Chapter Text
“Strawberry matcha latte.”
“Credit here.” Shuaibo held up the POS machine.
“Aren’t you even gonna ask for something else?” The man across the counter huffed out a sharp, amused laugh.
Shuaibo tapped away at the screen, eyes never lifting from the glowing interface. “Full sugar, less ice, extra matcha. Takeaway, no membership, always pays by credit card.”
“Am I right?” He finally flicked his gaze up, locking eyes with the man.
The POS machine was still in his hand, his expression that same subtle, almost rigid polite smile baristas wear for difficult customers. “If that checks out, you can swipe now, Mr. Seo.”
Jeongwoo tapped his card, raised a lazy eyebrow, and took the receipt Shuaibo slid across the counter.
“Thank you for your patronage.” Shuaibo stuck the slip onto the shelf behind him, where it hung limply until JL—his junior barista, still fumbling with the espresso machine—peeled it off later to file away.
During his first real break in hours, the kid bounded over, squatting at his feet with the kind of starry-eyed admiration only new hires have. “You’re insane, Shuaibo Hyung! I still can’t keep track of half our regulars, and you’ve got every order memorized.”
“Having a good memory isn’t always a blessing.” Shuaibo leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a split second—long enough to let the hum of the café fade into background noise before he spoke again.
Of course it isn’t.
His phone, tossed carelessly on the table corner, rang exactly when he knew it would.
He stayed curled up in his seat, letting the ringtone blare for forty slow, torturous seconds until the caller hung up in frustration.
Then—just like clockwork—it started ringing again.
This time, he picked up, his voice a deadpan monotone. “Hello, how may I help you?”
He already knew the script by heart. The question was just a formality. His memory was too sharp, too cruel—even a full year had passed since the last time he’d gotten this call, and he could recite every single word of the conversation verbatim.
“Mr. Zhang, correct?” The voice on the other end was a familiar, icy female drone, the kind that sounds like it’s been programmed to care just enough to not get sued. “If you’re available, please report to the hospital for your annual pheromone test. This year’s mandatory mating program is commencing shortly.”
Shuaibo hesitated, his fingers tightening around the phone. “But I….”
“Our records indicate you were successfully paired last year,” she cut him off, her tone never wavering, “but you submitted a mate revocation application in mid-year. Might we inquire if a rift occurred between you and your former partner?”
Shuaibo’s grip on his shirt hem tightened until his knuckles turned white.
He took a shaky breath, his voice cracking as he forced the words out. “…Yes. We broke up. After that, I had his mark removed. The procedure left my gland severely damaged. I don’t think I’m… qualified to participate in the program again.”
“Mandatory participation is required for all citizens aged twenty-five to thirty who still produce pheromones,” she replied, cold and final. “No exceptions.”
Shuaibo froze, his body going rigid on the couch. He listened to her recite the test instructions in that same chilling monotone, his ears ringing with every word.
At the very end, she added a line that sounded almost like a threat, wrapped in a thin veneer of politeness. “You will attend, won’t you? If your potential mate is unwilling to accept your condition, you may submit another revocation application. The choice is ultimately yours.”
Before Shuaibo could argue, the line went dead, leaving nothing but a long, static-filled dial tone hanging in the air.
No choice. No escape. He dialed another number, his hands shaking so bad he almost missed the call button.
“Woongki….”
He hesitated, the words sticking in his throat—he hated asking for favors, even from him.
But Woongki already knew what he was going to say, his voice warm and teasing through the speaker. “Pheromone test day again, huh? Don’t worry, I’ll go with you. Meet me at the hospital at three, okay, darling?”
“Thank you.” Shuaibo smiled, a small, wobbly thing. He knew Woongki’s nonchalance was just a mask—underneath it all, he cared too much. But he was grateful anyway, whether it was as a friend, or as the ex-mate whose bond he’d shattered.
Seoul’s newborn population had plummeted to crisis levels, and the government’s solution was simple—brutally so.
All unmarried, differentiated citizens between twenty-five and thirty had to take an annual pheromone test. Anyone with a compatibility rate over sixty percent was forced into mandatory dating, all in the name of boosting the post-2000 generation’s marriage and birth rates.
At twenty-five, Shuaibo had been a die-hard bachelor, refusing to let something as trivial as pheromones dictate his love life. He’d fought with his assigned mate halfway through their first date, and that had been the end of that.
At twenty-six, he’d been paired with Woongki—his best friend of six years, the person who knew him better than anyone else in the world. Even though their time together had been perfect, like something out of a dream, he’d never been able to shake the label of “friend.” Their relationship had fizzled out, slow and painful, until there was nothing left but awkward silences and what-ifs.
At twenty-seven, he’d finally thought he’d found it—the real thing. But all that man had left him with was an unfinished wedding, a plain band ring that never fit quite right, and a gland so damaged it was a miracle it still worked at all.
Shuaibo hated to admit it, but a piece of him had died the day he walked out of that mark removal clinic—taken away by that Alpha, never to be returned.
Six months into their relationship, he’d submitted the third revocation application of his life, and never looked back.
Now he was twenty-eight. No longer a kid, no longer naive enough to believe in happily ever after.
He’d tried to move on over the past six months—he really had. But he’d quickly realized he’d stepped onto a path of loneliness from which there was no turning back.
Most people ran the second they found out about his damaged gland—his weak pheromones, his almost non-existent ruts, his body’s refusal to behave like a “proper” Omega. To them, he was broken goods, unworthy of love.
And Shuaibo would always beat them to the punch, forcing a smile and suggesting a breakup before they could find the words. He’d shove his hands into his pockets, his beautiful face twisted into a sad, little smile, and pretend it didn’t hurt when they walked away without a second glance.
Eventually, he’d learned to stop trying. He’d dug out that ill-fitting ring from his ex and started wearing it on his middle finger—a shield, a warning. When Alphas hit on him at the café, he’d hold up his left hand and lie through his teeth, saying he was engaged.
The ring would wobble loosely on his finger whenever he did, a constant reminder of how unsteady his life was. He felt like a bird without feet, born to fly, destined to keep soaring until the day he dropped dead from exhaustion.
Then the pheromone test rolled around again, and his carefully constructed world came crashing down.
Shuaibo had made peace with being single forever. Spending the rest of his life running his café with Woongki sounded perfect—simple, quiet, safe. Love was overrated, anyway. He’d take the semi-permanent companionship of a friend over the pain of another failed relationship any day.
If his new assigned mate rejected him, he swore he’d get surgery by twenty-nine—remove his damaged gland entirely, live out the rest of his days as a Beta. No more ruts, no more pheromones, no more mandatory mating programs. No more heartbreak.
“You’re being too hard on yourself,” Woongki would always say, his voice soft with worry. He never yelled, never lectured—but Shuaibo could hear the fear underneath it all. The surgery was risky, the cost enormous, the consequences irreversible. But he didn’t care. He had to do it.
No matter what.
He glanced at the digital clock on the wall, gave JL a quick rundown of his duties, grabbed his bag, and stepped outside to hail a taxi.
Just in case, a tiny voice whispered in the back of his mind as the taxi jolted down the street. Just in case the bird without feet finally finds its tree.
Woongki was leaning against a pillar at the hospital entrance, wearing a faded denim jacket that made him look younger than his twenty-eight years.
Shuaibo walked over to him automatically, pulling his scarf up to cover half his face—he hated hospitals, hated the way people stared at his Omega gland like it was a spectacle. He looped his arm through Woongki’s, seeking comfort in his warmth.
“No one’s gonna recognize you,” Woongki sighed, turning to tuck his scarf back down—he’d wrapped it so tight it was almost choking him. “Hiding a face like that is a crime, y’know.”
“I don’t care what people think,” Shuaibo mumbled, smiling up at him despite himself.
But the hospital lobby was a chaotic mess, their quiet conversation swallowed up by the roar of chatter and beeping machines the second they stepped inside.
Woongki put a hand out to stop him, pulling him toward a quiet side path. “Heard some nurses talking while I was waiting. Some big-shot CEO is on his deathbed, and all his kids are here fighting over the inheritance. The crowd over there? Total zoo.”
CEO. The word sent a jolt of nostalgia through Shuaibo—he’d quit his corporate job years ago, but the memory still lingered. He couldn’t help glancing back, his eyes scanning the sea of people.
The crowd was a swirling mass of expensive suits and fake smiles, a milky-white swamp of greed and desperation. But his gaze landed on the man standing on the edge of it all, and everything else faded away.
It was impossible not to notice him. His hair was dyed stark white, a stark contrast to his black suit. He stood there coldly, aloofly, his eyes lowered, his face completely expressionless—as if the chaos around him meant nothing at all.
His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms covered in tiny needle marks, now bruised and discolored. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.
If he was an heir, he sure didn’t act like it—he didn’t yell, didn’t argue, didn’t even look at the people fighting over the CEO’s fortune. But Shuaibo could sense it, somehow—he was the eye of the storm, the center of it all.
Then Woongki pulled him away, and the man vanished from his sight, replaced by the familiar, sterile sight of the blood draw window.
The pheromone test was simple enough—registration, blood work, pheromone extraction. Rinse and repeat.
But Shuaibo’s gland was too damaged. The nurse tried three times to extract viable pheromones, her face growing more frustrated with each failed attempt. Finally, she sighed and injected him with a rut-inducing drug, rescheduling his test for last place.
Woongki took off his jacket and draped it over Shuaibo’s shoulders as he sat silently on the waiting room bench, his body already starting to burn up from the drug.
“Thanks….” Shuaibo’s voice trembled. Most Alphas couldn’t smell his scent anymore, but he could still smell theirs—Woongki’s, warm and sweet like peach soda, wrapping around him like a blanket. It was comforting, familiar, safe.
Woongki just looked down at him, his lips parting like he wanted to say something. But he didn’t. He just stood there, watching over him, his expression unreadable.
The drug worked fast. Shuaibo’s body was on fire, his skin prickling with heat. He hadn’t felt a rut in over half a year—had almost forgotten what it felt like. He clutched Woongki’s jacket tightly, burying his face in the fabric, trying to ground himself in the familiar scent.
“Jian Chihen.”
The mechanical female voice cut through the noise, sharp and clear.
Shuaibo’s head snapped up.
That white hair. That black suit. That emotionless face.
“It’s him.” Woongki’s voice was tight with recognition.
But Shuaibo didn’t care. His hands tightened into fists, his nails digging into his palms. His body was burning hotter now, his shaking growing more violent by the second.
He couldn’t smell anything—nothing but Woongki’s peach soda scent, warm and sweet and safe. But there was something else, something dangerous, pressing down on him from all sides—an overwhelming sense of pressure that crushed his bond with Woongki, that pinned him in place, that made his Omega instincts scream run.
Woongki looked just as confused as he did, his eyes wide with concern. “Shuaibo? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
If the man was a higher-ranked Alpha, Woongki would’ve felt it—would’ve been just as affected as he was. But he wasn’t. He was fine. Perfectly fine.
Which meant it wasn’t Alpha pressure.
Which meant it was worse.
Shuaibo wrapped Woongki’s jacket tighter around himself, but the sweet scent did nothing to calm him down. Desperately, he caught a whiff of his own pheromones—cherry, sweet and cloying, flooding out of his gland uncontrollably.
“Take me to the test room,” he gasped, his eyes filling with tears. He felt like he was going to break apart.
Woongki didn’t ask questions. He just nodded, helping him to his feet, his arm wrapped firmly around his waist. He could read people like a book, and Shuaibo was clearly falling apart—helpless, panicked, scared.
He didn’t know it was an Omega’s primal survival instinct kicking in, triggered by something far more dangerous than an Alpha.
Thankfully, the pheromone extraction worked this time. By the time it was over, Shuaibo was collapsed against Woongki’s shoulder, his legs too weak to stand. Every breath he took was filled with the sickly sweet cherry scent of his own pheromones, making him want to gag.
Woongki touched his forehead, his hand cool against his burning skin. “Is this the drug? Wait here, I’ll go get suppressants.”
Shuaibo didn’t answer. He just sobbed, tears streaming down his face, soaking into his red knit scarf. He felt like a child, helpless and alone.
“What’s wrong, princess?” Woongki patted his pockets frantically, but he had no tissues. He sighed and used his thumb to wipe away the tears, his touch gentle, his voice soft with worry.
Shuaibo couldn’t explain it. He didn’t know what was wrong. He’d never felt anything like this before—this overwhelming sense of dread, this primal fear, this need to run. His knowledge of Omega physiology was pitifully limited, just like Woongki’s. He had no answers.
A stranger brought them the suppressants—light pink liquid in a tiny syringe. The nurse injected it into his forearm, and the heat started to fade, slowly but surely. But Shuaibo still sat on the bench, sniffling quietly, his body still trembling.
Their commotion must have caught the man’s attention. Chihen turned around from the blood draw window, his cold eyes flicking over to them for a split second—just long enough to meet Shuaibo’s gaze.
Then he looked away, like Shuaibo was nothing more than a fly buzzing around his head.
Shuaibo’s mind felt like it was splitting in two. He couldn’t smell any other Alphas—his Omega senses would’ve picked up on it, no matter how faint. But the pressure was still there, lingering in the back of his mind, making his skin crawl.
He barely remembered begging Woongki to take him away. He barely remembered stumbling into an empty elevator, his legs shaking so bad he could barely stand. He barely remembered wrapping his soaking wet scarf tighter around himself as he staggered toward the exit.
But he remembered the second he stepped outside the hospital doors—the pressure lifted, like a weight being taken off his chest. The heat vanished. The trembling stopped. He was back to normal, back to his safe, familiar self.
The suppressant worked, he told himself. It was just the drug.
But a tiny voice whispered, Or you got away from him.
Woongki stood beside him, his face etched with concern, but Shuaibo kept insisting he was fine. He turned down his offer to walk him home, hailing a taxi instead.
Shuaibo stared at his hand as the car jolted down the street, at the faint, red indentation the ring had left on his skin—burning, itching, aching.
It hurt. It was giving him an allergic reaction. But he refused to take it off. He was stubborn like that—once he made up his mind about something, nothing could change it.
In the days leading up to the mating results, Shuaibo found himself scrolling through the internet late at night, searching for information about Chihen. He knew it was stupid, knew it was futile—but he couldn’t help himself.
To his disbelief, he found something. Chihen, the only legitimate son of the Jian Group CEO—at least, on paper. The crowd at the hospital had been his father’s illegitimate children, all fighting over the inheritance like vultures.
His profile was sparse, almost empty. Under his traditional Chinese name, his information was listed in cold, clinical terms: 24 years old, Male Beta.
Shuaibo frowned.
Beta.
Beta men weren’t required to take the pheromone test. They weren’t part of the mating program. They were invisible, irrelevant—just background noise in the chaotic world of Alphas and Omegas.
So why was he there?
It must be a mistake, he told himself. Old data. A glitch in the system. It didn’t matter. He was a café owner. Chihen was a rich CEO’s son. They lived in two completely different worlds.
He went back to work, to his safe, predictable routine.
He and JL ran the café like a well-oiled machine, his fingers moving automatically as he made drink after drink.
He memorized orders, wiped down counters, smiled at customers.
He turned down advances from strangers, the ring wobbling on his finger, the lie about being engaged rolling off his tongue easily.
At twenty-eight, Shuaibo was still a bird without feet—flying, always flying, with no idea where he was going.
Then the call came.
Shuaibo was wiping his hands on his apron when his phone rang, that same icy female voice on the other end.
“Thank you for participating in this year’s pheromone mating program. Congratulations—we have found you a partner with a compatibility rate of 97%.”
Ninety-seven percent.
Shuaibo’s blood ran cold. He’d never gotten a score that high—not even with Woongki, whose pheromones had practically become a part of him over the years. Their compatibility rate had been a measly 78%.
97% was unheard of. It was practically a guarantee of a perfect match.
“The other party’s profile has been sent to your email. Please check it at your earliest convenience.”
The line went dead.
Shuaibo stared at his phone, his hands shaking so bad he almost dropped it. He didn’t want to look. He didn’t want to know. He wanted to delete the email and pretend it never happened.
But curiosity won out. He pressed his fingerprint against the screen, his heart hammering in his chest. He opened the email.
A photo stared back at him.
White hair. Black suit. Emotionless face.
Jian Chihen.
Below the photo, his information was listed in neat, Korean characters.
24 years old.
Male Enigma.
TBC.