Chapter Text
Rotten syrup.
That’s the smell Hongjoong knows means danger—that sickly-sweet rot that clings to the back of the throat, crawling into the lungs like a warning. It hangs heavy in the air, coating the trees and dirt in a way that tells him he’s in the wrong territory. Territory he has long been barred from. The boundary line was drawn long ago, carved into the earth with blood and teeth, and the memory of it is branded into every wolf old enough to remember. No wolf is supposed to cross it.
Not a single pawprint past the invisible line, let alone running full stride through it with the recklessness of desperation.
And Hongjoong is surely not supposed to be taking two young wolves with him—wolves who are still nearly pups, their paws too big for their legs, their ears too sharp and too alert, their instincts not yet honed enough to smell danger for what it is. They follow close, trusting him with the blind faith only the young can give, not knowing the weight of the path he’s chosen or the punishment that will follow if they’re caught by someone less forgiving.
Every breath he takes tastes of syrup and decay, and every step forward feels like one closer to the jaws of something ancient that has been waiting, patient, for a trespasser.
He is calm, outwardly composed, dressed in a long black sleeved shirt that clings to his frame, his long dark hair falling in even strands against his shoulders. Every part of him is monochrome, a shadow moving through deeper shadows, as though the place itself has leeched color from him. His wolves, San and Yeosang, follow at his flanks with stiff postures, their ears flicking back every so often, doing their best to keep their composure and not wrinkle their noses at the cloying, spoiled sweetness in the air. The smell of rotten syrup seeps into every breath, and Hongjoong knows it must be worse for them than it is for him—their senses are sharper, their stomachs younger and untrained for this kind of rot.
But to him, even that reek carries a sweetness. Sugar rotted down to something unholy is still sugar, still a memory of what once soothed.
And when one has been starved of sweetness for so long, even decay can taste like a gift.
Hongjoong forces calm into every step. He must. Calmness is armor, and armor is the only thing that keeps San and Yeosang from breaking rank and bolting back the way they came. He approaches the old, familiar house, its shape rising like a scar in the land. What had once been a simple wooden cabin has grown monstrous over time, rebuilt into a hulking structure with multiple stories, its edges too sharp, its walls too tall, its face almost windowless. The house has the air of something that watches without needing to see, a beast that doesn’t blink.
By comparison, the wolves’ den is practically porous with windows, open to the world, a place that breathes. But Hongjoong doesn’t let judgment creep in—this house was built not for comfort but for claim. Every timber is set in place by will alone, by the desire of those who rule here. It is not a home, it is a statement.
He does not hesitate as he steps closer, even when he feels San’s hackles bristle behind him and Yeosang’s breath stutter against the smell. The air thickens with every foot forward, the syrup stench swelling until it feels like it coats their tongues, until it sits wet and heavy at the base of their throats. The younger wolves resist the urge to gag.
Hongjoong breathes deeper. He savors it. His lips almost curve at the edges as though he’s slipping into the warmth of a long-lost memory. It has been so long since he’s smelled something this familiar, and in its rancid sweetness, he finds a kind of welcome no living voice could ever give him.
“Mingi ran all the way here?” San asks, his voice low but edged with disbelief. He hovers just behind Hongjoong, as if the man’s presence alone might shield him from the sight of the looming house. The building rises against the gray sky like a wound that never closed, hulking and unnatural in its additions, every line a reminder that this was built to dominate, not welcome. San’s words tremble with unease, though he does his best to steady them, staring upward at the monstrous shape—forgetting, for a heartbeat, that they themselves are monsters too.
“I don’t like it here,” Yeosang murmurs, softer, more hesitant to let his unease slip free. His voice doesn’t carry the same boldness as San’s; it’s quieter, more fragile, like a leaf caught in the wind. He clutches his own elbows, shrinking himself down, his golden eyes darting between the door and the ground. He has always been softer than Mingi—poor reckless Mingi, the wolf who had wandered too far from his den, too wild-hearted for his own safety.
“Are you going to knock?” Yeosang finally asks, though it sounds more like a plea than a question.
“He knows we are here,” Hongjoong replies simply. His voice is calm, certain, without room for doubt. He fixes his gaze on the front door, a once-vibrant pink that has dulled to the color of old flesh, pale and uncanny with age. The sight stirs a memory deep within him—his own hand on a paintbrush, the smell of wood in summer, laughter he hasn’t heard in years.
That memory is older than all three of the pups he has acquired, older than the fear threading through them now.
He straightens, standing tall despite the weight of the air pressing down on them, shoulders squared, chin lifted. His hands clasp together in front of him, a gesture that is half composure, half restraint. He doesn’t fidget, doesn’t falter, doesn’t so much as blink. He waits, knowing patience will be rewarded, because the house itself seems alive enough to notice their presence.
And whoever lives within it—whoever has always lived within it—has been listening since the moment they crossed the line.
Naturally, the pale, uncanny door creaks open, the sound dragging out like a groan from the wood itself. The air seems to shift with it, the sweetness of rot pushing outward in a wave, brushing against fur and skin alike.
Hongjoong blinks once, slowly, his golden eyes catching the faint light and glistening as the door swings wide. Standing framed in the threshold is an old, familiar figure—Seonghwa, face untouched by time, as pristine and still as polished marble. His red eyes flicker once, the barest blink, expression smooth and unreadable, as though even the concept of emotion is something he long ago outlived. He is a creature who has seen empires rise and burn to ash, humans claw their way back from ruin only to collapse again.
That history lingers in him like a second skin, as does the other.
“You have something of mine,” Hongjoong says, voice even, his posture as deliberate as his words. He does not bow, does not bare his throat, but neither does he threaten. The declaration lands in the stagnant air between them like a stone dropped into still water.
Seonghwa’s gaze flicks away from Hongjoong for the first time, falling to San. His crimson eyes narrow faintly as he takes the young wolf’s measure, staring long enough that San’s ears twitch backward under the weight of it. Then, just as easily, his gaze slides to Yeosang, lingering no less heavily, like the prick of cold steel against skin.
“They will not harm your coven,” Hongjoong continues, watching each subtle shift in Seonghwa’s attention, “so long as you do not harm us.”
“He ran into my territory,” Seonghwa replies at last, his voice carrying the same detached finality as a church bell tolling. And interestingly, there is no malice, no venom dripping from his tone—it is neither threat nor accusation, but a simple statement of truth. A fact as undeniable as blood spilled across snow.
A pup wandered where he should not, and worse still, that pup ran into a vampire’s territory.
“Mingi is reckless,” Hongjoong concedes, lowering his head by the smallest fraction, enough to acknowledge fault without surrendering authority. Still, his golden eyes never waver, locked against the vampire’s crimson ones as though to look away would be a defeat neither can afford. “A pup with a lack of fear.”
The two of them hold there—gold meeting red, wolf meeting vampire, neither one yielding, the silence between them as sharp and taut as a drawn blade.
“Yes,” Seonghwa says, softer this time, almost like agreement, though the word carries a weight that makes it feel more deliberate than casual. Hongjoong would be lying if the sound didn’t stir something deep in his chest—if he didn’t feel the faint, treacherous flutter of his own heart remembering a time when pulling that softness from Seonghwa had been effortless, when it had been offered freely rather than guarded like a secret.
“I have one quite similar,” Seonghwa continues, voice smooth as silk pulled taut, his red eyes unwavering.
“Then you understand,” Hongjoong replies, his words slipping out with practiced ease, though the faintest smile curves at his mouth, unbidden. It almost feels like a private joke, something shared between them that neither San nor Yeosang could hope to understand.
Seonghwa tilts his head at the exchange, long dark hair shifting with the movement, strands falling just short of his shoulders like ink spilling across pale skin.
“May we see Mingi?” Hongjoong asks.
Seonghwa blinks—once, slow, deliberate, the only break in his unyielding stare.
“He is quite unhappy,” he answers at last, voice steady, his posture straightening with the words. He still hasn’t looked away, not once, and Hongjoong is beginning to feel the pressure of it—ascrutiny that has the weight of centuries behind it but also a familiarity.
“Yes, I am aware he is in a foul mood. I imagine that won’t change once he is home,” Hongjoong concedes, shoulders lowering by a hair’s breadth. His tone softens but does not falter. “But I would like to take him home.”
Seonghwa’s gaze slides past him then, slow and pointed. First to San, who stiffens as though the vampire’s eyes burn straight through his skin. Then to Yeosang, who shifts uneasily under the weight of it. Hongjoong can almost smell their discomfort—the raw, animal sharpness of wolf-scent clinging to them. And he knows, too, what Seonghwa must smell on him in return: the acrid soggy wolf that will never wash away.
“I do not want trouble in my house,” Seonghwa says at last, voice cutting the stillness cleanly. The sharpness of it rings in the air like steel, decisive, unyielding. His gaze returns to Hongjoong, settling with finality.
“They will behave,” Hongjoong replies with a single nod, his voice calm, steady, but laced with quiet command meant as much for his wolves as for Seonghwa.
“And you?” Seonghwa asks, the words precise, deliberate, sharp enough to pierce through the thin veneer of civility between them. For the first time since the door opened, it feels less like a conversation and more like a challenge.
Hongjoong finds himself almost impressed despite himself, his head lifting, golden eyes catching faint light as though weighing Seonghwa anew. The corner of his mouth nearly curves—almost a smile, though not quite. Beside him, San and Yeosang bristle, hackles raised, their bodies instinctively reacting to the subtle shift in air pressure, in tone. They stand taut as bowstrings, protective of their pack leader, but they do not move. Neither of them will. They would not dare without Hongjoong’s word.
“I am here for my wolf. I will cause no trouble,” Hongjoong promises, the sincerity in his voice as measured as it is true. He holds Seonghwa’s gaze, watching closely, and he sees it—the faintest twitch at the corner of the vampire’s mouth, the barest flicker of something unspoken. A ghost of the softness that once lived in him. Hongjoong doubts San or Yeosang would even notice; to them, Seonghwa’s face is as unreadable as stone.
But Hongjoong knows better. He remembers. He remembers when that same mouth would break into smiles with ease, when warmth had not yet been drained from his expression. He knows Seonghwa has grown harder.
He knows he was once soft.
“Then you may come in,” Seonghwa relents at last, stepping back with slow, graceful ease, the motion as fluid as smoke curling through air.
Hongjoong’s steps carry him forward immediately, deliberate, calm, though the air thickens as he crosses the threshold. The scent of rotten syrup swells all over again, sinking into his nostrils, clinging to his tongue. It is familiar, and yet it sits wrong—like slipping into a childhood memory you don’t want to revisit, one that fits like a second skin but scratches underneath. Nostalgia that cuts.
San and Yeosang follow so close they are nearly pressed against him, their shoulders brushing his arms, their presence heavy with unease. They cling to him as if his steadiness can shield them from the oppressive sweetness, the house itself pressing in from all sides.
The halls are different now. Wider, longer, warped by years of expansion. What was once a simple dwelling has grown into a maze, a labyrinth of wooden corridors and shadowed stairwells that stretch too far. The house has become a statement of dominance, of permanence, and even Hongjoong feels a moment of disorientation as they’re led deeper. He knows the heart of it, knows where they are being taken, yet the bones of the place are strange.
And still, his focus remains on Seonghwa. On the back of his head, the fall of long, dark strands brushing the collar of his shirt. They look different now—neater, finer, strands catching the dim light like threads of obsidian. Or maybe it’s only that Hongjoong has forgotten the exact shape of them. He doesn’t remember the way they used to frame his face, doesn’t remember the precise color, only the feeling they once carried. It has been so long. Too long.
And yet, even from behind, Seonghwa feels unchanged in a way that makes Hongjoong’s chest tighten.
To his surprise, they are led outside. A heavy wooden door creaks open, letting in light and air, and Hongjoong’s mouth nearly falls open.
There, on the ground, crouched with his knees pulled tight to his chest and his arms wrapped around them, sits Mingi. A blanket drapes loosely over his shoulders, but beneath it, he wears clothes—clothes clearly not his own. Hongjoong’s eyes track the folds of fabric and the stiff cut of garments, knowing the wolf had left in his werewolf form. That means the vampires had dressed him. He can almost feel Mingi’s simmering anger, the frustration and indignity of being clothed in someone else’s rules. And yet… Hongjoong is relieved, too.
Better this than having him naked among vampires.
His teeth clench instinctively as his gaze shifts to three vampires standing around Mingi, their postures rigid, eyes sharp, like guards circling some dangerous beast. Protective, yes—but also almost possessive, as if the wolf is property to be tamed, assessed, and kept in line.
“Come away,” Seonghwa says, elegance in every motion, a wave of his hand parting the three vampires. They move obediently, almost reluctantly, like well-trained dogs finally given their cue. Hongjoong notes the subtle tension in their steps; he can almost feel the quiet indignation burning behind their crimson eyes, the slow, watchful way they track him and his two wolves. His own stance hardens, shoulders squared, golden eyes meeting theirs without flinch. He’d rather challenge them than risk the pups’ ire.
“Thank you for taking care of Mingi,” Hongjoong says finally, voice steady but respectful. He clasps his hands in front of him and leans slightly forward, the motion formal, deliberate—a bow to all four of them. Immediately, he feels it: the bristling, the low growl of disbelief vibrating through San and Yeosang. Even Mingi shifts slightly, flicking a glance at him. The act is revolting to the wolves, a foreign submission they have no interest in offering. But Hongjoong does not falter.
“I do not wish for this to be a regular occurrence,” Seonghwa interjects, the tone sharp enough to stop any further exchange before it can even start. Hongjoong straightens, rising to his full height, and the moment stretches taut, gold meeting red once more. Their eyes lock, a silent contest of wills layered with centuries of memory and history. The space between them is heavy, electric—neither yielding, neither bending, yet both understanding the stakes.
And all the while, Mingi sits on the ground, wrapped in borrowed cloth, tense as a drawn bowstring, while San and Yeosang cling closer to Hongjoong, protective instincts warring with the need to obey their leader.
“I imagine Mingi would not like a repeat of this,” Hongjoong says, nodding, his tone calm but firm. “I can have him apologize if you wish.”
“I will not,” Mingi snaps gruffly, his voice sharp and defiant.
Hongjoong turns, eyes narrowing, the gold of his irises catching the light as he stares down the young wolf. The tension between them is immediate, palpable, a silent challenge hanging in the air. Mingi’s small face twists in distaste, nose wrinkled as though he’s tasting something foul, yet he makes another low, reluctant sound of concession and turns his head away. He is clearly not happy about it, but he will yield—at least for the moment.
“That is not necessary,” Seonghwa interjects, his voice smooth and measured, calm as a still lake. “He destroyed nothing of ours, only gave a fright.”
His red eyes are steady, almost disarming in their serenity. Hongjoong watches him, an internal question burning at the edges of his mind: how did Seonghwa learn to move through confrontation with such effortless grace? How did he become so smooth, so implacable? Once, Hongjoong had always been the strong one—the one who commanded presence—but now, here, Seonghwa holds the room with nothing more than a nod.
“You may take your wolf and return home,” Seonghwa concludes, the statement final, diplomatic, yet carrying a subtle weight that leaves no room for argument.
Hongjoong pivots slightly, his body facing Seonghwa out of courtesy, but his head turns back toward the two pups at his side. His voice hardens, carrying authority honed from years of leading, guiding, and protecting.
“Take him home. Do not let him out of your sight.”
“I am not a child,” Mingi growls, his voice low and defiant, testing boundaries as he always does. Hongjoong snaps his head around, golden eyes sharp, unyielding, catching Mingi’s with precision.
“I will speak to you at home. You will do as I say—or I may leave you here for them to scold you.”
The words hang in the air like iron, and for a heartbeat, Mingi flinches, the stubborn fire in his eyes tempered by the weight of Hongjoong’s gaze. Even the younger wolves behind him stiffen, sensing the shift in tone, understanding that their leader’s authority is absolute—even in the presence of vampires.
Hongjoong watches as San and Yeosang move to Mingi’s side, their movements careful but firm, helping him to his feet. Mingi shifts, muscles tensing for a moment, but there’s no limp, no real sign of injury. The wolf’s pride, Hongjoong realizes, has likely taken the brunt of the punishment. Storming off in a flash of anger had landed him deep in enemy territory, and now, even standing upright, the stubborn flare of his independence hasn’t dulled. The blanket draped around his shoulders rides awkwardly as he straightens, clearly unwilling to show weakness.
The three wolves form a silent, tight-knit line, protective yet obedient, then begin to move toward the door. Their coordinated steps are a mixture of readiness and caution, and Hongjoong notes the subtle ways they stay alert, scanning their surroundings even as they retreat into shadow. In a heartbeat, they vanish from sight, leaving him alone at the threshold.
Now, he is the only werewolf standing before four vampires. Four pairs of crimson eyes stare him down, unblinking, intense, the weight of centuries pressing in through the quiet air. The scent of old stone, iron, and faint blood hangs around them, mingling with the sticky remnants of the rotten syrup still clinging to the air. Only one gaze he recognizes—Seonghwa’s—steady, deliberate, measuring. The other three are rigid, coiled, every muscle suggesting latent power and unspoken threat.
“May I know their names?” Hongjoong asks, his voice soft, careful, almost reverent—the first measured, human-like tone he has allowed himself since arriving.
Seonghwa’s frown deepens, the subtle crease at the bridge of his nose sharpening with attention. That small, familiar expression, etched into his face over centuries, makes Hongjoong’s chest tighten with memory and something like… longing. Seonghwa shifts his weight and extends a slow, precise hand toward the house, motioning the other three vampires back.
“Give us a moment,” he says, his voice smooth, calm, unyielding. It leaves no room for argument.
Hongjoong does his best to keep his surprise contained. The three remaining vampires glance at one another, annoyance flickering behind their red eyes. They do not move immediately—almost hesitant, as if questioning why their master would wish to be alone with a wolf. One of them narrows his eyes, the gesture sharp, hostile, an unspoken warning, but eventually, they relent. Their movements are slow, deliberate, measured like predators who know the moment isn’t theirs to claim, and they step back toward the interior of the house.
Alone now, the silence hangs thick and heavy. Hongjoong can feel the subtle pulse of power radiating from Seonghwa, the hum of control that bends the space around him. The air is cool but charged, tense with the collision of instinct and memory. Golden eyes meet crimson ones once more, the unspoken conversation between predator and predator, leader and ancient, threading through the quiet like a drawn blade.
Hongjoong shifts slightly, feeling the distance between them shrink despite the emptiness of the yard. Time stretches in slow, deliberate beats, the world narrowing to the space between them—the weight of history, authority, and long-held secrets pressing down like the pull of gravity.
“Yunho was my first,” Seonghwa says calmly, voice quiet but firm, meeting Hongjoong’s eyes with what he allows to pass for softness—a softness that carries more indifference than warmth. His stare, red and ancient, seems to pierce through time, observing without judgment. “Malnourished little thing found me.”
The words are simple, factual, yet in them lingers a shadow of something Hongjoong remembers: care, buried beneath centuries of restraint.
Hongjoong lets himself smile, just slightly, a small curve of the lips. After all, they are alone, and the world beyond the yard has been pushed away. He allows himself the comfort of this private moment, of unguarded conversation.
“San was my first. Small little boy who’s grown—trying to grow, at least.” His words carry a note of pride, tinged with the weight of responsibility, and he gives a slight nod as he speaks. He notices, just barely, the flicker of surprise in Seonghwa’s expression—the slight bite of his lip, the faint lift of an eyebrow, the quiet effort to contain a spark of excitement. They are exchanging information, yes, but in a way that mirrors each other: a silent acknowledgment of who has taken the places in their lives once held by the other.
“Jongho ran away,” Seonghwa says after a pause. His voice is steady, even, yet the barest tremor of sadness seeps through. “He did not have a good family.”
There’s no accusation, only fact—and a memory that seems to linger behind his red eyes.
Hongjoong finally allows himself a fuller smile, the lips curling upward as he studies the pale, dark-haired vampire in front of him. Seonghwa remains unblinking, posture perfect, waiting—but there’s a subtle shift in the rigid line of his shoulders, a quiet acknowledgment of Hongjoong’s ease.
“Mingi is my problem child,” Hongjoong says finally, letting a small exhale escape with the words. He watches Seonghwa’s eyes widen fractionally, curiosity slipping past the cold, practiced exterior. There’s a momentary crack in the armor Seonghwa wears for the world, the hint of a man who allows himself to feel intrigue and amusement in private. Hongjoong knows, with certainty, that Seonghwa is not like this with his coven. Here, with him, the vampire lets a little softness through, a glimpse of what Hongjoong had once seen—before centuries of control hardened his expression.
“He does not take instruction well,” Hongjoong continues, voice softening, almost indulgent, as he regards the pup he has come to care for. The words carry pride and exasperation in equal measure, and Seonghwa’s gaze lingers, sharp but attentive, absorbing every nuance, every subtle emotion embedded in Hongjoong’s tone.
“Wooyoung does not either,” Seonghwa says, and Hongjoong swears he almost hears a laugh in the tone. Soft, low, restrained—yet there, like a spark of warmth that shouldn’t exist in a vampire so ancient. It’s the sound of two people quietly recognizing themselves in the chaos of their respective charges, the children who push boundaries, ignore caution, and refuse to follow every warning. “He never ran away.”
Hongjoong can’t help but grin, tilting his head slightly, amusement lighting his golden eyes. The motion is casual, easy, but there’s an edge of challenge in it, the way he leans into the space between them.
“Are you calling me a bad pack leader?” he asks, voice teasing, though there’s a curiosity threaded beneath it.
“No—I—”
Seonghwa stops mid-sentence, his eyes widening fractionally, just enough to catch Hongjoong off guard. Something about the look he gives him—a flicker of surprise, a faint hesitation—makes Hongjoong’s chest tighten. It’s almost as if Seonghwa has momentarily forgotten, or perhaps never fully realized, that he can joke with him. That beneath the red eyes and measured control, beneath centuries of discipline, there exists a space where they can meet as equals. Have they really spent that much time apart? Does he really need reminding that he can relax around Hongjoong?
“I am only joking,” Hongjoong says quickly, leaning back just enough to ease the tension pressing from the vampire. He lets his voice soften, warm, coaxing, but still carries the undertone of authority he never loses. “I understand you well. Do you not remember?”
Seonghwa’s gaze falters for a heartbeat, then steadies, and Hongjoong notices the tiniest shift in the vampire’s posture, the smallest exhale, the almost imperceptible softening around the eyes. It’s enough to remind him that even the ancient, cold, unyielding creature in front of him can still be human—or at least, capable of being vulnerable around him.
“Yeosang reminds me much of you,” Hongjoong says softly, letting the words hang in the still air. He inhales deeply, the sharp, cloying tang of rotten syrup filling his lungs, almost comforting in its familiarity. There is no other place where syrup rots like this, no other scent that carries both decay and memory so vividly. “A little clueless…softer.”
Seonghwa’s lip twitches, the barest hint of amusement threatening to escape, though he will not allow it. Hongjoong studies him, noting the subtle shift, the way centuries of restraint cannot fully erase the ghost of emotion. He opens his mouth to say more, to press the conversation further, to draw out the rare softness, when a sharp, defensive hiss cuts through the quiet of the yard.
Instinctively, Hongjoong reacts, moving quickly. He darts forward, muscles coiling with precision, urgency and authority guiding every step. He finds San standing in front of Mingi and Yeosang, rigid and tense, hackles raised, chest pressed forward in a protective stance. Directly in front of San is a smaller vampire, tempered and deliberate—Wooyoung, eyes blazing with a mixture of anger and concern.
“Get away, now,” Hongjoong commands, stepping between them without hesitation. His back is to San, his posture unyielding, as he meets Wooyoung’s gaze head-on. Golden eyes lock with red, and for a heartbeat, the world seems to narrow to the thin space between them.
Wooyoung’s stare is fierce, brimming with protective instinct, teeth barely bared, a silent challenge that demands acknowledgment. Hongjoong knows that look intimately—he’s seen it in wolves, in young pack members, in anyone who feels the need to guard what they love.
“You do not hiss at my pack,” Hongjoong says, his voice low, calm, yet carrying unflinching authority. “You want someone to hiss at, you hiss at me.”
The words hang in the air like steel, and Wooyoung falters slightly, measuring the weight behind them. San relaxes fractionally at Hongjoong’s assurance, while Mingi and Yeosang stay close, still wary, sensing the subtle shift in tension. Hongjoong can feel the heat of the moment, the collision of wills, and even in the charged silence, he does not break eye contact with the vampire before him.
“Are we clear, fledgling?” Hongjoong challenges, his golden eyes locking on Wooyoung’s red ones, unblinking and sharp. The words carry authority, the kind that brooks no argument, and Wooyoung’s face contorts instantly, anger flashing across features still too young to be tempered by centuries.
“You don’t get to tell me what to do,” Wooyoung snaps, voice low but edged with fire. “You mutt.”
“Coffin-dweller,” San retorts without hesitation, hackles raised, stance defensive.
“Watch it,” Hongjoong warns, turning his head just enough to meet San’s gaze. The wolf stiffens for a heartbeat before lowering his head in submission, a subtle but clear acknowledgment of hierarchy.
“Our alliance relies on indifference,” Seonghwa states, stepping forward with that calm precision only he can muster, his presence radiating authority even as he stays just a fraction behind Wooyoung. “You do not hiss at the wolves unless threatened.”
“The mutt started it,” Wooyoung replies quickly, turning his head sharply, eyes flashing in defiance even toward Seonghwa. His voice holds that raw, fledgling edge—the mix of stubbornness and inexperience that Hongjoong knows all too well.
“San has just grown from a pup. He has not had interaction with a vampire,” Hongjoong reasons, calm but firm. His eyes never leave Wooyoung’s, reading every twitch of muscle, every flicker of restraint or impulse.
Wooyoung turns his head slowly, a scowl deepening on his face, red eyes narrowing as he calculates the situation, trying to summon all the intimidation his fledgling status allows. The tension between them thickens, electric, each movement a subtle test of limits and respect.
“Not that one,” Wooyoung scoffs, voice dropping to a growl. He glances at the smaller wolves behind Hongjoong, then sharpens his gaze. “The big one.”
Mingi.
The air shifts as all eyes follow his name, even the younger wolves stiffening slightly. Mingi, seated or standing just behind San and Yeosang, tenses at the sudden focus, ears flicking, eyes narrowed with a mixture of annoyance and wary curiosity. Even in his youth, the weight of attention settles on him like gravity, and Hongjoong can see the careful calculation in his pup’s gaze—matching Wooyoung’s fire with his own stubbornness.
“Hongjoong, you should leave.” Seonghwa’s voice cuts through the tension, calm and unyielding, and Hongjoong feels his chest tighten. The way Seonghwa says his name—his name—sets something loose inside him, a flicker of vulnerability he isn’t used to allowing. For a heartbeat, all the fight, all the dominance, all the carefully maintained control that defines him as pack leader feels fragile, as though a single word from Seonghwa could undo it. And Hongjoong knows it—he knows that if Seonghwa wanted him to leave, he could simply ask, and Hongjoong would obey without question. But Seonghwa does not want him to.
“I…” For the first time in what feels like centuries, Hongjoong falters. His body feels uncertain, muscles hesitant as though the very ground beneath him is questioning his next step. Warmth creeps into his chest, unfamiliar, unbidden, and he realizes he doesn’t know how to move forward—not with the wolves behind him, not with the fledgling vampire staring him down, not with Seonghwa’s unwavering gaze fixed on him. He is supposed to lead, to command, to hold the line—but… “Seonghwa.”
“No.” Seonghwa cuts in, firm and final, his crimson eyes unblinking, leaving no room for negotiation. The single word hangs in the air like a blade, precise and sharp, stopping Hongjoong mid-thought. His hands, which had twitched almost imperceptibly, drop to his sides. The warmth in his chest turns tighter, almost painful, and a rare, uncharacteristic doubt presses against the edges of his mind.
For a moment, all Hongjoong can do is stand there, caught between instinct and desire, strength and vulnerability, the quiet yard around them suddenly seeming smaller, heavier, charged with the unspoken history and unyielding presence of the vampire before him.
“You would rather wait another thousand years?” Hongjoong raises his eyebrows, eyes sharpening as he fixes his gaze on Seonghwa. His tone is sharp, clipped, but beneath it is something like desperation. “No one here knows the truth.”
“And you would tell them now?” Seonghwa snaps back, his voice like steel. The air seems to grow heavy, sucked out of the room until only the two of them exist—locked in a glare sharp enough to cut. Wooyoung and San are long forgotten, their presence nothing more than a faint outline at the edge of the moment. “What will they think of you?”
“What will they think of you?” Hongjoong shoots back, his voice rising with a dangerous edge as he steps forward, closing the distance between them. His shadow stretches over the vampire, his posture heavy with authority he has wielded for centuries. “A thousand years, a blink of an eye. As easy as breathing.”
“You know that’s not how it feels.” Seonghwa retorts, his voice lower now, bitter, his brows knitting tight as his eyes harden. His fangs flash just briefly when he exhales, a reminder that his eternity is not without weight.
“I wouldn’t know. Have things changed in the last thousand years?” Hongjoong’s words come sharp as knives, and there’s venom in them, but his eyes betray him—something softer, almost hurt lurking underneath.
“You wouldn’t know either,” Seonghwa huffs, his tone laced with both anger and exhaustion. And how could either of them know? A thousand years of silence—neither had reached for the other, neither had dared to. In that void, entire lives had been lived. Seonghwa with a coven he had never intended to create, Hongjoong with pups who looked to him for everything. They had become strangers who still knew the shape of each other’s shadows.
Hongjoong hadn’t even known Seonghwa had turned others. The thought unsettled him—Seonghwa, once so firm in his distaste for creating more of his kind, now surrounded by those bound to his blood. What had changed? What had driven him to do what he once swore he never would?
“Another thousand years then?” Hongjoong scoffs, his voice low, bitter, each word pressed out like something sharp caught in his throat. “You stay on your side and I’ll stay on mine.”
“It’s worked this long,” Seonghwa replies instantly, sharp as ever, though his tone is colder than it once would have been. Hongjoong stares at him for a long moment, unable to look away. Those red eyes—hard now, gleaming with authority—had once been soft. Soft in ways no one else had ever seen. Soft just for him. And now they cut like glass.
“Go home,” Seonghwa adds, his words heavy with finality. “Do not come back here. You are no longer welcome.”
Hongjoong’s brows furrow at that, his stomach tightening. He knows what those words mean. Vampires and their laws—they are absolute. A vampire uninvited from a house is cursed to its threshold, locked out forever. But here, it is more than just a house. Being uninvited from Seonghwa’s territory means danger. It means that if Hongjoong or any of his pups step across the line again, they will be considered prey. A trespassing werewolf on vampire ground has no rights, only a death sentence.
“Fine,” Hongjoong relents at last, his voice rough but steady. His chin lifts, a small defiance still woven into the surrender. “But…yours can cross, if they’d like.”
“You’re kidding,” Mingi scoffs immediately, his expression flashing disbelief and something dangerously close to outrage.
“Why in the seven hells would you want vampires in your territory?” Wooyoung seethes, his voice cracking with incredulity. He looks like he might spit the words at Hongjoong’s feet, the other vampires bristling behind him, eyes sharp with anger.
And Hongjoong doesn’t have any real explanation, except for the way his eyes keep dragging back to the vampire with the bright red gaze and the long, ink-dark hair. Seonghwa. The one who built all of this with his own hands. There’s no way to put words to the ache of realizing that Seonghwa worked so hard to build his coven from nothing, to shape a home where once he had been content with only Hongjoong.
Hongjoong still doesn’t understand why he decided to start turning humans. Why he decided to share the eternity that had once belonged to them alone. But he did. He chose. And now, there are three fledglings who orbit him like desperate planets, clinging to the shelter of his name, calling him home.
Three little vampires who dared to claim what Hongjoong once thought was his alone—the vampire who had been his compass, his anchor, his home too.
Maybe that’s what stings most. Maybe that’s why he can’t bring himself to strip them away. Because in some warped, one-sided way, he can still call it an alliance. A crooked kind of peace. The vampires are allowed into wolf territory, though the wolves will never set foot across the coven’s lines. Not without risk. Not without blood. It’s a bargain tilted to breaking, a mercy carved out of something much older, much more fragile. A one-sided love.
“To another thousand years.” Hongjoong shrugs, his voice rough but steady, cutting the silence like a blade dulled by age.
He turns on his heel then, not sparing the vampires another word. His pack doesn’t need a command—they fall in behind him without hesitation, their footsteps echoing his, steady, purposeful. Hongjoong walks with the same confidence he had walking in, shoulders squared, chin lifted, though the weight in his chest drags heavy.
The two remaining vampires—Yunho and Jongho—do not hide the way they watch him. Their eyes are sharp, unyielding, assessing him with that particular hardness only the young carry, the kind of defiance that comes from knowing nothing of loss yet. And Hongjoong meets their stare without flinching, his own eyes like steel. Let them look. Let them measure him.
It is a kindness to allow them within his territory. A grace he has extended only for Seonghwa’s sake. But he owes them nothing—not his respect, not his warmth, not even his voice. The only reason they are still breathing is because Seonghwa wished it so. Because they are his.
And Hongjoong—no matter what centuries have done to him—would never hurt Seonghwa.
The outside air is cleaner, less suffocating than the syrup-thick staleness inside, but oh—how Hongjoong’s wolf misses it already. That rotten-sweet scent, as cloying as it is, is tangled with memory. It clings to him, coats his lungs like smoke that refuses to leave, and for a fleeting second he almost wants to turn back.
“What was that?” San blurts the moment the coven house is out of sight, his voice sharper than usual, the forest swallowing up his words. His shoulders are hunched, hackles raised, every part of him humming with the leftover tension of Wooyoung’s hiss.
“You knew him?” Mingi cuts in before Hongjoong can answer, his tone laced with something rougher, more pointed. Suspicion, frustration—jealousy, even. “You’ve known him?”
“It is none of your business,” Hongjoong replies, clipped, not breaking his stride. His gaze stays fixed ahead, watching the forest darken and swell around them. The trees rise like loyal sentries, roots deep, branches interwoven—a living fortress he knows better than the lines on his own hands. He should. He planted them, every sapling chosen and placed, a thousand years ago when the earth was younger and softer beneath his claws. This forest is his, as much a part of his body as bone and blood.
“It all happened before you were even a thought to your parents,” he adds, his voice edged with finality, though the echo of red eyes burns behind his lids.
“Is that why our territory is so close to theirs?” Mingi presses, sharper now, his long legs carrying him up to Hongjoong’s side. His wolf is restless, bristling, daring to meet his leader stride for stride. “Why we’re the only wolves stupid enough to live this close to vampires?”
“We never had any issues until now.” Hongjoong shakes his head, though the denial feels hollow. His chest aches as Seonghwa’s face flashes in his mind again—red eyes where once they were dark, soft, human.
“We’re going to have more issues if they’re just allowed to wander into our territory,” Mingi argues, his voice rising with the growl in his chest as he angles himself fully toward Hongjoong, challenging him outright. “Vampires in wolf land? That’s not peace, that’s suicide. That’s blood waiting to happen.”
“And torn throats.” San spits the words out like venom, disgust plain in his tone. His hands curl into fists, nails dimpling his palms.
Hongjoong stops. Just like that. The shift is so sudden that both boys nearly stumble into him. Slowly, deliberately, he turns on his heel, his gaze pinning San with the full weight of his authority. His voice is low, almost calm, but there is iron beneath it.
“You do not harm them,” Hongjoong says, each word clipped and heavy, sharp as teeth sinking into flesh. His stare does not waver, cold and commanding. “Not even a harsh word. Are we clear?”
The forest quiets around them, waiting.
“Why?” San shoots back immediately, his eyes burning as he meets Hongjoong’s stare without flinching. It’s bold—too bold for a pup so freshly grown, but that’s the danger of youth. They still believe they are invincible, that fangs and claws are enough to tear through the world. Naturally, their minds are not yet sharpened to the edge of survival, not tempered by centuries of blood and loss. They are wolves, yes—but still pups. Barely grown adults stumbling out of adolescence, still learning where the line between defiance and death lies.
Hongjoong had started late. Later than most pack leaders. He knew what it was to fumble, to learn the hard way, but he does not have the patience to indulge their recklessness now.
“It’s personal,” he says flatly, the words cutting off the subject like a door slammed in their faces. He turns to keep walking, expecting the matter to be dropped—but the crunch of leaves and a heavy presence in his path stops him short. Mingi has stepped forward, blocking his way, his chest puffed up, his shoulders squared. The young wolf’s face is twisted with frustration, his lips drawn tight over his teeth.
“You want to do this now?” Hongjoong asks, voice low, dangerous. The air between them sharpens.
“You befriended a vampire,” Mingi accuses, his voice rough with anger, with betrayal. He spits the word vampire like it’s poison. “But he doesn’t think of you as a friend. Not anymore.”
Hongjoong’s eyes narrow, his expression unyielding, carved from stone.
“If we were not friends,” he says evenly, voice carrying the weight of something older than both of them, “his fledglings would have killed you the moment you crossed into their territory.”
He takes a step closer, forcing Mingi to tilt his chin up to keep eye contact, forcing him to feel the weight of his leader’s shadow.
“Tell me, pup,” Hongjoong continues, voice dropping lower, sharpened to a blade’s edge, “do you truly think you could survive three vampires going after you?”
The question hangs heavy in the cold night air, sinking into the silence like a claw through flesh.
“Home. Now.”
Hongjoong seethes, each word sharp enough to cut. His voice is low, commanding, and it sends a ripple through the pack. Mingi caves first, his bravado faltering under the weight of his leader’s tone. With a huff, shoulders sagging, he lowers his head and turns away, frustration rolling off him in waves. Hongjoong’s eyes snap to San next—San hesitates, eyes flicking with the wild fire of defiance before dimming. His reluctance is clear, but he follows, steps stiff. Yeosang, who has lingered uncertainly, frowns and scurries after San, almost tripping in his rush like a pup afraid of being abandoned.
Hongjoong watches the three of them go, his wolves moving through the trees with instinctive ease, slipping into the undergrowth until only the sound of leaves crunching underfoot remains. Silence descends again, heavier, the forest suddenly feeling too still.
“What do you want?” Hongjoong mutters, his voice all growl now, carrying just enough warning that whoever lingers should already know they’re pressing their luck.
A soft chuckle answers him.
“Hm. I’m surprised,” comes a voice, smooth but smug. One of Seonghwa’s fledglings steps out from behind the dark trunk of a pine, tall and unhurried, as though he’s strolling through his own hunting ground. The last light of the sun struggles through the leaves overhead, but it doesn’t reach him fully. He sticks close to the shadow, moving with the wary restraint of one still bound by the sun’s chains. His pale skin seems even sharper in the half-light, his expression carved into a smirk that reeks of arrogance.
“I thought I covered my scent well,” the vampire admits, as if proud, eyes gleaming faintly red.
“Does he know you’re out here?” Hongjoong asks, voice like iron, pinning the fledgling with his gaze. His lips barely curl, but the disdain is clear, sharp as fangs.
The vampire—Yunho—smiles wider, a boyish grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He only shrugs, careless, like the notion of being caught doesn’t trouble him.
“I was curious,” he says simply, as if curiosity alone is reason enough to stalk a wolf pack leader in his own woods.
“Curiosity is not a virtue,” Hongjoong replies flatly, the words clipped, his tone cold as stone. His hands curl into fists at his sides, claws threatening to break through.
“Curiosity killed the cat, as the humans say…” Yunho tilts his head, watching Hongjoong like he’s waiting for a reaction, his grin curling into something more taunting. His teeth glint faintly in the shadows, sharp and white. “I wonder what they say about dogs.”
The words hang between them like bait, deliberate, testing—an invitation for a fight neither of them has truly been given permission to start.
“I was the one who found your wolf, you know,” Yunho says lightly, almost sing-song, like it’s all some kind of sick joke meant to toy with Hongjoong’s temper. His voice carries through the trees with a strange ease, too casual for the words he speaks. “I had thought no wolf would willingly run into our territory—but imagine my surprise, coming across a big, grey wolf growling and snapping at me.”
He bares his teeth in a smile, smug, flashing fangs that catch what little light filters through the canopy. His posture is loose, almost lazy, but Hongjoong can see the sharpness in him, the readiness to spring.
“And imagine my surprise,” Yunho adds, tilting his head just slightly, eyes gleaming, “when Seonghwa said none of us could kill him.”
Hongjoong’s jaw tenses, but his expression doesn’t break. He lets the silence stretch until Yunho’s grin starts to feel too loud. Finally, he says pointedly, voice clipped and heavy:
“I can’t give you answers. You want answers, ask your master.”
“Sire,” Yunho corrects instantly, without missing a beat, the word rolling off his tongue like a well-practiced prayer. He straightens just a touch, no longer slouched, his smirk fading into something sharper, colder. “He does not like being called master.”
Hongjoong exhales through his nose, slow, steady, the kind of controlled release that keeps his wolf from lunging. He isn’t sure what it is about this fledgling, but he’s… interesting. Dangerous in the way a blade left on the ground is dangerous—casual, careless, yet capable of spilling blood the second you pick it up wrong. Beneath all the cockiness, beneath the overconfidence of youth, Yunho gives away more than he should. His loyalty, his reverence, his cracks.
“What is it you want?” Hongjoong asks finally, voice even, though his golden eyes glint like a warning under the forest shadows.
“If you hurt Sire, I will kill you,” Yunho says simply, his voice even and without hesitation, the same way he might state the weather. His shoulders are squared, posture still but ready. Hongjoong can’t help but smile at that—slow, deliberate, the kind of smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He shifts his attention fully onto Yunho, intrigued by the boldness of the fledgling standing in front of him.
“That is all you came out here to say?” Hongjoong arches his brows, tilting his head as if amused. “To threaten me?”
“To make sure you understand.” Yunho shrugs, a small, contained movement, but his jaw tightens with the effort to remain calm. “You may have had him in the past, but he is ours now. You do not matter to him anymore.”
Hongjoong’s laugh is soft and sharp, more exhale than sound.
“You and the pups are so similar,” he muses, his tone carrying something between mockery and genuine fascination. His boots crunch faintly against the ground as he steps closer, gaze never leaving Yunho. Yunho frowns but doesn’t flinch, holding his stare like a challenge.
“Ask yourself why you are allowed in my territory, but I am not allowed in yours.” Hongjoong’s eyes narrow, his expression cutting as a blade. His voice dips lower, meant to linger. “When you get the answer, fledgling, come find me.”
“Your wolf will not be happy if I wander.” Yunho’s words come sharper now, his own warning laced beneath them. Hongjoong only shrugs, casual in the face of Yunho’s edge.
“He has his moments,” he says, turning away, the line tossed over his shoulder like something unimportant. “He is loyal, like a servant to its owner.”
Yunho’s glare hardens, the insult sinking in, though he holds his tongue. Hongjoong catches the look as he walks, entertained by the flicker of fire in the fledgling’s eyes. So much like his pups—eager, protective, clever enough to try and weave traps but not yet skilled enough to close them around anything of true worth.
Close, but never quite catching their prey.
But they are not stupid, Hongjoong thinks as he walks away, the smirk fading into something thoughtful. His boots press into the earth with measured weight, each step echoing in the quiet between the trees. He gets past a few trunks before instinct makes him glance back.
Wooyoung is there.
The younger fledgling doesn’t move, doesn’t blink—half-hidden behind a tree, but not enough to conceal the way his gaze cuts through the shadows. His eyes lock onto Hongjoong’s with an unnatural stillness, something deadly simmering in those otherwise lifeless depths. Hongjoong recognizes it instantly. Not hesitation. Not fear. The same sharpened instinct his own pups carry when cornered.
Pups or fledgling, it doesn’t matter. They have all been taught the same lesson: hunt in numbers, never strike alone. Success depends not on strength, but on certainty—on someone else circling just out of sight, waiting to finish what the first cannot. It seems, Hongjoong notes with a flicker of dry amusement, that they share at least that much in common. A skill he and Seonghwa both value above all else. Safety.
He turns away again, letting the weight of Wooyoung’s stare burn at his back as he walks down the faint, invisible path. The path only he can still see. Once, long ago, the trees were smaller, and his tread had carved a trail into the dirt—proof of his presence, of his endless comings and goings. Now the years have swallowed it. The grass has grown over every mark, every impression. There is no path anymore. No bridge between one world and the next.
When he finally crosses back into his own territory, it settles over him like a second skin. The air changes. The scents shift, familiar and untainted. No foreign musk, no watchful eyes waiting just beyond the trees. The unease loosens its grip on his chest, replaced by the quiet certainty of home.
Hongjoong keeps walking, his strides unhurried but heavy, and eventually the forest thins until the shadows give way to open air. The treeline spills out into a vast grass field, the blades swaying faintly with the evening wind. At the very center of it stands the house.
It’s a structure that speaks of permanence—rather big, broad, with a proud roof and more windows than the vampire dwelling could ever boast. The vampires lived in walls meant to keep things out, to imprison, to remind their own of the hierarchy inside. This, though—this was a home. Built solid, but with openness in its glass and its wood, made for living rather than looming. A home for four wolves.
Hongjoong approaches the porch, boots scuffing softly over the steps before the boards beneath him creak and squeak under his weight. He enters without hesitation, shoulders relaxing almost imperceptibly. The smell hits him immediately. Wolf. Familiar musk, layered in every surface and every room. His chest loosens. It smells like home.
“When were you going to tell us you were friends with a vampire?” Mingi demands the second he crosses the threshold. His voice is sharp, accusing, already waiting for a fight.
Hongjoong doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he bends down, unhurried, fingers working the laces. He tugs, pulls, and loosens the knots of his boots, setting them neatly aside by the door. They may be wolves, but they are not animals. He insists on that much.
“All buddy-buddy with a vampire?” San scoffs from the hall, arms folded, expression caught somewhere between disbelief and irritation. His tone is mocking, but his eyes are searching, hungry for an explanation. “Hongjoong, you would’ve mentioned it. We’d remember.”
“You drilled into us that vampires were not to be trusted,” Yeosang adds softly, quieter than the others but no less cutting. His brows furrow, the betrayal in his tone understated but present.
Hongjoong moves past them, his gait calm, collected. He makes his way into the living room and lowers himself onto the sofa, his posture deliberate. He leans back, gaze heavy, while his three pups instinctively position themselves in front of him—standing as if they are a wall, waiting, demanding.
He notices the small things: Mingi in different clothes, the fabric fresh. The boy has likely already decided he’ll burn the ones he wore in vampire territory. Wolves do not keep things touched by their enemy. Wolves do not allow themselves to smell of the enemy.
“How do you know him?” Mingi presses, sharper this time. His arms cross over his chest, his whole stance rigid. It isn’t just about the secret—it’s about loyalty. About their leader keeping something hidden that should’ve been theirs to carry, too. His anger is real, but beneath it, Hongjoong recognizes the sting of betrayal.
Hongjoong exhales slowly, the sound closer to a sigh, though the red flicker behind his eyes betrays the storm clawing its way through him. A memory surges—unbidden, unwanted—hot and raw. A flash of red, of loss, of a time buried deep beneath years and dirt. A memory that should’ve stayed six feet under but has lingered, stubborn, walking this world the same way he does.
He looks up at them. At his pups—his responsibility, his blood. And with words that taste like rust on his tongue, he says it.
“I loved him.”