Chapter Text
Desires. Dreams. Everyone knows these things, how easily the hope build in someone’s heart. How easily destroyed hope can be. This feeling of happiness once belonged to Hyunjin but it didn’t last long. 15 years prior. Hwang hyunjin before the incident
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Hyunjin had always known he was different. As a child, he tried so hard to be what his family wanted. Strong, fearless, an alpha like his father and older brother. But no matter how much he tried, he was never enough. He was too soft, too quiet, too weak. His father barely looked at him, except when he was angry. His mother ignored him unless she had something cruel to say. His older brother shoved him aside like he was nothing. And his younger siblings? They learned quickly that it was safer to pretend he didn’t exist. While other kids played and learned how to fight, Hyunjin was left alone. No one taught him how to survive, how to make a nest, how to be safe. Omegas were supposed to be cared for, protected. But in his family, being an omega was the worst thing he could be. So, when he presented early——it was a disaster. He was only eight when the first signs showed. He woke up one morning feeling wrong. His skin burned, his senses felt too sharp, and his instincts screamed for comfort, for warmth, for safety.
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He didn’t get any of that. His father dragged him out of bed and told him to stop being pathetic. His mother gave him a disgusted look. “An omega? What a joke.” No one helped him. No one let him rest. He was forced to act normal, to push down the instincts clawing at his chest. He didn’t even know how to make a nest—no one had ever taught him. And when he tried, gathering up a few blankets in the corner of his room, his father found out. The blankets were ripped away. His room was left cold and empty. Their warmth was replaced with more blows from his father. “You’re not some weak little thing that needs a nest,” his father spat. “You’ll learn to act like a real part of this family, or you’ll be nothing.” Hyunjin learned. He learned to hide, to stay quiet, to pretend he wasn’t suffering. He learned to push down the need for warmth, for comfort. He learned that love wasn’t something meant for him. And worst of all, he learned that being himself would never be enough. Present day—
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The wind bit at Hyunjin’s skin as he stood there, staring at the mess that used to be his life. Worn Clothes and shoes, a half-empty bag of instant noodles—all scattered across the cracked pavement like trash. The eviction notice was bright against the door, mocking him, as if he needed a reminder that he had nowhere to go. He pushed back tears, It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen this coming. Rent had been overdue for months, and the landlord had stopped accepting excuses weeks ago. Still, seeing everything he owned dumped outside like this made something sharp twist in his chest. For a long moment, he just stood there, frozen. Then, with a deep breath, he crouched down and started picking through the pile. Most of it was useless—soaked from last night’s rain, torn from careless hands. He grabbed what little he could salvage, stuffing it into his old backpack, his fingers trembling slightly. No money. No food. No place to sleep. Hyunjin let out a hollow laugh, as tears threatened to fall. “Alone again, huh.” His voice sounded too light, too casual for the weight pressing down on him. But that was how it had always been—acting like things didn’t hurt as much as they did. Picking up his bag, he turned away from what used to be his home, stepping onto the empty sidewalk. The city stretched before him, cold and unwelcoming . He had no idea where he was going. But it wasn’t like anyone was waiting for him, anyway.
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Hyunjin pulled his thin coat tighter around himself, but it didn’t help. The cold still bit at his skin, slipping through the worn fabric like it wasn’t even there. His stomach ached from hunger, a deep, hollow pain that wouldn’t go away. He had eaten yesterday—half a stale sandwich he dug out of the trash. That was something, at least. The streets were loud, crowded, but he stayed invisible. People walked past him without a second glance, too busy with their own lives to notice the shivering boy huddled in the corner of an alley. That was fine. He didn’t want their pity.
Night after night, he searched for somewhere safe to sleep. Doorways, alleyways, under old stairwells—anywhere that kept him hidden. But the streets were dangerous, especially for someone like him. He knew better than to trust anyone. His body grew weaker as the days passed. His legs felt heavier, his vision blurred when he stood up too fast. It was getting harder to keep moving. Harder to care. Then, one night, as he stumbled down an empty street, his knees suddenly buckled. He hit the pavement hard, his body too drained to break the fall. His breath came out in weak, shallow gasps.
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He tried to push himself up, but his arms wouldn’t cooperate. His fingers trembled against the cold ground. Fuck. He didn’t want to die here, where people could see and judge his whole existence. He could hear the faint sound of music in the distance—laughter, voices, life carrying on without him. Everything around him faded. His eyes slipped shut. For the first time in a long time, he stopped fighting to stay awake.
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Minho sighed as he locked up his dance studio for the night, rolling his shoulders to shake off the exhaustion settling in. It had been a long day—classes, meetings, and barely enough time to breathe in between. He was ready to go home, take a shower, and pass out. But as he turned to leave, something caught his eye. A figure was slumped near the entrance, half-hidden in the shadows. Minho frowned. It wasn’t the first time someone had passed out near his studio—drunk stragglers, exhausted workers waiting for the first bus, even teenagers skipping school. Usually, he ignored them. Not his problem. But something about this one made him pause. He stepped closer, his sharp gaze scanning the boy curled up on the pavement. He was too thin. His clothes were dirty, his lips pale and cracked. Dark circles bruised the skin under his eyes. And his breathing—shallow and uneven.
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Then Minho noticed something else. Peeking out from messy, tangled hair were soft, rounded ears, twitching slightly even in sleep. A long, spotted tail lay limp against the pavement. Minho exhaled sharply through his nose. A hybrid. That complicated things. He clicked his tongue in irritation. "Seriously?" He muttered to himself, crouching down. He shook the boys shoulder lightly. “Hey. Wake up." No response. Minho sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. He should call someone. An ambulance? The police? But something in his gut told him that wouldn’t go well for the kid. “Great," he muttered, already regretting his decision. With a grunt, he hoisted the boy into his arms. He was lighter than he should have been, all bones and barely any warmth. Minho ignored the uncomfortable feeling that settled in his chest and carried him inside.
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Hyunjin’s eyes snapped open. Warmth. That was the first thing he noticed. A soft surface under him, a blanket draped over his body. His senses screamed at him—wrong. Trap. Run. He hadn’t been warm in days. This wasn’t the street. Panic seized his chest. He bolted upright, his body moving before his mind caught up. His heart pounded as he scanned the unfamiliar space. Wooden floors, large mirrors lining the walls. A desk stacked with papers, a couch nearby. This wasn’t a shelter. This wasn’t a hospital. This was someone’s studio. A door creaked open. Hyunjin tensed, ready to run. “Finally awake?" A voice drawled. A man stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching him with unreadable eyes. He wasn’t big, but he carried himself like someone used to being in control. Then Hyunjin noticed the way the man’s gaze flickered—just for a second—to the ears atop his head. His stomach dropped. His ears. His tail. He had been too exhausted to keep them hidden.
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His breath quickened. His body screamed at him to escape. He scrambled out of the blanket, nearly tripping in his rush to get away. His legs were weak, but fear gave him strength. The man didn’t move, didn’t block his way. “You run, you’ll collapse again," he said flatly. Hyunjin’s steps faltered. “I’m not keeping you here," the man continued, voice calm but firm. "You passed out in front of my studio. I brought you inside. That’s all." Hyunjin’s fingers twitched. His instincts warred against his exhaustion. The man’s face didn’t hold pity—just quiet observation, like he was waiting to see what Hyunjin would do. The air felt too thick. His head pounded. He needed to get out. But his body wouldn’t move. Wouldn’t let him so Rashly leave the comfort of this place.
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Hyunjin didn’t trust Minho. It didn’t matter that he had woken up in a warm place or that he had been given food, clothes, and a quiet corner to sleep in. It didn’t matter that Minho never asked questions, never forced him to talk. None of it mattered. Because nothing in Hyunjin’s life had ever been freely given. So he waited. For the other shoe to drop. For Minho to get tired of him and throw him out. For the kindness to come with a price. At first, he refused everything. He barely ate, barely spoke. He kept his distance, staying curled up in the farthest corner of the studio like a wild animal, tense and ready to run. He still wasn’t strong enough to leave, but he told himself he would be soon. He just needed to wait for his body to recover. Minho didn’t push. He simply went about his usual routine—teaching his classes, managing his business. He acknowledged Hyunjin’s presence, but never hovered, never pried. It was strange. The few times Minho did speak to him, his voice was blunt, but not cruel. "If you’re gonna sit around and do nothing, at least drink water," he’d say, tossing a bottle his way. Or, "You smell like the inside of a garbage can. Take a shower." And his favorite, since you looked like you were about to pass out I was forced to make a 4 course meal…. you’re welcome. Hyunjin guessed that was his way of showing affection. And somehow, that was what made it easier to stay. Minho didn’t pity him. He didn’t try to ‘fix’ him. He just let him exist.
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Then, Felix showed up. The first time Hyunjin saw him, he almost bolted. Minho had stepped out for the day, leaving Hyunjin alone in the studio. He had been curled up on the couch, half-asleep, when the door swung open. His body reacted before his brain could catch up. His claws extended, his tail bristled, and his ears pinned back as he sprang to his feet, ready to defend himself. But instead of danger, he was met with the sight of a boy with bright, freckled cheeks, holding a paper bag in one hand and a cup of something warm in the other. Felix blinked. "Oh," he said. “You’re awake." Hyunjin didn’t respond, his muscles coiled tight. Felix didn’t seem bothered by the hostility rolling off him. He simply stepped inside, kicked the door shut behind him, and walked over like they were friends. “Minho told me to bring you something to eat," he said, setting the bag and cup on the table. Hyunjin’s stomach twisted at the smell—warm, fresh, and far too tempting. But he didn’t move. Felix, to his surprise, didn’t try to make him. Instead, he smiled, soft and easy, and said, “I’ll just leave it here, then. I hope you like pastries." And with that, he left.
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Hyunjin stared at the door long after it had closed. Then, hesitantly, he reached for the bag. The croissant inside was still warm. Felix kept coming back. Hyunjin didn’t know why, but he didn’t stop him. Felix never asked questions, never pushed for conversation. He just showed up, dropped off food, and left. Sometimes he’d sit for a while, chatting about the bakery he owned, the ridiculous customers he dealt with, or the new recipes he was trying. Hyunjin never replied. But he listened. And, slowly, he started eating the food while Felix was still there. The walls he had built around himself weren’t breaking. But for the first time in years, there was a crack.
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Hyunjin was getting used to Felix’s visits. Not comfortable—he didn’t think he’d ever be comfortable—but used to them. The food was good, and Felix was… tolerable. He was warm, gentle in a way that made Hyunjin’s chest ache. But he was still careful. Still wary. So when Felix reached for him—just a small, harmless gesture, a hand brushing against his wrist as he passed him a pastry—Hyunjin didn’t expect it to send him into a spiral. The touch barely lasted a second, but it was enough. His body reacted instantly, instincts screaming at him. His vision blurred, his heart pounded, and suddenly he wasn’t in the studio anymore. He was back there. Trapped. Hands grabbing at him, holding him down. Fingers wrapped too tightly around his wrists, the scent of strangers pressing in, making his stomach turn— No. No. No. He moved before he could think, shoving Felix away with more force than necessary. The sound of Felix stumbling back barely registered through the roar in his ears. “Don’t touch me!" His voice cracked. He barely recognized it.
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Felix’s eyes widened in shock, hands raised as if to show he meant no harm. “Hyunjin—" But Hyunjin wasn’t listening. His breathing was too fast, his body locked in fight-or-flight. He had to get out. He ran for the door, but before he could reach it, another figure blocked his path. Chan. Hyunjin had only met him once before—briefly, in passing. Another one of Minho’s people. Someone he hadn’t let himself get close to. Now, Chan stood in front of him, hands at his sides, body relaxed. He wasn’t trying to stop him. Just watching. “Move," Hyunjin rasped. Chan didn’t. "You’re safe," he said simply.
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The words barely made it through the panic flooding Hyunjin’s mind. Safe. What a joke. He had never been safe. Not then, not now— "Hyunjin," Chan said again, firmer this time. "No one here is going to hurt you." The words hit something deep inside him. Hyunjin staggered back, his breath ragged, his chest tight. He wanted to believe it. But he couldn’t. Felix was still there, hovering near the couch, looking heartbroken. Minho had stepped into the room, arms crossed, unreadable as ever. No one reached for him. No one forced him to stay. The panic didn’t fade, but the fight drained out of him. His legs gave out, and he slid to the floor— sobbing, curling in on himself. For the first time since he had arrived, he broke. And no one tried to stop him, No one yelled at him for being weak. They just stayed as silent support. Stayed, listened, and cared.