t hurt anymore, but it felt wrong. Wrong in a way no textbook could explain.
From the other side of the small room, sheets rustled.
“Hyung?”
Jeonghan froze. His head snapped up to see Chan stirring in his bed, hair messy, eyes squinting blearily in the dim light.
“You okay?” Chan’s voice was thick with sleep, a quiet mumble that still managed to carry across the room. “You’re… loud.”
Jeonghan’s pulse stuttered. He forced his hand away from his chest, yanking his shirt collar up as if the fabric alone could hide the truth. A laugh slipped out, brittle and too thin. “Yeah. Sorry. Just… couldn’t sleep.”
Chan blinked at him, still half in a dream. “We’ve got class tomorrow. Don’t stay up too late.” His voice dropped into a yawn before he rolled onto his side, the blanket sliding up to his shoulder. “…Happy birthday, hyung.”
The words, so soft and sleepy, hit harder than they should have. Jeonghan’s throat tightened, and he managed only a quiet, “Thanks,” once he was sure Chan had already drifted off again.
The room fell silent, save for the steady rhythm of his brother’s breathing.
Jeonghan leaned back against the desk, his knees trembling. He glanced at the mirror again, the faint outline of the mark visible even through the fabric of his shirt.
He didn’t know what it was.
He didn’t know why it had chosen now.
All he knew was that something had changed—and he couldn’t bring himself to tell anyone. Not Chan. Not his friends. Not yet.
The full moon hung high above the city, casting pale light through the glass. Jeonghan stared at it for a long, long time, the mark burning steady under his skin.
Confused. Curious. Afraid.
And completely unaware that the mark was not a disease, nor a scar.
It was a bond.
A bond that would soon drag him into a world he didn’t know existed.
The night passed slowly, a restless cycle of half-sleep and sharp wakefulness. Every time Jeonghan shifted, the faint warmth of the mark pulsed against his neck, as though reminding him it was there. By the time dawn bled through the curtains, soft and pale, he hadn’t truly rested at all.
“Hyung, your alarm.”
Chan’s groggy voice dragged Jeonghan out of his daze. He blinked at his phone buzzing beside him, the obnoxious tone filling their tiny dorm room. Groaning, he smacked it quiet and sat up, stretching until his joints popped. The fabric of his shirt tugged uncomfortably across his chest, making him overly aware of the skin beneath.
He ignored it.
“Morning,” he mumbled, voice rough.
Chan was already sitting on the edge of his own bed, hair sticking up in all directions. “Happy birthday again,” he said, less sleepy this time, flashing him a crooked grin.
Jeonghan couldn’t help but smile, even through the fog of unease. “Thanks. You gonna sing for me too?”
“Not unless you want me to ruin your day right at the start,” Chan shot back, grabbing his towel. He paused by the door to the shared bathroom, smirking. “But maybe I’ll buy you coffee later. My treat.”
“Wow, I’m honored,” Jeonghan deadpanned, tossing a pillow at him. Chan ducked and disappeared into the bathroom with a laugh, leaving Jeonghan alone again with his thoughts.
He tugged off his shirt while he changed, his eyes catching in the mirror on the faint outline of the mark. It hadn’t faded. But it hadn’t grown, either. Just there. Quiet. Waiting.
“Not today,” he muttered under his breath, shoving on a clean uniform. “You’re not ruining today.”
By the time he and Chan left the dorm, the air was already buzzing with chatter. The campus was alive with the usual morning chaos: students spilling from the dormitories, some with coffee cups in hand, others dragging half-asleep feet toward their first class.
Jeonghan fell into rhythm. Morning lecture. Notes scribbled across his pad. A quiz that he almost forgot about but managed to ace, though Minghao still leaned over to whisper, “You should stop showing off, it makes the rest of us look bad.”
“Jealousy doesn’t look good on you,” Jeonghan whispered back with a grin.
Seungkwan and Hansol caught up with him after class, both dramatically bemoaning the load of assignments piling up.
“Happy birthday, Hannie!” Seungkwan announced loud enough to turn heads. “We’ve been planning something, by the way. Don’t think you can get out of it.”
Jeonghan groaned. “Can’t I just nap? That’s a good enough gift.”
Hansol slung an arm around him. “Nope. Too late. Kwan already bought cake.”
Jeonghan rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. With friends like these, resistance was pointless.
That evening, the dorm common room was brighter than usual. Hansol had somehow smuggled in a string of fairy lights, Seungkwan arranged snacks like they were catering a wedding, and Minghao sat calmly on the couch, pretending he had no part in this chaos despite the fact that he had folded origami cranes scattered neatly across the table.
Chan, traitor that he was, was clearly in on it too—he sat at the corner of the couch with a proud smile, like he’d orchestrated the whole thing.
“You guys…” Jeonghan shook his head, though warmth flooded his chest despite himself.
“Shut up and sit down,” Seungkwan ordered, shoving him into the seat of honor. The lights dimmed, the cake was brought out, and voices rose in a slightly off-key chorus of “Happy Birthday.”
Jeonghan laughed through it, cheeks flushing. He blew out the candles, though when Seungkwan asked what he wished for, he only smiled faintly.
For his parents to be here. For Chan to always be okay.
Simple wishes. Ordinary ones.
The night stretched in laughter. They played card games until the table was a mess of crumbs and paper. Hansol put on music that was far too loud for the thin dorm walls, and Minghao pretended to complain while hiding his smile.
Through it all, Jeonghan forgot about the mark. Forgot about the strange warmth that had haunted him the night before. For a few precious hours, it was just him and his circle, loud and happy and full of life.
When midnight rolled near and everyone started to drift, Jeonghan found himself standing by the window, staring out at the full moon again.
It glowed silver over the city, distant yet sharp, and beneath his shirt, the mark pulsed once—steady, alive.
He pressed his palm against it.
Still no pain. Still no reason.
Just a quiet promise of something he didn’t yet understand.
And so, he brushed it off.
“Yah, birthday boy, stop brooding at the moon and get over here!”
Seungkwan’s voice cut across the room, sharp but fond. Jeonghan startled slightly, pulling his hand away from his chest as if caught, then turned with a lazy grin.
“I wasn’t brooding,” he protested, padding over to flop onto the couch between Hansol and Seungkwan. “I was appreciating. Big difference.”
“Mm, sure,” Seungkwan teased, nudging him with his elbow. “You’re twenty-one now, you don’t get to be poetic anymore. Old men need sleep, not moon-gazing.”
Hansol snorted, earning a pillow to the face courtesy of Jeonghan.
The living room was messy in the way only shared celebrations could be—crumbs scattered on the floor, empty soda cans on the low table, fairy lights blinking lazily overhead. Minghao sat cross-legged on the rug, folding another paper crane with infuriating precision, while Chan lingered at the edge of the couch, balancing a plate with the last slice of cake.
They talked about nothing at first. Funny professors. The cafeteria’s suspiciously soggy fried chicken. A classmate who fainted dramatically during clinicals, only to wake up and ask if he looked good doing it. Laughter spilled freely, bouncing off the walls until the dorm seemed brighter than it had in months.
Then Minghao, eyes still fixed on the crane in his hands, said quietly, “By the way, we’re still going camping next week, right?”
Jeonghan perked up. “Oh yeah. That place near the falls?”
“Mm.” Minghao set the finished crane on the table. “Hansol already talked to his cousin, we can borrow their tent. Two nights, maybe three.”
Hansol nodded enthusiastically. “It’ll be great. No signal, no noise, just us and the stars. A proper escape before midterms swallow us whole.”
Seungkwan clapped his hands dramatically. “Finally! I need nature. Trees. Fresh air. I need to scream into the woods about how much I hate our medsurg professor.”
They all laughed—except Chan, who sat with his lips pushed out in a sulky pout, stabbing his fork into the last bite of cake.
“I can’t go.” His voice was small, almost drowned out by their chatter. “We have three quizzes that week. Sir already said no excuses.”
The room softened at once.
“Aw, Channie,” Jeonghan leaned over, ruffling his younger brother’s hair despite the half-hearted swat that followed. “It’s fine. There’ll be other trips.”
“Yeah,” Hansol chimed in. “We’ll plan another one after exams. This won’t be the last camping, promise.”
Seungkwan leaned forward, eyes wide. “And we’ll make sure the next one has a karaoke machine. Portable. Battery-operated. I’ll serenade you under the stars, Chan-ah.”
Chan snorted but his pout lingered. “You guys always make it sound fun, then I’m stuck here with problem sets and formulas.”
Minghao, ever the realist, said, “You’ll thank your grades later.”
But Jeonghan slid the plate from his brother’s hands and set it aside, giving him the soft smile he rarely showed anyone else. “Hey. Don’t think about what you’ll miss. Think about what’s waiting after. We’ll go somewhere even better, just the two of us if we have to.”
Chan’s pout cracked, replaced by a sheepish grin. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
The weight in the room lifted again, laughter returning as Hansol launched into a ridiculous story about their last trip—how Seungkwan had mistaken a raccoon for a ghost and nearly tackled Minghao in panic. The noise swelled, warm and alive, until the night stretched easy once more.
Jeonghan leaned back into the couch, letting the voices of his friends wash over him. For a while, he let himself believe that life was exactly what it seemed—school, friends, laughter, the steady comfort of his brother beside him.
And if, beneath his shirt, the mark pulsed once more, warm and alive—he ignored it.
Because tonight was about them. About laughter, and promises, and the fleeting sweetness of twenty-one.
The week had worn Jeonghan down in the usual way—endless readings, paperwork piling up, volunteer duties, and late nights trying to get it all done before the deadlines hit. Chan wasn’t any better, buried in his own pile of quizzes and study notes. Their days were structured, almost mechanical: wake up together in their small shared room, drag themselves to classes, grab meals when they could, and collapse back into their beds at night.
It was a routine Jeonghan found comfort in. Predictable. Safe.
But that Friday afternoon shattered all of it.
The sun was lowering, throwing long gold shadows across the pavement as the stream of students poured out of the campus gates. The chatter was light, a buzz of relief that another week was done. Jeonghan and Chan walked shoulder to shoulder, both carrying the kind of tiredness that settled deep in the bones but softened with the thought of food and a few hours of rest.
Chan was mid-rant, voice rising and falling dramatically. “Hyung, if I fail this quiz tomorrow, it’s the professor’s fault, not mine. I swear, he sets us up to die! I’m telling you, these people just—”
Jeonghan snorted softly. “You’re just mad because you didn’t review.”
“I did review!” Chan protested. “Well, kinda. I skimmed. Skimmed counts.”
Jeonghan was about to tease him again when a shift in the crowd caught his attention. Someone stood just beyond the gates. A man, slightly older, worn around the edges, his face lined with years Jeonghan couldn’t name. He wasn’t looking at the groups of laughing students around him. No—his gaze was fixed squarely on Jeonghan.
And there was something in that look.
It wasn’t curiosity. It wasn’t the absent glance of a stranger. It was something heavier, warmer. Eyes brimming with something close to recognition, with nostalgia that Jeonghan didn’t understand.
Jeonghan slowed his steps, his breath faltering. Chan noticed immediately. “Hyung? What’s
wrong?”
The man moved toward them, cautious but determined. His lips trembled slightly before he spoke, voice breaking like it hadn’t been used in a long time.
“Jeonghan.”
The name landed too easily, too personally. Too much like a hand reaching across years Jeonghan didn’t remember, tugging at something in him that had never been touched before.
Jeonghan blinked. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. He looked over his shoulder instinctively, half-expecting to find someone else behind him—another Jeonghan this man must be calling to. But there was no one. Just Chan at his side, squinting in confusion.
“Hyung?” Chan whispered, tugging lightly at his sleeve. “Do you know him?”
Jeonghan shook his head, more quickly than he meant to. His voice came out thin. “No. I’ve never—”
But the man kept walking closer, closing the space between them with careful steps. His movements weren’t threatening, but there was an intensity in his eyes that made Jeonghan’s skin crawl.
“You’ve grown so much,” the man murmured, like he wasn’t speaking to strangers on a busy street but to a ghost he’d been waiting decades to see. His voice cracked. “You look just like your mother.”
The words cut deeper than they should have. Jeonghan stiffened, a defensive laugh bubbling up, sharp and humorless. “Excuse me? Who are you?”
The man stopped a few feet away, hands trembling at his sides. He seemed to wrestle with himself, eyes darting between Jeonghan and Chan before he finally said it.
“I’m your father.”
The world seemed to tilt. Jeonghan’s breath hitched violently, as though the air itself had betrayed him. For a second, he just stood there, rooted to the spot, heart pounding so hard it echoed in his ears.
Beside him, Chan’s eyes widened. “Wait, what?” He instinctively shifted closer to Jeonghan, his hand brushing against his hyung’s arm in a silent show of support.
Jeonghan laughed again, sharper this time. “No. No, you’re mistaken.” He shook his head hard, eyes narrowing. “My father died. My parents died. Years ago. You’ve got the wrong person.”
The man flinched, but his voice held steady, pleading. “I know that’s what you were told. But it isn’t the truth. Your mother—she raised you to believe that for your own safety.”
Jeonghan’s chest burned. His fists clenched at his sides. “Stop. Don’t you dare drag her into this. My mother wouldn’t lie to me.”
The man’s face folded, his expression crumpling with sorrow. “She loved you more than anything. That’s why she kept me away. She thought it was better if you grew up without me. But Jeonghan… I am your father. I’ve never stopped being your father.”
Every word felt like a stone being hurled against Jeonghan’s ribs, cracking the shell of certainty he’d built his entire life on. His throat tightened painfully.
“Hyung,” Chan said gently, but his tone was laced with alarm. “Maybe we should—”
“No.” Jeonghan’s voice cut, sharper than he intended, but his hands trembled. He turned to the man, anger flooding in to mask the fear clawing at his insides. “You don’t get to show up out of nowhere and rewrite my life like this. You don’t get to use my mother’s name—she’s gone. And my father—my father—he died with her. That’s the truth. That’s the life I know.”
The man swallowed hard, eyes glistening, his jaw working as though each word hurt to push out. “I’m not here to take that from you. I’m not here to erase him. He raised you, cared for you, gave you the family you needed. But Jeonghan… he wasn’t your blood.”
Jeonghan froze. The word—blood—landed heavy, poisonous.
“No,” he whispered. He shook his head violently, desperate to shake the thought away. “No, that’s not possible. Chan and I—we’re brothers. We grew up together. Same parents. Same father.”
The man’s gaze flickered to Chan again, regret etched deep into his features. Then he looked back at Jeonghan, voice breaking. “You are brothers. In every way that matters. But you have different fathers. His father… he took you in as his own. And your mother wanted it that way. She wanted you both under one roof, without confusion, without danger. She asked me to stay away, and I—” He faltered, voice trembling. “I respected her wish, even though it broke me.”
Jeonghan’s breathing grew ragged, shallow. The ground beneath him felt like it was slipping, the noise of the crowd around them fading to a dull hum.
Danger.
Blood.
A stranger calling himself his father.
It didn’t make sense. None of it did.
Chan touched his arm again, voice low but firm. “Hyung, let’s just go. We don’t need to listen to this.”
But Jeonghan couldn’t move. He couldn’t look away from the man’s eyes, filled with so much longing, so much pain that it almost felt familiar. Something about it dug under his skin, made his chest feel tight, even though his mind screamed at him to reject everything.
Jeonghan’s lips parted, his voice unsteady. “If… if what you’re saying is true, then why now? Why wait all these years?”
The man’s throat bobbed, as if swallowing something too heavy. “Because you’re of age now. You’re twenty-one. And that changes things.”
Jeonghan froze. The words hit him with a strange weight, one that he didn’t know how to name. His mark pulsed faintly under his shirt, and he shifted uncomfortably.
“What do you mean?” Jeonghan asked, sharper this time, suspicion thickening in his voice. “What’s supposed to ‘change’? Don’t talk in riddles.”
The man ran a hand over his face, the gesture heavy, almost weary. “Your mother didn’t want you to carry certain burdens. She thought if I stayed away, you could grow up safe… normal. But at twenty-one, the past doesn’t always stay buried. Things you didn’t ask for—they have a way of finding you.” His eyes softened, almost pleading. “And I can’t just stand by and watch that happen without you knowing anything.”
It sounded like nonsense. Dangerous nonsense.
Jeonghan shook his head, the anger rising fast to cover the unease that was curling in his gut. “You don’t make any sense. You show up now, say some cryptic lines about danger and my age, and expect me to believe you’re my father? No. My father was the man who raised me. He’s gone. Both of them are. And you—” He stepped forward, his voice trembling despite the steel he tried to put in it. “You’re nothing to me.”
Chan shifted, his hand closing firmly around Jeonghan’s wrist, like he was ready to pull him away at the first sign of escalation.
The man’s face twisted, not in anger, but in grief. “I don’t expect you to accept me today. Or tomorrow. Maybe not ever. But listen to me—things are moving faster than you realize. There are people out there, situations, that you’re not ready for. I need to make sure you’re safe.”
Safe.
The word echoed in Jeonghan’s head, unsettling, like it was supposed to mean something more than the ordinary sense.
He snapped his eyes away, tugging Chan toward the street. “I don’t need you to keep me safe. I’ve done fine without you my whole life. Stay away from us.”
The man didn’t follow. He just stood there, watching them leave, his figure blurring into the golden haze of the setting sun, his shoulders bowed under the weight of something Jeonghan refused to understand.
Even as they walked away, Chan throwing nervous glances over his shoulder, Jeonghan’s thoughts spiraled.
The word danger.
The way he had said twenty-one.
The way his chest tightened at the mark hidden beneath his collar.
He clenched his jaw.
No. He wasn’t going to think about it.
But no matter how many times he told himself to forget, the man’s voice chased him, soft but unrelenting:
“Things you didn’t ask for—they have a way of finding you.”
Chapter 5: Under a Full Moon
Chapter Text
For the week after that fateful Friday, Jeonghan buried the encounter deep in his mind, forcing himself into routines so tight that there was no room for thought, no space for lingering doubts. Hospital rotations, nursing duties, class readings, and volunteer obligations became his shields. He moved mechanically through life, refusing to give the stranger even a single thought more than necessary.
Chan noticed the shift immediately, though he didn’t pry. Instead, he hovered close, quietly offering reassurance whenever Jeonghan’s shoulders tensed or his gaze drifted unconsciously toward the street.
“Hyung,” Chan said one evening as they settled into the cramped living room, textbooks spread across the table, “whatever that man said… it doesn’t change anything. You and I—brothers, right? That’s all that matters.”
Jeonghan, hunched over his notes, gave a half-hearted smile, voice tight. “Yeah… yeah, I know. I just… it’s annoying, that’s all. I don’t even know why I’m thinking about him.”
“You’re thinking because it matters,” Chan said quietly, firm but gentle. “But it doesn’t have to. I’m here. You’re here. That’s what counts. He can’t take that away.”
Jeonghan nodded, forcing himself to believe it, and for several days, he almost convinced himself. Almost.
The man never showed up again. No letters. No calls. No messages. Jeonghan’s denial grew easier to maintain. Maybe it was over. Maybe the man had realized he had the wrong person, or maybe whatever he had wanted, he’d given up. Life could continue. Life had to continue.
And for the first week, it did.
It was the afternoon before their planned camping trip. Jeonghan had been running errands—picking up supplies, checking their last-minute lists, making sure everything was ready for the weekend. Chan, exhausted from a week of quizzes and lab work, had gone ahead, leaving Jeonghan to finish up a few things near the apartment gates.
Jeonghan was halfway across the street when he froze.
There, leaning casually against a lamp post, was the man. Same worn edges, same faint lines etched into his face. Same gaze. And it was fixed entirely on him. Warm, nostalgic, and piercing, cutting through the noise of the city like a knife.
Jeonghan’s stomach churned, a tight coil of anger and unease snapping inside him. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. “No. Not now. Not here.”
He strode toward the man, forcing his voice to stay steady despite the rapid thrum in his chest. “What do you want?” Jeonghan’s tone was sharp, defensive, each word a blade. “Just… stay away from us. Leave me and my brother alone.”
The man’s eyes softened immediately, holding a flicker of regret. “Jeonghan, I’m not here to hurt you. I—”
“Not here to hurt us?!” Jeonghan interrupted, voice rising, echoing slightly against the walls of the nearby buildings. “You disappeared for a week after showing up and now you just pop back out? What is this? Some… some game? Some test I didn’t agree to?”
The man flinched but held his ground, hands raised slightly, a silent plea in his posture. “No. I promise, nothing like that. I only want… to make sure you’re safe. That’s all.”
“Safe? Safe from what?” Jeonghan’s voice was incredulous, disbelief mixing with irritation. “Do you even know us? Do you even know who we are? I’ve got my brother. I’ve got my life. You don’t get to decide what I need or don’t need!”
Chan appeared behind Jeonghan, having caught up after realizing Jeonghan was taking a long detour. He placed a firm hand on Jeonghan’s shoulder, grounding him. “Hyung, just… breathe. It’s fine. He’s not here to take anything from us. I won't let that happen.”
Jeonghan’s chest heaved, his anger mingling with exhaustion. “I don’t care what you say. I’m telling you, leave us alone! Don’t follow me, don’t follow Chan, don’t—don’t come near me again.”
The man’s gaze flickered with sadness, perhaps even a hint of something Jeonghan didn’t want to consider—care. “I can’t promise never to see you,” he said quietly, voice low. “But I will respect you, Jeonghan. I won’t force anything. I only want you to know… I care about you.”
Jeonghan’s teeth clenched. He turned abruptly, dragging Chan with him, moving faster now, refusing to look back. “I don’t care. I don’t want anything from you. Not now, not ever. Leave. Stay away.”
As they disappeared through the apartment gates, the man remained, watching silently. His eyes lingered on Jeonghan with a mix of hope and sorrow, knowing this was only the beginning of a story neither of them could yet understand.
Jeonghan, on the other hand, told himself he was done thinking about the man, though his pulse wouldn’t stop betraying the lie. Denial was comforting, but it was fragile, and he didn’t know how long he could keep it intact.
The room was quiet, save for the soft hum of the city seeping in through the half-open window. Chan had long since fallen asleep, curled up on his side in their shared dorm, his chest rising and falling in steady, peaceful rhythm. Jeonghan, on the other hand, was wide awake, perched on the edge of his bed with the packed camping gear pushed aside.
His fingers traced the edge of the small picture frame on the desk—a family photo he had kept even after the accident, almost as a talisman against the loneliness that sometimes threatened to swallow him. His mother smiled gently in the photo, her eyes warm and tender, the kind of smile that could make even the heaviest burdens feel lighter. His father stood behind her, arms wrapped around her shoulders, protective and proud.
Jeonghan’s thumb lingered over his mother’s face, his chest tightening. “Mom,” he whispered, his voice low, almost afraid it might wake Chan. “Mom… is this true?”
He set the frame on his lap and stared at it as if the faces could answer him, could tell him what to believe. “That man… the one I saw today… he’s saying things about you. About my dad. About me. He says… he wanted to be a father to me, but you didn’t want him near us. Why didn’t you ever tell me? Why… why did you let me believe… that Chan and I… that we were full brothers? Were you afraid? Were you protecting me?”
Jeonghan’s voice cracked, and he swallowed hard, the lump in his throat threatening to spill over. His mind raced, conjuring a thousand scenarios, each one worse than the last. “And this… danger he’s talking about… what did he mean? Am I… am I in danger? Is it… is it real? Am I going to die? Is Chan… is Chan safe?”
He gripped the picture frame tighter, his knuckles whitening. The edges of the glass pressed cold against his palms, grounding him as the questions piled up. Every memory of his mother’s voice, her gentle laughter, even her quiet scolding, clashed with the memory of the man’s words. He felt like the ground beneath him was tilting, like everything he thought he knew about his family, his life, was suddenly uncertain.
“Mom… I—I don’t understand,” he murmured, almost to himself. “If it’s true… why now? Why is he here now? And why can’t I stop thinking about it? I’ve been so sure of everything, Mom. I’ve had Chan, Minghao, Seungkwan, Hansol… I’ve been fine. I’ve been living, like you wanted me to. And now…”
He let the frame rest against his chest, leaning back against the wall. “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”
Jeonghan stayed like that for a long time, the city lights casting shadows across the walls, the hum of distant traffic punctuating his thoughts. Each imagined scenario twisted inside him—what if the man was telling the truth? What if the danger he mentioned was real? Could his mother really have kept such a secret to protect him?
By the time he finally placed the frame back on the desk, the hour had grown late, yet sleep refused him. His mind would not rest. He went through every detail of the encounter with the stranger, every word, every inflection, replaying them again and again.
“I only want you to be safe…”
The words echoed in his head, and Jeonghan couldn’t stop thinking. Safe from what? Why would someone care so much? What could possibly be waiting for him that required such secrecy?
Hours passed, the night stretching endlessly, and Jeonghan finally curled up under his blanket, eyes staring at the ceiling, thoughts spinning faster than his heart could keep pace. Sleep came, but fitfully, in shallow, restless waves. He dreamed of the man’s eyes, filled with longing and regret, and the familiar warmth of his mother’s face, both blurring together until he woke with a start, gasping.
That night, he didn’t get much sleep at all.
By morning, his shoulders were heavy, his thoughts still tangled in confusion and fear. The camping trip loomed ahead, a distraction he wasn’t ready for, yet a part of him longed for the simplicity of friends, the comfort of routine, the chance to bury these thoughts in laughter and firelight. But no matter how much he tried, the questions lingered, gnawing at him like a quiet, persistent ache—questions he had no answers to, and a feeling that, somehow, everything was about to change.
The early morning air was crisp and fresh, the kind that made lungs ache with satisfaction and reminded Jeonghan of just how alive he was. Birds flitted through the trees, their songs bouncing off the forest walls, and the rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze accompanied the laughter of his friends as they unpacked supplies from the car. The sun was just climbing over the horizon, spilling warm light over the quiet campsite, and Jeonghan felt a rare, fleeting sense of freedom from the weight of the past week.
“Jeonghan, hand me the tent pole!” Hansol called, crouched low over a jumble of fabric and metal. His grin was bright, the kind that seemed to chase away the tension that had been following Jeonghan like a shadow all week.
“I got it!” Jeonghan responded, carefully lifting the pole and passing it to Hansol. He forced a smile, deliberately pushing the memory of the man at the campus gates out of his mind. He couldn’t let it ruin this. Not today. Not when Minghao and Seungkwan were already laughing at each other, trying to wrestle sleeping bags into some vaguely organized pile.
“You’re useless, Seungkwan,” Minghao teased, earning a dramatic groan from his friend. “You’re going to be the first one eaten by a bear if we actually encountered one.”
“I am perfectly capable of survival!” Seungkwan protested, trying to sound indignant but failing when Hansol doubled over with laughter. “I have the power of… intelligence!”
Jeonghan chuckled softly at the exchange, shaking his head. These moments—small, silly, ordinary—were what kept him grounded. He reminded himself not to spoil them with the thoughts of the man who had claimed to be his father, not today. He would focus on this: friends, laughter, and the smell of pine and campfire smoke waiting to come.
By late morning, the tents were pitched, and the group had spread out across the grassy clearing. Minghao pulled Jeonghan into a quick round of frisbee, Hansol had claimed the nearby stream for skipping stones, and Seungkwan was busy showing off his makeshift knots and camp skills.
“You two should see me in the kitchen,” Hansol boasted, leaning back against a tree, arms crossed proudly. “I make instant noodles like a master chef.”
“Master of boiling water, maybe,” Seungkwan teased.
“I’ll take that,” Hansol said without missing a beat.
Jeonghan smiled softly, taking a deep breath of the forest air, feeling it fill his chest and somehow ease the tension he had been carrying. Later, while wandering near the small cabin by the clearing, he caught sight of his reflection in a small mirror hung by the window.
For a moment, his eyes drifted to his neck. The faint mark that had appeared last week, a pattern he could never explain, caught his attention. He pressed concealer over it quickly, as he had done for the past seven days, hiding it from the world—including himself.
'It’s nothing. Just a rash. I’m imagining it,' he told himself firmly, turning away from the mirror and leaving the cabin. He couldn’t dwell on it here, not while his friends were waiting to light the fire for the night.
As evening fell, the sky deepened into a rich velvet blue, pierced by scattered stars and the silver glow of the moon rising behind the treetops. They gathered around the fire pit, the warm flames licking the air, sending sparks drifting upward like tiny shooting stars.
“Okay, I call shotgun for the best roasting spot,” Seungkwan announced, stretching out his legs and carefully balancing his marshmallow on a stick.
“Marshmallow king,” Hansol muttered, nudging him playfully. “I’m going for chocolate.”
“You guys really need to take this seriously? It’s just candy on sticks,” Minghao said, settling into a chair with a sigh.
“You don’t understand the artistry,” Jeonghan said, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips. “This is serious business.”
The group settled into a comfortable rhythm, talking about anything and everything—the classes that had drained them, small stories from past camping trips, the ridiculous things they had seen online. Minghao pointed out constellations, Seungkwan launched into wild speculation about what creatures might be hiding in the forest, and Hansol laughed at his own jokes like the world depended on it.
Somewhere between s’mores and roasting hotdogs, the conversation shifted, subtle at first. Seungkwan tilted his head toward the moon, eyes glinting in the firelight. “You ever think about… vampires?” he asked casually, as though he had just asked which flavor of marshmallow everyone preferred.
Hansol snorted. “Vampires, werewolves, ghosts… you’ve been watching too many movies, Seungkwan. There’s nothing out here but trees, water, and mosquitoes.”
Jeonghan smiled politely, shrugging. “Yeah… nothing to worry about. Just the usual forest things. Birds, squirrels… maybe some raccoons.”
But even as he said it, a flicker of curiosity ran through him, a whisper of unease that he ignored, buried beneath the warmth of the fire and the laughter of his friends.
Seungkwan grinned, clearly not satisfied with Hansol’s dismissal. “I dunno. Imagine running into a wolf under a full moon. Or something… bigger. Something that knows you.”
Jeonghan’s gaze flicked toward the silver light spilling through the trees, the moon hanging high and full, and he felt that familiar tug of something he didn’t understand. He shook his head quickly, pretending to be engrossed in roasting his marshmallow. 'Just a story,' he told himself. 'Just imagination.'
Hours passed. The fire dwindled, leaving embers glowing faintly in the center of the circle. Conversations became softer, more reflective—talk of life, future plans, what they wanted to do after graduation. Hansol and Minghao talked quietly about internships and part-time jobs. Seungkwan laughed at a story Jeonghan had shared from the hospital, and for a moment, the weight of the last few weeks lifted entirely.
The night deepened, stars blinking down like watchful eyes. Finally, one by one, the group grew drowsy. They put out the fire carefully, folded blankets, and retreated to the tents they had pitched.
Jeonghan crawled into his sleeping bag last, the forest settling around them like a protective cocoon. He closed his eyes, the sounds of the night—the rustling leaves, distant owls, the soft sigh of the wind—lulling him. Yet somewhere deep inside, a tiny, nagging awareness remained. A shadow of unease that he couldn’t name.
'Nothing to worry about,' he whispered to himself, just as sleep began to tug him under. But even as dreams started to weave through his mind, the memory of the stranger, the words about danger, and the stories of wolves under the full moon lingered, like embers that refused to die completely.
Jeonghan stirred in the middle of the night, the sharp pressure in his bladder pulling him from sleep. Blinking against the dim glow of the moon seeping through the tent, he reached for his phone on the floor, activating the flashlight. The light was weak, casting long, jittering shadows across the tent walls as he unzipped it and stepped outside.
The night air was sharp against his skin, the smell of pine thick and earthy. He squinted against the silver light of the full moon that had risen high in the sky, throwing the campsite into muted, pale luminescence. The other tents were silent, the faintest rustle of leaves and the occasional sigh of the wind the only sounds accompanying him.
Jeonghan made his way toward the nearest restroom facility, the beam of his phone shaking slightly in his hand as he went. The night was unnervingly still, but he shrugged it off—he was outdoors, in the forest. Sounds would be different here.
He finished quickly and was about to turn back when he froze. A faint, plaintive cry reached his ears—like a dog whimpering in distress. His heart skipped a beat, and instinctively, he moved toward the sound. His soft spot for animals was something he could never ignore. Without thinking, he followed it.
With each step, the sound grew louder, more desperate. Jeonghan’s flashlight bounced over gnarled roots and low-hanging branches, his pulse quickening with every rustle of leaves. The path beneath his feet became less familiar, more uneven. Still, the whimpering called him deeper into the forest, deeper than he had intended.
By the time he slowed, thinking he must be close to the source, the sound abruptly stopped. Confusion and unease prickled along his spine. The stillness pressed in on him from all sides, broken only by the rustle of leaves and the distant whisper of wind. He flicked his flashlight around nervously. Nothing. Not even a shadow moved in the periphery of his vision.
Then came a sound—a rapid, heavy rustling in the underbrush, too close for comfort. Jeonghan froze, a shiver crawling up his arms. He spun the light in circles, trying to catch a glimpse, but the forest remained empty, ominous, and silent.
He swallowed hard, a dry, rattling noise escaping his throat. 'Okay. Just go back. Go back to the campsite. Everything’s fine.'
But before he could take more than a step, a piercing, long howl ripped through the night. It was primal, guttural, reverberating off the trees, and it made Jeonghan’s stomach drop. Panic clawed at him as he realized he had no idea where he was, no landmarks, no familiar trail to follow. The trees towered overhead, black silhouettes against the silver moonlight, and shadows crept like living things across the forest floor.
A low growl erupted from somewhere behind him, followed by the unmistakable sound of heavy footsteps pounding through the underbrush, coming closer with terrifying speed. Jeonghan’s breath hitched, and a cold sweat broke out over his skin. His hands trembled violently, and his legs felt like lead. Run, his mind screamed. Just run!
He bolted, stumbling over roots and low stones, heart hammering painfully in his chest. Every instinct screamed at him to escape, but he knew, somewhere deep down, that he had no idea what was pursuing him. The snarls and growls grew louder, teeth snapping and claws tearing into the earth somewhere just behind him.
Werewolves. That’s what Seungkwan and Hansol were joking about… What if it’s real? What if it’s actually real? I’m doomed. I can’t outrun them.
Adrenaline surged through his veins, his muscles burning as he sprinted blindly. The forest seemed endless, each tree a potential trap, each shadow a lurking predator. His lungs burned, his throat dry, sweat stinging his eyes, but he couldn’t stop. Not now. Not ever.
Finally, his feet found firmer ground, and he realized he had reached a cliff. His chest heaved, and he skidded to a halt at the edge, the moonlight spilling over a breathtaking drop into the valley below. His heart pounded so hard it felt as if it might tear from his chest, each beat echoing like a drum in his ears.
And then his eyes froze. Three pairs of eyes glinted from the shadows of the trees, reflecting the moonlight like molten gold. They were large, predatory, and unnervingly intelligent. Three wolves—or something like wolves—stood just beyond the edge of the clearing, their fur matted in earthy tones, muscles coiled and gleaming under the pale light. Their snouts were long, teeth bared in low snarls, and their eyes locked onto him with the unnerving certainty of hunters.
The air grew colder, sharper, the scent of earth and fear thick around him. His knees shook violently, hands trembling so badly he almost dropped the phone. He pressed himself closer to the ground, desperately trying to appear smaller, harmless, pleading silently. “Please… don’t… I don’t want to—”
His words dissolved into the night, lost to the crisp air.
The wolves lunged.
The first one struck his shoulder, claws raking across his jacket and cutting into his skin. Pain flared, hot and sharp, blood warming his shirt. The second sank its teeth into his calf, knocking him off balance. Jeonghan fell hard against the rocky ground, breath ripping from his lungs, panic searing every nerve.
He tried to scramble back, to escape, but a third wolf pinned him near the edge of the cliff. Sharp teeth snapped inches from his face, growls vibrating through his chest. His hands shook violently as he tried to push it back, but strength was failing him. His vision blurred at the edges, the world tilting as pain and terror collided.
A primal howl suddenly tore through the night—louder, deeper, more commanding than anything Jeonghan had ever heard. It vibrated through his bones, freezing the wolves mid-attack.
From the darkness emerged a massive black wolf, fur glistening under the moonlight, eyes burning gold. It moved like shadow incarnate, muscles coiled and tense, each step precise, predatory. The rogue wolves snapped at it instinctively, but before they could attack, the black wolf struck.
Teeth clamped on one’s neck, shaking it violently. Another was thrown back by a swipe of massive foreleg, hitting a tree with a sickening thud. The third lunged, but the black wolf sidestepped effortlessly, jaw snapping down, fangs sinking deep. Within seconds, all three lay motionless, and the forest was eerily silent again except for the ragged hiss of Jeonghan’s own breathing.
But he was barely aware. Pain radiated through his shoulder and leg, blood trickling down his arms. His heart hammered uncontrollably. Vision streaked with black and gold. The edges of his world softened and wavered as he tried to focus on the black wolf, on the clearing, on anything at all.
“Wh—who…?” he rasped, words catching in his throat. But the pain, shock, and exhaustion were too much. His body sagged against the rock, knees giving way.
The last thing he registered before darkness took him completely was the golden gaze of the black wolf, watching him, almost knowingly, before he succumbed to unconsciousness.
Chapter 6: Mate Mark
Chapter Text
Seungcheol shifted to his human form, the cool night air brushing against his skin and ruffling his dark hair. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, landed on the limp figure sprawled on the forest floor. The boy—or whatever human this was—lay twisted awkwardly among broken twigs and crushed leaves, his clothes soaked with dirt and blood. Cuts streaked across his arms, legs, and cheeks; a thin rivulet ran from the corner of his mouth. Bruises bloomed across his skin, dark purples and greens, threatening to spread further with every shallow breath.
Seungcheol crouched beside him, his movement precise, measured, almost surgical. He scanned the scene with calculated detachment, cataloging every injury, every possible threat still lingering in the shadows. His nostrils flared faintly, picking up the faint coppery scent of blood mingled with the musky tang of wet fur—the remnants of the rogue wolves he had just eradicated.
The boy’s chest rose and fell unevenly, shallow, ragged breaths that seemed to strain against the injuries ravaging his body. Limbs twitched involuntarily, a small shiver of fear or pain—or perhaps both—running through him. For all intents and purposes, the human was already on the edge; death could claim him if he didn’t get immediate care.
Seungcheol clenched his jaw, a hard line of frustration pressing his lips together. “Useless,” he muttered, voice low and edged, though who it was meant for—himself, the human, or the rogues—wasn’t clear.
This wasn’t what he had come for. His night was supposed to be spent at the edge of that lonely grave in the woods, away from the constant obligations of the pack, away from the weight of every title they kept pressing onto his back. He had only wanted to stand in silence where Jihoon’s name was carved into stone, to feel the quiet bite of grief that never dulled. But instead, rogues had reared their ugly heads, and instinct had dragged him into the fight before thought could catch up.
And now here he was. With a dying human bleeding at his feet.
Seungcheol straightened, running a hand over his face as if to physically wipe away the absurdity of the situation. He wasn’t a savior. He didn’t play guardian to weak humans who wandered into the wrong place at the wrong time. His pack didn’t need another liability, and he sure as hell didn’t need one either.
He turned away, muscles tight as he prepared to leave. Let the boy rot here. The earth was littered with bones already—one more wouldn’t matter. He took a step forward—
—and froze.
The shift was subtle, but unmistakable. The night’s stillness fractured beneath the brush of movement, the almost imperceptible rhythm of paws padding against the forest floor. His senses sharpened instantly, honing in on the sound, the sour tang of rogue scent growing heavier, fresher, carried on the wind. They weren’t gone. They had scattered, regrouped, and were circling back, emboldened by the scent of blood.
Seungcheol’s lip curled in disgust. “Persistent bastards,” he muttered, eyes narrowing as he scanned the treeline.
He didn’t care about the human. He repeated it in his head, forced the truth of it down his throat like bitter medicine. But rogues didn’t discriminate. A wounded body—human or wolf—was bait. And bait meant more of them would come. He wasn’t about to let the stench of their filth pollute this part of the woods any longer.
His eyes flicked back to the figure on the ground. The boy hadn’t moved. Limbs sprawled limply, fingers curled weakly into the dirt. His blood painted the grass dark, already soaking through the earth. Leaving him here meant the rogues would descend like vultures. Leaving him here meant Seungcheol would have to waste more time doubling back to clean up the mess when they swarmed.
Efficiency, not compassion. That was all this was.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, irritation roughening the sound. “For fuck’s sake,” he hissed, crouching down again. His arms slid under the limp body, hoisting the boy up against his chest. The human was alarmingly light, too light for the breadth of his frame, his head lolling against Seungcheol’s shoulder. The heat radiating from fevered skin was cloying, distracting. He ignored it.
The boy made no sound, no protest, no groan of pain—not even enough strength left for that. Only the uneven hitch of his breathing, the weak rattle in his chest, gave away that life hadn’t yet abandoned him.
Seungcheol adjusted his grip, gaze already flicking toward the direction of his pack’s borders. His body moved on instinct, efficient strides cutting through the undergrowth, every muscle coiled in readiness should rogues leap from the shadows.
“I didn’t save you,” he muttered, voice low, almost growled into the boy’s ear though he knew the human couldn’t hear him. “You’re just baggage. Don’t make the mistake of thinking otherwise.”
The forest pressed in around him as he moved, the wind shifting again—bringing with it the clear confirmation of more rogues trailing from a distance. Seungcheol’s jaw tightened, pace quickening. He didn’t look down at the human in his arms. He didn’t care. His focus was forward, on the faint, familiar pull of his pack’s borders, where safety and numbers outweighed any threat.
And yet, no matter how he rationalized it, the fact remained: he was carrying the boy away from death. Not out of mercy, not out of care, but out of necessity.
That was all.
At least, that was what Seungcheol told himself with every determined step.
The forest seemed endless as Seungcheol moved, his strides steady and purposeful, but the weight in his arms reminded him of the absurdity of the situation. The boy—this human who was as good as dead—hung limply against him, head bobbing with each step, blood leaving faint trails down Seungcheol’s forearm where wounds had soaked through his clothes. The rogue scent lingered in the air, faint but persistent, dogging his heels like a shadow. He didn’t stop to look back. Rogues weren’t worth the time, not when his pack’s borders were close enough to taste on the wind.
He adjusted his grip, shifting the boy higher against his chest when his arm started to go numb. The human made the faintest sound—more a rasp of air than anything else—but quickly fell silent again, too weak to even groan. Seungcheol’s eyes narrowed, cold and flat. “Don’t die before I dump you,” he muttered, the words little more than an irritated growl.
By the time the forest thinned and the faint glow of torches along the border came into view, Seungcheol could already make out the murmur of voices. Low, steady—patrols stationed where they should be. He followed the sound until shapes came into focus: Soonyoung and Seokmin, speaking with a pair of younger wolves. Their shoulders were squared, postures rigid in the way that always came during the full moon cycle, when rogues grew bolder.
They looked up at the same time, words dying in their throats. Their eyes widened when they saw him emerge from the tree line, his bare chest streaked with blood and dirt, carrying what was clearly a human in his arms. The patrolmen stiffened, glancing between each other with alarm, but neither spoke. It was Seokmin who moved first, brows furrowed, confusion plain.
“Alpha…?” His voice held respect, but also uncertainty. “What—who is that?”
Seungcheol didn’t slow, didn’t offer the decency of an explanation. He strode past the wide-eyed younger wolves, his voice clipped and commanding. “Seokmin. With me.”
Seokmin blinked but obeyed immediately, quick to fall into step. Soonyoung took a half-step forward as if to ask, but the sharp, dismissive flick of Seungcheol’s gaze cut him off. The unspoken message was clear: don’t ask. Not now.
Seungcheol moved straight for the inner path that led toward the infirmary, the boy’s dead weight growing more irritating with every step. His voice carried back, curt and deliberate, directed only at Seokmin. “You’ll take him to Jisoo.”
Seokmin hesitated, glancing once at the human before nodding. “Yes, Alpha.”
“When he wakes—if he wakes—you and Jisoo will escort him out. Far. Past the border.” His jaw clenched, tone leaving no room for argument. “He doesn’t stay here.”
“Understood.” Seokmin’s tone was steady, though his eyes flicked again to the boy. He didn’t ask questions, not when Seungcheol’s posture radiated finality.
By the time the infirmary’s lanterns came into view, Seungcheol stopped. Without ceremony, he shifted the boy into Seokmin’s arms, movements rough but efficient. The human sagged immediately against Seokmin’s chest, head lolling forward.
Seungcheol exhaled harshly, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off invisible dirt. “He’s not my problem. Just make sure he’s out of here once he’s conscious enough to walk.” His voice carried the same cold weight it always did when issuing orders, devoid of anything softer.
“Yes, Alpha,” Seokmin replied again, careful, respectful.
Seungcheol didn’t spare another glance at the human. He had no name for him, no place for him, no space in his mind beyond the irritation of wasted time. His focus was already elsewhere—on the rogues still sniffing through the woods, on the grave he hadn’t reached tonight, on the hole in his chest that no human body could fill.
Without another word, he turned on his heel and disappeared back into the night, leaving Seokmin standing at the infirmary doors with the boy dangling limply in his arms.
Seokmin’s boots thudded against the floor of the infirmary, the weight in his arms hanging limp like a broken doll. Jisoo, who had been sorting through poultices and bandages, glanced up at the sound. His lips parted, ready to ask what Seokmin was doing bringing someone in so late, but the words died in his throat the moment he saw.
The figure in Seokmin’s arms was unmistakably human.
Jisoo froze. His mind stuttered between disbelief and alarm, his body moving instinctively toward them even before he could make sense of it. His eyes swept over the pale face smeared with dirt and blood, the shallow, ragged breaths that sounded more like the body’s refusal to let go than any real will to live.
“Seokmin,” Jisoo breathed, sharp and incredulous. “He’s—he’s human.”
“I know,” Seokmin replied tersely, laying the boy onto the nearest cot with a careful, almost clinical motion. He straightened his back, exhaling through his nose as though trying to shed the weight. “Alpha found him. Said to keep him alive long enough to walk out of here. That’s all.”
Jisoo blinked at him, brows knitting together in confusion. “Alpha brought him here? Why? He doesn’t bring—he doesn’t do this, Seok.”
Seokmin only shook his head, his expression unreadable, though his jaw flexed with tension. “Didn’t explain. Just said to keep him alive. You know how it is. We don’t question orders.”
Jisoo pressed his lips together, but didn’t argue further. Instead, his instincts as healer surged forward, pushing aside the swirl of questions. He dragged a stool close, his hands already reaching for the human. With practiced speed, he cut away the bloodied shirt, the fabric falling in tatters to the floor. What was revealed beneath made his stomach sink.
The human’s chest and abdomen were streaked with deep claw marks, the skin torn jaggedly where teeth had nearly broken through. His ribs were swollen and purple with bruising, blood still seeping from several wounds despite how long he must’ve been lying out there. Jisoo’s hands hovered over one gash in particular—too close to the lung, the bleeding far too heavy.
“This…” he murmured, almost to himself, “he’s not going to make it.”
Seokmin stood at his shoulder, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His gaze followed every move Jisoo made, but his face remained stern. “Then maybe it’s his fate. We can’t save everyone, Soo. Especially not a human who shouldn’t even be here in the first place.”
Jisoo frowned, though he didn’t stop moving. His hands were steady as he pressed gauze into wounds, rinsed blood away with water that quickly turned crimson. He reached for salves, bandages, anything that could at least keep the body from completely giving out. “Maybe not,” he said firmly, “but while he’s here, while he’s still breathing, I’m not just going to sit back and let him die.”
Seokmin didn’t argue. He only shifted his stance, silent, his eyes flickering between Jisoo’s focused hands and the fragile rise and fall of the human’s chest.
It was only when Jisoo leaned to bandage the boy’s neck that he froze. His breath caught, his fingers halting mid-motion. His gaze sharpened on the left side of the human’s neck where the skin was slightly reddened, a faint outline beneath the grime and blood catching the low lantern light.
Jisoo’s throat went dry. His heart stuttered against his ribs.
“...Shit.” The word left him in a whisper, unbidden.
Seokmin’s head snapped toward him, sharp as a whip. “What?”
Jisoo didn’t answer immediately. His throat felt tight, his heart hammering against his ribs as his healer’s composure cracked. Slowly, deliberately, he brushed away the grime that clung to the human’s skin. The lanternlight revealed it more clearly now—a mark pressed into the flesh, faint but undeniable, old enough to have settled and healed, yet still distinct. Not a scar. Not an accident.
A mate mark.
Jisoo’s pulse faltered. He knew that shape. That particular tree, the depth of the imprint, the pattern etched into the skin—it wasn’t just any mark. It was one he had seen before, one no wolf in their pack could mistake. His jaw tightened as he beckoned Seokmin closer, voice low, urgent.
“Look. Tell me I’m not seeing things.”
Seokmin leaned down, skepticism painted across his face. But the moment his eyes landed on the mark, the color drained from him. His breath hissed sharply through clenched teeth, and he swore under his breath, harsh and clipped. His hand raked back through his hair, tugging at the strands until his knuckles turned white.
“Fuck,” he muttered, staring at the human’s neck as if it might brand him, too. “You’re not seeing things. It’s there.”
Jisoo swallowed hard. His stomach twisted, his mind a storm of denial and dawning dread. “That’s not just any mark.”
Seokmin didn’t answer, but his silence was telling. The weight of it hung heavy in the infirmary, thicker than the scent of blood and herbs.
“It’s his,” Jisoo whispered, the words tasting like betrayal as they left him. “It’s Seungcheol’s.”
The words sat heavy in the air, heavier than the smell of blood, herbs, and damp linen. Jisoo almost hated himself for saying them aloud, as though giving voice to the truth carved it into stone.
The silence between them stretched heavy until Seokmin finally broke it, his voice low but sharp. “Even if—” he swallowed hard, dragging his hand down his face before spitting the words out like they tasted foul, “even if this human really is his mate, do you honestly think Cheol would accept it?”
Jisoo didn’t look up from the wound he was stitching closed, though his shoulders stiffened. He forced the needle through torn flesh, steady, precise. “It’s not about acceptance, Seok. It’s nature. The bond exists whether he wants it or not.”
Seokmin was pacing a few steps, his boots scuffing against the wooden floorboards. His agitation radiated off him like heat. “You’re forgetting something.” He stopped and turned, eyes narrowed. “Cheol isn’t some blank slate the Moon can just scribble on. He chose Jihoon. And when Jihoon died, he swore—swore, Soo—that he wouldn’t…” His voice broke off, his throat working as he bit down on the rest.
He didn’t need to finish. Jisoo knew. Seungcheol had buried his heart with Jihoon. Everyone in the pack had seen it—the hollow way he carried himself, the weight in his silence, the rage barely contained beneath his skin.
Jisoo tied off the stitch with a hard jerk, his lips pressed thin. “I remember,” he said quietly. “But the Moon doesn’t care about promises made in grief.” His gaze flicked to the boy’s face, pale and slack, his breaths shallow but stubborn. “This mark isn’t a choice. It’s a claim. And it’s Cheol’s.”
Seokmin’s laugh was bitter, humorless. “A claim on a human. A fragile, bleeding, half-dead human.” He raked a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands. “Tell me how Cheol is supposed to swallow that. He couldn’t even—he wouldn’t even let himself look at anyone else after Jihoon. And now you expect him to look at this?” He gestured at the cot, at the human boy lying broken and small. “He’ll reject it. He’ll fight it. Hell, he might even hate him for it.”
The thought struck Jisoo like a knife, but he didn’t deny it. He worked in silence, binding the boy’s ribs, pressing fresh linen over torn flesh. His hands were firm, but his chest ached with the weight of what Seokmin said.
Because he was right.
Seungcheol had loved Jihoon—not as fate had written, but as his own heart demanded. And though it had ended in tragedy, though every wolf knew Jihoon was never his true mate, Cheol had clung to him with a devotion that defied reason. He had chosen him. And when Jihoon’s life was stolen, something in Cheol had gone with it.
Would he even let himself believe this human was truly his mate?
Or would he see it as an insult? A cruel twist of the Moon’s will?
Jisoo drew a slow, steadying breath, forcing the thoughts down before they consumed him. “Whether he accepts it or not,” he said firmly, though his voice cracked on the edges. “we don’t have the luxury of standing here debating what’s fair. If this boy dies, Cheol dies. And if Cheol dies, the pack falls. That’s the reality."
"It doesn’t matter what he thinks right now. What matters is keeping this boy alive long enough for there to be a choice at all."
Seokmin went rigid, the reality pressing down hard enough to silence even him. His hand dragged across his mouth, his gaze darting away as though the sight of the boy made his chest ache.
For a long moment, only the sound of Jisoo’s work filled the room—the rip of cloth, the drip of water, the harsh pull of both their breaths.
Finally, Seokmin spoke again, his voice rough, frayed with something he couldn’t name. “You’re right about one thing. We save him first. That’s all we can do. But when Cheol finds out…” His eyes flickered back to the boy, then away, as though he couldn’t bear to linger. “…I don’t know if he’ll see a mate, or just another curse the Moon’s thrown at him.”
Jisoo didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because deep down, he feared the same thing.
They worked in silence after that, side by side, their thoughts unspoken but heavy enough to suffocate. And in the middle of it all, the human lay still—unaware that his very existence could either heal Seungcheol… or break him beyond repair.
The forest had quieted since earlier. No more rustle of rogue paws against dead leaves, no more heavy, guttural growls riding the wind. Just the hum of cicadas and the distant trickle of a stream, a reminder that night in their territory was never truly silent.
Seungcheol moved with purpose through the trees, his steps steady, controlled. Each stride was measured, every breath even. His senses were stretched outward, combing the dark edges of the territory for any trace of threat. The metallic tang of blood still clung faintly to his nose—human blood, stubborn and sharp—but he pushed it aside, filing it away with the rest of the distractions he had no time for.
At his flank, Soonyoung followed, just as silent at first. The smaller alpha’s movements were light, agile, the kind of footwork that made him a shadow in the forest. For a while, they hunted together in quiet understanding, scanning the terrain, ears attuned to the smallest disturbance.
But it didn’t last.
“So,” Soonyoung said at last, voice low but carrying just enough edge to break the weight of silence. “You going to tell me what that was all about back there?”
Seungcheol didn’t answer immediately. His eyes swept the treeline, his ears flicking at the distant crack of a branch. Only when he was certain it was nothing did he tilt his head slightly, gaze forward. “What?”
“That human,” Soonyoung pressed. “The one you brought back. I saw you carrying him. Since when do we… do that?” His tone wasn’t accusing, not yet, but it carried the sharp curiosity of someone who had known Seungcheol too long not to ask.
Seungcheol’s jaw tightened. He didn’t slow, didn’t falter. “He was in the way. Injured. Better to move him out than leave him there bleeding, drawing rogues closer to the border.”
Soonyoung snorted softly. “You expect me to believe you went through the trouble of hauling a human all the way back just to keep the scent away from rogues?”
Seungcheol finally turned his head, meeting Soonyoung’s eyes for the first time since they set out. His gaze was flat, sharp, carrying the weight of command. “That’s exactly why.”
For a moment, Soonyoung looked like he might push harder. His brows drew together, his lips parted, but then he seemed to think better of it. He clicked his tongue and looked away, though the suspicion didn’t leave his face.
They walked a few more paces in silence before Soonyoung muttered, “You didn’t even look at him.”
Seungcheol’s steps didn’t break, but something flickered in his chest—a brief, sharp pulse of irritation, as if Soonyoung had jabbed at a bruise. “Didn’t need to,” he said flatly. “He was no one.”
Soonyoung shot him a sidelong glance. “No one, huh? Then why bring him into the heart of our territory? Why not dump him past the line and let him crawl back to his own?”
Seungcheol’s nostrils flared, but his voice stayed calm, deliberate. “Because I don’t leave messes behind. And I don’t take chances with rogues. That’s all.”
But even as he said it, the image flashed unwanted in his mind—the human boy’s weight in his arms, lighter than he expected. The faint sound of a breath that almost wasn’t there. The brief resistance of a heartbeat beneath torn flesh.
He shoved it away. Irrelevant.
Soonyoung didn’t look convinced, but he also didn’t argue. His silence was heavier this time, filled with the unspoken things he wanted to say but knew better than to voice. Instead, he asked a different question, softer but edged with unease.
“Who was he?”
Seungcheol kept his gaze forward, his voice clipped. “Doesn’t matter.”
Soonyoung slowed for half a step, watching him. “You’re really not going to tell me anything, are you?”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
The words fell between them like a stone, final, cold.
Soonyoung let out a quiet huff, shaking his head. “You know, Cheol, sometimes I think you forget we’re not blind. The pack saw you carrying him. They’re going to have questions.”
“Then they’ll get answers,” Seungcheol said simply, “when I decide they need them.”
And just like that, the conversation was over. Seungcheol’s tone left no room for reply. He lengthened his stride, pulling ahead slightly, his focus already fixed back on the shadows of the forest.
But even as the night air cooled around him, the faint memory of warmth lingered in his arms—the fragile rise and fall of a chest too close to breaking.
He pushed it down, the same way he pushed everything else down. There was no space for anything human in him. Not anymore.
Chapter 7: Uncertainty
Chapter Text
The morning light crept in slowly, a pale wash of gold slipping through the infirmary’s high windows, cutting through the stale darkness that clung after the long night. The faint scent of herbs and blood lingered, but softer now, less suffocating.
“Jisoo.”
The quiet call tugged him awake, like a ripple disturbing still water. He blinked against the haze of sleep, disoriented for a moment before the world clicked into place. He was still sitting by the cot, head tipped against the edge of the mattress, Seokmin’s jacket draped over his shoulders.
“Mm?” His voice came out hoarse, raw with exhaustion.
Seokmin crouched beside him, his hand light on Jisoo’s arm. “Morning. You need to rest properly, but right now… I have to attend a meeting with the alpha and the others.”
Jisoo sat up slowly, rubbing at his eyes. The memories of last night—the panic, the blood, the shock of discovery—rushed back with cruel clarity. His gaze darted immediately to the cot.
The human still lay there. Breathing. Alive.
“Okay,” Jisoo murmured distractedly, before his words tumbled out sharper, quieter. “Are you going to tell Seungcheol?”
The question hung like a blade.
Seokmin froze halfway to standing. His jaw flexed, his gaze flicking briefly to the boy on the bed before sliding back to Jisoo. He didn’t answer right away. Finally, he let out a slow, heavy sigh. “We have to,” he admitted. “But… maybe later.”
The hesitation was enough. The bond between alpha and mate wasn’t something they could keep hidden forever. But the weight of truth, if dropped now, might crush everything.
Jisoo only nodded, wordless agreement stitched together by fear. Seokmin leaned down, pressing a brief kiss to his forehead—an anchor, a reassurance. “Stay with him,” he said softly. “I’ll be back.”
And then he was gone, the door shutting quietly behind him.
Silence reclaimed the infirmary, broken only by the steady rhythm of breathing. Jisoo turned to the cot again.
The human looked far better than he had the night before. The ashen pallor had given way to faint color in his cheeks, fragile warmth instead of the deathly chill that had terrified Jisoo hours ago. His lips were no longer cracked and gray but carried a trace of pink. Bandages bound the worst of his wounds, and though his body still bore bruises, they had softened from deep, angry purple to mottled shades of blue and yellow.
He was still injured, fragile, vulnerable—but not a shadow hovering on the edge of death. He looked like someone who had survived. Against every odd, every natural law, he’d endured.
Jisoo released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. The relief felt dangerous, like hope where there should be caution.
Minutes passed in silence. He busied himself changing the water basin, folding fresh cloth, anything to keep his mind from spiraling. That was when he heard it—the sound of measured footsteps in the hall. Firm but unhurried.
The door creaked open.
Wonwoo stepped inside.
Jisoo stiffened instantly, but Wonwoo’s expression wasn’t hostile. His sharp gaze swept across the room once before landing squarely on the cot. His brows furrowed, disbelief shadowing his features.
“So it’s true,” he said softly, almost to himself.
Jisoo exhaled quietly. “What did you hear?”
“Mingyu told me,” Wonwoo answered, moving closer, voice hushed but heavy. “Said Soonyoung mentioned it—that Seungcheol brought a human here. I thought he was exaggerating. But…” His words trailed off as his eyes flicked to the still figure on the bed.
“He wasn’t,” Jisoo finished for him, tone calm but edged with weariness.
Wonwoo’s lips pressed into a thin line. He stood still for a moment, as if steadying himself, before asking quietly, “How is he?”
Jisoo glanced at the human. “Better,” he said truthfully. “He’s stable. Color’s back, bleeding’s stopped. He’s still fragile, but he’s not in immediate danger anymore.”
Something in Wonwoo’s expression shifted at that—relief flickering in his eyes, though quickly masked beneath the usual steel. He stepped closer, his movements measured, cautious. There was no malice in him as he neared the cot, only wariness.
He stopped at the boy’s side, studying him with the kind of focus that always unnerved people, though his gaze wasn’t cruel. If anything, it was conflicted—concern and calculation pulling against each other.
And then he saw it.
The mark.
It peeked out faintly from beneath the collar of the boy’s shirt, etched against soft skin like a brand that couldn’t be erased. Wonwoo’s breath stilled.
Slowly, he leaned in, careful not to touch, his eyes narrowing as the shape became clear. His composure faltered just slightly, the tiniest crack in his mask.
Wonwoo straightened abruptly, his shoulders taut as though something heavy had been thrown across them. His eyes flicked to Jisoo, sharp and searching, but the words took a moment to form. When they did, they came out rougher than he intended, low but urgent.
“Does Seungcheol know about this?”
Jisoo’s hand stilled where he had been wringing out a cloth. He lifted his gaze, meeting Wonwoo’s stare without flinching. There was exhaustion in his eyes, but more than that—there was fear. Not for himself, but for what the truth meant.
“No,” Jisoo said quietly, deliberately. “We don’t think he does. If he had noticed, if he knew what that mark really was, he would’ve said something. He didn’t. All he told Seokmin was to keep him alive long enough to wake up—then escort him out of the forest.”
Wonwoo’s jaw tightened. His gaze drifted back to the sleeping human, his expression carved from disbelief and unease. His voice, when it came, was little more than a whisper, but it carried the weight of something final.
“The mark… it doesn’t seem fake.”
Jisoo’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, then shook his head firmly. “It’s not.”
Wonwoo’s lips parted just slightly, the barest hitch in his breathing betraying his calm exterior. His eyes lingered on the faint imprint of teeth, the healed lines pressed into human skin that should never have borne them. When he spoke again, his voice carried an edge of something close to reverence, though bitter, conflicted.
“Then it really is his mate.” He paused, almost as if he needed to hear it aloud to believe it. “Seungcheol’s fated one.”
The words rang between them, stark and undeniable.
Jisoo didn’t answer right away. His gaze stayed fixed on the faint mark, that cruel proof etched into fragile human skin. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, but each word carried weight.
“Yes. His mate. His fated one.”
Wonwoo exhaled harshly, dragging a hand down his face as if trying to scrub away the reality before him. He shook his head once, disbelief clashing with the instincts he couldn’t deny. His tone was laced with incredulity when he finally broke the silence.
“But he’s a human.”
The word itself came out like an accusation. Not venomous, but loaded with confusion and warning.
Jisoo’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I know. That’s what terrifies me.”
He leaned back in his chair, exhaustion dragging his posture low. The basin of water sat forgotten by his side as he forced himself to continue. “Alphas are bound to omegas. That’s how it’s always been. That’s how it’s supposed to be. A human… it doesn’t make sense. We don’t even know how he got that mark.” His gaze darted to the boy’s throat again, and his voice softened to a whisper. “But there it is.”
Wonwoo stayed quiet, his chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths. For a moment, his expression softened—just barely. But then his jaw set, his eyes hardening with the reality neither of them could avoid.
“Do you think Seungcheol will accept it?”
The question sat heavy in the room.
Jisoo closed his eyes for a moment, the answer already sitting like a stone in his gut. When he opened them, his gaze was steady, resigned. “No. Not when he’s still carrying Jihoon in his chest. He won’t let go of that, Wonwoo. Not for anyone. Not even for fate.”
Wonwoo didn’t disagree. He couldn’t. He remembered the look in Seungcheol’s eyes the night Jihoon died, the way his grief had rooted so deep it twisted into rage and silence. He’d chosen Jihoon over the bond, over everything. And now… now the Moon had handed him another bond, one he hadn’t asked for, one that would feel like a betrayal to the love he’d already buried.
A quiet curse slipped past Wonwoo’s lips. His hand curled into a fist at his side. “This could destroy him.”
“Or destroy the boy,” Jisoo countered quietly. “Depending on which he hates more—the bond or the reminder that it exists.”
The silence after that was sharp enough to cut.
Finally, Wonwoo tore his eyes away from the cot and looked back at Jisoo, gaze sharper than before. “Are you going to tell him?”
Jisoo hesitated. The weight of the question pressed down on him until his shoulders felt like stone. He thought of Seungcheol’s command, of Seokmin’s silence, of the fragile boy lying between all of them like an omen.
“Seokmin said yes,” Jisoo admitted at last, his voice steady but quiet. “But not now. Maybe later. When… when we’ve had time to figure out what this means. When we’re sure.”
Wonwoo let out a humorless laugh, low and bitter. “Sure? There’s no being sure of this, Jisoo. The mark is there. It’s real. Sooner or later, Seungcheol will see it himself. And when he does…”
He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.
Both of them turned toward the human again, their silence weighted with thoughts too heavy to name. The boy shifted slightly in his sleep, a small sound slipping from his throat, fragile and unknowing.
And for the first time in a long while, both Jisoo and Wonwoo felt something they weren’t ready to admit.
Fear.
Not of the human.
But of what Seungcheol would do when fate showed its hand.
The first thing Jeonghan felt was pain.
It wasn’t sharp, not the kind that tore a scream from his throat, but a deep, dragging ache that seemed to live in every part of his body. His ribs felt heavy, like someone had pressed stones into his chest. His arms and legs burned as if every muscle had been pulled too far. Even the air in his lungs stung, raw and shaky, each breath reminding him that he was still tethered to life somehow.
Life.
For a fleeting second, he thought he had lost it. Last night—if it had even been last night—he had been sure those wolves would rip him apart. He could still feel the ghost of fangs grazing too close, claws slicing at his skin. He remembered the panic, the desperate run, the sheer certainty that death had finally caught him.
So why could he feel pain now? Why could he still breathe?
Slowly, he tried to move, his body protesting at once. A soft groan escaped his lips before he even realized. The surface beneath him was firm but not unkind, something like a cot. He turned his head with effort, his vision swimming before it steadied.
The room was dim, lit by the pale wash of morning light and the faint glow of an oil lamp on a nearby table. The air smelled faintly of herbs, iron, and wood. He blinked a few times, disoriented.
This wasn’t his home. This wasn’t the forest either.
His pulse spiked with panic. Where—?
“Hey,” a voice cut gently through the fog of his thoughts. “Easy. Don’t push yourself.”
Jeonghan flinched at the sound, eyes darting to the side. Two men sat a short distance away. He hadn’t noticed them at first, and now that he had, his chest tightened with unease.
One of them—soft eyes, a calm expression—leaned forward slightly, hands resting loosely on his knees. The other sat straighter, posture guarded, gaze sharper, studying him without a word.
Jeonghan’s throat tightened. His voice came out hoarse and cracked. “W–where… where am I? Who are you?”
The gentler one was the first to answer. “My name’s Jisoo,” he said, his voice steady but careful, like he didn’t want to startle him further. He gestured lightly to the other man. “And this is Wonwoo. We’ve been watching over you.”
Watching over me? Jeonghan repeated silently, unsettled. His body ached too much for him to sit up properly, but his hand curled tighter around the blanket covering him, like it was some kind of shield.
“You’re safe here,” Jisoo added softly.
Safe. The word rang hollow in Jeonghan’s head. After last night, after those glowing eyes and snapping jaws, he didn’t know if he could ever feel safe again.
But still… he was alive. And they didn’t look like the kind of men who would attack him in his sleep. He forced himself to swallow and rasped, “I don’t… understand. How did I get here?”
Jisoo hesitated. Just for a breath. His lips parted, then he caught himself and said, “Our—” he corrected quickly, “—our friend brought you here. He found you after…” His voice softened. “After the attack.”
Friend? Jeonghan’s brows furrowed faintly. The word felt oddly placed, almost rehearsed.
Wonwoo finally spoke, his tone low but even. “According to him, you were attacked by wolves. He didn’t want to leave you there. So he carried you here and patched you up.”
Wolves.
The memory slammed back into Jeonghan with cruel clarity—snarls, snapping teeth, his own breath tearing in his throat as he ran, the sting of claws across his skin. His chest heaved unevenly, his hand pressing against his sternum as if he could calm the thundering of his heart.
“I…” His words caught, trembling. He shut his eyes for a moment, forcing himself to breathe. “I remember. There was… a wolf.” His eyes snapped open again, wide and far away all at once. “Black. Huge. Bigger than the rest. It—” he swallowed hard, his throat tight, “—it saved me. It stood between me and the others. I don’t know why, but… it did.”
His voice cracked into something like a laugh, broken and fragile. “I thought I was dead for sure. But then it came, and… and now I’m here.”
He didn’t notice the look that passed between Jisoo and Wonwoo. A fleeting glance, sharp with meaning, but silent.
“I didn’t even know wolves like that existed,” Jeonghan admitted, shaking his head faintly, bewilderment laced through his tone. “I really… I really owe my life to that wolf. And to you. And your friend.” His gaze softened, gratitude pulling at his tired features. “Thank you. Truly.”
He paused, hesitation flickering in his expression before he asked quietly, “Where is that friend of yours? I want to thank him properly.”
Jisoo’s smile looked a touch strained, but his voice was gentle. “Later. I’ll take you to him later, once you’ve regained a bit more strength.”
Something about the answer seemed carefully chosen, but Jeonghan was too exhausted to press. He only nodded faintly, sinking back against the cot and closing his eyes briefly.
But when he opened them again, Jisoo’s voice came, casual but edged with curiosity.
“Before that… what should we call you? What’s your name?”
For a moment, Jeonghan blinked at them, his lips parted, dry and slow. “I… Jeonghan,” he said softly. His voice sounded foreign in his own ears, small compared to the weight of the moment. “Yoon Jeonghan.”
Jisoo’s expression gentled further, as if rolling the name over in his mind. Wonwoo only gave the faintest nod of acknowledgment.
Then Jisoo’s gaze shifted—lower, lingering near the side of Jeonghan’s throat. He hesitated before asking, voice deliberately casual, “That mark on your neck… where did it come from?”
For a second, Jeonghan didn’t understand. Then instinctively, his hand moved, fingertips brushing against the side of his neck where the strange mark always lingered. The skin there burned faintly beneath his touch, as though the question itself had awakened it.
He swallowed. His lips parted, closed, then opened again, voice low and uncertain. “I… I don’t really know.” He hesitated, eyes flicking away. “It just… appeared. On my twenty-first birthday. I thought it was strange but… it never hurt. It never bled. It’s just… been there.”
The silence that followed pressed harder, heavier than before, and Jeonghan suddenly felt like he’d said too much. He glanced between Jisoo and Wonwoo, unsettled by how intently they seemed to be watching him.
What is it about this mark that makes them look at me like that?
Jeonghan’s fingers lingered against the side of his neck, brushing the strange mark almost absently. The silence from the two men stretched too long—too heavy. Both Jisoo and Wonwoo were watching him too closely, like they were trying to piece together a puzzle they already knew the answer to.
Unease crept into Jeonghan’s chest, threading through his ribs. His brows furrowed faintly. “…Why are you looking at me like that?” His voice cracked with a raw edge, hoarse but sharper now. “Is there… a problem?”
The room seemed to hold its breath.
Jisoo quickly shook his head, his expression softening again as if smoothing over the rough edges. “No, no. Nothing like that.” He leaned forward, his tone reassuring, steady. “We’re just… concerned, that’s all. You’ve been through a lot. You’re in pain. It’s natural to worry when someone shows up half-dead on your doorstep.”
Wonwoo gave a short nod, his tone firmer but no less careful. “You should focus on recovering. Nothing else matters right now.”
The words eased Jeonghan’s panic, though a part of him still wondered why it had felt like they were staring through him instead of at him. But exhaustion won out over suspicion. He exhaled shakily, sinking a little further against the cot.
Sensing the tension loosening, Jisoo smoothly shifted the conversation away. “So… Jeonghan. What were you doing out there in the forest at night?”
The question tugged his thoughts away from the knot of unease. He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “I was camping with some friends. Just a short trip."
Jisoo’s lips curved faintly. “Tell us about it.”
And so Jeonghan did. At first his words came slow, tentative, but soon enough the floodgates opened. He spoke about the trip—their excitement when they pitched the tent, the way his friend Hansol insisted on bringing way too much food, the way Seungkwan and Minghao nagged about every tiny detail while pretending not to enjoy themselves. He told them about the laughter, about how it was supposed to be a night under the stars, nothing more.
“They must be worried sick by now,” Jeonghan admitted after a while, his features tightening with guilt. “They’re probably looking for me.” His hand fisted in the blanket, eyes dimming. “I can’t just stay here. I need to go back. They’ll think…” He swallowed hard. “They’ll think something terrible happened.”
Jisoo and Wonwoo exchanged a glance—another one of those silent, weighted looks that seemed to carry an entire conversation in the space of a heartbeat.
Finally, Jisoo rose slowly to his feet. “If that’s what you want, we’ll escort you back.”
Relief flickered across Jeonghan’s face. He braced his palms against the cot, pushing himself upright with effort. His body still ached, but determination steadied him more than strength did.
As the three of them started toward the door, a thought struck Jeonghan and he stopped short. He looked between Jisoo and Wonwoo, brows furrowing with a sudden, almost guilty realization.
“Wait,” he said, his voice firmer than before. “Before I go… I still haven’t thanked your friend properly. The one who saved me.”
Both men froze for the smallest moment. Their eyes flickered with something he couldn’t quite read—hesitation, unease, maybe even conflict.
Jeonghan frowned. “Please,” he added, softer. “I owe him my life. I don’t want to leave without at least telling him that.”
Silence stretched again. Jisoo’s lips pressed into a thin line, and for a second Jeonghan thought they might refuse. But then, slowly, Jisoo gave a single nod.
“…Alright,” he said carefully. “We’ll take you to him.”
Wonwoo’s expression barely shifted, but his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly as he turned toward the corridor. “This way.”
Chapter 8: Alpha
Chapter Text
The corridors seemed endless.
Stone walls rose high and cold on either side, rough-hewn yet bearing the marks of age, as if countless years had pressed their weight into them. The flickering torchlight painted the surface in restless shadows, and every time Jeonghan’s gaze lingered too long, he swore the shapes shifted, morphing into things he dared not name. The air was cooler here, tinged faintly with something metallic—iron, or perhaps the damp memory of rain trapped in the stones.
Wonwoo led in silence, his stride long and sure, his shadow stretching far ahead under the firelight. Jisoo walked just behind Jeonghan’s shoulder, the quiet steadiness of his presence both reassuring and unnerving. Neither spoke. Their silence wasn’t companionable—it was the sort that pressed heavy, as though words lingered unsaid between them, words Jeonghan wasn’t meant to hear.
He couldn’t stand it. His voice slipped out, softer than he’d meant.
“Where exactly are we going?”
Wonwoo didn’t turn. “You’ll see soon.”
Not an answer. The response sat poorly in his chest, but Jeonghan forced himself not to push. He studied the way Wonwoo’s hands curled loosely at his sides, the faint tension in his shoulders, the purposeful way his boots struck the ground. Every movement spoke of control.
His gaze drifted to Jisoo instead. The man’s expression was calm, almost serene, but Jeonghan caught the faintest flicker in his eyes whenever their gazes met—like the surface of still water rippling with currents just beneath.
“Why do I feel,” Jeonghan muttered, half to himself, “like I shouldn’t be here?”
That made Jisoo’s steps falter for the briefest heartbeat before he smoothed it over, his lips curving in a practiced softness. “Because it’s unfamiliar. You’re far from home. Anyone would feel that way.”
Jeonghan nodded faintly, but the words didn’t quite root themselves in him. There was something else lurking in Jisoo’s tone—gentle, yes, but careful. Too careful.
The corridor bent left, then right, then stretched into a hall so vast Jeonghan almost stopped walking. Tall, narrow windows lined the wall, letting the pale sweep of moonlight spill across the stone floor. The torches here burned brighter, steadier, their light less frantic than the flickering ones earlier. And yet the hall felt heavier. Every step they took echoed loud and hollow, rebounding like a drumbeat against the ceiling high above.
It was quiet. Too quiet.
Jeonghan’s heart tapped faster in his chest, each beat a reminder of how loud his presence felt in this place. He wanted to ask again where exactly they were going, but the weight of the silence had grown so oppressive it almost felt disrespectful to break it.
His thoughts turned instead, unbidden, to the one he sought. Whoever this man was—the one who had saved him—what kind of person was he? Jeonghan had imagined him countless ways in the short hours since waking: a faceless figure carrying him out of the darkness, a shadow that pulled him from the brink. Now, knowing he was about to stand before him, Jeonghan’s chest tightened with anticipation. Gratitude, yes, but also fear—fear that he wouldn’t be able to find the right words, fear that his thanks wouldn’t be enough.
They stopped.
Wonwoo stood before a set of doors unlike any Jeonghan had seen since arriving. Towering, carved from dark, ancient wood, the surface bore intricate patterns that spiraled into forms he couldn’t quite decipher. They seemed alive in the torchlight, writhing and curling like vines that had been frozen mid-growth. Iron handles gleamed dully, massive and unyielding, and the hinges, blackened with age, seemed capable of groaning loud enough to wake the dead.
Jeonghan swallowed hard. His palms dampened. Something deep in his bones told him that whatever lay beyond these doors was not meant for him. That stepping inside would mean crossing into a world he wasn’t supposed to touch.
But before he could speak, Wonwoo pressed a hand against the wood and pushed.
The sound was deep, resonant, a groan that rolled through the hall like thunder. The doors opened slowly, and the space beyond spilled into view.
Jeonghan’s breath caught.
The room was vast, a hall with a high arched ceiling. Torches lined the walls, their flames casting restless shadows that danced across stone and wood. At the far end, elevated on a broad platform, was a throne carved from dark oak, heavy and imposing.
And it wasn’t empty.
Men gathered inside—powerful, broad-shouldered, their very presence commanding. They stood in clusters, speaking in low voices, their expressions sharp with focus. Even without knowing who they were, Jeonghan could tell: these were leaders. Men accustomed to authority, to power.
The one seated on the throne drew his gaze last.
A man, young yet unshakably imposing, lounged with deceptive ease, posture relaxed but radiating something Jeonghan couldn’t name. His presence filled the space like gravity itself—heavy, unyielding, undeniable. His dark eyes lifted the moment the doors opened, and though his expression remained still, something sharp and dangerous flickered beneath it.
Jeonghan’s steps faltered, his throat tightening.
Why does it feel like he’s… looking through me?
“Alpha,” Jisoo’s voice broke the silence, steady and respectful. He bowed his head, Wonwoo mirroring the gesture.
Alpha? Jeonghan blinked. The word snagged in his mind, though he didn’t understand its weight.
The seated man’s gaze slid past Jisoo and Wonwoo—and landed squarely on him.
Every muscle in Jeonghan’s body went taut. The air between them thickened, his skin prickling as though unseen claws traced across it. He couldn’t look away.
The man didn’t speak, but the silence he wove was louder than words.
Beside the throne stood others—three men whose presence was almost as heavy. One with sharp, foxlike eyes and a restlessness in his stance, another tall with a body that seemed built from iron and fire, and another whose bright smile didn’t reach the sharpness in his gaze. Beside them stood a quieter figure, smaller but sharp-eyed, who carried himself with the poised stillness of someone used to watching more than speaking.
Jeonghan’s throat bobbed as he struggled to swallow, his mouth suddenly dry.
On the dais, the man on the throne shifted. His eyes, dark as storm clouds, sharpened the moment they landed again on Jeonghan. The stillness in his posture cracked into something colder, more hostile.
“What,” he said, his voice low, controlled, but carrying through the chamber like the scrape of steel against stone, “is he doing here?”
Jeonghan’s pulse stumbled. The weight of those words—those eyes—landed squarely on him.
The man didn’t even try to hide his displeasure. His jaw tightened, his gaze like steel. He didn’t look at Jeonghan the way a savior might look at someone he’d rescued. No warmth, no softness—only irritation, as if Jeonghan’s very presence was an offense.
“Didn’t I order you and Seokmin to escort him out once he woke up?”
The words weren’t for Jeonghan. They were aimed past him, at Jisoo and Wonwoo.
The reprimand cut through the air like a blade, echoing in the vaulted chamber.
Jeonghan flinched before he could stop himself, the instinctive reaction of someone unused to standing under such raw authority. The man’s voice wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be—its weight carried like stone dropped into still water, rippling out until the silence itself seemed to bow beneath it.
Jisoo immediately stepped forward, lowering his head in a gesture of deference. “He was persistent, Alpha. He wished to offer his gratitude to the one who saved him. We thought it best to honor the request before sending him back.”
For a moment, there was no response. The man on the throne leaned back, eyes half-lidded but unrelenting, fixed on Jeonghan with the kind of scrutiny that stripped flesh from bone.
Jeonghan forced himself to breathe. His throat was dry, but he dipped his head anyway, clutching at his courage like a lifeline. “I only wished to thank you,” he murmured. “For saving me. I would’ve been lost otherwise.”
The sincerity in his words felt small, swallowed by the vastness of the chamber and the cold stillness of the man’s gaze. No acknowledgment came. Not a flicker. He might as well have spoken to the stone beneath his feet.
The sting of dismissal burned hot against his chest. Gratitude had carried him here, but now he wondered if it had been a mistake.
Sensing the sharp edge in the silence, Jisoo spoke again, softer this time, though still with the steady cadence of someone trying to temper a storm. “If it pleases you, Alpha, I will escort him out immediately.”
Relief stirred faintly in Jeonghan’s chest. Yes, leaving was best. Whatever this place was, whoever these men were, it was not a world meant for him. He would thank them for their trouble, return to his camp, and—
“Wait.”
The single word cut clean through the chamber, sharp enough to halt every breath.
Jeonghan turned instinctively toward the source. It came from the man who stood just beside the throne—the one with foxlike eyes, sharp and watchful, whose stance carried the restless edge of someone who didn’t know how to be still. His gaze was trained on Jeonghan, narrowed and curious, like a predator who had just noticed something peculiar about its prey.
For a moment, no one else moved. Even the Alpha did not speak, though his silence was heavier now, weighted with an edge that seemed to test the air itself.
The fox-eyed man stepped forward, just enough to enter the light of the torches. His presence was different from the Alpha’s—not gravity itself, but something quick and cutting, a blade waiting to strike. His voice cut through the chamber, firm, carrying in a way that demanded every ear to turn.
“I think,” he said slowly, every word deliberate, “it would be better if he stayed.”
The air shifted.
For a beat, no one moved. It was as though the walls themselves recoiled, the torches guttering in their sconces, the flames stretching long with the silence that followed.
Jisoo’s head snapped toward him in quiet horror. Wonwoo stiffened, the faint crease of his brow betraying the unease he rarely let show. Even the three men flanking the dais straightened, their collective weight pressing into the room like another storm gathering in its belly.
And Jeonghan—Jeonghan stood in the center of it all, his chest tight, his thoughts stumbling. Stay? The word snagged on his ribs. What did Seokmin mean by that? He had come only to give thanks, not to linger, not to root himself in this strange, oppressive place. His presence here already felt intrusive. Why would they want him to remain?
But it was the Alpha’s reaction that rattled the ground beneath them all.
"What did you just say?"
Seungcheol’s eyes darkened, the edges of his irises swallowing light until nothing but black remained. The chamber grew colder for it, as though the fire in the sconces bent to his mood, bowing lower under the weight of his fury.
He rose.
The throne groaned faintly as he pushed off its weight, his height and presence casting long shadows across the dais. Each step he took toward Seokmin rang loud, measured, deliberate, echoing into the marrow of every man in the hall. The air throbbed with tension, every pack member standing a little straighter, their gazes flicking nervously between the Alpha and the fox-eyed wolf who had dared to challenge silence with such audacity.
When Seungcheol stopped, he was close—too close. Their breaths mingled in the charged space between them. His voice, when it came, was low, venom laced in every syllable.
“…Repeat it.”
Seokmin didn’t blink. His chest rose and fell, steady, as though he’d braced himself for this moment the second he opened his mouth. “I said he should stay.”
A muscle jumped in Seungcheol’s jaw. For a heartbeat, the chamber was still enough to hear the crackle of torches, the shifting of boots on stone, the faint catch of Jeonghan’s breath.
Then the Alpha moved.
Seungcheol seized Seokmin by the collar and yanked him forward, the sudden violence of it drawing sharp gasps from the others. The iron grip in his fist twisted fabric tight against Seokmin’s throat. Jeonghan’s eyes widened, his pulse spiking, though he didn’t understand why the sight rattled him so deeply—only that the Alpha’s fury was tangible, radiating like heat from a blaze that threatened to consume.
“What kind of bullshit are you spouting?” Seungcheol hissed, his voice rough, dangerous. His eyes bore into Seokmin’s with a fury sharp enough to flay. “Why should a human stay here? Explain yourself before I tear your tongue out.”
Around them, the men shifted uneasily. Jisoo’s gaze darted between them, his lips parting as if to interject—then snapping shut again, restrained. Wonwoo’s fists flexed at his sides, tension corded in his shoulders.
Seokmin’s breathing was tight under Seungcheol’s grip, but his eyes—steady, unflinching—never wavered. He glanced sideways for the briefest moment, catching Jisoo’s gaze, and something silent passed between them. An agreement. A resolve.
Before Jisoo could speak, Seokmin did. His voice, though strained, cut through the chamber.
“Because…” He drew in a ragged breath. “Because we can’t let him go.”
Seungcheol’s grip tightened, knuckles whitening. “And why is that?”
Seokmin’s lips parted, his chest rising against the tight pull of Seungcheol’s grip. His voice was rough but steady.
“Because… he’s your mate.”
The word hit the chamber like a strike of lightning.
Silence crashed over them, heavy and absolute. Even the torches seemed to falter, their flames stuttering as though the air itself recoiled. Every gaze swung to Seokmin, wide-eyed, stunned into stillness.
But none carried the weight of reaction more than the Alpha’s.
For a moment, Seungcheol simply froze. His hand tightened in Seokmin’s collar, his breath slow and venomous, but his eyes—his eyes betrayed the storm that erupted inside him. They widened, gold searing into the dark for the barest instant before being drowned in the black again, deeper and darker than before.
“...What did you just say?” His voice was low, shaking not with weakness but with rage barely contained, the kind that could rip a man apart with teeth and claws alone.
Seokmin held his ground, though his throat strained against the pressure. “You heard me. He's your mate—”
The rest was cut off by a violent jerk. Seungcheol slammed Seokmin back a step, fabric bunching in his fist, the sound of boots scraping hard against the stone floor. The other wolves startled, a ripple of unease rolling through them.
Jisoo’s scream split the tension.
“Seokmin!”
His voice cracked with panic as he surged forward, but before he could reach the dais, a firm grip caught his arm.
Wonwoo.
“Let me go!” Jisoo hissed, his voice high with fear, his body twisting against the restraint. His eyes were wide, darting between Seokmin’s body jerking in Seungcheol’s grip and the Alpha’s face twisted with wrath. “He’ll kill him!”
But Wonwoo only shook his head, his expression grim, jaw clenched so tightly it might’ve cracked. His dark eyes met Jisoo’s, firm and unyielding. The subtle shake of his head carried a silent warning: Don’t. You’ll only make it worse.
Jisoo’s chest heaved, his lips trembling as words threatened to break free, but the weight in Wonwoo’s stare rooted him in place. If he interfered now, he might be dragging both himself and Seokmin into the fire.
Jeonghan stood frozen, heart pounding so loudly he could hear it in his ears. He didn’t understand the words being flung about—the word mate echoed in his head, heavy, unfamiliar—but he understood enough to know this wasn’t good. The fury radiating from the Alpha was raw, suffocating, filling the throne room until the very air burned to breathe.
Seungcheol’s voice cut through the silence like the snap of a whip.
“What did you say? Mate? ” he growled, his tone venom, his breath ragged against clenched teeth. His eyes, once obsidian, burned with a fleeting blaze of molten gold before drowning again in black.
A chill chased down Jeonghan’s spine. He didn’t know what the flicker meant, but the look on the man’s face told him it wasn’t good.
“You dare spit that word at me—”
With a violent movement, the Alpha jerked Seokmin forward again, twisting his collar so tight the fabric threatened to tear. Seokmin’s boots skidded across the stone, the sharp sound scraping the air.
Seungcheol’s chest rose and fell with fury, the veins in his neck taut, his jaw clenched. His gaze was wild, a storm caged within black irises threatening to burst. He shoved his face closer, their foreheads almost colliding, his voice a guttural snarl.
“You think this is a game, Seokmin? You think that word is something to throw around like a joke? You know damn well what it means to me.” His words spat like fire, his grip on Seokmin’s collar shaking with rage. “And you dare—you dare—to mock me with it?”
The chamber quivered with the weight of his voice. The men shifted uncomfortably, some lowering their gazes, others glancing toward Jeonghan with disbelief and unease etched into their features.
Seokmin choked out a breath, the strain reddening his skin, but still he refused to look away. His voice came tight, harsh between the Alpha’s grip.
“I’m not mocking you. Look for yourself.”
Seungcheol’s brows furrowed, but before he could snarl again, Seokmin forced the words past the pressure constricting his throat.
“He bears your mark.”
The throne room fell silent.
Every gaze—every single one—shifted toward Jeonghan.
For a heartbeat, Jeonghan didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
The weight of every gaze pressed down on him, pinning him in place like a moth trapped beneath glass.
“Your… mark,” Seokmin rasped again, the words scraped raw from his throat, but his gaze did not waver from the Alpha’s. “On him. It’s there.”
Jisoo’s voice broke, pleading and desperate, his tone cracking as if each word cost him air. “It’s true, Cheol. He bears it. He bears your mark.” His eyes begged the Alpha to believe, or at least to listen, but there was fear woven deep in his voice, as though he knew exactly how dangerous these words were.
Jeonghan froze. Confusion surged through him, panic tightening around his ribs. His hand moved almost of its own accord—fingers rising shakily to his neck, brushing the skin where something faint and unfamiliar had appeared on his birthday.
His heart stumbled. What do they mean? What are they saying?
Seungcheol’s hold on Seokmin’s collar didn’t loosen. His face twisted, fury darkening his eyes until they seemed bottomless. His lips curled back over his teeth as his voice tore through the chamber, low and venomous.
“You expect me to believe that shit? That a lowly human—” his gaze snapped to Jeonghan, scorching him in place “—is my mate? What the fuck are you on, Seokmin?”
The word lowly sliced through Jeonghan like a blade. He clenched his jaw, throat tight, but said nothing. What could he say, when he didn’t even understand what was happening?
Seokmin, though his face was flushed red beneath Seungcheol’s grip, didn’t back down. His voice cracked but held. “See for yourself.”
The words shifted something in the air.
Seungcheol’s gaze slid away from Seokmin, slow and sharp as a blade. His eyes found Jeonghan again, pinning him in place.
Jeonghan’s stomach dropped. His legs screamed at him to run, but he couldn’t. He was caught, trapped beneath that gaze.
The Alpha’s chin tilted ever so slightly, a silent command.
And one of his men obeyed instantly.
The tall one stepped forward—broad-shouldered, looming, his presence heavy with quiet strength. His boots struck stone, each step deliberate, until he stood before Jeonghan. Without hesitation, his hand clamped around Jeonghan’s arm. His grip was firm, unyielding.
“Come with me,” Mingyu said, voice flat, brooking no refusal.
Jeonghan instinctively tried to step back, but the hold was iron. He had no choice but to move, his feet stumbling to follow the path Mingyu dragged him along. His chest tightened with every step, the throne looming closer, the Alpha’s presence pulling him into its orbit like a predator reeling in prey.
When Mingyu stopped, Jeonghan stood face-to-face with Seungcheol. The Alpha’s glare devoured him whole.
Only then did Seungcheol release Seokmin, shoving him away with a final rough jerk. Seokmin staggered back, coughing, and Jisoo was at his side in an instant. His hands fluttered over Seokmin’s throat and chest, frantic, but Seokmin brushed him off weakly, shaking his head.
Jeonghan hardly saw it. He couldn’t look away from the man before him.
Seungcheol’s presence was suffocating. Every line of his body radiated power, fury barely caged. Jeonghan’s heart pounded so hard it hurt, his palms damp as he struggled not to tremble.
And then the Alpha moved.
With a suddenness that made Jeonghan flinch, Seungcheol’s hand shot forward. Fingers gripped his chin, rough and merciless, yanking his head up. Jeonghan’s breath caught as his neck was bared to the light of the torches, exposed under the Alpha’s scrutiny.
The touch burned—not gentle, not kind. It was possession, control, a reminder of who held power here.
And still—Jeonghan shivered. Not just from fear. Something deeper, stranger, stirred in him at the harsh contact, something he didn’t understand.
Seungcheol’s eyes narrowed, scanning the curve of Jeonghan’s neck—until they froze.
The mark was there.
Small, faint but unmistakable.
An olive tree etched into his skin.
For the first time, the Alpha stilled. His breath caught, his grip loosening just slightly. His eyes widened, disbelief flashing raw and violent across his face. For a heartbeat, he looked almost human.
Then fury swallowed it whole.
With a harsh motion, he released Jeonghan’s chin. The force of it sent Jeonghan stumbling back a step, his hand flying to cradle his jaw, heart hammering against his ribs.
Seungcheol’s voice split the silence, low and lethal.
“How the fuck did a lowly human like you get my mark?”
The venom in his tone made Jeonghan’s blood run cold. His lips parted, but no sound came. His throat was dry, his mind blank with panic.
When he didn’t answer, Seungcheol’s roar shattered the chamber.
“ANSWER ME!”
The force of it slammed into Jeonghan like a blow, rattling his bones. He trembled, breath stumbling out of him as he stammered, “I—I don’t know! I swear I don’t know! It just—it just appeared—on my twenty-first birthday!”
The words fell desperate, raw, but true.
Seungcheol’s chest heaved, his eyes burning into him as if he could tear the truth from his flesh. The silence stretched, thick, suffocating.
And then, Seungcheol’s voice came again—low, shaking with something more dangerous than rage.
“My mate,” he spat, “died years ago.” His gaze was a blade, cutting straight through Jeonghan. “There is no other. This—” he gestured sharply to the mark, to Jeonghan himself “—is a fucking joke. A curse. A mistake.”
The words struck heavier than any blow. Jeonghan’s chest squeezed, but he couldn’t speak, couldn’t even breathe.
Seungcheol’s lip curled. His eyes, black as night, gleamed with killing intent.
“I want it gone.” His voice was a snarl, final, unyielding.
The pack shifted, some stepping forward, others exchanging wary glances. Unease rippled through the chamber.
But before anyone could even speak, before Seokmin or Jisoo could find their voices, the Alpha’s next words cracked like thunder.
“Kill him.”
Chapter 9: The Bond
Chapter Text
"Kill him."
The silence that followed Seungcheol’s order was thick enough to smother breath. For a moment, no one moved—just the weight of his words hanging in the chamber, pressing down on every chest like a stone slab.
The first to stir was Soonyoung. His mouth opened, then shut, his jaw trembling with the effort to find words. Jun shifted beside him, eyes flickering between Jeonghan—wide-eyed, trembling on the stone floor—and their Alpha, whose fury was enough to blister the air. Mingyu took a half-step forward before freezing, his fists clenching at his sides, knuckles bone-white.
“...Cheol,” Soonyoung’s voice cracked against the quiet. “You can’t be serious.”
Seungcheol’s glare snapped to him, sharp enough to cut. “Did I stutter?” His voice was a blade, cold and lethal. “I said kill him.”
Jun exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Cheol, think about what you’re saying. He’s just a human. He doesn’t even know what’s going on here.” His tone wavered between reason and disbelief. “Killing him won’t fix anything.”
“Jun’s right,” Mingyu added, his voice tense, almost pleading. “He’s not armed. Look at him—he can barely stand. How can you call this justice?” His fists trembled, but he didn’t move closer.
Seokmin’s throat worked as he forced the words out, softer than the others but steady. “Cheol… you know what this means. If he’s truly your mate, you can’t hurt him. Not without hurting yourself.” His eyes lingered on Jeonghan’s trembling form before returning to his Alpha, quiet pleading in them.
Wonwoo, who had been silent until now, finally spoke, voice low but steady. “If he dies, you’ll feel it. Worse—you won’t survive it either.” His words dropped like stones, the weight of truth heavy in them.
But Seungcheol didn’t flinch.
“Cheol,” Soonyoung tried again, louder this time, desperation pushing his words out in a rush. “Maybe there’s another way. If it’s the bond you despise, maybe we can find a way to break it—remove it—without hurting him—"
“Enough!” Seungcheol’s roar tore through the chamber, shaking the air itself. His eyes blazed, fury hot enough to blister skin, his voice a whip that cracked across them all. “I will not feel anything, because he is not my mate. And I will never—ever—be bound to a filthy, weak human like him.”
Jeonghan flinched at the words, his chest squeezing tight, but Seungcheol didn’t falter. He turned, gaze cutting toward the men around him, his command lethal and final.
“Get rid of him.”
That made Jeonghan’s stomach drop, his body seizing with terror. He stumbled backward until his spine met the cold stone wall, breath heaving as he shook his head violently. “No—no, wait, please!” His voice broke, desperation clawing at his throat. “I’m not—I’m not a threat! I don’t even know what’s happening, I swear! I don’t know anything!”
But the ring of men was already closing in, heavy boots echoing like drumbeats of doom against the floor. Their shadows fell over him, blotting out the faint light of the torches, and Jeonghan felt his pulse slam wildly in his ears.
“Please,” he gasped, words spilling out in a frantic rush. “I have friends—they’re probably looking for me right now. They’ll think I’m dead. I can’t just disappear like this—” His voice cracked. “My brother—Chan—he’s waiting for me at home. He’s all I have, do you understand? He’s my only family left. If I die here, he has no one. Please—I’m begging you!”
But Seungcheol’s expression didn’t change. His eyes burned with something harsher than fire, something rooted in bitterness so deep it made his face unreadable stone.
“Strike,” he snapped at his men.
They obeyed.
One grabbed Jeonghan by the wrist, yanking him upright with the ease of hauling dead weight. Jeonghan’s scream ripped through the chamber, sharp and raw, his knees nearly buckling beneath him. Pain flared through every wound from the night before, each bruise and cut screaming awake under the brutal force.
“Don’t—please—stop!” He tried to wrench free, but his body was weak, battered, no match for their iron grips. His cry echoed off the walls, carrying a note of despair that made Seokmin flinch where he stood.
And then the first blow landed.
A fist slammed into his stomach, hard enough to knock the breath clean out of him. Pain exploded across his gut, white-hot, making his lungs seize as bile burned the back of his throat. He doubled over, choking, his body folding around the ache. His knees scraped the stone, his nails clawing at nothing as he tried to catch a breath that wouldn’t come.
“Stop this!” Mingyu’s voice boomed, uncharacteristically loud, trembling with urgency. “Cheol—you can’t do this. You know what’ll happen if you kill him!”
But another punch came before Jeonghan could even lift his head. His ribs screamed, agony shooting up his spine, his vision sparking with bursts of light. His body convulsed, a sob ripping from his throat before he could stop it.
“Cheol!” Seokmin’s voice broke, desperate. “Please—he’s not fighting back—!”
“Cheol,” Wonwoo pressed, his voice dropping, low but firm. “You feel it, don’t you? That pull. That mark isn’t meaningless. If he dies, you—”
But Jeonghan couldn’t process their words anymore. The world was a blur of pain and shadows. His cries turned breathless, his body trembling violently as he curled inward, shielding his face with his arms, waiting for the next strike.
He squeezed his eyes shut so tightly it hurt, bracing for the fist that would crush him again—when suddenly, the air split open with a growl so deep it made the stone beneath them vibrate.
The sound wasn’t human.
Heavy footsteps thundered across the chamber, cutting through the chaos with terrifying force. Men shouted in alarm, jerking back instinctively. The grip on Jeonghan’s arm loosened as confusion rippled through the circle.
Jeonghan dared to open his eyes—just in time to see a blur of gray barrel between him and the fists raised above him.
The impact was immense. A massive body planted itself in front of him, shoulders broad, fur bristling, teeth bared in a snarl that sent the other men staggering backward.
A wolf.
Jeonghan froze, his body pressed against the cold stone, heart clawing at his chest like it wanted out. The animal was enormous, its smoke-gray coat catching the torchlight in silver streaks, muscles rippling beneath its pelt as it crouched low, guarding him.
“What the hell…” The words tumbled out of him in a whisper, barely audible. His eyes stretched wide, disbelief strangling him. “Why is there—why is there a wolf—?”
Around them, the others were stunned into silence.
Only Seungcheol’s face shifted, dark fury clouding his features as he took a slow, deliberate step forward.
Jeonghan’s gaze darted from the Alpha back to the wolf. Its head turned slightly, gray eyes glinting as they locked onto him. And for a moment—just a breath—it wasn’t savagery he saw there. It was something softer. Concern. Protection. A promise.
Jeonghan’s breath caught, his throat dry.
And then Seungcheol’s voice split the silence, each word dripping with venom.
“Get out of the way, Jisoo.”
The wolf’s growl deepened, a rumbling thunder that rattled in Jeonghan’s chest. The sound wasn’t just animal—it was defiance, an unmistakable challenge hurled straight at the Alpha himself.
Jeonghan blinked, the words lodging like a stone in his throat. Jisoo? His mind reeled, scrambling to catch up with the impossible truth unraveling before his eyes. The gray eyes. That stance. That unyielding presence. It wasn’t coincidence.
“No… no, no, no…” he whispered, his voice cracking, disbelieving. “That’s—Jisoo?”
The name slipped out before he could stop it, and the wolf’s ears flicked at the sound.
The rest of the pack shifted uncomfortably, the truth dawning on each of them with startling clarity. Soonyoung’s mouth fell open as if he wanted to speak but couldn’t. Jun’s gaze hardened, his breathing uneven as his fists clenched tighter, his heart warring with his loyalty. Mingyu cursed softly under his breath, raking a shaky hand through his hair. Wonwoo’s expression flickered between grim understanding and horror at what this meant.
But Seungcheol—Seungcheol did not waver.
His face twisted, fury sharpening every line of him as he stared down his friend. His voice lashed out like a whip, every syllable a threat.
“I said, get. Out. Of. The. Way.”
The wolf didn’t move. Instead, he snapped his teeth in warning, the growl rising higher, reverberating through the stone chamber. His body remained planted in front of Jeonghan, an immovable wall of gray fur and rippling muscle. He knew what defiance meant. He knew what kind of punishment awaited him. And still, he stood his ground.
Seokmin’s breath caught in his throat, the world tilting as the truth settled heavy in his chest.
Jisoo.
His Jisoo.
The Alpha’s voice cracked like thunder, but Seokmin didn’t hear fear in it anymore—only danger. And before his mind could even catch up, his body was already moving.
“Cheol, stop!”
The words ripped out of him as he sprinted forward, shoving past Jun and Mingyu, his shoes scraping against the cold stone. His heart pounded, not with hesitation, but with a terrifying, undeniable clarity. He wouldn’t—he couldn’t—stand by.
In an instant, Seokmin was at Jisoo’s side, throwing his arms wide as if his body alone could shield the wolf. He pressed himself against Jisoo’s fur, shaking but firm, his eyes locked on Seungcheol with a fire he’d never dared show before.
“You won’t hurt him,” Seokmin spat, his voice trembling but steady with conviction. “You can’t. He’s your friend, Seungcheol. Our family. And—” his voice broke, but he forced the words out anyway, his chest rising and falling with each syllable—“I won’t let you hurt my mate.”
Seungcheol’s stare was fire and steel, burning holes straight through Seokmin where he stood. The air in the chamber was suffocating, every second stretched taut as a bowstring.
Seokmin swallowed, his voice raw but steady. “Cheol… listen to me. We’re not doing this just for him. We’re protecting you, too. That human—” his gaze flicked to Jeonghan, trembling and broken against the stone wall—“he bears your mark. Whether you like it or not, the bond is real. If he dies, you die with him. Don’t you understand? Jisoo and I—we’re not turning against you. We’re trying to save you.”
For a split second, silence reigned. Hope wavered in Seokmin’s chest, fragile, desperate.
Then Seungcheol’s face twisted into something darker, something feral. His words lashed out like a blade.
“How many fucking times do I have to tell you? He’s. Not. My. Mate!” His voice thundered, rattling the walls. Spit flew with the force of his rage, his fists clenching at his sides. “I don’t care about him. I will never be bound to something so weak. And if you won’t move—” his lips curled into a snarl—“I won’t hesitate to fight you.”
The words dropped like stones in water, the ripples violent and unstoppable.
Mingyu gasped, horror snapping across his face. Jun’s mouth parted, stunned disbelief choking him silent. Wonwoo’s hands shook, his chest heaving as though he couldn’t breathe. Soonyoung stumbled back a step, color draining from his face. None of them had expected it to spiral this far.
But it was too late.
With a guttural snarl that split the chamber, Seungcheol shifted.
Bones cracked, skin split, muscle tore and reformed. His scream twisted into a growl as fur burst across his frame, his body expanding, twisting, reshaping. When the sound died, a massive black wolf stood in his place—so large he dwarfed the others, his golden eyes gleaming like twin blades in the dim torchlight. His chest heaved with fury, lips peeled back to reveal fangs long enough to pierce bone.
The air grew colder.
Seokmin’s heart plummeted, but he didn’t back away. With a single glance at Jisoo, still braced in front of Jeonghan, he knew there was no choice. His own shift came sharp and fast, tearing through him as his body broke apart and rebuilt itself. In seconds, a gray wolf stood where he had been, his dark-brown eyes glinting with resolve. Smaller than the black beast before him, but not cowed. Never cowed.
Jeonghan couldn’t breathe. His eyes locked on the black wolf, that monstrous form, that glint of gold. His chest seized with disbelief, panic clawing up his throat. That wolf… that’s the same one who saved me. The one who— His head spun. What the hell is happening? Am I—am I surrounded by wolves?
He couldn’t even form the thought before it began.
Seungcheol lunged.
The impact was violent enough to shake the ground, his massive body slamming into Seokmin like a battering ram. Fur and claws and teeth collided in an explosion of sound—growls, snarls, the crack of bone against stone. Seokmin yelped but stood his ground, snapping his jaws against Seungcheol’s throat, swiping claws at his side. Jisoo lunged in too, his gray body a blur, but the black wolf was too strong, too fast.
He tossed Jisoo aside with a brutal swipe of his paw, the smaller wolf crashing into the floor with a sickening thud. Seokmin barely had time to process before teeth sank into his shoulder. Pain flared, hot and searing, and he howled, his legs buckling as blood matted his fur.
Mingyu and Soonyoung’s cries tore through the chamber. “STOP! Cheol—don’t—!” But their voices were drowned beneath the chaos of the fight.
Seokmin lunged again, defiant, clawing across Seungcheol’s muzzle and drawing a line of red. But it only enraged him further. The black wolf struck back with terrifying force, claws raking across Seokmin’s side, sending him sprawling to the ground, chest heaving, blood dark against the stone.
Jisoo forced himself back up, staggering, teeth bared in a desperate snarl. He planted himself in front of Seokmin, even as his body shook, even as blood trickled from his flank. But Seungcheol was relentless. He slammed into them both, his sheer size crushing them down, his claws tearing into fur and flesh.
The sound of ripping, the smell of blood—it was too much.
Jeonghan’s stomach lurched at the sound, his whole body trembling as blood pooled thick in the air. His chest rose and fell in short, shallow bursts, panic clawing up his throat until it drowned him.
He didn’t even notice Soonyoung and Mingyu’s bodies contorting—their screams twisting into guttural snarls as fur burst from their skin, bones breaking and reforming with sickening cracks. They hit the ground on all fours, umber and russet pelts gleaming in the torchlight as they sprang forward, teeth bared, desperate to drag Seungcheol back from the brink.
The chamber became chaos—four wolves colliding in a storm of fur, fangs, and claws. Growls reverberated like thunder, paws scraping stone, the air thick with violence.
But Jeonghan wasn’t watching.
He didn’t see them. Couldn’t.
All he heard was the voice behind him.
A hiss. Venom laced through syllables like poison.
“This is your fault!”
He barely had time to gasp before fingers tangled cruelly in his hair, yanking his head back until fire shot through his scalp. A flash of pain stole his breath, his eyes blurring with tears. Then came the strike—
A fist slammed into his stomach, harder than any blow before.
Air left his lungs in a single brutal rush, agony detonating in his gut. The world snapped white, stars bursting behind his eyes as bile clawed its way up his throat. His knees buckled, his body folding forward, a strangled cry caught between his lips and the metallic tang of blood.
His ears rang, a high, piercing whine that swallowed every sound of the fight.
“Pathetic,” the voice sneered, close to his ear. And then he was lifted—hauled up by his shirt as if he weighed nothing, his feet dangling, kicking weakly at the air.
“No—stop—” His plea broke, choked by the blood in his mouth. His vision swam. His arms clawed uselessly at the iron grip holding him aloft.
And then the world shattered.
He was thrown.
The momentum ripped through him, tearing the air from his chest before he even hit the other side of the room.
The impact came like a car crash. His back slammed into stone with a deafening crack, his shoulder blade grinding, ribs screaming as he crumpled against the wall. But it didn’t stop there. His body crashed into the ornate vase that towered beside him—ceramic exploding on contact. Shards rained down like knives, cutting into his arms and legs as he collapsed onto the broken pieces.
His skull cracked against stone, his teeth rattling from the blow.
For a moment, there was only silence.
Then came the taste of iron. Warm liquid filled his mouth, thick and metallic. He coughed, blood spilling over his lips, dripping down his chin as his chest heaved in broken, shallow bursts.
Every breath was a war. Each inhale caught like fire in his ribs, each exhale rattled as though it might be his last. His vision spun violently, the edges darkening, pulling him toward a void he couldn’t fight.
I can’t… breathe…
His hands clawed at the floor, weak and trembling, but there was no strength left in him. His body shook, every nerve screaming, the weight of death pressing closer with each staggered breath.
Jeonghan’s vision flickered between the chaos around him, each movement a wave of pain, each sound a hammer against his skull. The world tilted violently, his body trembling as the chill of the stone seeped through his soaked clothes. His arms felt like lead, his legs barely able to hold him upright. The shouts, the snarls, the grinding of claws against stone—it all blended into one monstrous roar that seemed to press down directly on his chest.
'I… I’m going to die here,' he thought, panic clawing at the edges of his mind. 'Chan… my brother… my friends… they won’t know what happened to me…' The thought of his little brother’s bright, trusting eyes tore at him. 'I promised him I’d come home. I promised I’d keep him safe…'
A flash of memory struck him, painful and sweet all at once: Chan laughing, handing him a messy drawing he’d made just that morning; Seungkwan teasing him over the smallest things, their friendship light and warm; Hansol quietly making sure he had enough to eat, never asking for thanks; Minghao’s jokes that always made him forget the ache of exhaustion, even if just for a moment. He remembered their voices, the warmth of their presence, and his chest ached with longing for something he wasn’t sure he’d ever feel again.
'I… I can’t leave them… not like this… not yet…' His vision blurred with tears, one hot tear mixing with the blood trickling down his face. 'But it hurts too much… everything hurts…'
His body quivered violently as another wave of nausea and pain washed over him. Every movement was agony, every heartbeat a struggle. His thoughts spiraled: I’m so tired… so weak… I can’t… I can’t even fight back… His hands shook as he tried to push himself up, but the stone floor pressed mercilessly against him, unyielding. 'Chan… I wish you were here… I wish I could see you just one last time…'
The edges of his vision darkened further. The cries, the fight of the wolves, the roar of Seungcheol—they all became distant, echoing through a tunnel of white-hot pain and blinding fear. He couldn’t hear them clearly anymore. He couldn’t even hear his own heart over the thundering in his ears.
'I… I’m… so… scared…'
And then, slowly, painfully, his knees buckled. His arms gave way, sliding along the blood-slicked stone as he fell into a heap. His eyes fluttered, fighting to stay open, desperate to hold onto the faintest sliver of the world around him. The pain made him scream internally, but his body wouldn’t respond. His breaths came in shallow, ragged gasps, each one a fight he was losing.
'I… I don’t want to go… not like this…'
And finally, with a shuddering inhale and a shuddering exhale, his body gave out. The world tilted and collapsed into darkness. Jeonghan eventually lost consciousness, slumping limply against the shards of broken vase and the cold stone floor, the taste of iron heavy on his tongue. Memories of Chan, of Seungkwan, Minghao, Hansol, even fleeting flashes of Jisoo and Wonwoo—they all swirled together in a fragmented haze of warmth and regret as his mind surrendered to the void.
Somewhere deep in the recesses of his fading consciousness, a single, desperate thought lingered: 'I… I don’t want to leave them… not yet…'
Meanwhile, across the room, Seokmin, Jisoo, Soonyoung, and Mingyu were sprawled on the floor, fur matted with blood, bodies screaming in pain. Each attempted to rise, to fight back, but the injuries slowed them, chained them to the stone by agony. Seungcheol’s massive black form loomed over them, eyes blazing gold like molten metal, claws lifted with lethal intent.
He inhaled sharply, a growl rolling low in his throat as he raised himself higher to strike—but then, a sudden, searing pain cut through his chest. His vision blurred, a black curtain brushing at the edges. His breath caught in his throat, ragged and shallow. What—what is this…?
His limbs trembled involuntarily. The strength that had carried him, that had made him a force of terror in wolf form, wavered like a candle in a storm. A stabbing, unbearable weight pressed on his chest, and each heartbeat came slow, dragging against the crush of agony. He staggered forward, claws scraping the stone, but the pain sharpened, spreading through his arms, down his legs, and into the very core of him.
No… not now… I can’t…
Seungcheol’s legs buckled, his body faltering as the golden light in his eyes dimmed. He tried to roar, tried to lift himself—but the strength fled him. Heat and pressure twisted in his chest, and he sank, the black fur darkening in the dim light as his body gave way. Then, with a gut-wrenching shudder, the transformation cracked, bones reshaping, muscles tightening, until he collapsed entirely—shifting painfully back into his human form.
Jun and Wonwoo immediately called out, rushing to him. “Cheol!" Their voices cut through the chaos, desperation rising. The sight of their Alpha, finally reduced to the vulnerability of humanity, struck fear into them that hadn’t existed before.
Their injured friends, despite their pain, managed to shift back into human forms as well, dragging themselves up to run toward Seungcheol—but before they could reach him, Jeonghan’s absence pulled Jisoo’s attention.
Jisoo’s gaze scanned the room frantically, heart thundering. There, in a shadowed corner, slumped against broken stone and shards of vase, lay Jeonghan—lifeless, pale, trembling. Panic flared through Jisoo as he sprinted, sliding to his knees beside him, calling out his name over and over, shaking him gently.
“Jeonghan! Hey! Wake up, please! Don’t do this!"
Jisoo’s hands pressed against Jeonghan’s shoulders, trembling as he tried to gauge any sign of life. Panic gripped him, a cold, sharp claw around his chest, and his breaths came fast and uneven. He wasn’t close to Jeonghan—never had been—but he knew, with a chill of certainty, exactly how critical this one human was. Jeonghan’s injuries were severe, each movement sending a jolt of pain through his body, and Jisoo could almost feel the invisible tether of the bond pulling Seungcheol down with him.
Seungcheol’s chest rose and fell unevenly a few meters away, his golden eyes now dull, lids heavy with unconsciousness. The Alpha’s massive frame, once the embodiment of power and control, now slumped weakly against the cold stone, his fur matted with blood and grime, every muscle slack, vulnerable. Jisoo’s throat tightened as he realized just how badly the bond was affecting him—how Seungcheol, strong and unyielding as he was, could not endure the agony of his mate’s suffering.
Jisoo swallowed hard, pressing his forehead against the back of Jeonghan’s neck, muttering words he hoped would anchor the boy in this world. “Han… stay with me. Please… I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know how to make you fight for yourself, but I can’t let you go—not now. Not like this.”
A faint tremor ran through Jeonghan’s body at the sound of his name, a small, shallow exhale that told Jisoo he hadn’t completely abandoned him. Relief surged in a tight, painful knot in his chest—but it was fleeting. Every second that Jeonghan lay there, unconscious or barely clinging to awareness, Seungcheol’s own body mirrored the deterioration. The Alpha’s golden eyes, when they flickered beneath the lids, reflected not only his own exhaustion but the resonance of Jeonghan’s pain—an unbreakable, cruel connection neither of them had chosen, yet both were bound to by the laws of the bond.
The room felt impossibly silent to Jisoo now, though the chaos of battle raged all around them. He kept murmuring, coaxing, begging, a single-minded obsession focused on the boy before him. “You’re not leaving. Not like this. Not while he’s lying there, depending on you. We… we can’t lose him… We can’t lose either of you… Not now… Not ever…”
Seungcheol’s chest rose and fell shallowly, the faintest tremor running through his fingers, a small, almost imperceptible twitch in response to Jeonghan’s minuscule movement. The bond pulsed in the silence, sharp and cruel, but still, a sliver of hope lingered in its midst.
Jisoo’s eyes swept the chamber, landing on each injured packmate. Each one of them carried their own pain, their own fear—but now, all of it seemed to converge in this one, fragile moment: the fragile thread that could either hold their Alpha and his mate in this world, or snap entirely.
He swallowed, heart hammering, and whispered, barely audible but desperate: “Please… please… it’s not too late, right? It can’t be too late…”
The wind hissed through the broken room, carrying the faint echo of distant snarls, of fractured voices. The pain, the darkness, the threat of losing both of them hung over the room like a storm cloud, heavy and suffocating. And as Jisoo pressed closer, unwilling to let go, he clung to one fragile, trembling hope: that somehow, some way, they weren’t lost yet.