Flashback – Nine Years Ago
POV: Lee Yohan
They used to call themselves wolves.
Two young alphas, forged in back alleys and gun smoke, dreaming of empires. Lee Yohan and Arin were more than partners—they were brothers by blood spilled together, not born.
Where Yohan was silent precision, Arin was loud fury. Chaos and calculation, fists and flame. Together, they climbed. Together, they carved a name feared across the East District.
Their rise was meteoric. Together, they dismantled half a dozen smaller gangs, brokered arms deals, erased old blood feuds, and swallowed entire districts without mercy. They were wolves, yes—but with a shared vision.
It was supposed to be them, side by side, forever.
Until Arin started wanting more.
It began in whispers. Jealous glances. Late nights when Arin drank too deep and spoke too loud—words like "Why do they follow you?" or "When do I get my share?" growing more bitter with every success Yohan earned.
Yohan thought it was just pressure. Arin had always been wild—sharp-edged, hot-blooded, unpredictable. Yohan brought the calm, the plans. He thought that balance made them stronger.
He was wrong.
The first real warning came two weeks before the massacre.
One of their junior captains, Ji-hoon, went missing. Then another. When Yohan asked, Arin waved it off—"They're cowards. Couldn't handle the heat."
But their bodies turned up in the river three days later. Hands bound. Executed.
_________
That Night
The warehouse smelled of oil and gunmetal. Rain fell outside, thunder rolling over the East Dockyards like distant artillery. Yohan's convoy arrived silently, five black cars, windows tinted, engines whisper quiet. He was bringing the final piece—an arms cache worth millions, meant to cement their control over the port syndicates.
Arin had called for the meet. Said he had a gift to mark their ascension.
It was a trap.
The first thing Yohan saw was the blood trail. A smear across the concrete, fresh. He followed it without hesitation, his gun drawn low and silent. No panic. Only purpose.
Then came the bodies.
Seven of his men, gunned down with precision. No return fire. Execution style. Each one wearing the mark of his crew—his crew—lined up like offerings.
But it was the eighth body that stopped him cold.
Jae-hwan.
Yohan's lieutenant. His first recruit. The only person who knew Yohan before he became a name that made men bow or bleed.
Jae-hwan was still alive.
Barely.
Tied to a chair, face swollen, lips cracked. His shirt was soaked red. Fingers broken. A knife wound in his side. And standing in front of him, cleaning a blade with calm detachment—was Arin
Grinning like a chesire cat.
"Yohan," Arin said, without turning around. "Right on time."
Yohan's blood went still.
Arin didn't flinch. He turned, eyes calm, and smiled.
"I didn't want to do it like this," he said. "But you made it necessary."
Yohan said nothing. His gun was steady in his hand, but he didn't raise it yet.
Jae-hwan made a low, broken sound. A warning.
Arin crouched beside him. "He wouldn't talk. Loyal to the end. It was… touching." He ran a finger through the blood on Jae-hwan's chest and drew a crude heart on the floor with it.
Yohan stepped forward. "Why?"
"Because I'm tired of watching you sit on a throne we built together."
"I gave you half."
"You gave me crumbs and called it honor." Arin's voice sharpened. "They followed you. They quoted you like gospel. You think you're better than me. Cleaner. Smarter. You think being cold makes you noble."
"No," Yohan said coldly. "It makes me feel alive."
Arin's smile cracked.
He drove the knife into Jae-hwan's chest
Yohan fired.
The bullet grazed Arin's shoulder, sending him sprawling. Guards rushed in, guns raised, and the room exploded into chaos.
But Arin was already gone.
Yohan moved like vengeance incarnate. Every step was death. Every shot—deliberate. He reached Jae-hwan, took down two men with a single shot each, then pulled him free.
Smoke grenades flooded the space. Yohan coughed, eyes burning, as he pulled Jae-hwan and dragged him behind cover. The man's breath was shallow, blood pooling fast beneath him.
Yohan pressed his hands to the wound.
"Stay with me."
Jae-hwan's fingers twitched. He looked up, barely conscious, but smiling weakly.
"Should've seen it… sooner," he whispered.
"I'll fix it," Yohan said. "I'll make it right."
"Please, please, stay with me " yohan pleaded.
Jae-hwan exhaled.
And didn't inhale again.
__________
Three Days Later
The grave was shallow . He buried Jae-hwan with his own hands, behind the first warehouse they ever bought together. Dirt under his nails, blood still staining his shirt.
Seo Jin waited nearby, silent.
"They're calling you weak," Jin said after a long silence. "That you've gone soft."
"Let them," Yohan said.
Jin raised a brow.
"Let them think that," Yohan murmured. "Let him."
He looked out toward the industrial skyline—where Arin now held stolen territory and a stolen name.
"When I move," Yohan said, "he won't see it coming. And when I'm done, they won't remember he ever existed."
————-
Present Day
POV: Arin
The private room was soundproof. Windowless. Luxurious in the way brothels for the rich always were—velvet drapes, low lights, a faint scent of sweat, leather, and cigar smoke soaked into the walls.
But Arin barely noticed.
He was sprawled in the wide leather chair, legs parted, shirt unbuttoned, hand working slow between his thighs.
Not over a fantasy. Not over a memory.
Over him.
The screen in front of him played surveillance footage on loop—In-su in the school courtyard, smiling faintly as he knelt to tie a child's shoe. In another clip, he leaned against the frame of his classroom door, sleeves rolled to the elbows, voice inaudible but gaze sharp. His body was slim, commanding. His scent—Arin had memorized the readout: dominant omega, unclaimed. Untouched.
Unreal.
Arin's eyes darkened as he paused the video, zooming in on In-su's face—those calculating, serious eyes. That mouth. That neck.
A part of him twitched violently.
"I'm going to make you mine , you don't know that yet," he whispered, breath shallow. "But I do."
He'd spent weeks gathering footage. Hacked school cameras. Paid off janitors and delivery men. Had his men collect scent samples from discarded tissues, coffee cups. He had a dossier as thick as a war file on Ho In-su. Medical history, bloodwork, heat cycle predictions, a list of everything he touched.
And yet it wasn't enough.
It wasn't real until he could make him scream.
In submission.
The fact he belonged to Yohan turn in on even harder .
Arin hissed as he stroked himself harder, staring at the frozen image of In-su bending over a low bookshelf, back curved slightly, unaware of the eyes burning through the screen.
"You're so fucking perfect," Arin muttered. "Too perfect for him."
He slammed a fist on the desk as he came, teeth bared, chest heaving.
Hot. Fast. Empty.
But not enough.
Arin leaned back in the chair, the aftermath already fading, a dull ache settling in his chest.
It wasn't release he wanted.
It was possession.
He stared at the screen again—In-su now caught mid-laugh, wiping paint from a child's cheek during an art lesson. The moment froze, and Arin's jaw tightened.
He stood abruptly, stalking to the wall where a massive board was pinned—photo of the school's floor plan, heat maps of security movement, snapshots of In-su walking home. Red strings linked names, times, weak points.
Arin's fingers traced a line from the classroom window to an alley behind the school.
"This world doesn't forgive weakness. You should never have let him see you," he said to the photo of In-su. "You shouldn't have let me see him...Brother