Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Seungcheol was born a male omega—an anomaly in a society where being omega already meant living life under glass, and being a male omega placed him even lower in the hierarchy. In his country, everything revolved around designation. It was more than biology; it was law. It dictated where you lived, who you married, what work you were allowed to do, and how much you were worth to the economy. The system was rigid, unyielding, and cruel, and Seungcheol had learned from a young age that no one was interested in changing it.

In this three-tiered society, alphas stood at the top. They were the ruling class, the elite professionals who occupied all the major positions—doctors, engineers, high-ranking government officials, and corporate decision-makers. They made the laws and reaped the rewards, earning more than anyone else and maintaining the illusion that they were the backbone of the country.

Then came the betas. Betas were the practical workforce. They filled in the gaps, supported alpha-led industries, and served as essential gears in the country’s machinery. Betas could earn a living, gain some respect, and even build a future if they worked hard enough. They were never in charge, but they were indispensable.

And then there were omegas.

Omegas were the lowest of the low. They were legally barred from taking on any high-level role and could only occupy support positions—receptionists, clerks, tailors, aides. They were paid poorly, limited to working only a few hours a day, and forbidden by law from earning beyond a capped wage. The system was designed this way for a reason: to push omegas into marriage and childbearing. With the national birth rate falling year after year, the government had grown more aggressive in enforcing laws that kept omegas at home and breeding. Most omegas were born female, and the law assumed their role in society was natural. But for male omegas like Seungcheol, the expectations were even worse—they were seen as unnatural, defective, and at best, disposable.

By law, an omega could earn no more than KRW 1,500,000 (around $1.5k) a month. That was the maximum. No matter how much work they did or how valuable they were, the law ensured they’d never earn enough to be truly independent. That wasn’t an accident—it was strategy. Keep them poor, keep them dependent, and they’d eventually have no choice but to find an alpha, marry, and start producing children. That was the system’s endgame.

But Seungcheol wasn’t playing along.

He found a loophole. If the system only tracked income per job, not total income, then all he had to do was take on multiple jobs. He could stay within the legal limit per job while stacking up wages from three, four, even five different places. It wasn’t safe, and if the government found out, they could revoke his work permits entirely, but he didn’t have a choice.

His younger brother, Seungkwan, was counting on him.

Seungkwan had always wanted to be a doctor. But like everything else in their world, dreams were filtered through designation. Seungkwan was a beta. That meant no matter how intelligent, how driven, or how capable he was, the best he could become was a medical assistant. Still, that didn’t stop him from trying. He applied to a prestigious medical support university and was accepted. Tuition was steep—too steep—but he got in. That should have been the victory. But the moment their parents died in a tragic car accident, everything shifted.

Seungcheol became everything—parent, guardian, breadwinner. Their parents had some insurance, but most of it was swallowed up in the funeral costs and Seungkwan’s admittance test and first-semester fees. Seungkwan didn’t know that. Seungcheol lied. He told him the money was enough, that their parents had saved for this, that he had everything under control. He told him to focus on his studies and promised him he’d never have to worry about money again.

And then Seungcheol went to work.

He juggled jobs like a circus act—waited tables at a busy restaurant on Mondays and Wednesdays, worked overnight shifts at a convenience store on Tuesdays and Thursdays, delivered food and packages every Friday evening and all through the weekends. His body ached constantly, but he endured. It wasn’t about him. It was never about him.

Then came the break he didn’t expect. Mingyu, his best friend since high school, was a beta and worked as a sous chef at one of the city’s upscale restaurants. Mingyu was the one person who knew the full extent of Seungcheol’s situation. One night, after watching Seungcheol nearly pass out mid-shift, Mingyu went home and told his husband, Wonwoo, everything.

Wonwoo was an alpha and worked at a respected legal firm—JIHAN. It was co-owned by a rare alpha couple, Yoon Jeonghan and Joshua Hong, who had built the firm from the ground up despite the scorn and skepticism they faced for their unconventional pairing. Alpha couples were rare, and they were constantly judged for not being able to bear children, but their firm had won high-profile cases and earned national credibility. Their personal lives might be gossip fodder, but professionally, they were untouchable.

Wonwoo offered Seungcheol a position as an office assistant. It wasn’t glamorous, but it came with stable hours, better pay than any of his side gigs, and the protection of working under an alpha-led company. Seungcheol grabbed it with both hands.

He worked under Wonwoo for two years. He was diligent, efficient, and always quiet. He never asked for anything. He never complained. And eventually, Jeonghan and Joshua noticed. They saw his work ethic, his precision, and how quickly he picked up legal workflows and client management—skills no one expected from an omega. They made a decision that surprised everyone: they promoted him to legal secretary, the highest-ranking position an omega had ever held at the firm, and paid him the full legal maximum.

Seungcheol was grateful—genuinely. But it still wasn’t enough.  The tuition fees for Seungkwan’s medical assistant program were steep, and while government funds covered part of it, the rest fell squarely on Seungcheol’s shoulders.

So he kept working his other jobs. He took quick naps in storage rooms, powered through long nights on caffeine, and forced himself to smile when Seungkwan called, asking about school or assignments or how he was doing. He kept up the lie, because it was a necessary one.

All of this—every exhausted night, every aching back, every sleepless hour—he endured with one purpose in mind: Seungkwan. His brother had the potential for a better life, and Seungcheol was determined to make sure he got it. Because if he couldn’t change the world they lived in, then he would at least bend it, just a little, for the sake of the one person who still believed it could get better.

And so, he pressed on, day after day, with only one thought echoing in his mind.

Just two more years. Stay strong. Just two more years.

The leather couch in Jeonghan’s office was soft, but Seungcheol couldn’t relax into it. His hands were folded tightly on his lap, his back stiff and his gaze carefully lowered, focusing on the pale swirl pattern of the marble coffee table in front of him. The office was familiar—he’d been in this room dozens of times over the past year, ever since his promotion to legal secretary. He had sat in this exact spot during long nights poring over case files with Jeonghan, or while Joshua gave him precise notes to type into new contracts. It was where they shared quick lunches during back-to-back client meetings, and even the occasional quiet moment between deadlines.

But today felt different.

The atmosphere was heavier, quieter. The air was too still, and though the room had always been pristine, now it felt sterile, as if the entire space was bracing for a conversation that didn’t belong within the usual boundaries of legal procedure. Seungcheol knew why, of course. The thick silence between the three of them wasn’t about a case. It was about him.

Earlier that morning, during a consultation meeting with a high-profile corporate client, Seungcheol had collapsed. One minute, he was explaining a timeline of key dates for a litigation case, and the next, the room had tilted on its axis. His knees buckled beneath him, his vision faded, and he hit the floor before anyone could reach out to catch him.

By the time he woke up, he was in a hospital bed, an IV in his arm, his head pounding. The doctor had diagnosed it as acute fatigue combined with sleep deprivation and mild dehydration—nothing fatal, but a dangerous warning. He had overexerted himself. Again. But this time, his body had reached its limit.

When he had been discharged, just a few hours ago, Wonwoo had been waiting in the lobby to pick him up. His expression had been unreadable, but Seungcheol could feel the shift in the way he was being looked at—not with judgment, but something more sobering. Something closer to worry. Still, he hadn’t expected to be called directly into Jeonghan’s office upon returning to the firm, or to find both Jeonghan and Joshua already waiting there, their expressions just as unreadable as Wonwoo’s had been.

Now, across from him, the alpha couple sat in silence—Jeonghan perched on the edge of his desk, arms crossed, while Joshua sat in the armchair opposite Seungcheol, legs crossed neatly, hands folded. Neither of them had spoken since he entered the room. They had simply gestured for him to sit.

Finally, it was Jeonghan who broke the silence.

“You should have told us, Seungcheol.”

His voice wasn’t scolding. If anything, it was calm—uncharacteristically soft, even—but it made Seungcheol’s stomach twist. He didn’t look up.

Joshua exhaled slowly, his tone gentler still. “Passing out in the middle of a client meeting is serious. What if you’d hit your head? What if no one had caught you?”

Seungcheol swallowed, his throat dry despite the water he had sipped at the hospital. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to disrupt anything. I just… I wasn’t feeling well.”

“You weren’t well, period,” Jeonghan said. “And not just today. We know what you’ve been doing, Seungcheol.”

He stiffened. “I can explain—”

“We already understand,” Joshua interrupted gently. “We’re not angry. But we are concerned.”

While Seungcheol had been unconscious, Jeonghan and Joshua had taken it upon themselves to dig into his records. It wasn’t difficult. They had access to nearly every database imaginable—legal, financial, medical. Their firm had worked with national regulators on several digital reform projects; their clearance levels were almost governmental.

What they found had left them in quiet disbelief.

Multiple job records under different IDs, unauthorized late-night employment contracts, transaction records from five different pay sources, and hospital bills from old injuries he had never reported to the firm. It was a trail of exhaustion woven through a desperate life. And it all led back to a single reason: Seungkwan.

Seungcheol's younger brother. A beta boy studying to become a medical assistant. And behind that ambition was a tuition bill far too large to be covered by Seungcheol’s capped wages as an omega. Even at maximum pay, he barely made enough to keep their lives together, let alone support someone else's future. It was illegal to work the way he had. Technically, Seungcheol could be fined, stripped of employment rights, or worse—reported to the Omega Regulatory Board for violating labor restrictions.

Seungcheol looked away, ashamed. There was a part of him that wanted to defend his actions, to say that he didn’t have a choice. But he knew it wouldn’t change the facts. He had lied by omission, violated employment regulations, and put his health in danger. What excuse could justify that?

“We're not here to scold you,” Jeonghan said finally, voice gentler than Seungcheol had ever heard it in a professional setting.

“We were worried,” Joshua added, stepping out from behind the desk to sit in the chair across from him. “You fainted during a meeting, Cheol. Your blood pressure was dangerously low. You’ve lost weight. You haven’t taken a single sick day since you were hired.”

A beat of silence passed.

“We looked into your employment record,” Joshua said after a moment. “The restaurant. The store. The deliveries. That’s... an impressive workload for anyone. But for an omega, with a capped wage and limited legal protection? It's dangerous. Not just physically. Legally, too.”

Seungcheol’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t break the law.”

“You found a loophole,” Jeonghan said. “A clever one. But loopholes still come with risk.”

He didn’t deny it. He couldn’t.

Joshua leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees. “You’re doing all of this... to pay for your brother’s education?”

Seungcheol’s heart skipped. “How much do you know?”

“Enough,” Jeonghan replied. “We know Seungkwan is studying to become a medical assistant. We know tuition has gone up nearly thirty percent in the last two years. We also know the government funding he receives doesn’t come close to covering it.”

Seungcheol swallowed. “I didn’t steal. I didn’t lie on my contracts. I just— I just wanted him to finish school.”

Joshua exhaled slowly, gaze steady. “We’re not accusing you of anything, Cheol. We understand. That’s why we want to help.”

That made him blink. He looked between them, eyebrows creased. “Help…?”

“We want to pay for Seungkwan’s tuition,” Jeonghan said.

The words dropped like a stone in Seungcheol’s chest.

“What?” he breathed, disbelief flickering in his expression.

“We’ve already calculated the remaining cost,” Joshua added. “We’ll cover it fully. All you have to do is agree.”

Seungcheol’s hands clenched. “I... I can’t accept that. I can’t let you just hand me that kind of money. It’s too much. You’ve already—”

“We’re not giving it to you for free,” Jeonghan interrupted, his tone measured. “You’ll still be working for it.”

That gave Seungcheol pause. His brows knit together as he tried to process the implication. “Working? You mean a promotion? Extra responsibilities?”

“Not quite,” Joshua said, his eyes locking with Seungcheol’s. “We want you to carry our child.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Seungcheol blinked. Once. Twice. “What?”

“We’ve been trying to figure out a way to have a child for a while now,” Jeonghan explained gently. “You know how it is—for alpha couples, it’s complicated. Adoption is restricted, especially for pairs like us, and surrogacy through agencies comes with a lot of red tape. But with someone we trust, someone reliable... it could work.”

Joshua nodded. “We trust you. You’ve been with us for years. You’re strong, responsible, and careful. And most importantly... you’re an omega. A male omega, yes, but biologically capable of carrying a child.”

The couch suddenly felt far less stable beneath Seungcheol.

“I don’t—” he started, but his voice cracked. He swallowed hard. “You want me to... be your surrogate? For real?”

“Yes,” Jeonghan said plainly. “You’d be compensated through us—not as a ‘gift’ or a loan, but as part of a binding legal contract. Tuition fully paid. And anything else you might need during the process—medical care, housing support, time off—we’ll provide that, too.”

Seungcheol felt like the air had been knocked out of him. His thoughts spun wildly. The offer was enormous. Unimaginable. It could solve everything. Seungkwan’s education would be secure. He could quit the night jobs. Maybe even sleep again.

But... it was also terrifying.

This wasn’t something he had ever imagined. Not once. Surrogacy wasn’t uncommon in their world, especially with declining birth rates, but it was rarely offered to someone like him—an omega with no pedigree, no high-class connections, no family name. It was a privilege, and a burden, all at once.

“I… I need time to think,” Seungcheol whispered.

Joshua nodded. “Of course. Take a few days. We’re not pressuring you.”

Jeonghan, however, leaned in one final time. “But think about it. Really think about it. We both know how much your brother means to you. And we just wanted to help."

Seungcheol sat there, heart caged behind his ribs, staring down at the envelope on the table.

They weren’t forcing him. They weren’t pressuring him. They were offering him a choice.

Everything he had fought for was within reach.

All he had to do… was give them everything.

Chapter Text

The wind was gentle that morning, brushing softly against Seungcheol’s skin as he stood before the modest memorial stone. The sky was clear, a pale stretch of blue, and the faint scent of incense drifted between the graves in the quiet cemetery park. Next to him, his younger brother, Seungkwan, was practically glowing with excitement, holding a crisp sheet of paper in both hands like it was gold.

“Mom, Dad,” Seungkwan said brightly, his voice trembling just a little, “I did it. I got in.”

He placed the letter gently beneath the framed photo of their parents, secured by a smooth stone so the wind wouldn’t carry it away. The letter was from the university—official notice that Seungkwan had passed the special test and was accepted into the Health Science program. It was the first step toward his dream: becoming a medical assistant. For a beta, it was the highest position in the medical field they could reach. He would never be allowed to be a doctor, but he had come as close as society would permit. And he was proud.

Seungcheol stood quietly beside him, his hands clasped in front of him, eyes fixed on the photos of their parents smiling in frames. His chest swelled with pride, but also with something heavier—relief, guilt, determination. He had promised them he'd take care of Seungkwan. And today, at least for this moment, it felt like he was keeping that promise.

When Seungkwan had first received the letter, he had hesitated. Not because he didn’t want it—but because he understood, even if only in fragments, how expensive it would be. His dream had a price, and it was heavy. Tuition, housing, materials, transportation—it added up quickly. But Seungcheol had shut those worries down with a gentle laugh and a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“Don’t worry about the money,” he had said. “We’re fine. Mom and Dad left us enough, and I’ve got things handled. You just focus on your studies.”

He had repeated that lie so many times, it had started to feel like the truth. But the reality was crueler. The insurance money had been nearly drained by hospital bills, funeral arrangements, and application fees. The rest went to the university admittance process. What remained wasn’t even enough for a semester’s tuition. But Seungkwan didn’t need to know that. He shouldn’t have to worry about money, not when he was just beginning this new chapter of his life.

Seungcheol would figure it out. He always did.

As they left the cemetery, Seungcheol surprised Seungkwan by taking a turn toward the city center instead of the bus stop. When Seungkwan asked where they were going, Seungcheol just smiled and told him to wait and see.

Minutes later, they arrived at a familiar building—a warm, traditional family restaurant nestled between sleek new towers. The signage was old but well-maintained, and the smell of grilled meat and savory stews drifted through the open doors. It was the same place their family used to visit to celebrate birthdays and anniversaries. The last time they had been here was the night before their parents’ accident.

“You brought me here?” Seungkwan asked, eyes widening. “But this place is expensive—”

“And today is special,” Seungcheol cut in gently. “You’re going to university. That deserves something more than instant noodles.”

“Can I get the seafood set?” Seungkwan asked, eyes shining. “It comes with the steak and the pasta. Oh! And the dessert sampler?”

“Anything you want,” Seungcheol said.

Seungkwan didn’t hesitate once the menus arrived. His eyes immediately lit up as he flipped through the glossy pages, pointing excitedly at familiar dishes. He ordered his favorite set—the grilled seafood platter with butter sauce, a side of creamy pasta, and the restaurant’s signature dessert sampler that came with miniature cheesecakes and fruit tarts. His enthusiasm was contagious, his voice brimming with the same excitement he’d had as a child whenever they came here for birthdays or their parents’ anniversaries.

Seungcheol sat quietly across from him, resting his chin on his hand as he watched his brother talk animatedly about his plans for university—about the dorms, his new schedule, and the professors whose names he had already memorized. The warm light from the restaurant’s chandeliers bathed Seungkwan’s face in gold, and for a fleeting moment, Seungcheol could almost imagine their parents sitting beside them again, smiling proudly.

When the food arrived, Seungkwan dug in immediately, laughing as he complained about how long it had been since he’d eaten anything this fancy. Seungcheol smiled, listening to him between bites of his own simple meal—a small salad and a bowl of soup that cost less than half of Seungkwan’s order. He told himself he wasn’t that hungry anyway.

He didn’t mind. Not the price, not the extra hours he’d have to work later to make up for it, not even the thought that this meal might mean tightening his own budget for the next week. Expensive food had become a luxury—one he could no longer afford for himself—but seeing his brother enjoy it made the sacrifice feel light. He could go hungry for a few days if it meant Seungkwan could smile like that. If it meant Seungkwan could still feel, even for a moment, like life hadn’t changed too much since their parents were gone.

It was strange, Seungcheol thought, how easily happiness could be bought for others, even when it cost so much of oneself.

As Seungkwan finished the last bite of his dessert, Seungcheol leaned back in his chair and let his gaze wander across the restaurant. Around them, the tables were filled with alphas in neat suits and betas in pressed uniforms, laughing over fine wine and carefully plated meals. He knew he didn’t belong here—not really. Omegas like him rarely dined in places like this unless they were serving the tables or clearing dishes in the back.

But tonight wasn’t about that. Tonight was for Seungkwan.

When their parents were still alive, they had always insisted that Seungcheol should study, no matter what the world said about omegas. “Education will give you choices,” his mother used to say, “even if the world tries to take them away.” So he studied as hard as he could, and graduated with a diploma in office managemnet while Seungkwan was still in high school. It was supposed to be enough—at least, that’s what he had thought back then.

But in this society, being an omega came with ceilings no amount of hard work could break. No matter his skill, his education, or his dedication, his salary was still bound by law. The maximum he could ever earn was a little over one million won a month—barely enough to live comfortably, much less support another person. The system made sure of that, to keep omegas dependent, compliant, and eager to marry into security.

Seungcheol refused to bend to that rule. He refused to let the system decide how far he could go, or what kind of future Seungkwan could have. His brother was young, hopeful, and full of dreams. He didn’t deserve to give those up just because of their status or the cruel logic of hierarchy.

So Seungcheol worked quietly, relentlessly. He didn’t want his brother studying by day and dragging his tired body through shifts at night. Back then, their parents had made it possible for Seungcheol to study without distraction. And now, if Seungkwan could have the same luxury Seungcheol once had—to focus only on learning, to sleep without worry, to wake up without exhaustion—then Seungcheol would make sure of it, no matter the cost.

Because in the end, watching Seungkwan laugh across that table, cheeks flushed with happiness and pride, made all of it worthwhile.

By the time they got home, night had fallen. Their shared apartment was small but warm, filled with secondhand furniture and memories of late-night conversations, exam cramming, and quiet mornings with coffee. The luggage lay open on the bed, half-packed, with Seungkwan kneeling on the floor and sorting his toiletries while Seungcheol folded laundry on the side.

Seungkwan paused, looking up with a sudden seriousness in his expression. “Hyung.”

“Hm?”

“Thanks. For everything.” His voice was quiet. “I don’t know if I could have done this without you.”

Seungcheol smiled, not missing a beat. “There’s nothing to thank me for. You’re my baby brother.”

Seungkwan turned to him, eyes a little glassy. “You always put me first. Even when I wanted to give up after Mom and Dad… you pushed me to keep going. You believed in me. You never let me fall.” He paused. “ I promised I will make you live the best life once I graduate.”  

“I already have a good life, Seungkwan-ah.” Seungcheol said, placing a folded shirt into the suitcase. “Watching you chase your dreams makes me happy. That’s more than enough.”

Seungkwan frowned. “Still, if you ever need anything, just tell me, okay? I mean it.”

Seungcheol reached over, ruffling his hair with affection. “Don’t worry about me. Just study hard. Become the best medical assistant this country’s ever seen.”

They shared a long hug before finally getting into bed. They had done this often when they were younger—sharing the same bed when the apartment felt too quiet or when nightmares lingered too long. Tonight was different. It was the last night they would sleep under the same roof for a while. Tomorrow, Seungkwan would move into his university dorm. A new beginning.

As Seungkwan drifted to sleep beside him, Seungcheol stared up at the ceiling. He listened to the soft, steady breathing of the younger boy beside him and let his own eyes slowly close.

This was what he had chosen. This was the life he had built with his own hands.

And if he had to give up everything—his comfort, his future, even his body—just to keep Seungkwan’s dreams intact, then so be it.

It was worth it.

The week Seungkwan left for university, the small apartment felt emptier than it ever had. His laughter no longer echoed through the narrow hallway, and the constant clutter of textbooks and clothes that once filled their shared space was replaced by stillness. Only a few traces of him remained—his favorite mug on the table, the framed photo of their family on the shelf, and the faint scent of his shampoo lingering in the bathroom.

Seungcheol had helped him pack everything, folding clothes carefully and double-checking every list to make sure Seungkwan had what he needed: uniforms, toiletries, bedding, snacks, and the little comforts that might make dorm life less lonely. By the time they finished loading the last bag onto the bus to the university dorms, Seungkwan’s excitement was almost tangible. He kept talking about his new roommate, his orientation schedule, and all the things he wanted to experience.

Seungcheol smiled through it all, even as his heart ached with a mixture of pride and quiet fear.

He didn’t tell Seungkwan that he had emptied his entire savings account the night before. Every last bit of money he’d been saving—his emergency fund, the small envelope tucked away for rent, even the coins he’d been setting aside for bus fare—had gone into covering Seungkwan’s necessities and pocket money.

Although Seungkwan had earned a partial scholarship that covered his tuition, there were still hidden fees—enrollment processing, medical check-ups, technology support, student union dues. And the scholarship didn’t cover his monthly living expenses. Food. Transportation. Housing. The university dorms weren’t free, and they certainly weren’t cheap. But Seungkwan never saw the stress behind the numbers. Because Seungcheol had made sure he wouldn’t.

He had smiled as he handed over the envelope full of bills and coins to his little brother, telling him to eat well, travel safely, and not to worry about anything. “If it gets tight, just call me,” he had said, ruffling Seungkwan’s hair with practiced ease. “Don’t ever hold back.”

By the time he returned home that night, Seungcheol’s wallet held just thirty dollars. That was supposed to last him two weeks—just enough for bus fare to work, and a couple of cheap meals until payday. It wasn’t even close to enough. After that, he wasn’t sure what he would do. His monthly income had already dropped over the past few months—from seven hundred dollars to barely four hundred and fifty—after his hours at the tailoring shop were cut. Machines had replaced most of the manual work, leaving little room for human labor, especially for omegas like him.

Four hundred and fifty a month barely covered rent, let alone bills and groceries.

Their small apartment in Seoul wasn’t fancy by any means—cramped, dimly lit, with cracked tiles in the bathroom and creaking floorboards that echoed through the night. The rent, though considered “cheap” by Seoul standards, still took more than half his paycheck. He had tried looking for other places, but most landlords either refused omegas without alpha sponsors or demanded conditions that made his stomach turn. So he stayed. He stayed in the same tiny apartment with peeling wallpaper and creaking floors, because at least it was close to Seungkwan’s high school, close enough for Seungcheol to reach his workplace by bus or by foot.

Sometimes, Seungcheol thought back to their old house in Incheon. It had been larger, brighter, full of sunlight that spilled through wide windows. His father had built a garden in the back where their mother used to grow flowers. It had felt safe. But all that was gone now.

When their parents decided to move to Seoul for better opportunities, their father sold that house to purchase a new one closer to the city. But before the final paperwork was signed, before the new house could be purchased, the accident happened. Their father never came home. And with his passing, the bank came knocking. The property that had been sold was gone, and the money had already been poured into the down payment for the house they never got to move into. Everything in limbo. Everything lost.

Seungcheol remembered standing at the front gate of the house, crying into his sleeves, begging the officers not to lock the doors. Not to take their things. But there was no negotiation, no sympathy. Omegas had no legal authority to inherit property unless assigned by will, and their father hadn’t expected to die before finalizing anything. So the state took it all.

He had taken Seungkwan’s hand and walked away with nothing but two duffel bags, a funeral bill, and the weight of a life that had shifted overnight.

So they settled into the Seoul apartment. It was the best he could manage at the time. He’d worked every job he could find since then, never stopping, never allowing himself the luxury of rest. But now, with his salary shrinking and Seungkwan’s expenses growing, the numbers no longer added up. Even if he gave up meals, even if he cut electricity for a few days, he couldn’t make it work. Something had to change.

He had thought about quitting the tailoring shop and finding a new job—something that paid slightly better or at least had steadier hours. But the job market wasn’t kind to omegas. With so many restrictions placed on their working hours and pay, companies were reluctant to hire them unless it was for low-paying, short-shift roles. Getting a new job meant starting from scratch—waiting, applying, interviewing, hoping. He didn’t have that kind of time. Or the luxury to be unemployed, even for a few weeks.

So instead, he found another path. He would try to take multiple jobs, which of course wouldn’t be that simple. Omegas weren’t allowed to hold multiple registered jobs, and employers were required to scan and register their workers’ IDs with the labor bureau. It meant every workplace could see exactly how many hours someone worked and where. If he applied elsewhere without resigning, the system would flag him instantly.

That was when he thought of Bumzu.

Bumzu was an old friend—a beta who had worked in logistics before opening a small tech repair shop on the outskirts of the city. He was sharp, discreet, and well-connected. When Seungcheol had explained his situation to him, Bumzu had sighed, muttering something about how unfair the system was. Then, after a long pause, he had agreed to help.

“I can make you new working IDs,” Bumzu had said quietly. “It’s risky, you know that. If they catch you, you could lose everything. But if you’re careful, no one has to find out.”

“I’ll be careful,” Seungcheol had promised.

And so he started building his new life—looking for small openings where the employers were more lenient—or simply desperate enough to not ask too many questions. To his relief, and maybe good fortune, there were kind souls willing to give him a chance.

The first job came from a family-owned restaurant that needed weekend help. They were kind, older people who never asked questions and paid him in cash. Every Friday night, Saturday, and Sunday, he delivered food and groceries around the neighborhood, weaving through narrow streets on an old scooter until his hands went numb from the cold.

Then, there was the small restaurant near the tailoring shop—one he and Seungkwan used to visit for cheap lunches. The old auntie who ran it barely remembered him, but when he asked for a job, she looked him up and down, saw the polite way he bowed, the wear in his clothes, and simply said, “Start tomorrow.” She gave him a spot on the evening shift as a waiter. It wasn’t glamorous, and the tips were meager, but it was something.

Finally, he found an opening at a 24-hour convenience store for the night shift on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was steady work, and the owner didn’t mind paying him under the table. The pay was small, but every bit counted.

When he added everything together, it wasn’t much. But it was enough. Enough to send a little extra for Seungkwan’s pocket money every month, enough to buy groceries once a month, enough to stash a few bills away for emergencies. It wasn’t a life of comfort, but it was survival—and for Seungcheol, survival meant hope.

Some nights, when exhaustion pressed down so heavily that he could barely keep his eyes open, he reminded himself why he was doing it. He pictured Seungkwan smiling under the bright university lights, surrounded by new friends, learning, growing, and living without fear.

That image kept him going.

And to Seungcheol, that was all that mattered.

The days bled together for Seungcheol. Day after day, week after week, his schedule left no room for breath, no time for anything that wasn’t work. His life had become a cycle of movement—one job ending just as another began, his body running on habit and caffeine and the stubborn will to keep going.

If there was ever a day when he didn’t work, it was only because Seungkwan came home for the weekend. On those rare days, Seungcheol forced himself to stay put, as if the simple act of resting might convince his brother that everything was normal. He would apologize to the restaurant owner for missing his shift, bowing low as he mumbled something about family visits, and she would always smile and wave it off, telling him he deserved the break.

He would then spend the weekend with Seungkwan—cooking, cleaning, and laughing like nothing was wrong. He told stories from work, asked about Seungkwan’s classes, and listened to his brother talk about the hospital internship program he was hoping to get into. He smiled through it all, even when his head throbbed and his body begged for sleep. Because if Seungkwan believed everything was fine, then it had to be. That was enough reason to keep pretending.

But once Seungkwan left again, Seungcheol would return to his routine—and with it, the grind.

He worked. And worked. And worked. There was no pause, no rest, no luxury of taking a day to recover. The rent didn’t wait. The bills didn’t stop. His life had no room for weakness.

And to keep working that hard meant ignoring his body in ways that went beyond exhaustion. His secondary gender, his biology—it all became an inconvenience, something he needed to suppress just to survive. Omegas were expected to take time off during their heat cycles, to rest, to isolate themselves until the fever passed.

For years, Seungcheol had managed them quietly, taking a few days off whenever his heat arrived, locking himself in his small apartment until it passed. It was uncomfortable, painful even, but necessary. It was part of being what he was.

But lately, he couldn’t afford to take those breaks. Every missed day meant a smaller paycheck. Every shift skipped meant a tighter budget, another bill delayed, another meal sacrificed. He couldn’t let that happen—not when every won mattered.

That was where Soonyoung came in.

Soonyoung was a beta nurse who worked night duty at a small clinic near the bus terminal. He’d been a friend of a friend once, now one of the few people who knew even a fraction of what Seungcheol’s life really looked like. Soonyoung was kind, talkative, with tired eyes that always carried quiet concern. He helped people like Seungcheol — quietly, discreetly, sometimes bending the rules himself.

He provided suppressants. Cheap, off-brand, barely regulated suppressants. The kind that stopped an omega’s body from entering heat for weeks, sometimes months, at the cost of exhaustion, fever, and long-term side effects.

“You’re pushing it,” Soonyoung had said the last time Seungcheol visited, handing him a paper bag that clinked faintly with blister packs. “These aren’t vitamins. You keep doing this, your body’s going to give out sooner or later.”

Seungcheol had only smiled tiredly. “Then I’ll rest later.”

“Cheol—”

“I promise I will rest,” Seungcheol had said.

But he never did.

The suppressants worked—sort of. They dulled the heat, numbed the pain, kept his body stable enough to move. But as the months went by, the side effects grew worse. His skin turned pale, his hands shook when he was tired, and there were days when just standing too long made his vision blur. He ignored it all. Every symptom was just another obstacle to push through.

He told himself that this was temporary. That things would ease up once Seungkwan graduated and found work. He just had to hold on a little longer.

But his body had other plans.

It started with a fever one humid Thursday morning. At first, it was just a chill at the back of his neck, the kind that made him wrap his scarf tighter as he walked to work. Then came the ache in his joints, the dull pounding in his head, the dryness in his throat that no amount of water could fix. By then, Seungcheol had already been awake for two days straight, covering an extra overnight shift at the convenience store. He told himself he could rest later, after one more job, after one more delivery.

He needed the money.

Seungkwan’s phone had been dying for weeks—its screen cracked, battery swollen, sometimes shutting off mid-call. Seungcheol wanted to surprise him with a new one, a small reward for earning his paramedic license. It wasn’t much, but it was something he could give, something to show how proud he was. So he said yes to every shift offered, stacking hours on top of hours until his body began to unravel.

That morning, despite the fever settling in, he dragged himself to his tailoring job. The place wasn’t what it used to be. Ever since the company changed management, the environment had turned cold. The new supervisors barely looked omegas in the eye, and Seungcheol’s job hung by a thread on the best days. But they had raised his wages slightly—back up to $600 a month—and he couldn’t risk losing that, no matter how badly his body screamed for rest.

The factory air was dry and full of lint. Machines hummed around him, constant and loud, while the smell of oil and fabric dye clung to his clothes. He worked through the morning, stitching sleeves and hemming trousers, forcing his trembling hands to stay steady. His vision blurred every now and then, small flashes of black at the edge of his sight, but he kept going. He hadn’t eaten breakfast — he hadn’t eaten much of anything in the last two days — but he told himself he could wait until lunch.

When lunch came, he couldn’t eat. His body felt cold, then hot, then cold again. He went to the locker room to rest, sitting down on the narrow bench with his head tilted back against the wall. The ceiling lights spun slowly above him. He tried to breathe deeply, but the air wouldn’t stay still.

When he opened his eyes again, it was because the concrete floor felt hard and cold against his cheek.

He had fainted.

No one saw. It was the lunch hour, and most of his coworkers were still outside. He stayed there for a few minutes, trying to gather the strength to stand. His limbs shook, his throat burned with dryness, and his skin felt too tight for his body.

He managed to get up, splashed water on his face, and went back to work.

By late afternoon, his body finally gave up. He collapsed at his station, unconscious before he hit the ground. His supervisor, reluctantly concerned more with liability than welfare, sternly told him to go home and not to come back if he couldn’t manage basic stamina.

Seungcheol wanted to protest, but the words wouldn’t come out. His mouth was too dry. So he nodded, gathered his things with trembling fingers, and somehow managed to make it to the bus stop.

The ride home felt endless. The seats swayed under him, and his head kept lolling against the window. The world outside blurred into streaks of light and color. His vision faded in and out. His breath came in shallow bursts. He nearly fainted three times on the bus but clenched his fists tight in his lap, grounding himself with pain.

When his stop came, he stood — too quickly — and the world tilted violently. For a moment, the ground and sky traded places. Someone behind him caught his arm as he stumbled, but he mumbled a quick thank-you and stepped off the bus.

He barely remembered walking up the stairs to his apartment. He fumbled with the keys, barely having the strength to turn the lock. The door clicked open, and for a brief, dizzy moment, he felt relief wash over him. He was home. Safe.

Then the floor tilted. His vision went white.

The last thing he remembered was the sound of the door shutting behind him before everything went dark, his body giving out at last under the weight of everything he had tried to endure.

The evening air was already cooling when Mingyu checked his phone for what felt like the hundredth time. The sky above the shopping district had deepened into indigo, the glow of storefront signs painting streaks of light across the sidewalk. The phone store was preparing to close for the night, the staff quietly stacking boxes and pulling down the blinds, yet there was still no sign of Seungcheol.

Mingyu frowned, pacing a few steps in front of the entrance. He’d been waiting for nearly an hour. A boxed phone already waited behind the counter—pre-selected, pre-paid, and just waiting for Seungcheol to come pick it up. They had agreed to meet here after Seungcheol’s tailoring shift. Seungcheol had been the one to ask for Mingyu’s help—said he wanted advice picking the right specs, something with good storage and a reliable battery life for Seungkwan, whose phone had finally died on him.

At first, Mingyu wasn’t concerned. Seungcheol was often late. Not in a careless way—he just had too many jobs, too much on his plate. Mingyu had long since learned that “I’ll be there at six” really meant “probably seven-thirty, depending on traffic, delivery shifts, or last-minute overtime.” He didn’t mind waiting. But the longer he waited, the more uneasy he became.

He dialed Seungcheol’s number again. The familiar tone rang, once, twice, three times—and then the call went to voicemail. He tried again. Nothing. His messages, too, remained unread, the gray ticks refusing to turn blue.

By the time the shop assistant politely informed him they’d be closing in ten minutes, Mingyu’s concern had curdled into dread. He mumbled an apology and left the store, gripping his phone tightly, then hurried out into the street. The route to Seungcheol’s apartment wasn’t long, barely ten minutes by car, but it felt endless as he gripped the steering wheel, his stomach twisting tighter with every passing second.

When he reached the building, the hallway lights flickered dimly, and the old elevator was already out of order again. Mingyu took the stairs two at a time, panting slightly by the time he reached Seungcheol’s floor. He pressed the doorbell once, twice—then a third time, harder. The faint ringing echoed inside, but there was no movement.

“Cheol, it’s me,” he called through the door. “Come on, open up. I’ve been waiting.”

Silence.

He pressed his ear to the door. Nothing. Not even footsteps.

A cold dread began creeping up his spine. He tried the bell again, holding it down this time, but the result was the same. He glanced around, biting his lip, before reaching into his wallet and pulling out a small silver key—the spare Seungcheol had given him months ago, just in case of an emergency. Mingyu hesitated only a second before sliding it into the lock.

The moment the door clicked open, he knew something was wrong. The air inside was heavy, still, and faintly metallic. He stepped inside cautiously, calling out again. “Cheol?”

That was when he saw him.

Seungcheol lay collapsed just a few feet from the entrance, his body sprawled awkwardly against the floor as though he had fallen the instant he stepped inside. His face was ghostly pale, lips cracked, a faint streak of dried blood under his nose. His skin burned to the touch when Mingyu knelt beside him, shaking his shoulder.

“Cheol—hey, Cheol, wake up!” Mingyu’s voice cracked. He shook him again, harder this time, but there was no response. Seungcheol’s breathing was shallow, barely there, and his pulse fluttered weakly under Mingyu’s fingers.

Panic surged through him like ice.

He didn’t think twice. He lifted Seungcheol onto his back—shocked at how light he felt—bones and heat and nothing else. Seungcheol didn’t stir, didn’t flinch, didn’t mutter a word. His body was limp, completely unresponsive. That was when Mingyu realized this wasn’t just exhaustion. It was worse. Much worse. The weight he carried felt wrong, as if all his strength had been drained away long ago.

Mingyu cradled him carefully, fumbling to lock the door behind him before sprinting down the stairs. By the time he reached the car, his shirt was damp with sweat, and his heart was pounding so loudly it drowned out his thoughts.

Mingyu didn’t waste time with the general hospital. That wasn’t going to cut it—not with how serious things had become. Instead, he grabbed his phone, one hand gripping the steering wheel as he called his cousin directly.

“Hyung, it’s me,” he said as soon as the call connected, his voice sharp with urgency. “I’m bringing someone in—an omega, severe collapse, high fever, weak pulse. He’s burning up. I need a room ready, now.”

His cousin, a senior doctor at the hospital’s omega care unit, didn’t hesitate. “Bring him straight to the private wing. I’ll notify the staff.”

Mingyu hung up and stepped on the gas.

The hospital he headed for wasn’t open to the general public—not really. It was a private medical center, nestled between the hills just outside the city’s core, run by his grandfather’s medical foundation. It was one of the best in the region, equipped with full-range omega treatment wards and reproductive health specialists. The kind of place that omegas like Seungcheol never had access to, because access required money, status, and connections—things Seungcheol had none of, and things Mingyu had in spades.

By the time Mingyu pulled up to the hospital entrance, two nurses were already waiting with a stretcher. He rushed around to the passenger side, gently gathering Seungcheol’s limp form into his arms once again. “Be careful,” he said, though his voice shook. “He’s been like this for hours, I think. I found him at his apartment.”

The nurses worked quickly, guiding him inside. The bright fluorescent lights of the emergency corridor were harsh, reflecting off the white walls. Everything smelled of antiseptic and urgency. Mingyu followed as they wheeled Seungcheol into the examination room, his chest tightening at the sight of the monitors and oxygen mask.

It took less than an hour for the doctors to stabilize him. The diagnosis came quietly from his cousin after the initial rush settled. “Severe heat suppression reaction,” he said, his tone grim. “He’s been forcing his body out of its natural cycle for too long. The suppressants he used were cheap, probably black market. His system’s completely out of balance.”

Mingyu ran a hand through his hair, exhaling shakily. “He said he needed to keep working. I told him he was overdoing it, but he wouldn’t listen.”

“He’s lucky you found him when you did,” his cousin replied. “If you’d been a few hours later…” He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.

Mingyu sank into one of the waiting chairs, elbows on his knees, staring through the small glass window of the private room where Seungcheol now lay. His friend’s face looked peaceful now under the soft hospital lights, though the IV lines and monitors painted a different story. The faint beeping of the heart monitor was the only sound that reassured Mingyu he was still here—still fighting.

The nurses worked quietly around him, adjusting fluids, checking his temperature, murmuring updates. He didn’t wake. Not yet. His body, exhausted and worn from months of pushing beyond its limits, was repairing itself slowly, cell by fragile cell.

Mingyu stayed by his side the entire time. “You scared me half to death, Cheol,” he whispered softly. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

Seungcheol didn’t stir, but the steady rhythm of the heart monitor answered for him, a quiet, stubborn beat—proof that even when everything else failed, Seungcheol’s will to survive refused to break.

Night had fallen quietly over the hospital. The lights in the corridor were dimmed to a soft glow, and most of the other patients had long since fallen asleep. Only the quiet hum of medical machines and the occasional distant footsteps of nurses broke the silence. Inside Seungcheol’s private room, the air smelled faintly of disinfectant and warm linen. The blinds were drawn halfway, letting in just enough of the city’s glow to paint faint gold across the walls.

Mingyu sat slumped in the chair beside the bed, his elbows resting on his knees, his chin pressed to his folded hands. He hadn’t slept much in the past two days. There was a stiffness in his neck, a dull ache in his back, but none of that mattered when he looked at the still figure on the bed. Seungcheol lay motionless, his breathing shallow but even, his face pale against the white pillow. The faint rise and fall of his chest was the only thing that kept Mingyu steady.

He had barely moved since they brought him here. The doctor had reassured Mingyu that Seungcheol’s vitals were stable, that his body was recovering from the suppressants and exhaustion, but that it would take time. Time was the one thing Seungcheol never seemed to give himself.

Mingyu’s hand rested loosely on the edge of the bed, fingers brushing against the cool sheets. He was half-dozing, half-listening to the monitor’s rhythmic beep when a soft sound pulled him upright — a quiet, uneven breath that broke the stillness. He straightened instantly, heart skipping.

Seungcheol’s eyelashes fluttered weakly, his brow furrowing as if struggling to piece together a forgotten dream. His lips parted, dry and cracked, before his eyes blinked open. For a moment, they were unfocused, glazed with confusion. He turned his head slightly, wincing at the light above him.

“Cheol,” Mingyu whispered, his voice thick with relief. “Hey… you’re awake.”

Seungcheol blinked slowly, disoriented. His gaze was unfocused at first, heavy-lidded and glazed over with the remnants of deep sleep. It was clear his mind was still trying to catch up with his body. He turned his head slightly, wincing at the stiffness in his neck, and stared at the unfamiliar ceiling above him.

The antiseptic scent in the air and the hum of the IV machine beside him confused him. His brows furrowed, lips parting slightly as he tried to speak, but no words came out. His throat was dry—painfully so. His gaze traveled across the room in slow, uncertain sweeps before landing on Mingyu’s face.

Confusion gave way to alarm.

He suddenly pushed himself upward, jerking into a sitting position with a gasp, his breath catching in his throat as panic flooded his system. The movement was too sudden, too jarring for a body that had barely survived a full collapse. The room tilted sharply. A sharp wave of dizziness rushed over him, and before he could even process what was happening, his strength failed.

But Mingyu was fast—he surged forward, catching Seungcheol’s limp body just before it could fall fully off the bed. Seungcheol slumped against his chest, eyes rolling back as unconsciousness swept over him again like a tide. Mingyu froze, his heart pounding hard enough to hurt. He held him there for a long moment, afraid that if he let go, Seungcheol would slip away again.

After a few deep breaths, Mingyu gently eased him back against the pillows, adjusting the blanket around him. He brushed a damp strand of hair from Seungcheol’s forehead and muttered under his breath, “You stubborn idiot. You really don’t know when to stop.”

He sat back down beside the bed, letting the steady rhythm of Seungcheol’s breathing reassure him. The minutes ticked by — maybe ten, maybe twenty — before Seungcheol stirred again, this time slower, more cautious.

This time, Mingyu was ready. He leaned forward immediately, placing a steady hand on his shoulder before the omega could try to move again.

“Easy, Cheol. You’re safe. You’re at the hospital. Don’t try to sit up yet.”

Seungcheol blinked up at him, dazed. His lips trembled as he tried to speak, but the words came out dry and broken. Mingyu reached for the glass of water on the bedside table, helped him sit just enough to drink. Seungcheol swallowed greedily, the cool liquid easing his throat.

After a few sips, he pulled back, his voice a hoarse whisper. “You… found me?”

“Yeah,” Mingyu said quietly. “You didn’t show up at the phone store, and you weren’t answering your phone. I got worried. You passed out by the door, Cheol. You’ve been unconscious for two days.”

Seungcheol’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Two… days?” He shook his head weakly, trying to push himself up again, panic flickering back into his expression. “I need to get back to work—my shift—”

“Absolutely not,” Mingyu interrupted, pressing him firmly back against the bed. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“I can’t miss another shift. I’ll get fired—”

“You nearly died!” Mingyu snapped, the calmness in his tone finally cracking. “You had a fever of over 40 degrees. Your body was shutting down from heat suppression, malnutrition, and exhaustion. Do you think any job is worth that?”

Seungcheol’s gaze dropped, guilt flickering through the haze of exhaustion in his eyes. “I can’t afford to stop,” he murmured. “If I lose a day, that’s money gone. Rent. Food. Seungkwan’s allowance—”

“Enough!” Mingyu said, cutting him off with a frustrated sigh. “You don’t need to think about money right now. You’ve been unconscious for two days, Cheol. You’re lucky you’re even breathing right now.”

There was a long silence after that, broken only by the soft hum of the machines. Seungcheol’s fingers twisted weakly in the blanket. His voice was small when he finally spoke again. “Please… don’t tell Seungkwan. He doesn’t need to know about this.”

Mingyu stared at him in disbelief. “You’re unbelievable. You almost died, and you’re still worried about your brother?”

Seungcheol’s gaze faltered. “He’s got enough to worry about. I don’t want him to know.”

Mingyu rubbed his temples, exhaling in defeat. “You’re a noble idiot, you know that?” he muttered, shaking his head. “Always worrying about everyone else but yourself.”

Seungcheol looked away, silent.

Mingyu leaned back, his exasperation softening into tired concern. “You’re impossible,” he said quietly. “You can’t keep living like this. One day, your body won’t get back up.”

But Seungcheol wasn’t listening anymore. His eyes were already half-lidded, his body giving in to the weight of exhaustion once again. He tried to say something—perhaps another apology, perhaps another promise to be fine—but his words faded into silence as sleep claimed him.

Mingyu caught him again before he could slump to the side, easing him back against the pillows with a sigh that was equal parts frustration and relief.

“Stubborn to the end,” he muttered, brushing Seungcheol’s hair gently away from his face. “What am I going to do with you?”

The heart monitor continued its steady rhythm beside them, soft and unwavering. Mingyu leaned back in his chair, exhaustion finally settling in as he watched his friend sleep—his chest rising and falling with quiet breaths.

For now, that was enough. Seungcheol was safe, at least for tonight.

Morning light filtered faintly through the blinds, pale and hesitant, as though afraid to disturb the stillness of the hospital room. The quiet hum of machines had faded into a background whisper, steady and indifferent. Seungcheol stirred slowly, his body heavy as if it were filled with sand. The first thing he noticed was the dull ache behind his eyes, the kind that made the world tilt slightly every time he blinked. His head throbbed lightly with each beat of his heart, and when he lifted his hand to rub his temple, his fingers trembled.

He forced himself upright, grimacing as a sharp ache ran down his spine. The white hospital gown brushed cold against his skin, the sterile scent of disinfectant lingering in the air. He turned his head toward the chair beside his bed — empty. Mingyu’s jacket was still slung over the armrest, and an empty coffee cup sat on the table, a sign that his friend had been there recently.

The clock on the wall read 7:35 a.m.

His eyes widened. He still had time to get to work. If he hurried, maybe he could make it before his shift started. Maybe they wouldn’t notice he’d been gone.

Ignoring the wave of dizziness that hit him, Seungcheol swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The cold linoleum against his bare feet made him shiver, but he didn’t stop. He moved slowly, each motion deliberate and careful, as though he were afraid that if he paused too long, his body would betray him again. He found the small drawer under the bedside table, where Mingyu must have placed his clothes after the doctors had changed him out of them. His hands shook as he pulled out his worn jeans and the gray button-up he always wore to the tailor shop.

Changing took longer than usual. Every motion felt heavier, his limbs unsteady. He had to stop twice to steady himself against the wall, waiting for his heartbeat to slow. But once he was dressed, he looked almost like himself again — pale, tired, but standing. That was enough.

He picked up his phone from the counter, the screen lighting up with a flood of unread messages — mostly from Mingyu and a few from his coworkers asking if he was alright. He ignored them all, stuffing the device into his pocket as he slipped quietly out of the room.

The hospital corridor was still sleepy with early morning calm. A nurse at the desk glanced up briefly but didn’t stop him, assuming he was another discharged patient. He moved carefully, his steps quiet, his breathing uneven, until the automatic doors opened and the cool morning air hit his face.

Outside, the world felt too bright. The sunlight glared against the hospital walls, the chill of the breeze biting through his thin clothes. He walked anyway, one step after another, heading toward the nearest bus stop. His vision blurred a few times, forcing him to stop and lean against the railings, his breath shallow. Twice he thought he might faint, but stubbornness pushed him forward. He couldn’t afford to stop.

When he finally reached the bus stop, his knees nearly buckled from relief. The bus arrived just a few minutes later, brakes hissing against the pavement. A kind-looking woman in her forties glanced at him as he stepped on, her expression softening at the sight of his pale face and shaking hands.

“You can take my seat, dear,” she said gently, standing up and gesturing to the empty spot.

Seungcheol blinked, startled. “Oh, no, it’s okay—”

“Sit down,” she insisted with a motherly tone.

He gave a small bow, murmured his thanks, and sank into the seat. The motion of the bus was soothing, almost lulling him into sleep. His eyelids drooped once, twice — then snapped open just before his stop. e scrambled up, nearly missing the exit as the bus slowed.

The street outside was crowded with morning workers, the sound of footsteps and traffic mixing into a dull hum. The familiar sight of the tailor shop came into view a few blocks away. His heart lifted faintly in relief—he could already imagine explaining everything, apologizing, maybe even begging for forgiveness. He’d tell them he’d been sick, that it wouldn’t happen again, that he’d work extra shifts to make up for it.

But his body wasn’t cooperating. Each step felt heavier than the last. His lungs burned, his head throbbed, and the world tilted dangerously. He had to stop several times along the way, bracing himself against walls, whispering to no one, “Just a little more. Almost there.”

By the time he reached the shop, his shirt was clinging to his back with sweat and the rain drizzle that was slowly pouring outside. He paused by the glass door, catching his reflection. He looked terrible — skin pale, eyes hollow, lips colorless. Still, he forced a smile. He needed this job.

The room fell quiet when they saw him. His coworkers—mostly betas and a few older omegas—looked up from their sewing machines and cutting tables in surprise. A few of them murmured quietly to each other, unsure what to say.

“Morning,” Seungcheol gave them a sheepish bow. “Sorry I’m late. I had—something came up, but I’m here now. I can catch up.”

But before anyone could answer, the supervisor appeared from the side hallway, arms folded and expression cold.

“You don’t need to bother, Seungcheol. You’re done here.”

The words hit harder than any blow.

Seungcheol blinked, his mouth parting in disbelief. “W-what do you mean?”

“You were absent for two days without notice,” the man said curtly. “We’ve already processed your termination. The management won’t tolerate unreliable workers, especially omegas. You should know that.”

Seungcheol’s stomach dropped. “No—no, please. I didn’t mean to. I was sick—”

“I don’t need excuses,” His supervisor cut in sharply. “We have plenty of people waiting for this job. I can’t make special arrangements for someone who can’t handle the workload.”

Desperation took over. Seungcheol dropped to his knees right there on the cold floor. “Please,” he pleaded, his voice trembling. “I’ll work extra shifts, I’ll take pay cuts—just give me another chance. Please, sir, I really need this job.”

His supervisor’s expression didn’t soften. If anything, his tone grew colder. “Get up, Seungcheol. Don’t embarrass yourself.”

The omega stayed where he was, head bowed, tears pooling at the corners of his eyes. The room had gone completely silent, all eyes on him. Some of his coworkers looked away, pity etched on their faces, but no one spoke.

Finally, the supervisor sighed impatiently. He reached down, gripping Seungcheol’s arm, and pulled him to his feet with more force than necessary. “I said enough.”

Then, without another word, he pushed Seungcheol toward the door. The movement was abrupt, the finality of it cruel. The glass door slammed shut behind him, the echo cutting through the sound of his own labored breathing.

Seungcheol stood there for a moment, staring blankly at the door, his reflection faintly visible in the glass. Then the weight of it all hit him at once. His knees buckled, and he sank to the ground, the cold pavement biting through his thin trousers.

Tears spilled freely down his cheeks as he pressed his trembling hands against his face. Everything he had been holding in—the exhaustion, the fear, the constant pressure—broke through all at once. The sobs came in waves, uncontrollable and raw. He didn’t care that people were staring. He didn’t care that the sky above had started to rumble with distant thunder.

His job was gone. His main source of income—the one that kept him and Seungkwan afloat—was gone.

He didn’t know how long he stayed like that. Minutes, maybe hours. Time no longer made sense. The rain began to fall softly at first, then harder, until it poured relentlessly from the dark clouds above. The roof over the shop’s awning offered little protection, and soon his hair was drenched, his clothes clinging to his thin frame.

When the sobs finally quieted, there was nothing left in him but numbness. He forced himself to stand, one hand pressed against the wall for support. The rain blurred his vision, though he couldn’t tell if it was from tears or the weather. He took a step forward, then another, his legs trembling under him.

He didn’t know where to go. He didn’t even have the strength to think. He just walked, one step at a time, through the rain that felt almost like punishment. His head was spinning, his vision blurred from tears and exhaustion. He turned a corner, collided into someone, and stumbled forward.

Strong hands caught him before he hit the ground. The grip was steady, warm, the touch grounding in a way that made something inside him break all over again.

“I—I’m sorry,” Seungcheol tried to mumble, his words slurred. He tried to pull away, but the warmth of the hold steadied him. His body leaned into it instinctively, desperate for the comfort.

He heard a voice then—familiar, panicked.

“Seungcheol-ah!”

He blinked, his blurred vision focusing just enough to see Mingyu running toward him, an umbrella tilted awkwardly against the wind. Mingyu’s face was pale with shock, his voice frantic as he apologized to the stranger holding Seungcheol. “I’m sorry—he’s my friend, I’ve got him, thank you!”

The stranger nodded and stepped back, letting Mingyu take over.

Seungcheol reached out weakly, his fingers clutching Mingyu’s sleeve. The moment he felt that familiar warmth, the tears came back stronger. He buried his face against Mingyu’s shoulder, trembling as he choked out the words between sobs. “Mingyu… I—I lost my job… They fired me… What am I supposed to do now?”

Mingyu didn’t answer immediately. He only tightened his arms around him, shielding him from the rain as best he could. Seungcheol’s sobs came harder, his body shaking until exhaustion took over. He melted completely against Mingyu, his weight heavy but fragile in the beta’s arms.

Mingyu hadn’t meant to be gone for long. Twenty minutes — that was all he needed, or so he thought. He’d stepped out of the hospital room reluctantly, glancing over his shoulder more than once before pulling the door closed behind him. The phone call from work had come at the worst possible time. He had already taken two days off without notice and the kitchen had been in chaos. Mingyu had tried to sound calm as he explained what needed to be done and that he’d be back soon.

The call lasted barely ten minutes, but the moment it ended, another came in — a supplier issue at the restaurant that needed his input. He had stayed in the corridor, pacing while juggling the calls, his thoughts constantly drifting back to the room down the hall.

When he finally hung up and returned, coffee in hand for himself and warm soup for Seungcheol, the sight that greeted him made the world freeze.

The bed was empty.

The blanket was crumpled halfway down, the pillow slightly dented. The IV line dangled loosely at the bedside, disconnected.

For a second, Mingyu couldn’t breathe. His hands went cold, his throat closing in panic as he dropped the coffee cup, hot liquid splattering across the floor. “Seungcheol?” he called, his voice cracking. He checked the bathroom first, then the small supply area near the corner of the room. Nothing.

He darted into the hallway, looking both ways. It didn’t make sense. He’d been barely strong enough to stand last night. How could he possibly have left?

Mingyu hurried over to the nurse station. “Excuse me!” He said quickly, his words tripping over themselves. “The omega in room 203 — Seungcheol — where is he?”

The nurse blinked in confusion. “He hasn’t been discharged yet, has he?”

“He’s gone!” Mingyu shouted, already running toward the elevators. He checked the garden, the small café downstairs, the vending machine area, even the quiet corner where patients often went to make calls. Each time, the result was the same — empty.

The panic in his chest grew unbearable. Finally, he marched to the security desk, slamming his palms on the counter. “I need to see the CCTV,” he demanded, breathless. “Now. Please — someone in your care just disappeared. His name is Choi Seungcheol.”

The guard, startled by his urgency, hesitated only a moment before nodding. Within minutes, the footage flickered onto the monitor. Mingyu leaned forward, scanning the grainy video. There — a familiar figure, pale and unsteady, shuffling down the corridor in worn-out clothes. Seungcheol.

Mingyu’s jaw tightened as he watched him pass through the lobby, shoulders hunched, moving like a ghost. The time stamp read 7:42 a.m. — barely half an hour ago.

“Damn it,” Mingyu muttered under his breath, running a hand through his damp hair. Of course. Of course that idiot would do something like this.

Mingyu didn’t need to think twice about where Seungcheol was headed. There was only one place he would dragged himself to in the morning, even half-conscious and feverish. His workplace, that damned tailor shop.

Without wasting another second, Mingyu rushed out of the hospital. The drizzle had turned steady, thin streams of water running down the pavement as he yanked one of the hospital’s umbrellas from the rack by the door. He waved down the first taxi he saw, nearly slipping on the wet curb in his haste.

“Seoul Tailor and Design, near the central square,” he said quickly as he climbed in, breathless. “Please, hurry.”

The driver nodded, pulling into traffic.

Rain streaked across the windows, the city outside gray and blurred. Mingyu tapped his fingers anxiously on his knee, checking the time every few seconds. The traffic was crawling — morning congestion mixed with slick roads slowing everything down. Every minute felt like an hour.

He tried to imagine Seungcheol, fragile and feverish, pushing through the rain just to get to that place. The image made his chest tighten painfully. “Come on, come on…” he muttered under his breath, urging the car forward.

When they neared the street where the tailor shop was located, Mingyu leaned forward. “You can stop here, I’ll get off—”

“It’s not safe, sir,” the driver interrupted. “Too close to the main lane. I’ll pull over ahead.”

Mingyu was about to argue when his gaze caught on something outside.

Through the rain-streaked glass, he saw a familiar figure stumbling down the sidewalk, holding onto the wall for support. The sight made his blood run cold.

“Stop! Stop the car!”

The taxi screeched to a halt near the curb. Mingyu threw some bills toward the driver, muttered a hurried “thank you,” and jumped out, splashing through puddles as he ran.

“Seungcheol!” he shouted, voice cutting through the rain.

The omega didn’t seem to hear him at first. He looked disoriented, his steps uneven. Then, as he turned the corner, Mingyu saw him collide with a passerby. The impact sent Seungcheol reeling, and before he could steady himself, his body crumpled forward into the stranger’s arms.

“Seungcheol-ah!” Mingyu’s heart leapt into his throat.

He ran the last few steps, his umbrella forgotten as it flipped inside out against the wind. The stranger, a tall man in a dark coat, held Seungcheol upright, worry etched on his face. “He just fell,” the man said quickly.

“I’m so sorry—he’s my friend,” Mingyu panted, reaching for Seungcheol. “Thank you, I’ve got him.”

But the moment his hands touched him, Seungcheol clutched onto Mingyu’s shirt, trembling, his eyes glassy with tears.

“Mingyu…” His voice cracked, broken by exhaustion and despair.

Mingyu froze. “What?”

Seungcheol’s body shook as he spoke, the words barely coherent. “I—I lost my job… They fired me… What am I supposed to do now? How will I…” His voice dissolved into sobs, his strength giving out as he buried his face against Mingyu’s shoulder.

Mingyu’s throat tightened. He wrapped his arm around the smaller man, trying to steady him, but before he could respond, he felt Seungcheol’s weight shift again. His breathing faltered, and when Mingyu pulled back slightly, he saw it — a thin trail of blood running from Seungcheol’s nose.

“Cheol?!” Mingyu shook him lightly, panic rising in his voice. But Seungcheol didn’t answer. His body went limp, his head falling against Mingyu’s chest.

“No—no, no—Cheol!”

Mingyu barely caught him in time, easing him slowly to the ground as he held him close, panic rising again. His arms tightened around Seungcheol’s limp body, the umbrella clattering to the pavement beside them.

The stranger who had caught Seungcheol earlier didn’t hesitate. He knelt beside them, lifting the umbrella again over Mingyu’s back to shield them both from the rain.

“We need to get him to a hospital. Now.” he said urgently. “Get in my car. We’ll drive you.”

Mingyu looked up at him, wide-eyed, rainwater running down his face. “Please—thank you—”

Together, they half-carried, half-lifted Seungcheol toward the car parked a few meters away. The stranger opened the back door, helping Mingyu ease Seungcheol onto the seat as gently as possible. His clothes were drenched, his lips pale, his pulse weak.

Mingyu climbed in beside him, one hand gripping Seungcheol’s shoulder as the car started moving. “Please, take us to Seoul Specialist Centre — he was admitted there two days ago,” Mingyu said quickly.

The car sped through the rain, windshield wipers struggling against the downpour. Mingyu held Seungcheol close, pressing his soaked sleeve against the omega’s nose to stop the bleeding. His hands shook, but he forced himself to stay calm, whispering quietly, “Hang on, Cheol. Just a little longer. Please.”

The stranger, glancing back from the passenger seat, wordlessly handed Mingyu a box of tissues. “Here,” he said. “We’re almost there.”

When they finally reached the hospital, Mingyu barely waited for the car to stop. The stranger was already out, opening the back door and helping him lift Seungcheol again. Together, they carried Seungcheol out, his body limp between them, and hurried through the sliding doors.

Nurses rushed forward immediately, recognizing Mingyu from before. Within moments, Seungcheol was taken from his arms and wheeled away toward the emergency wing. Mingyu followed until the nurse stopped him gently at the door.

“You have to wait here,” she said softly. “We’ll take care of him.”

He stood there in the hallway, soaked through, watching helplessly as Seungcheol disappeared behind the doors again. The stranger touched his shoulder gently, grounding him.

“He’s in good hands,” the man said quietly.

Mingyu finally looked up at him—tall, poised, his clothes expensive but now soaked from rain. The man reached into his jacket and pulled out a business card, holding it out between two fingers.

“Update me on his condition when you can,” he said. “You can call the number on there anytime.”

Mingyu blinked, caught off guard by the name, but managed to nod, clutching the card in his trembling hand. “Thank you. Really. For everything.”

The man gave him a small, reassuring smile. “Just take care of your friend,” he said before turning to leave.

When he was gone, Mingyu sank onto one of the waiting chairs, his wet clothes clinging to his skin, his fingers still wrapped tightly around the card. He stared down at it blankly, his heart pounding with the weight of everything that had just happened.

He pressed the card to his forehead, closing his eyes.

“Please, just let him be okay,” he whispered hoarsely. “Please, let him have the strength to get through this.”

Because Seungcheol didn’t deserve to break—not after everything he had already sacrificed just to survive.

The next few days passed in a slow, fragile rhythm that tested every ounce of Seungcheol’s endurance.

After the chaos of that rainy morning, after Mingyu’s desperate rush to the hospital and the kindness of a stranger who had stopped to help, everything blurred into one long stretch of half-consciousness and medical machines.

The doctors had said his condition was severe—his body was suffering from hormonal collapse, a backlash from months of suppressed heat and exhaustion. The treatment had stabilized him, but recovery wouldn’t come quickly. Twice, during the first three days, he woke up screaming for breath, his body shaking violently as if his lungs refused to work. The sedatives were necessary to calm him, to keep his system from collapsing under the strain. Still, every time the nurses administered them, Mingyu’s heart ached at the way Seungcheol’s eyelashes fluttered weakly before he slipped back into unconsciousness.

His temperature spiked without warning, rising and dropping in erratic waves as his body finally succumbed to the natural heat it had been forced to suppress for far too long. His fever was high enough that his sheets were constantly damp, his skin clammy, his body trembling. At times, he would cry out from pain even in sleep, the fevered remnants of his mind stuck in delirium. Mingyu and Wonwoo took turns watching over him, wiping away the sweat on his brow, whispering quiet reassurances even when they weren’t sure he could hear them.

It took nearly a full week for the storm to finally subside.

By the morning of the fifth day, Seungcheol could finally sit up without fainting. His head still felt heavy, his hands still shook when he tried to lift his glass of water, but the color had begun to return to his face. His heat had ebbed, leaving behind the dull ache of fatigue that settled deep in his bones.

When the doctors declared him stable enough to be discharged, both Mingyu and Wonwoo had insisted that Seungcheol stay with them for a while. Their apartment was larger, cleaner, and better equipped than Seungcheol’s rundown unit, and Mingyu had already taken the week off work to help.

Seungcheol didn’t argue. He didn’t have the energy to.

Back at the apartment, the air was warm and familiar. Mingyu helped him settle into bed while Wonwoo ran through a checklist of instructions from the hospital. They stocked the fridge with simple, healthy meals, made sure the heater was working properly, and banned Seungcheol from lifting even a finger.

For the next several days, he did little more than sleep and eat. Mingyu and Wonwoo took turns staying with him, coaxing him to finish his meals and reminding him to take his medicine. The owners of the family restaurant where he worked as a waiter had been kind enough to let him take as much time as he needed to recover, promising that his job would still be there when he was ready. The convenience store, however, hadn’t been so understanding. The moment they learned he’d missed three consecutive shifts, they terminated his position without hesitation.

When Mingyu told him, Seungcheol didn’t even react. He simply nodded, staring down at his hands folded in his lap. The silence that followed was heavy, filled with the sound of the clock ticking softly in the corner.

The days that followed were quiet, heavy with unspoken thoughts. Seungcheol barely spoke unless he had to. Sometimes, Mingyu would find him sitting by the window, lost in thought, his expression far away. Other times, he’d hear the muffled sound of quiet sobbing from the bedroom, the kind that came from trying too hard to be silent. Mingyu never interrupted him on those nights. He knew that Seungcheol needed to let the tears out, even if he would pretend otherwise the next morning.

The only moments when Seungcheol truly smiled were during Seungkwan’s video calls. The younger boy had received the new phone Mingyu helped buy and sent to him, and he’d been calling often between his summer volunteer shifts. Whenever his face appeared on the screen, Seungcheol’s eyes lit up, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten. He’d laugh softly, ask about Seungkwan’s studies, remind him to eat well. The moment the call ended, however, the apartment would fall into silence again, and Seungcheol would quietly wipe the corners of his eyes before anyone could see.

He apologized often—to Mingyu and Wonwoo. He apologised for troubling them, for being weak, for needing help at all. Each time, Mingyu would sigh and remind him that no one blamed him for anything, but the guilt lingered in Seungcheol’s expression, stubborn and deep-rooted.

That night, Mingyu and Wonwoo coaxed him to eat dinner with them. He looked better now — still fragile, but less pale. He managed to sit upright without swaying, his hair freshly washed, a light blanket draped over his shoulders. Mingyu filled his bowl with soft rice and soup, watching carefully as Seungcheol ate small spoonfuls at a time.

It was halfway through the meal when Wonwoo spoke.

“Seungcheol-ah,” he said casually, though his tone carried a hint of meaning. “Would you be interested in working with me?”

Seungcheol blinked, startled. “Working… with you?”

“Yes,” Wonwoo nodded. “My secretary’s going on maternity leave next month—she’ll be out for nearly a year. I need someone to fill in, and I thought of you.”

For a moment, Seungcheol just stared, his spoon halfway to his mouth. “But… I’m an omega. I thought—”

“You can,” Wonwoo said gently. “We have an adjusted system for omega employees at the firm. It’s legal, and it’s safe. The pay structure is different, but it’s still fair.”

He hesitated a moment before adding, “The basic pay for omegas is around eight hundred and fifty. Not much compared to alphas and betas, but—”

Before he could finish, the spoon slipped from Seungcheol’s fingers, clattering against the bowl. Mingyu flinched at the sound as Seungcheol stared wide-eyed, his lips parting in disbelief.

“Eight hundred… fifty?” he whispered.

Wonwoo nodded quickly, adding, “There’s also an allowance on top of that—transport, meal subsidy, and overtime compensation. Altogether, it’ll come to a little over a thousand per month.”

Seungcheol’s breath caught. The tears came before he could stop them. “That’s— that’s more than I’ve ever had in my life,” he said, his voice trembling. “Are you sure? I can really work there?”

Wonwoo smiled faintly. “Of course. You’ve got a diploma in office management, right? That’s more than enough. You’ll do great.”

Seungcheol covered his face with his hands, his shoulders shaking as the tears spilled freely. “Thank you,” he whispered between sobs. “Thank you so much, Wonwoo. I promise I won’t let you down.”

Wonwoo reached out, resting a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to promise anything right now,” he said gently. “Just focus on getting better. That’s what matters most.”

But Seungcheol couldn’t stop crying. The relief, the gratitude, the exhaustion—it all came out at once. He leaned forward, wrapping his arms around Wonwoo, his tears soaking into the alpha’s shirt. Wonwoo hesitated for only a moment before returning the hug, steady and warm. “It’s okay,” he murmured. “You don’t have to worry anymore.”

That night, Seungcheol fell asleep early, his face still streaked with dried tears but his breathing calm and even. Mingyu and Wonwoo stayed up a little longer, sitting in the living room with cups of warm tea cradled between their hands. The quiet hum of the night surrounded them, broken only by the distant hum of the city beyond the window.

“Thank you,” Mingyu said after a long pause. “For offering him the job. I don’t know how I’d have convinced him to rest otherwise.”

Wonwoo smiled faintly. “You don’t have to thank me, love. Cheol’s already like a little brother to me. I’ve watched how hard he works. He deserves a chance at something better.”

Mingyu smiled weakly, looking down into his tea. “Still… thank you.”

A comfortable silence settled between them until Wonwoo suddenly reached into his pocket and pulled out a slightly crumpled business card. He placed it on the table between them. “By the way,” he said. “I found this in your jacket earlier when I was doing laundry.”

Mingyu frowned, picking up the card. “Oh—right. That’s from the man who helped us the other day. The one who drove us to the hospital in the rain.”

Wonwoo raised an eyebrow. “He gave you his card?”

“Yeah. I was supposed to call him and update him about Cheol, but everything happened so fast that I… forgot.”

Wonwoo took the card back for a moment, turning it over. His eyes caught the small, embossed emblem printed on the back — a familiar mark of two interlocking scales.

“Mingyu-yah,” he said slowly. “You realize who this belongs to, right?”

Mingyu blinked. “What do you mean?”

Wonwoo pointed at the emblem. “That’s the JIHAN Law Firm’s seal.”

Mingyu’s mouth fell open. He turned the card over in his hand and froze when he saw the bold, elegant lettering across the front: Yoon Jeonghan.

His jaw dropped. “Wait—that Yoon Jeonghan? The Jeonghan who owns your firm?”

Wonwoo nodded with a small chuckle. “That’s him. Jeonghan doesn’t usually take interest in people outside his circle, so the fact that he helped you is… unusual.”

Mingyu blinked in disbelief before letting out a breathless laugh. “Of course. Of all people, it had to be him.” He looked embarrassed, rubbing his neck. “Well, I was planning to call him and say thank you anyway. Guess I’ll have to be extra polite now.”

Wonwoo chuckled. “Don’t worry. He won’t mind. Jeonghan might look cold on the outside, but he’s not heartless. Still, it’s rare for him to involve himself in something outside work.”

Mingyu laughed quietly, shaking his head. “Then maybe you can just tell him Seungcheol’s okay on my behalf then.”

But Wonwoo only smiled, a knowing look in his eyes. “Actually, I think I’ll do one better. I’ll bring Seungcheol to the office next week to finalize his employment paperwork. That way, Jeonghan can see for himself how the omega he helped is doing.”

Mingyu grinned faintly, shaking his head. “You really think that’s a good idea?”

Wonwoo took a sip of tea, his tone calm but sure. “He’ll be working with us soon anyway. It’s better they meet properly.”

As the clock ticked softly between them, the quiet warmth of the moment settled into something peaceful. In the next room, Seungcheol slept soundly for the first time in weeks, his face relaxed and his breathing steady. The world outside might still be harsh, but for the first time in a long while, there was a small, fragile light at the end of his tunnel — a promise that maybe, just maybe, things were finally starting to change.