Chapter 1 #2
I splash cold water on my face, wincing as it hits the cut.
I pull on my leather jacket over a fresh, dark tank top.
I stuff the envelope of cash into an inside pocket, the bulk of it a comfortable pressure against my chest. One last look in the mirror.
The guy staring back still looks a little wrecked, but his eyes are bright, anticipatory. Ready for the next thing.
Eclipse is packed. The bass line from the speakers is so heavy I feel it in my sternum. Bodies press together on the dance floor, a writhing mass of limbs and sweat under the strobing lights. The air is thick, humid with the heat of too many people in too small a space.
Wooil hauls an arm around my shoulders the second we push through the entrance, his grin already wide and loose. He’s had a few drinks at the noodle place, enough to make him chatty and tactile. I let him steer me through the crowd, his hand gripping my shoulder like he’s afraid I’ll bolt.
“There’s Dojoon and the guys,” he shouts over the music, pointing toward a booth in the corner. I can barely make out the faces through the crowd, but I nod anyway.
We weave through the press of bodies. A few heads turn as we pass. I catch the flicker of interest in some eyes, the way they linger on the tattoos crawling up my neck, the piercings glinting in my ears. Wooil notices too. Of course.
“You’re like omega bait, you know that?” he says, leaning close so I can hear him. His breath is warm against my ear, tinged with soju. “It’s that whole dangerous alpha thing you’ve got going on. They can’t resist.”
I snort.
We reach the booth. Dojoon is there with a couple of other guys I recognize from the fight circuit. They’re already deep into a bottle of something that looks expensive, probably paid for with tonight’s winnings. Dojoon raises his glass when he sees me, his grin sharp.
“The man of the hour! Heard you put on a hell of a show tonight.”
“Just another night,” I say, sliding into the booth beside him. Wooil drops in on my other side, already flagging down a server.
The conversation flows around me. Fight talk, mostly.
Who’s moving up, who’s washed out, which promoter is skimming off the top.
I half-listen, my attention drifting to the club around us.
The lights paint everything in shades of blue and purple, turning faces into masks.
The music shifts, something with a faster tempo, and the crowd on the dance floor surges.
It doesn’t take long for the omegas to notice us.
Or more specifically, to notice me. I see them approaching before they reach the table, drawn like moths to a flame they don’t understand.
Three of them, all dressed to kill in tight clothes that leave little to the imagination.
They’re pretty in a polished, deliberate way.
Big eyes, glossy lips, the kind of practiced sweetness that’s supposed to be appealing.
The first one, a guy with bleached hair and a choker, slides up to the edge of the booth. His eyes fix on me, wide and hopeful.
“Hey,” he says, his voice pitched to carry over the music. “You’re Ha Yujeong, right? I saw you fight a few weeks ago. You were amazing.”
I give him a flat look. “Thanks.”
He doesn’t take the hint. He leans in closer, his hand resting on the edge of the table. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“I’m good.”
Wooil, the bastard, is grinning like this is the best entertainment he’s had all week. He leans back in the booth, his arm still draped over my shoulders, and addresses the omega with exaggerated politeness.
“He’s good, but I’ll take one. What are you offering?”
The omega’s attention flickers to Wooil, uncertain. His friends have moved in now, crowding around the booth. One of them, a girl with dark hair and a dress that’s mostly straps, perches on the armrest beside Dojoon. Another slides in next to Wooil, all smiles and batting eyelashes.
Wooil is eating it up. He likes the attention, the validation, the way they laugh at his jokes and touch his arm. It’s harmless, mostly. He’s got his on-again, off-again girlfriend, but he’s never been one to turn down a little flirtation.
I, on the other hand, am already done.
The bleached-haired omega is still hovering, his gaze locked on me. He shifts his weight, leaning in just a little more. I catch the faint, sweet scent of his pheromones. It does nothing for me.
“Are you sure I can’t get you anything?” he tries again, his voice dropping into what I’m sure he thinks is a sultry register.
I meet his eyes, my expression carefully neutral. “I’m sure.”
Wooil laughs, loud and unrestrained. “Don’t take it personally, sweetheart. He’s picky.”
The omega’s smile falters, just a little. He straightens, his pride clearly stung, but he doesn’t leave. Instead, he turns his attention to the conversation, trying to wedge himself into the group. His friends are doing the same, settling in like they’ve been invited.
I give it another thirty seconds before I’ve had enough.
The booth feels too crowded, the air too warm.
The omegas’ voices are high and bright, cutting through the music in a way that grates.
Wooil is in his element, holding court, his arm now around the one who sat beside him.
Dojoon is flirting shamelessly with the girl in the strappy dress. The other guys are equally occupied.
I slide out of the booth without a word. No one notices, or if they do, they don’t care. Wooil is too busy laughing at something one of the omegas said, his face flushed with alcohol and attention.
The crowd swallows me as I move toward the bar. It’s a relief, the anonymity of it. Just another body in the press, no one looking at me with that expectant, hungry expression. I shoulder my way through a cluster of people dancing too close to the bar and finally break through to the counter.
The bartender, a beta woman with a shaved head and a nose ring, catches my eye immediately. She’s good at her job, quick and no-nonsense. I like that.
“Whiskey. Neat,” I say, raising my voice to be heard.
She nods and turns to grab a bottle from the shelf behind her. I lean against the bar, my elbows resting on the sticky surface, and let myself breathe.
I’m about to take another drink when I catch a scent threading through the thick soup of other scents that fill the club.
It’s different. Sharper. The unmistakable signature of alpha pheromones, but not the aggressive, posturing kind that most of the alphas in here throw around.
This is subtler, more confident. It makes something in my chest tighten with interest.
I turn, scanning the crowd near the bar. It takes a second, but then I spot him.
He’s leaning against the bar about ten feet down, tall and built in a way that suggests he actually uses his body for something other than looking good in a mirror.
Dark hair swept back, strong jaw, the kind of face that probably gets him whatever he wants without much effort.
He’s dressed well but not flashy. A fitted black shirt, dark jeans. Simple and confident.
An alpha. A real one.
My pulse kicks up a notch. This could be promising.
I push off the bar and make my way over, weaving through the people crowding around trying to get the bartender’s attention. When I’m close enough, I lean against the bar beside him, angling my body so I’m facing him but not crowding his space. Not yet.
“Busy night,” I say, pitching my voice to carry over the music but keeping it casual.
He glances over, his eyes doing a quick sweep of me. I see the moment of assessment, the flicker of interest. His lips curve into an easy smile.
“Always is on a Saturday,” he replies. His voice is smooth, relaxed. He doesn’t seem bothered by my approach, which is a good sign. “You come here often?”
I almost laugh at the line, but I let it slide. “Often enough. You?”
“First time, actually. Friend dragged me out.” He gestures vaguely toward the dance floor with his drink. “Said I needed to get out more.”
“Smart friend,” I say, letting my gaze linger on him a little longer. Up close, he’s even better looking. Strong features, clear eyes that hold mine without flinching. There’s an ease to him, confidence that doesn’t feel forced. My interest sharpens.
He chuckles, taking a sip of his drink. “Maybe. Jury’s still out.” His eyes flick down to my neck, where I know the edge of my tattoos is visible above my collar. “You fight?”
I raise an eyebrow. “What gave it away?”
“The bruises,” he says, nodding toward my face. “And the way you move. Like you’re ready for someone to swing at you.”
Perceptive. I like that.
“Underground circuit,” I admit. “Nothing fancy. Just enough to pay the bills and keep things interesting.”
“Interesting,” he echoes, his smile widening. “I bet.” He shifts, turning to face me more fully. “I’m Chanyoung.”
“Yujeong.”
We shake hands. His grip is firm and warm. The contact sends a little thrill up my arm. This is going well. Better than I expected. He’s not backing down, not looking away. He’s holding his ground, meeting me as an equal.
I lean in a little closer, close enough that the noise of the club fades just slightly, close enough that the space between us feels deliberate. His scent is stronger here, that clean alpha edge cutting through everything else. It makes my skin prickle with anticipation.
“So, Chanyoung,” I say, dropping my voice just a fraction, “what are you drinking?”
“Vodka tonic,” he says. “You?”
“Whiskey. Neat.”
“Straight to the point. I like that.”
“I don’t see the point in complicating things,” I reply, holding his gaze. The air between us feels charged, the kind of tension that promises something if you’re willing to push it.
He leans in too, mirroring my posture. We’re close now, close enough that I can see the faint stubble on his jaw, the way his eyes are dark and intent. Close enough to test the waters.