Chapter Text
Good evening, citizens. This is Jung Jinwoo, reporting live from Central Command with an urgent national announcement from the Department of Public Order and Genetic Welfare.
At approximately 3:47 AM this morning, a critical incident occurred in the District of Daeyang-Gu, involving an unregulated omega adolescent. Three fatalities and seven severe injuries have been confirmed, including two law enforcement officers and a medical responder.
This marks the seventh reported omega feral outbreak in the last thirty days.
We understand that these events are distressing. We want to assure the public that the Federal Omega Containment Act is currently being revised and expanded to address the rising instability in the omega population. The government is moving swiftly to ensure your safety.
As you may be aware, omegas—once considered a manageable subclass—have shown a sharp, unexplained spike in feral behaviors over the past year. These include—but are not limited to—heightened aggression, uncontrolled heat cycles, territorial fixation, and relentless mating compulsions. Victims of these episodes have described the omegas as “incoherent, violent, and obsessed with scent-marking and sexual stimulation.”
Experts are now officially classifying the condition as Omega Feral Syndrome (OFS)—a neurological regression triggered by hormonal overstimulation. Early signs include unprovoked arousal, refusal to wear scent blockers, public displays of rutting behavior, and a degradation of speech and impulse control.
In response, the Omega Regulation Facilities—previously reserved for high-risk cases—will now be expanded and reinforced to house all omega-class individuals, regardless of age or criminal record. Collection units have already been dispatched nationwide.
Let us be clear: this is not a punishment. This is protection—for you, for your children, and for the omegas themselves.
Beta-class individuals interested in applying to the Handler Program can visit gov.omega.control for training registration and mandatory psychological screening.
Do not approach an omega. Do not attempt to calm them. Do not let them scent you. If you suspect feral activity in your community, please report it to the Omega Emergency Hotline at 7-1-1.
We will continue to bring you updates as they unfold. Stay safe. Stay alert. And remember:
Order protects us all.
☤
The projector clicked softly as it played.
On the wall, Minjae writhed across the padded floor of his containment cell, drenched in sweat. He was panting, back arched, rubbing his cock against the tile like friction alone could save him. His fingernails were cracked from scraping the corners of the wall, and his thighs were glistening with slick. He was crying again. Whining. Whimpering. Pleading for a relief he wouldn’t be able to get.
The footage looped.
No one spoke. Papers shuffled. Someone clicked their pen, fast and anxious. Another rubbed their temples with a slow, exhausted hand.
“He’s been like this for almost forty hours,” someone finally said. “Suppressants have no effect. He came seven times in three hours and still couldn’t get relief.”
“He bit through the stim collar.”
“He tried to fuck a sink.”
“He broke the sink.”
“And fractured his own pelvis doing it.”
“He doesn’t even react to betas anymore. Won’t let them in the room. Starts biting the walls if they get too close.”
“They’re all doing this,” another voice snapped. “Minjae isn’t an outlier. He’s the pattern. Every omega on record is stuck in the same loop—pseudo-heat, hypersensitivity, persistent erection, extreme pelvic tension. Their bodies are flooded with arousal and they can’t release it. Not fully.”
“Because none of the methods we’re using are compatible with their physiology.”
“Exactly. Mechanical stimulation doesn’t reach the inner walls. Beta contact doesn’t trigger glandular relief. We’re treating symptoms instead of the root cause.”
“We know the cause,” someone barked. “We’ve always known. It’s biological. Alphas and omegas are chemically engineered for one another. The problem isn’t what they need, it’s that we can’t give it to them.”
“Because when we do—they go insane.”
“Last alpha trial ended in a fatality.”
“Three, actually.”
“They tore through him before he even got the knot in.”
“They don’t mean to kill,” another said quietly. “They just want to be filled. Pressurized glands, full-body ache, internal strain—nothing relieves it but a knot. Nothing satisfies but alpha pheromones. They’re not being violent out of malice. They’re in pain.”
“Then maybe we stop calling them dangerous and start calling them desperate.”
“Desperate doesn’t excuse the fact that they’re ripping out their own hair in the observation rooms.”
“They’re eating through foam padding like animals!”
“Because their bodies are screaming for something we refuse to give them. They don’t want toys. They don’t want betas. They want biological release.”
“They want to be knotted.”
The words hung in the air, obscene in their truth.
“They want to be bred,” someone added.
A long silence. The only sound was the footage still playing, Minjae humping the floor in an endless, hopeless loop.
“They’re starving,” said a calmer voice, somewhere near the back. “That’s what this is. They’re starving, but the food keeps being replaced with plastic.”
More silence.
“We need fucking alphas.”
Voices erupted instantly.
“No. Absolutely not.”
“You’re proposing suicide—”
“We’ve already done this. The test group couldn’t handle the aggression—”
“Because we used standard-ranked alphas. We didn’t screen them properly. They were barely trained—”
“They were mauled!”
“Then we find alphas who can survive it.”
“We don’t need someone dominant. We need someone compatible.”
“The only compatibility that matters is chemical. Alphas produce the pheromones that shut down omega heat cycles. Their knot applies pressure to the pelvic floor, relieves the glands, resets the reproductive system. It’s perfect biology. The problem is…”
“They can’t survive the fucking process.”
The room was boiling over again. Scientific terms and shouting tangled into chaos: prolonged oxytocin flooding, inner gland saturation, pair-bond spike, post-knot aggression. Reports were flying across the table, graphs slapped onto the walls. Someone brought up the footage from the last failed trial. No one could look.
Finally—again, that voice. Steady. Cold.
“Then we stop pretending there’s another solution. The stims don’t work. The betas are dying. The omegas are suffering. You want to sedate them until their organs shut down? You want to keep mopping cum off the walls while they scream for something we’re too scared to give them?”
The room quieted. Uneasy.
“We find alphas who can handle it. Strong enough to knot them. Trained enough to endure it. And we study the outcomes.”
“And if they bond?”
“Then maybe,” the voice said, “we learn something new.”
☤
Good morning. This is government-certified broadcaster Jae Myung with an urgent and exciting opportunity from the Omega Regulation Facilities Initiative.
As part of the continuing national effort to manage the Omega Feral Syndrome, the government is proud to announce a specialized recruitment program under the Omega Facilitation Corps—also known as the OFC. This elite division is now seeking qualified alpha-class individuals for immediate employment within high-security regulation facilities.
Applicants should be in strong physical condition, capable of handling physically intensive and proximity-based interaction with feral-designated omega subjects. The position will demand significant strength and stamina, including the ability to safely restrain and stabilize subjects during peak biological episodes. A high tolerance for scent saturation and instinctual provocation is expected, and individuals with prior training in crisis response, military operations, or high-contact fieldwork may find themselves particularly well-suited for this unique opportunity.
Due to the volatile nature of omega regulation environments, all applicants will undergo a full physical evaluation to determine eligibility. Testing will include scent-resistance assessments, hormone compatibility analysis, and a complete psychological screening, with particular attention paid to aggression modulation, impulse control, and pheromone-driven reactivity.
Only confirmed alpha-class individuals may apply. Documentation of secondary status or any history of hormonal irregularity will result in immediate disqualification.
This is not simply a containment role. It is a vital act of public service. Those selected to join the Omega Facilitation Corps will be stepping into one of the most critical and demanding stabilization efforts of our generation.
Compensation is competitive. Housing and transport are provided. Clearance level will be federal.
To submit an application or learn more about upcoming recruitment events, visit www.ofc.gov/recruitment. Early registration is encouraged, as screenings begin immediately.
Thank you, and remember:
Order protects us all.
☤
There’s a big chance San is about to make the mistake of his lifetime. But rationalizing it is easy enough.
Working a nine to five every day. Making just enough money to keep his fridge half-stocked and the lights on. Spending the weekends lying on the same couch, watching the same shows, too drained to see friends he’s stopped texting back anyway. Life on autopilot. A body running the motions with nothing inside it.
He’s tired. He’s fed up. And this—this right here—is what he’ll tell himself to justify the fact that he’s sitting in a sterile white lobby, waiting for his name to be called for his scheduled interview at the OFC.
Omega Facilitation Corps.
It sounds important. Noble. Scientific.
Really, it just means he’s here to fuck feral omegas.
No one says it out loud, of course. The news broadcast dressed it up with enough clinical language to make it sound like a government internship. Serve. Stabilize. Protect. Like he’s volunteering for a goddamn blood drive.
But he’s seen the rumors. Heard the stories. Omegas in heat, rutting against the walls, biting anyone who comes close. And now the government wants alphas. Not just any alphas—strong ones. Durable. Physically capable. Emotionally “resilient.” Which, San has come to learn, is a polite way of asking: are you stable enough to knot someone who might rip your throat out halfway through?
The chair under him squeaks when he shifts. The whole room is white—walls, floor, even the damn ceiling. Smells like bleach and recycled air. There’s a receptionist behind a glass panel, typing with perfect posture and no expression. A few other alphas sit scattered around the room. No one talks. No one looks at each other.
There’s a clipboard in his lap with a list of preliminary screening questions. He hasn’t filled it out yet.
His hands are sweating.
He can still walk out, he thinks. Right now. Before they call his name. Before the door opens and swallows him whole.
But he doesn’t move.
Because as stupid and insane and completely fucked as it is, he keeps thinking: maybe this will change something.
Maybe this will matter.
San finally picks up the pen.
The clipboard is heavier than it looks. Government standard. Crisp black text printed in neat, unthreatening font.
Preliminary Compatibility & Stability Screening — ALPHA CANDIDATES ONLY.
The first question is simple enough.
Do you consider yourself physically fit and capable of sustained physical exertion?
Can you hold down an omega in heat without breaking your back or getting your face clawed off?
Probably? San checks yes.
Do you have experience working in high-stress environments?
Have you ever been screamed at, pissed on, or bitten and kept going anyway?
No. But whatever.
Are you comfortable with bodily fluids, physical contact, and scent exposure?
Can you handle being drenched in slick and cum without losing your shit?
Yes.
Do you consent to entering a controlled biological interaction environment for the purposes of stabilization?
Are you cool with fucking someone who’s more animal than human right now?
He pauses, a brief, why the fuck not crosses his mind before he checks yes.
Have you had any past incidents of scent-triggered aggression or impulse control violations?
Have you ever rutted someone without permission? held someone down and knotted them despite their protests?
No.
Are you willing to submit to psychological evaluation, physical screening, and pheromone compatibility testing?
Are you willing to be poked, prodded, and smelled like livestock before we let you near them?
Sure. Why not.
He grimaces through the last page. The questions keep up the professional front, but he’s not stupid. They’re checking for things they can’t say out loud. Can you survive knotting someone who wants it so badly they might kill you for it? Can you get hard under pressure? Can you fuck on command? Can you finish?
He signs his name at the bottom. The ink’s barely dry when the speaker above the receptionist’s desk crackles to life.
“Choi San. Interview Room 3.”
He stands automatically. The pen rolls off his lap and hits the floor.
He weaves through rows of silent alphas, chairs creaking under the weight of tension. No one looks at him. No one wishes him luck.
The door to Room 3 slides open with a soft hiss.
He steps inside and the door slides shut behind him with a quiet click.
The room is just as white and sterile as the lobby—maybe even more so. No windows, no decoration, just a single chair placed precisely in the center of the floor, facing a metal table. Behind it sit two people dressed in crisp white scrubs, laptops open, fingers poised gently over keyboards.
They both look up and smile.
“Choi San,” the one on the left says warmly. “Thank you for coming in.”
The other nods, just as pleasant. “We appreciate your time. Please, have a seat.”
San sits. The chair is cold. His palms are still a little damp, so he wipes them on his jeans under the table. The two staff members—doctors, scientists, he’s not sure—watch him with polite interest. Their faces are calm, voices smooth and easy, like they’re discussing the weather.
But their eyes—Their eyes are clinical. Focused. They’re watching him like something behind glass. Something wild they haven’t quite figured out yet.
“How was the intake process?” one of them asks. “Any confusion with the paperwork?”
“No,” San replies, voice a little rough. “It was straightforward.”
“Excellent,” the other says, typing something without looking away from him. “We’ll begin with a few follow-up questions. Nothing invasive. Just a better sense of who you are. You understand the sensitive nature of this position, of course.”
San nods. He keeps his hands in his lap.
They ask him about his work history. His living situation. His sleep habits. Whether he smokes. Whether he has a strong sense of smell. Whether he’s ever responded physically to the scent of an omega in heat.
Their tone is calm. Gentle. Smiling.
But every question feels like a scalpel. Not painful, but sharp—precise. There’s nothing casual about it, no matter how friendly they sound. They’re studying him. Watching every twitch, every shift in his posture, every flick of his eyes.
When he answers a question, they type. Not frantically—just like every word he says is a variable in an equation they’re solving in real time.
“Do you currently use scent blockers?” the woman asks, smiling gently.
“Yeah. I wear them most days.”
The man across from her looks up from his screen, voice still smooth. “You’ll be expected to stop once officially placed on assignment.”
San blinks. “What?”
“It’s important that your natural scent is fully accessible at all times,” the man continues, calm as ever. “Unless specifically instructed otherwise by a supervising handler or attending physician, you are not to use blockers, suppressants, or cover scents of any kind during facility hours.”
The woman chimes in, her tone light and reassuring. “This is due to the biological nature of the position. The omega subjects you may be engaging with are highly scent-responsive. Artificial masking can cause confusion, agitation, or even provoke unintended aggression.”
San frowns slightly, but nods. “Alright.”
“Do you understand,” the man says, tilting his head just slightly, “that scent exposure is considered an essential component of your role?”
“I understand.”
Another few lines of typing.
“Can you describe your usual rut cycle?” the woman asks. Her voice hasn’t changed at all—still friendly, still professional—but the question lands sharp in the air.
San shifts in his seat. “Uh… every three, maybe four months. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Do you experience early warning signs?”
“Yeah. Usually I can tell a day or two ahead. Fevers, body aches, that kind of thing.”
More typing.
“If accepted into the program,” the man says, tone careful but steady, “you will be expected to notify an onsite handler the moment you begin to experience pre-rut symptoms. Even if the timing seems uncertain or early.”
San nods again, slower this time. “Okay.”
“This is for your safety,” the woman adds smoothly, as if reading his hesitation. “And for theirs. The medical staff will provide support and make arrangements as needed. But your transparency is critical.”
The man leans back slightly, hands folded now. “A feral omega will respond instinctively to your scent. If your body begins entering rut, the risk of overstimulation, aggression, or—” he pauses, choosing the word carefully, “—biological escalation increases exponentially.”
San doesn’t speak. There’s not much to say, he just nods again.
They both smile, twin expressions of polite approval. The woman types a final note into her laptop. The room hums faintly with quiet machinery. The fluorescent lights above buzz like a reminder of what San has gotten himself into.
At one point, one of them leans slightly forward and says, “It’s important to note that the omegas housed at this facility are currently in an unstable state. Their biology is under considerable strain. The individuals you may be interacting with are experiencing prolonged arousal, severe hormonal imbalance, and high sensitivity to scent and touch.”
San doesn’t respond right away.
The doctor—if that’s what he is—smiles, eyes still locked on his face.
“Does that concern you?”
San licks his bottom lip, then nods once. “Yeah. A little.”
The man types something again. “That’s perfectly normal.”
He looks up with that same mild, sterile smile. “Would you like to proceed with the physical exam portion now?”
San nods. Next portion? that’s gotta be good, right?
The woman sets her laptop aside and gestures toward the center of the room. “Then if you’d please stand.”
San rises from his chair. He walks forward, coming to a stop beneath the flat overhead light. It’s a little too bright.
“You’ll need to remove your clothing,” the man says, still typing.
San hesitates. “Everything?”
The woman offers a look that’s polite but edged with dry amusement. “If being nude makes you uncomfortable, I regret to inform you this position may not be the right fit.”
“No, it’s fine. It’s fine—just caught me off guard. That’s it.”
He strips. The jacket comes off first, then his shirt, pants, underwear, socks. He doesn’t drag it out. Doesn’t try to hide. He doesn’t need to.
Sans never been particularly self conscious.
Thick biceps stretch as he tosses his shirt aside, the muscle in his shoulders rolling under skin smooth and golden. His pecs are heavy, strong—defined with deep lines that lead straight down to hard, clean abs. His waist is narrow, his torso tapering like a blade. His thighs are solid. Cut.
Like they were carved to hold someone in place.
And between his legs, his cock hangs long and thick, even soft.
Neither of the two individuals flinch. Just quiet, clinical observation. Their eyes trail over him the way a biologist might study a specimen—checking for symmetry, proportion, viability.
He knows they can’t smell him—he’s still wearing blockers. The air in the room is sterile, overfiltered, scentless.
“What’s your natural scent?” the woman asks, cursor blinking steadily on her screen.
“Fruity,” San answers, his voice steady. “Sweet. A little musky, depending on the day.”
The woman types without looking up. The man watches him for a moment longer, then returns to his screen. They don’t say anything for a while—just the soft, rhythmic tapping of keys and the occasional glance up at his body, still standing bare beneath the unforgiving lights.
Then, without warning, the man stands.
He moves with calm efficiency, pulling a flexible measuring tape from the breast pocket of his scrubs. San tenses slightly, more out of instinct than modesty, but he doesn’t flinch.
“Just a standard physical exam,” the man says evenly. “Hold still.”
The man circles him slowly, measuring the width of his shoulders, the span of his chest, the circumference of his biceps. He writes everything down without reaction. He checks reflexes—light touches to the knee, the elbow. Quick flashes of motion. Prods at key muscle groups with firm fingers, testing tension, responsiveness.
Then his hands shift upward, brushing gently at the side of San’s neck, right where neck meets his collarbones. He presses two fingers against the skin there. A scent gland.
Another one behind his ears. Then his inner wrists.
Each touch is impersonal. Detached. But San’s body doesn’t know the difference. Goosebumps rise across his arms and chest, and his breath catches once, barely.
The man doesn’t comment.
Finally, he kneels.
He loops the measuring tape under San’s soft cock, lifting it carefully—not with any gentleness, but not rough either. Just steady. Precise.
“Length is six inches soft,” he says aloud, marking it down on a tablet.
”What is your length, when fully erect?” the man asks suddenly, looking up at san expectingly.
San clears his throat. “Uh… nine? I think. I haven’t really ever measured—”
“We need accurate data,” the man interrupts, calm as ever. “Can you make yourself erect?”
San stares down at him, blinking. “Right now?”
“Yes,” the man replies, without hesitation. “It will only take a moment once we’ve recorded the measurement.”
There’s no smile. No smirk. No trace of anything human in his face.
San hesitates. It’s not long—but long enough for one of them to speak up.
“Do you need sexual stimuli?” the woman asks, looking up from her screen, tone still perfectly even, not the slightest bit uncomfortable with what she was saying.
San clears his throat. “No… that, uh—won’t be necessary. It’s fine.”
He shifts his weight. Breathes in deep through his nose. And lets his mind go where it naturally wants to.
Because at the end of the day, he’s just a man. An alpha. And as clinical and disturbing as this entire process is, it doesn’t take much to stir something alive in him. All he has to do is imagine it—some unknown, nameless omega, slick and shaking, writhing in heat. Moaning for it. Begging. Clawing at his shoulders, crying for his knot. Pleading to be bred.
Easy to imagine being buried inside something so hot and wet it feels like drowning.
Easy to imagine his cock throbbing as he unloads, painting their insides white.
San imagines that it wouldn’t end in blood. That he wouldn’t be mauled. That he’d be the exception—the one who could give them what they needed and walk away from it.
His cock rises quickly, thickening in his hand as he strokes himself once, just to get it going. He doesn’t try to hide it. There’s no shame. Why would there be? This is what he is. What they’re all built for.
The man crouching in front of him doesn’t react—just watches carefully, waiting. His fingers twitch near the measuring tape.
San exhales through his nose. His cock is hard now. Fully.
“Ready,” he says flatly.
The man leans forward again, lifting and measuring, muttering softly.
“Nine inches. Noted.”
Another few keystrokes. Another box checked.
Like it’s any other metric.
Like it’s just data.
San pulls his clothes back on slowly, still slightly flushed, chest rising and falling with shallow, measured breaths. When he’s fully dressed again, both individuals rise from their seats.
They stand in front of him, those same polite, professional smiles stretched across their faces like masks.
“We don’t typically make decisions during the first evaluation,” the woman says, folding her hands neatly in front of her. “However, you seem to be an excellent fit for the program.”
San blinks. “Oh—oh. Okay. Yeah. Awesome. Thanks.”
He’s flustered, but trying not to show it. He didn’t think it would be so fast. He figured maybe a week, a call, maybe even a second interview.
“You’ll be contacted within the next forty-eight hours,” the man says smoothly. “Any current employment you hold will be managed by the administrative wing of the OFC. Someone from the program will contact your employer directly.”
The woman nods, still smiling. “In the meantime, we recommend resting. Someone will be in contact via email with digital documentation to review and sign. The packet will include more detailed information regarding your placement, training, and expectations.”
San nods, slow. “Okay. Got it.”
“Thank you again for your time,” the man adds, still smiling as if this is the most ordinary thing in the world. “We’re excited to have you join a cause that’ll help restore balance and safety for everyone.”
The words land softly, almost comfortingly. Like this is about public service. Like it isn’t about locking San in a facility full of feral omegas and asking him to fuck them until they calm down.
The woman echoes the sentiment with a nod. “You’ll be doing something important.”
San can only nod in return.
He’s already out the door before the weight of it fully hits him.
☤
San’s apartment is exactly how he left it—quiet, dim, borderline depressing. A pile of laundry he never got around to doing. The flickering light above the stove he still hasn’t fixed. Half a takeout container on the coffee table.
He sits on the couch and stares at his inbox.
True to their word, the email arrives within forty-eight hours.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Welcome to the OFC | Official Documentation Attached
The sender name is something vague and overly formal—“National Placement & Integration Division.” The body of the email is full of stiff optimism and polished language: “Welcome to a new future.” “Your skills and service are valued.” “Together, we will build a safer society.”
San skims all of it. None of it matters.
His eyes go straight to the attachment:
OFC_Employment_Contract_INTGOV_04-55-A.pdf
He clicks and immediately regrets it.
The document is massive. The scroll bar looks like a pinprick on the screen. Page after page of rules, regulations, code citations, legal disclaimers, safety procedures, hygiene guidelines, biological hazard warnings, facility architecture diagrams. San’s brain starts short-circuiting just looking at it.
He scrolls faster. His eyes blur.
A section header in bold: ALPHA PERSONNEL – REQUIRED TERMS OF SERVICE
Now this part feels personal. Like they’ve finally gotten to the fine print tailored just for him.
He will be required to live on-site at the Omega Regulation Facility full-time. Accommodations will be provided, and the relocation will occur immediately upon submission of the signed paperwork. Personal housing will be terminated and reassigned.
He will be expected to surrender all personal electronic devices upon arrival. Phones, laptops, tablets, smartwatches—anything capable of transmitting information. The reason given is twofold: 1. to preserve the sterile, equipment-sensitive environment of the facility, and 2. to maintain absolute confidentiality of the operations within. No exceptions.
No photos. No messages. No contact with the outside world. No proof of what goes on behind the locked doors.
He will undergo a one-week training period, during which he will be assigned a handler. The handler will be responsible for educating him on procedure, facility layout, staff protocol, heat management strategies, emergency measures, and de-escalation techniques.
After the training period, he will be subject to a follow-up psychological evaluation. If cleared, he will be permitted to begin working directly with the scientific staff and interacting with omega subjects.
San stops scrolling and stares at the screen. At the lines he just read.
Interacting with omega subjects.
There’s no definition given. No details. But he knows damn well what that means.
His cock gives a dull twitch in his pants.
He closes his laptop and rests his head back on the couch cushion. The ceiling above him is cracked and yellowing. The soft hum of the refrigerator leaks in from the kitchen. It’s quiet—too quiet for the way his thoughts are racing.
San takes a deep breath.
Should he do this? Should he really do this?
His chest rises and falls, slow, heavy. He stares up at nothing as his mind spins through every reason to say no. Every red flag waving right in front of him.
He’s scared. He can admit that much.
He’s heard the stories. Everyone has. Omegas ripping through beta containment teams. Unhinged. Violent. So far gone they couldn’t speak. Couldn’t be reasoned with. Just heat-crazed bodies moving on instinct until someone finally put them down.
He’s read the headlines. OFC handler killed in heat surge. Beta mauled after containment breach. Omega ferality on the rise—public urged to avoid unauthorized zones.
But it’s not just the stories. It’s what he remembers.
He remembers being a kid and watching it unfold on the news. Government trucks rolling through neighborhoods with flashing lights. Officials in armored suits and gloves, carrying tasers and shock collars, combing the streets for any sign of omega pheromones.
He remembers his mother clutching him close—tight, almost too tight—as they watched a live broadcast of a residential sweep. He remembers her whispering prayers into his hair, thanking the gods above that he had presented as an alpha.
He remembers the school lockdown. The tension. The whispers. Teachers crying behind their desks. The moment soldiers came in and pulled two kids—sixth graders—out of class by the arms.
The government didn’t care how young they were. If you were omega, you were a liability.
A bomb waiting to go off.
He remembers the hysteria that followed. Entire neighborhoods spiraling into panic. Parents praying for alphas or betas in the womb. Fathers trying to hide their omega children, moving them between houses, lying on paperwork, fighting tooth and nail to protect them—only to fail every time.
It was mass fear. A national wound that never quite scabbed over.
It’s terrifying. The thought of walking into one of those facilities. Of facing what the world has spent years locking behind reinforced doors.
But—What if he could help?
What if, somehow, this job lets him be a part of something different? What if he’s not just a body to fuck them into quiet—but a tool for understanding? For progress? What if he could help the doctors figure out how to fix it? How to help these omegas come back from whatever wild, violent place their minds have gone?
What if this isn’t suicide?
What if it’s purpose?
He runs a hand through his hair, jaw tight. He’s still scared. That hasn’t gone away.
But the thought of doing nothing… Of staying here, in this rotting apartment, watching the world collapse from the safety of his couch—
That might be worse.
It’s easy to rationalize when he signs the documents.
Easier still when he hits submit faster than he can think.
It happens just with the click of a button and a flash of confirmation on his screen.
Thank you for your commitment to the Omega Facilitation Corps. You will be contacted shortly.
Over the next three days, government officials cycle in and out of his apartment. Quiet, efficient, dressed in black with government IDs clipped to their jackets. They pack everything for him—books, clothes, toothbrush, socks. A faceless blur of hands boxing up his life.
They don’t make small talk. They don’t ask questions. They don’t even look at him unless it’s to gesture politely to step aside.
By the end of the third day, the apartment is bare.
The walls are still stained with thumbtack holes. The carpet still carries the old burn near the radiator. The air still smells faintly of the life that had once existed there—cheap soap, synthetic laundry detergent, microwave meals. But it doesn’t feel like anything. Not grief. Not nostalgia.
Just empty.
Which, San thinks, is exactly what it always was.
There’s nothing to miss here.
When it’s time, the agents appear at his door again. They walk him down the stairs. He doesn’t say goodbye to the apartment. Doesn’t take one last look. What would be the point?
The waiting car outside is black, windowless, unmarked. Clean.
One of the agents—tall and stone faced —holds out a hand for San’s phone.
He gives it over without a word.
Not like he was ever attached to it anyway.
It disappears into a locked case, and then so does he—into the backseat, into the dark-tinted vehicle that drives off without ceremony or sound. No directions. No conversation.
The car ride is long.
There are no windows in the backseat, just smooth black panels and the faint hum of tires on pavement. San doesn’t know how far they’ve gone, or what direction they took. No phone. No clock. Just time, passing in chunks too vague to hold onto.
When the vehicle finally slows, San leans forward slightly. For the first time, a door opens.
The air outside hits him like a wall—clean, unnaturally crisp, like it’s been filtered a hundred times before reaching human lungs.
And then he finally sees the facility.
It rises like a monolith from the earth, all right angles and brutal architecture, surrounded by high fences lined with barbed wire and electrified coil. Watchtowers stand at every corner, floodlights aimed down at nothing in particular. The whole place hums with quiet menace.
There are checkpoints. So many checkpoints. One for ID verification. Another for biometric scan. Another for scent profiling—though San, still wearing blockers, is waved through for now. Armed guards monitor each gate, stone-faced and silent.
Surveillance drones hover overhead. Cameras tilt in his direction with a whirring sound that makes the back of his neck itch.
By the third checkpoint, San is starting to feel less like a new hire and more like a test subject being escorted into quarantine.
It doesn’t help that everything is gray. The walls. The uniforms. Even the concrete beneath his boots feels deliberately neutral, like color itself has been deemed too unpredictable for this place.
The final gate slides open with a low hiss.
Beyond it is the main structure—tall, windowless, seamless. It looks less like a building and more like a bunker designed to survive the end of the world.
San swallows. He’s seen pictures. Watched the broadcasts. Read the articles.
But seeing it in person—
It doesn’t feel like a workplace.
It feels like some sort of fucking alien research facility. Especially when he eventually is led inside.
Everything is white. Or silver. Or that sickly, industrial gray that makes San feel like his brain is buffering. The floors gleam. The walls hum. Every light is fluorescent and too bright, casting sharp-edged shadows that follow him down the endless corridors.
No one speaks. No one looks at him.
The agents escorting him don’t explain anything—they just move forward.
Past a scanning station. Through a body decontamination chamber that sprays a fine, freezing mist across his skin. A pressure door hisses open with a deep thunk, and then they’re inside a narrow hallway lined with unmarked doors.
They stop in front of one. The taller agent presses his palm to the reader. The lock clicks open.
“This is your intake suite,” he says. His voice is monotone, rehearsed. “You’ll change here. Your assigned handler will arrive shortly.”
It’s a small room—barely the size of a walk-in closet. One bench, one metal cabinet, a mirror bolted to the wall. There’s a folded set of clothes waiting for him on the bench: simple gray scrubs, soft to the touch, a lot more comfortable than he expected. No tags. No logos. Nothing to identify who he is or what he’s doing here.
He turns around, but the agents are already gone. The door hisses shut.
Alone now, San strips quickly. His old clothes—his last link to the outside world—are left in a small bin in the corner. No one told him to, but he gets the sense they were never coming with him anyway.
The scrubs fit well. Loose in the right places, snug in the right ones. They smell like nothing—just that faint sterile linen scent, like they’ve never been worn by a real person before.
He sits on the bench.
And waits.
There’s no clock, the room doesn’t have a single window. Time feels warped, stretchy. He doesn’t know if he’s been sitting for five minutes or fifty. His mind starts to drift. Maybe they forgot. Maybe this is another test. Maybe he’s not supposed to wait—maybe he’s supposed to do something. Maybe—
“Hello. San, right?”
San nearly jumps out of his skin. The voice cuts through the sterile quiet like a slap—casual, warm, human. After what felt like hours of silence, of being shuffled through cold white halls and regarded as nothing more than an item, the sound of someone talking to him like a person is borderline jarring.
Standing in the doorway is a man around his age—maybe younger. Average height, brown hair, soft features that somehow don’t come across as delicate. He’s dressed in the same gray scrubs, though his ID badge hangs loosely from his neck.
Kim, Seungmin. BETA CLASS. HANDLER CLEARANCE: HIGH.
There’s a friendliness in his posture, a softness in his expression that San hasn’t seen since the second he stepped into that car. His smile is small but genuine.
“Yeah,” San says, blinking. “San. That’s me.”
“Nice to meet you,” Seungmin replies. He steps further inside, letting the door hiss shut behind him. “I’m Seungmin—one of the beta handlers assigned to train you during your intake period. I’ll be showing you around, getting you up to speed, making sure you don’t accidentally wander into any restricted wings and get your throat ripped out. You know. The usual.”
San lets out a quiet huff—half a laugh, half disbelief. “Right. The usual.”
He sits on the bench across from San, elbows resting on his knees, easy and unbothered in a way that makes San’s tension flare even harder—because it’s the first time since this entire ordeal he’s been greeted by someone that actually feels human.
“So,” Seungmin says, giving him a quick once-over—not clinical, just curious. Casual. “How you holding up? Surprised you haven’t bolted yet.”
“I don’t think they’d let me,” San mutters.
Seungmin grins. “Fair. But still. You wouldn’t be the first alpha to walk in all calm and collected, then try to climb out a window by day three.”
That pulls a real laugh from San—brief, a little raw, but genuine. His shoulders drop a fraction.
Seungmin’s smile softens. “That’s not true, by the way. About being trapped here. I mean, yeah, the place looks like a nightmare, but honestly? Once you start getting used to everything, it’s not half as bad as it seems.”
San glances at him, unsure whether to believe it.
“There are plenty of opportunities to back out,” Seungmin continues, voice steady. “More than they tell you. You’re not a prisoner, San. You’re allowed to decide this isn’t for you. You can say no.”
San only blinks as Seungmin leans forward just slightly, elbows resting casually on his knees. “Take this as your first piece of advice,” he says gently. “Whatever you think is scary—really isn’t.”
San swallows once. Then asks, quieter than he meant to, “Have you?”
Seungmin looks at him, head tilting just a little.
“Have you ever wanted to back out of this?”
For a second, Seungmin doesn’t answer. He hums softly, almost like he’s thinking out loud, then lets the sound fade into a breath. A small smile pulls at the corner of his mouth—but there’s something behind it. Something that feels sad.
“The people that work here,” he says slowly, “aren’t just here for a paycheck and government benefits.”
“Don’t get me wrong, that stuff’s great,” he adds with a quiet chuckle, like he’s trying not to sink too deep into whatever he’s thinking. “But everyone’s here for a reason. A real one.”
His eyes meet San’s again—steadier now. Honest. “I’m sure you have your reasons. I have mine. Maybe once upon a time I thought about backing out, about going back to my old life but…” He trails off for a second, then gives a small shake of his head. “I wouldn’t.”
San looks down at his hands. Then nods once.
Yeah. He understands.
Seungmin is quiet for a moment after he speaks, like he’s giving San space to process it. But eventually, his posture shifts—more upright now, his tone soft but edged with something firmer.
“Listen,” he says. “I won’t sugarcoat it. There’s not going to be an easy way to ease you into this.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, ideally, you’d have a few weeks of prep. Lectures, controlled labs, maybe supervised exposure from a distance—but we don’t have that kind of time. You’re needed. Now.”
There’s no dramatic weight behind it. No desperation. Just the truth. Clean, simple, and undeniable.
San exhales through his nose, shoulders stiffening.
Seungmin watches him for a second, then continues.
“The OFC alpha division is… new. Kinda new at least. You’re part of one of the first real waves we’ve been cleared to bring in. For years, the government refused to allow alphas anywhere near the omegas.”
“It was considered a guaranteed fatality. Omegas were too volatile. Too far gone. There were a few unauthorized cases—rogue handlers, leaked footage—but nothing survived long enough to be studied. The science said no. The ethics board said absolutely not.”
“But things have gotten worse,” Seungmin continues quietly. “Omega Feral Syndrome has progressed beyond what anyone predicted. We’re seeing aggression levels we’ve never charted before. Unprovoked attacks. Full neurological collapse. They don’t respond to sedatives. Slick production is constant. Most of them can’t speak anymore. They just… exist in heat. Forever.”
San’s stomach twists, but he doesn’t look away.
“And so,” Seungmin says, voice soft again, “the government changed its mind.”
“Figured maybe—just maybe—if alphas were brought in under strict guidance, with handler oversight, full medical containment, and every safety protocol in the book… maybe it’d be possible.”
“To put alphas and omegas together,” San finishes.
Seungmin nods. “There’s no research paper that could’ve predicted what we’re trying to do now,” he says. “It’s not science. Not yet. It’s just trial. Trial and error.”
“And if the error kills someone?” San asks.
“Then we update the protocol,” Seungmin replies, and it’s the first time his voice loses its warmth. Just for a second.
Then it’s back.
“But that’s what I’m here for. You won’t be alone. I’ll be with you for all of it. Every session. Every step.”
He smiles again, gentler now.
“It’s not going to be easy, but you’re not going in blind.”
They leave the intake room together, Seungmin swiping his keycard against the door’s sensor with a soft beep. The hall outside is just as bright, just as white and soundless as every other corridor San’s been led through—but something feels a little less sharp with Seungmin beside him. Maybe it’s the way the beta walks—like he’s used to the place. Like the walls don’t press in around him.
“So,” Seungmin says, nodding down the corridor, “figured I’d give you a quick walkthrough of the main facility. Or, well—at least the parts you’ll be seeing most often.”
San follows silently, eyes flicking to the mounted cameras and sealed doors they pass. Everything here is smooth and silent and efficient—like it was designed to keep the idea of comfort, without offering any of the real thing.
“Up ahead’s the cafeteria,” Seungmin says, gesturing to a door with a small wall-mounted display beside it. “You’ll eat most of your meals there. They rotate the schedule, so you’ll usually be on a shift separate from the medical and administrative staff. Just alphas and handlers in your rotation.”
San raises a brow. “Why’s that?”
Seungmin shrugs. “Less scent crossover. Less unnecessary stress. You’ll see soon enough how quickly things can escalate if someone smells the wrong thing at the wrong time.”
“To your left—that’s the medical wing. You’ll go there for all your check-ups, scent testing, and any post-session evaluations. They’ll call you in for those. Don’t worry about memorizing the rooms.”
“And over here—this is where your handler suite is. There’s a little lounge in there, coffee machine, some files, security screens. Nothing too thrilling.”
San nods slowly, still absorbing the layout. The whole place feels like a maze designed to keep people either exactly where they belong—or completely lost.
Finally, Seungmin stops in front of a door marked with a small number and a blinking green light.
“This is you.”
He swipes his badge and the door slides open with a soft hiss.
San steps in.
It’s… small. But not uncomfortable. A single bed, made tightly. A compact kitchenette against the far wall—sink, microwave, two cabinets. A small private bathroom with a metal shower stall. No personal touches. No color. Just enough to be lived in.
“It’s yours for as long as you’re here,” Seungmin says from the doorway. “It’s not much, but you’ve got a private shower, a small kitchen, and a mattress that won’t give you back problems. Don’t expect to spend much time in here, though. Once you’re cleared after training, you’ll be working most days. Most alphas don’t spend a lot of time in here once they start.”
San, mid-turn as he surveys the room, pauses. His brow furrows slightly as he looks back at Seungmin. “Most alphas?”
Seungmin raises an eyebrow, then nods like it’s obvious. “Yeah.”
“How many alphas have already been recruited?” San asks, surprised.
Seungmin hums to himself, thinking for a second. “This was only the first wave of recruits, I think a little more than ten alphas were hired total. But I’ve only trained three so far.”
Ten?
Three that Seungmin personally trained?
Of course there are others—he mentally slaps himself for being caught off guard. He knew the recruitment for alphas was nation wide. Of course he wasn’t the only idiot who had agreed. But still… they’ve already been trained? They’re already—what, working? Interacting with the omegas?
And Seungmin didn’t use past tense.
So… they’re alive.
That fact settles oddly in San’s chest—like he expected something different. Like he’s realizing just how real all of this is.
Seungmin must catch the shift in his face, because he offers a small smile.
“Don’t worry, San. You’ll meet them soon enough. They’re actually scheduled to work within your rotation, so hopefully by the end of the week, I can introduce you.”
San nods slowly, processing.
It’s one thing to hear about the job. Another to sign the contract.
But knowing there are other alphas who’ve already done it—walked into those rooms, fucked a feral omega and come out again—it sharpens something in his gut.
It’s a cocktail of emotions. None of which let San sleep peacefully at night.
The lights in his unit are off, but San’s eyes are still open. The bed isn’t uncomfortable. The room is quiet. The air hums with that artificial stillness he’s been surrounded by since arriving.
He shifts under the blanket, arm tucked under his head, staring up at the dark ceiling that looks exactly like the ones in every other room he’s seen so far.
His mind won’t stop turning.
Seungmin’s voice still echoes in his head—“Everyone’s here for a reason.”
It was such a soft thing to say. Kind, even. But it stuck to his ribs like something heavier.
San doesn’t know his reason yet. Not really. He told himself it was about escaping his old life. The dead-end job. The feeling of nothing. The weight of existing in a place where nothing mattered. Towards the end, he had solidified his decision by telling himself maybe he could make a difference.
But part of him wonders what Seungmin’s reason was. Wonders what anyone else’s reason is.
And he’s scared. Of course he is.
San has never even seen one. Not once in his entire life. They’re almost mythological at this point. No one his age has, really. Not in person. Not up close. Not real. They’re ghosts now—torn out of society long before they were old enough to be understood.
He’s not a virgin—no one in this society could afford to wait around for the omega to be cured. He’s fucked his fair share of betas. Tried another alpha once. It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t great.
It was just sex.
And that’s all he’s ever known.
But he’s read the stories. Nothing solid—just old forum posts, hearsay, the kind of shit people pass around like urban legends. Half of it gets deleted. The rest sounds too insane to be real.
They talk about the scent. How strong it is. How it hits you fast and hard like some sort of drug.
How slippery and sweet slick is. How it gets everywhere—on your skin, in your mouth, in your head. Infiltrating an alpha like some sort of parasite.
How once an omega locks down on your knot, you lose it. Some alphas pass out. Some come so hard they can barely speak afterwards.
They say nothing comes close.
Not beta sex. Not jerking off. Not even rut.
It’s different. It’s what your body wants.
It’s supposed to be like finding the one thing your body was made for.
But beneath that fear—low in his gut, pulsing like a second heartbeat—there’s excitement.
Stupid, primal, shameful excitement.
He wants to see one. He wants to smell one.
He wants to fuck one.
He wants to feel what all those old stories warned him about. The bliss. The high. The danger.
And he wants to know if he can survive it.
His cock stirs under the blanket, half-hard from nothing but thought.
San presses his eyes shut, exhales slow through his nose.
Tomorrow, training begins.
Whatever that could entail.
☤
The cafeteria, despite its industrial look, smells incredible.
San hadn’t expected much—maybe a protein bar and rehydrated eggs—but the food on his tray is actual food. Soft scrambled eggs, perfectly seasoned. Rice and kimchi. A piece of grilled fish with a crispy edge. Even the coffee’s strong, not burned. It’s the first real comfort he’s felt since arriving.
Seungmin sits across from him, already halfway through his meal. He’s got the same tray, but he’s also holding a slim tablet in one hand, scrolling as he talks.
“So, today starts your formal orientation,” he says, tapping at the screen. “We’ll be on Level 1 all week. Just the basics: protocols, scheduling, emergency procedure, scent management.”
San nods, chewing slowly. “Right. No omegas.”
“Correct,” Seungmin says. “You won’t see or interact with any omegas until the end of the training week. Your access is restricted to Level 1—cafeteria, rec wing, your quarters, handler offices. I’ll take you to Level 2 at the end of the week, as well as the observation deck.”
San looks around. The cafeteria isn’t crowded, but there are others eating. Some wear gray scrubs like him. Others have ID tags and tablets, dressed a little sharper—researchers, maybe. Handlers. A few look younger than he expected. No one’s talking. Just eating. Focused.
Seungmin continues. “A big part of this week is getting you off scent blockers. I know you’ve been on them for a while.”
“Years,” San admits.
“Then it’ll take a few days for your natural scent to re-surface,” Seungmin says. “We need your baseline active before we can begin exposure. You’ll feel a little weird for the next few days—dizzy, maybe irritable. Let me know if it gets too strong.”
San picks up his coffee and nods. “Okay.”
“Think of this week as a detox,” Seungmin adds. “You’re not just learning rules—you’re resetting your body. You’ve been scent-muted for most of your life. We need the real version of you before we can trust you anywhere near them.”
San hadn’t thought about it that way before. His scent—dulled, suppressed, hidden—has never really been a part of his life. But now it will be one of the most important thing about him.
“And we’ll walk you through everything,” Seungmin says. “We’ll cover containment protocols, post-heat medical procedure, handling techniques, de-escalation drills… nothing happens until we’re sure you’re ready.”
San exhales. It’s a lot. But there’s something reassuring in Seungmin’s voice. Calm. Measured. Confident.
“No pressure, right?” he mutters.
Seungmin grins. “None at all. Just try not to pass out or start rutting the walls mid-training. That’s usually frowned upon.”
After breakfast, Seungmin tosses his tray in the bin and nods for San to follow.
They step back into the endless gray halls of Level 1, the hum of overhead lights constant. The floor beneath their feet is smooth and matte, no sound but the quiet pad of their boots echoing between cold walls.
“Alright,” Seungmin says, hands tucked into the pockets of his scrubs. “This is all pretty straightforward, but pay attention. The smoother your first few weeks go, the better.”
They pass a rec room—glass-walled and empty at this hour, filled with a few couches, exercise mats, a mounted screen, a rack of books and puzzles in the corner.
“Rec wing’s open during downtime. You won’t get much of it once you’re cleared, but it’s there. You can work out, stretch, read, whatever. Helps some alphas stay grounded.”
San glances inside as they pass. “You have many that lose it?”
“Not many. But a few come close,” Seungmin replies without skipping a beat. “It’s not the physical stuff that gets to people..it’s more of the lack of control you may feel. You’re told when to eat, when to rest, when to touch someone. The structure’s necessary, but it’s not uncommon for it to get under someone’s skin.”
They round another corner that San recognizes as the hallway they came in through yesterday—where he was escorted in and stripped of everything he brought with him.
“Rotations work on a five-day cycle,” Seungmin continues. “Once you’re cleared, you’ll work three days straight—eight to ten hour shifts, depending on your case assignments. You’ll have one recovery day, and one day for medical review, counseling, or evaluation, depending on your performance and physical state.”
San raises a brow. “So every week I get judged?”
“Basically,” Seungmin shrugs. “No one forces you to keep working here. But we also need to ensure that you’re fit for the role.”
They stop at a double-doored room with a red stripe across the bottom. Seungmin gestures toward it.
“Decon station. You’ll scrub down before and after every assignment. The process is monitored and fully recorded—don’t get weird about it. It’s to make sure no bio-transfer happens between zones. If even a drop of slick ends up in the wrong place, we’ve got a serious problem.”
San exhales slowly, nodding.
“Same applies to scent,” Seungmin adds. “You’ll be trained on how to neutralize your pheromones post-contact. Showers don’t cut it. There’s a chemical solution we use. It burns a little, but it works.”
“You’ll have weekly physicals,” Seungmin says, as they continue their walk, “as well as blood draws, hormonal panels, and stress-response testing. Once you begin contact work, we monitor everything. Dick pressure to dopamine levels. No detail’s too small.”
San smirks. “Dick pressure?”
Seungmin laughs. “You’d be surprised what people try to hide. We track how many times you get hard during a session, how long you stay hard, how fast you recover. If it looks like you’re bonding or getting compulsive, we pull you out.”
“And what happens if I do bond?”
Seungmin’s smile fades just slightly. “Then we have a bigger conversation.”
San doesn’t ask what that means.
They keep walking. Seungmin points out supply closets, emergency panels, security terminals—all labeled, color-coded, identical in their severity. The place is cold and impersonal, but San can tell it’s designed to the inch for efficiency.
He realizes now how little of this has anything to do with him.
It’s about the system. The containment. The control.
“Does it ever feel… humane to you? Everything’s so sterile, so cold. It feels more like some alien research lab than a place meant to help omegas, like they say on the news.”
Seungmin slows his pace and then stops altogether in front of a large window in a long hallway. The window overlooks a plain grassy field under a sky that’s clear and brightly blue—a stark contrast to the steel and sterile environment inside. He stands silently for a moment, hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on the view outside.
“It does look that way, doesn’t it?” Seungmin’s voice is soft, reflective. He doesn’t turn to San; his gaze is locked on the peaceful scene outside. “To someone new, to someone who’s never seen an omega in full feral state, it’s easy to think that. Easy to wonder if we’re doing the right thing.”
There’s a pause, long enough for San to notice a faraway look in Seungmin’s eyes—a mixture of sadness and resolve and something else San can’t quite figure out.
“This isn’t an easy place to work, San. And yes, sometimes, the measures we take can seem harsh, impersonal. But you haven’t seen what we’ve seen. You haven’t watched someone you’re trying to help turn on you because their instincts tell them to mount you.” His voice catches slightly, barely perceptible. “The protocols, the environment… it’s all to keep both handlers and omegas safe.”
Seungmin finally turns, meeting San’s eyes with a sincerity that cuts through the clinical detachment of their surroundings. “It’s about control, yes, because control is what keeps us safe. But it’s also about care, about trying to give these omegas a chance when their own bodies are their worst enemies. We are trying to help them, San. In the best way we know how.”
He smiles, but it’s a tired one. “It might not always look like it, but there’s humanity here. You’ll see it. In the small victories, in the moments when you reach someone who seemed unreachable. That’s what keeps us going.”
Seungmin places a hand on San’s shoulder, light but firm. “Give it time. Watch. Learn. And then decide what you believe.”
They stand together for a moment longer, the world outside bright and open, the world inside complex and cold. San nods slowly, taking in Seungmin’s words, the weight of them, the reality of the task before him.
“Let’s keep moving,” Seungmin says finally, stepping away from the window, his usual composure sliding back into place. “There’s a lot more to see.”
The rest of the week goes by just as Seungmin said it would—structured, grueling in a way San hadn’t expected.
Every morning starts early. Wake up. Quick breakfast. Daily briefings in the handler’s wing. Long hours spent learning policy, protocol, and every emergency procedure under the sun. There’s little room for error here. Every handler and alpha has a role, a job, and the consequences of a mistake are never sugarcoated.
San spends hours in sterile white rooms watching holograms of restraint procedures, safety demonstrations, case studies—some real, some simulated. There are days focused entirely on de-escalation tactics. Other days on medical response drills. Seungmin is with him the entire time—never hovering, but always there, calmly guiding him through it all.
He’s a better teacher than San expects—patient, funny in a dry way, and surprisingly sharp when San starts to zone out.
“You’re not just here to fuck people into behaving,” Seungmin says at one point, during a training module on hormone stabilization. “You’re here to respond like a handler, think like a medic, and move like a soldier. Not a stud.”
San had smirked at that, but the words stuck with him.
It’s not all theory, though. The second most important part of the week—the part San hadn’t been fully prepared for—is his scent.
The blockers wear off slowly, but not without effect.
At first, the change is subtle. A faint warmth tickles behind his nose, a scent that clings to his clothes, unfamiliar yet undeniably his. Gradually, it intensifies. By the third day, San can distinctly smell himself—a sweet, sharp aroma that’s unmistakably alpha. It’s not overwhelming, but it’s persistent, like heat slowly filling a room.
The sensation is both strange and vaguely familiar.
Self-consciousness creeps in. San worries he might be emitting too strong a scent, possibly offending someone’s senses. Yet, no one around him seems to react at all.
Except Seungmin.
On the fourth day, while they walk to a training session, Seungmin casually remarks, “Your scent’s coming back.”
San looks at him sideways. “Is it that obvious?”
Seungmin nods slightly. “It’s hard not to notice. But it’s nice, not too sharp. Kind of warm. Fruity, right?”
San can’t help but snort. “Sweet, slightly musky. Depends on the day.”
Adjusting to his natural scent affected San more than he expected. It wasn’t just some surface-level thing—it felt biological, like something buried deep inside him was finally crawling out into the open. He felt transparent. Exposed in a way that had nothing to do with nudity or vulnerability.
Not that anyone said anything. No one looked at him differently. No one made a face.
Still, he supposes it’s a stupid thing to care about, all things considered.
Especially with what he’s expected to do once the training period ends.
So he shrugs the feelings off—pushes them down. Because if he can’t handle something as simple as people being able to smell him, then there’s no way in hell he’ll survive what comes next.
No way he’ll be able to stand inside a room with a feral omega in heat and fuck them senseless while half a dozen doctors and scientists watch from behind reinforced glass, taking notes on how deep his knot goes.
He breathes in, steady and slow.
One thing at a time.
By the end of the fourth night, San begins to feel more at ease. The overwhelming nature of the lectures diminishes; his scent normalizes. As he walks the corridors, he notices the subtle changes in how others perceive him—not with fear or curiosity, or apprehension, but with a nod to his presence: an alpha is among them.
Everything is gradually building to a crescendo, though San can’t quite put his finger on what awaits.
Then, on the final morning of the week, Seungmin appears at San’s door like clockwork, with a fresh pair of gloves in hand.
“We’re going to the observation deck,” he says simply.
San pulls on the gloves but hesitates as they start walking. His voice comes out quieter than expected. “I don’t think I ever asked… what is the observation deck, exactly?”
Seungmin glances over at him, then back down the corridor. “It’s not as dramatic as it sounds,” he replies. “Think of it like a control room. The deck overlooks part of Level 3—specifically one of the containment corridors. We use it to monitor omega behavior, scent patterns, environmental responses. It’s all done from behind reinforced glass.”
San swallows, trying to keep his expression neutral. “So I’ll see one?”
“Most likely,” Seungmin says, scanning his badge at a checkpoint terminal. “There are always a few omegas being cycled through that wing. It’s built to be a controlled exposure for new alpha recruits. You won’t be interacting. Just observing. The glass is one sided—they won’t see or smell you.”
They reach the elevator at the end of the hall. It’s much larger than the others San has used—reinforced steel doors, a pair of cameras tracking their movement, and a small console embedded in the wall beside it.
Seungmin steps forward and scans his ID badge.
A soft chime.
Then he presses his thumb to the scanner.
Another chime.
Finally, he leans forward, letting the small scanner take a retinal scan. A third chime follows, louder this time. The elevator doors slide open.
“They really don’t fuck around, huh,” San mutters.
Seungmin huffs a laugh. “It’s Level 3. No one gets down there without a reason.”
Inside, the elevator is dim and silent. There are no buttons, just a black touchscreen. Once the doors seal behind them, Seungmin selects L3 - OBSERVATION ACCESS from the menu. The car begins to descend with a soft jolt.
San shifts slightly, staring at his reflection in the dark steel of the elevator wall. The gloves feel tight. His heart thuds just a little too hard in his chest.
The elevator doors slide open with a hiss.
Cold air hits San immediately—different from the rest of the facility. Sharper. Still filtered, but with a sterile edge that makes the hair on the back of his neck prickle.
They step into a long, quiet hallway. The lighting is low here, more focused. Softer overhead strips glow along the walls, guiding the way like a landing strip. A sign in matte steel lettering reads:
OBSERVATION DECK 03-A – ALPHA ACCESS AUTHORIZED
Seungmin leads him through a set of heavy doors that unlock with another keycard scan and fingerprint.
Beyond them, the observation deck feels less like a room and more like a lab.
It reminds San of an operating theater.
Sleek consoles line the walls, each outfitted with biometric monitors, scent readers, neurological data feeds, and body temp charts scrolling in real time. Several scientists in white coats and slim scrubs are stationed at various terminals, murmuring to each other in low voices or typing rapidly, eyes never leaving their screens. A large display near the center of the room projects multiple camera angles of the corridor below.
The entire far wall of the deck is made of reinforced glass, stretching from floor to ceiling. It overlooks what looks like a wide, dimly lit hallway several feet below—clean, gray, stripped down to the bare essentials.
From up here, San can see everything.
But there’s no way for the omegas below to see or smell him. The glass is mirrored from their side, scent-sealed, and soundproof. It’s one-way. Clinical. Like watching something from behind a zoo exhibit.
“Observation decks are designed for study and documentation,” Seungmin says beside him, voice low and even. “No interaction, no contact, no exposure. Every omega in this corridor is under strict containment, either mid-heat or being monitored for behavioral patterns.”
San’s eyes scan the corridor below the observation deck. It’s eerily quiet, empty. No movement, no signs of life. Just a sterile expanse of closed doors and dim lighting. He feels a knot tighten in his stomach, the tension of expectation without fulfillment.
Beside him, Seungmin is scrolling through data on a small tablet, his expression focused. Suddenly, he inhales sharply, his brows knitting together before he looks up at San.
“We’re going to move to a more private observation area,” Seungmin announces, his voice dropping to a serious tone. “There’s an omega scheduled for a routine medical procedure—just some vaccinations. It’ll be a controlled environment, but it’ll give you a real sense of what dealing with an omega involves.”
As they walk towards another part of the facility, Seungmin’s demeanor shifts, becoming something almost grave. He stops, turning to face San squarely. “What you’re about to see might shock you, and it might scare you. These are normal reactions.”
San can only swallow thickly. Hands clammy at his side.
“This part of your training is crucial,” Seungmin continues, his eyes locked onto San’s. “You’ve never seen a feral omega, never really seen what they’re like when their instincts take over. It’s important you understand the reality of their condition. This is what we’re here for—to manage, to help, to try to stabilize.”
“It’s not going to be easy, but seeing this firsthand will prepare you better than any simulation or lecture could.”
With that, Seungmin leads San to a smaller, more secluded deck. The room they enter is stark, functional, with a large pane of one-way glass that offers a clear view into one of the facility’s containment rooms.
As they approach the glass, San’s eyes are immediately drawn to the room on the other side. It’s stark—just a bed, stripped down and medical-grade, positioned at the center under a ceiling light. The sheets are clean and tight. The equipment beside it is neatly arranged: a tray of syringes, disinfectants, restraints, clamps. The bed has thick leather straps secured to each corner.
Next to him, Seungmin’s expression hardens. Whatever warmth he usually carries is gone now. He stands rigid, arms crossed over his chest, his jaw clenched just tight enough to notice.
And then the door slides open with a hiss.
Two beta handlers enter first, fully suited in protective gear—thick padding, gloves, visors. Between them is the omega.
He’s thrashing in their grip, snarling, kicking, his bare feet sliding against the tile as he tries to fight his way free. His arms are bound in front of him but it barely matters—he uses his whole body like a weapon. His back arches violently as he throws his weight to the side, nearly taking one of the handlers down with him.
He screams. A raw, unfiltered sound that rips through the room. The omega’s mouth is wide open, baring teeth that snap toward anything close. He hisses. Spits. His eyes are wide and bloodshot, pupils blown wide, chest heaving like he’s running on pure survival instinct.
San’s stomach twists.
The omega looks less like a person and more like something animalistic—like something pulled too far into instinct to remember what it means to be human.
The handlers wrestle him toward the bed. It’s not graceful. It’s not gentle. He kicks one of them hard enough to make the man stumble. The other clamps down tighter, dragging him with brute force as the omega continues to writhe, scream, claw at the air with his bound hands.
His mouth moves furiously, lips curled back. San doesn’t know what he’s saying. If he’s saying anything at all.
Beside him, Seungmin speaks—quiet, but firm.
“This is Lee Felix.”
San doesn’t look away. He can’t.
“He’s been here with us for about three years. His parents turned him in after they couldn’t hide him any longer. He nearly killed the alpha that lived next door to them.”
The handlers finally get Felix down onto the bed, pinning his limbs in place as the restraints are fastened. He bucks hard, his body arching off the mattress even as the leather straps bite into his wrists and ankles.
“Our agents found him trying to stuff the alpha’s cock inside of him,” Seungmin continues, his gaze never wavers from the scene below. “Despite how much the alpha screamed.”
San feels like he’s going to be sick.
Felix screams again, thrashing against the restraints until his muscles tremble from the effort. He’s drooling now, face flushed red with rage, heat, or both. The look in his eyes is wild—desperate. As if he’s begging for something no one in the room can give him.
And then there’s a shift. Like a switch has been thrown.
His body stops straining against the restraints—and starts moving differently.
He writhes now, his back arching off the exam table, hips grinding upward into nothing. The movement is obscene—shameless, even. A low, broken sound escapes him, somewhere between a whimper and a moan. His thighs tremble, chest heaving, and he starts slamming his hips down against the table in hard, rhythmic thrusts, like he’s trying to fuck himself on air.
His face is a mess of flushed skin and wet lips, his neck stretched as he cranes toward the handlers, eyes locked on them with a hunger that’s unbearable to witness. He whines, high-pitched and pleading, hissing between ragged gasps. His wrists twist violently in the restraints, but not to escape—just to reach. To grab. To pull someone close.
The beta handlers don’t react. They’re used to this.
As betas, they’re largely immune to the pheromonal chaos radiating off Felix in waves.
They stand back, clinical and steady, watching as Felix grinds helplessly against the table like he’s being devoured from the inside out. His entire body is flushed now, skin slick with sweat, eyes glassy and blown wide. It’s instinct on full display—pure, unfiltered biological madness.
And all San can do is watch.
Felix is destroying himself on the exam table, thrashing and rutting like he’s trying to fuck the air, his cock hard and straining against his pants. He’s whining as if he’s in pain. Or maybe bliss. It’s hard to tell the difference. His scent is muted by the glass—thank god—but San swears he can still feel something clinging to the back of his throat. Ghosting around the edges of his awareness.
It’s not just arousal.
And San’s body is beginning to recognize it.
The rational part of him—the trained, measured part—is screaming to look away. To not let this sink in. To remember that this isn’t sex. It’s not seduction. This is illness. A human being, reduced to nothing but the most desperate, humiliating edge of instinct.
But the alpha in him?
The one that’s been silent for years, scent-blocked and dulled and tucked away?
That part is stirring.
There’s a pulse between his legs he doesn’t want to acknowledge. A pressure low in his gut. His breath has quickened. He feels his heartbeat in places he shouldn’t. And for one horrifying second, San wonders what it would feel like to be on the other side of the glass. In the room. On top of Felix. Inside him.
Seungmin hasn’t said anything. He’s still watching, jaw tight, arms crossed, his face carved from stone. Like he’s letting San sit in it—feel it—understand what this job really is.
Finally, Seungmin speaks.
“Instinct doesn’t care about right or wrong,” he says quietly, eyes fixed ahead. “That’s why this work matters. That’s why you need control. Because if you walk into that room without it, you’re not a handler. You’re part of the problem.”
San swallows. He can’t find his voice. He just nods, once. Quick. Shaky.
Felix lets out another scream that turns into a sob. Another sob that goes ignored.
“This is fucking insane.” San’s voice cracks as he slams his palms against the reinforced glass. “Someone needs to fucking help him! You—you can’t just leave him there!”
He looks ready to break through the barrier himself, to throw his body into the containment room and do something. Anything.
Felix is sobbing uncontrollably now—shoulders heaving, hips stuttering in desperate, pitiful thrusts. He’s soaked in sweat and slick and tears, reduced to raw nerve endings and pure instinct. And still, no one moves.
San’s breath hitches, his scent thickening in the air with panic and fury. His hands curl into fists at his sides as he takes a shaky step forward.
Then a hand lands hard on his shoulder.
He’s yanked back with force, spun around before he can react. Seungmin’s grip tightens around both his shoulders—firm, grounding. His expression is no longer blank. It’s something else now. Sharper. Fierce.
“You are the help, San.”
The words hit like a slap. San freezes, chest rising and falling like he’s run a mile. He stares at Seungmin, eyes wide, stunned.
Seungmin doesn’t let go.
“This is what you’re here for,” he says, voice low but commanding. “This is why you’re so fucking important. You think this is bad?” He jerks his chin toward the glass. “You haven’t seen the worst of it.”
San’s throat works around nothing.
“This—” Seungmin continues, “—this is the reality we live in. They can’t function. Their bodies betray them. Every second they’re in heat, they’re in agony. Their hormones are screaming at them to be fucked, to be filled, to be bred, and nothing—not sedatives, not restraints, not therapy—nothing works.”
He lets that sit for a second, fingers still gripping San’s shoulders tight.
“Except alphas.”
“You’re not here to babysit. You’re not here to hand out meds or pat someone on the back. You’re here because your body might be the only goddamn thing that can bring them relief.”
Seungmin’s voice is calm now. Cold.
“Until someone’s inside of them—knotted deep, slick flooding the room—they do not stop. They cannot stop. Their bodies won’t let them.”
San sways, his knees going weak.
“That’s what you are,” Seungmin says, voice quieter now, but no less brutal. “You’re a solution. A tool. A chemical match to a fire that won’t burn out on its own. And if you can’t handle that—if this breaks you—then tell me now, and I’ll make sure you never step foot on Level 3 again.”
The silence between them is deafening.
Behind the glass, Felix lets out another shattered, sobbing moan.
San’s heart is still racing, throat raw with disbelief. But he doesn’t step back.
San manages to stay standing.
He doesn’t know how. His knees are locked, his hands clammy inside his gloves, every muscle in his body humming with the kind of tension that makes his head feel too heavy for his neck. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stares.
The doctor enters the containment room with two assistants, all gloved and masked, moving like they’ve done this a hundred times. Probably more. Felix is still restrained, still whimpering between sobs, still moving like he’s being eaten alive from the inside out.
They don’t acknowledge it.
One of them holds his arm down while the doctor begins the injections—one after the other. Sharp silver needles sinking into flushed skin, Felix wailing like it burns. Maybe it does. Maybe it’s just the touch, the proximity, the fact that he’s being regarded.
He writhes, jerks, screams again. But it doesn’t matter.
The doctor doesn’t look him in the eye. Just finishes each shot with numbing efficiency, voice low as he recites dosages to an assistant who types them into a tablet.
Sans fists are clenched at his sides, the gloves creaking faintly. His stomach twists every time Felix sobs—these horrible, high-pitched cries that taper into choking gasps like he’s suffocating on the sound.
And then the last needle goes in.
The sedative.
It’s immediate. Felix’s body spasms once, then twice—legs twitching, mouth falling open—and then all at once, he goes still.
Silent.
Limp.
One of the handlers checks his pulse while the other unbuckles the restraints. Together, they lift him like a ragdoll—arms dangling, head lolling to the side, mouth still slightly parted.
San can’t tell if he’s breathing.
They carry him out, and the door hisses shut behind them.
The room is empty now.
The medical tray is stained with small smears of blood. The bed is soaked through with slick. The restraints are still faintly creaking where they hang off the sides. And San is still staring down through the glass like he doesn’t understand what he just witnessed.
Like his brain can’t catch up to the reality of it.
Seungmin doesn’t speak.
He stands beside him, arms still crossed, expression unreadable—but heavy. Not cold. Just quiet. Like even he doesn’t have the right words for this part.
“Come Monday, you’ll engage with an omega.”
San doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. He just stares straight ahead, the echo of Felix’s cries still burning behind his eyes.
Seungmin doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t soften the blow. It’s not a threat or a warning—it’s just a reminder.
A deadline.
Get a grip.
Get it together.
Get it fucking together.
☤
No one tells San who he’ll be meeting on Monday. No names, no condition reports, no prep files. Just a vague reminder that his rotation will be finalized that morning—and then it begins.
So he spends the time doing the only thing he can do: prepare.
Seungmin stays close throughout the weekend, guiding him through training sessions that are less about strength and more about control. They spend hours in one of the smaller handler rooms, the lights dimmed, no distractions allowed.
San stands in the center of the space, sweat dripping down his back, fists clenched at his sides.
“Again,” Seungmin says from across the room. “Drop it. Let it go.”
San focuses, jaw tight, and a moment later, his pheromones release into the room—thick and warm, heavy enough that the scent lingers on his tongue.
Seungmin doesn’t react, doesn’t flinch. “Now pull it back. Reel it in. Make the room neutral.”
San exhales through his nose, eyes shut, focusing on the sensation of his own body. It’s like trying to control a second heartbeat.
After a few seconds, the scent fades.
“Good,” Seungmin says. “Again.”
They do it for hours. Will it. Un-will it. Push, pull, suppress, release.
And when San stumbles, when his control slips for just a moment and his scent spikes too sharp, Seungmin doesn’t chastise him. Just resets the exercise and starts again.
By Sunday night, San can do it with barely a thought.
The rest of the training focuses on verbal commands, pressure points, touch-response mapping, and how to redirect an omega’s attention if they begin to fixate. They go over hormone spikes, de-escalation techniques, and what to do if a heat cycle accelerates mid-session.
San listens to every word. Absorbs it all. Because he has to.
There’s no room for doubt now. No time for second-guessing. The countdown is almost over.
He doesn’t sleep well either night.
Come Monday morning, San is already awake.
He’s been up for hours, showered, dressed in fresh scrubs, sitting at the edge of his bed in silence.
His stomach is too tight to eat. His mind too loud to meditate. All he can do is sit and wait.
And finally, there’s a knock at the door.
San stands immediately, breath shallow, heart beating in a slow, heavy rhythm. He opens the door, and Seungmin is standing there with a tablet in one hand and something unreadable in his eyes.
But at least he smiles.
“Ready?”
San doesn’t answer right away. He just stares for a second. Then gives a single, sharp nod.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I’m ready.”
Seungmin’s smile doesn’t falter, but it doesn’t grow either. He steps aside and motions for San to follow.
“Let’s get you your rotation.”
They make their way to Level 2 in silence.
The lighting is cold and even. Glass-walled offices line the halls, each labeled with clean, clinical signage—Behavioral Monitoring, Endocrine Studies, Scent Regulation.
Doctors pace with tablets in hand. Nurses in scrubs push carts down the corridors. A few people in suits move with quickly, speaking quietly into earpieces or tapping through data on handhelds.
Seungmin leads him into a small office tucked behind one of the secured hallways. It’s sparse but organized—metal desk, two chairs, wall-mounted screen, a set of cabinets with labels San doesn’t try to read. A steel locker hums softly in the corner.
Seungmin sets the tablet on the desk and opens one of the drawers.
“Before anything else, credentials,” he says, pulling out a small black case. He opens it and begins passing items over without pause. “Keycard—Level 1 through 3 clearance, restricted to your rotation hours. Memorize the passcode. Don’t write it down. It changes weekly.”
San takes the card and slides it into his scrub pocket.
“Retinal and fingerprint scans were uploaded this morning,” Seungmin continues. “They’ll grant you access to secured doors and decontamination bays. Don’t lose a finger. Or your eyeballs.”
San huffs once—barely a laugh—but Seungmin doesn’t smile.
Finally, he hands over a sleek ID badge with a magnetic clip.
San takes it slowly, eyes scanning the thin plastic. His name is printed in clean block letters, just below a stark photo of his face. Underneath, his designation:
CHOI SAN
ALPHA – CLEARANCE ACTIVE
San clips it to his chest. The weight of it feels heavier than it should.
Seungmin turns back to the desk and retrieves a smaller black device—thin, matte, slightly larger than a phone.
“This is yours,” he says. “Don’t lose it. It’s encrypted and tied to your bio-signature. You’ll use it for everything—Schedules, shift rotations, alerts, security prompts, emergency comms—it’s all on here. You’ll get daily updates every morning. If anything changes, the device will notify you in real time.”
San turns it over in his hands. It lights up instantly.
A screen opens to a simple interface—his name at the top, today’s date, and beneath that:
ROTATION 1 – OMEGA INTAKE: ACTIVE.
“You’ll engage with three omegas today,” Seungmin says calmly, moving around the desk to sit across from him. “Tap the rotation chart. You’ll be able to view their profiles—medical history, hormone patterns, scent profile, aggression markers, and relevant behavioral notes.Everything you need to prep.”
San scrolls slowly. His thumb hovers over the first name but doesn’t tap yet.
Seungmin continues, voice slightly softer. “Not every omega is like Felix. That was a particularly bad heat cycle his body was failing to regulate. He’s one of the more severe cases. But I won’t lie—he’s not even close to the worst cases we have.”
San’s jaw tightens slightly, but he nods once, trying to pretend that didn’t scare him.“Okay.”
“You’ll get used to reading the profiles,” Seungmin says. “Pay attention to the scent triggers. The more you know going in, the easier it’ll be to keep the omega stable.”
San doesn’t respond right away. He just stares at the tablet in his hands, the three unopened profiles lined up like silent countdowns. He doesn’t click on any of them.
Instead, he looks up. “Will you be with me during all this?”
Seungmin shakes his head. “No. I don’t work with the omegas directly. I’m mostly on the administrative side now. Training, oversight, scheduling.”
San’s throat tightens a little.
“But,” Seungmin adds, “you won’t be alone. Ever. Each omega has an assigned handler—a beta. Think of them like a caretaker. They know the omega’s habits, history, reactions. They’ll be stationed just outside the room during your sessions. If anything happens, anything at all, they’re your first point of contact.”
“They don’t come in?”
“Only if it’s absolutely necessary. Omegas respond differently to alphas. Putting more people in the room—especially betas—can complicate things. Their job is to monitor from outside, ready to intervene the second you call for them.”
San nods slowly, but his fingers tighten around the tablet.
“Click on the damn profiles, San.”
Seungmin’s voice isn’t harsh, but there’s an edge to it—a dry chide with just enough bite to make San flinch. Like he knows exactly what San’s doing. Like he’s seen this hesitation before.
San swallows and looks back down at the tablet.
Three names. Three profiles. Three people.
He exhales slowly and taps on the first one.
FILE – 01
OMEGA: KIM SUNOO
The profile opens with a photo. San’s breath catches.
The image is simple—Sunoo, staring somewhere just off-camera. His hair is soft blonde, tousled like someone had run fingers through it and left it that way. His skin looks nearly translucent under the facility lighting, lips plush and slightly parted in what looks more like a pout than anything else.
He’s cute—ridiculously cute. Doll-like. Delicate in a way that doesn’t seem real.
But there’s a tension in the photo, too.
A small crease between his brows. A slight flush at his cheeks. His eyes, wide and glassy, carry the faintest edge of irritation—like he’d just been interrupted, or like someone had taken the photo right after he’d hissed at them.
Below the photo, the data loads in fast, efficient blocks:
⸻
NAME: Kim Sunoo
AGE: 21
CLASSIFICATION: Omega – Feral Class IV
TIME IN FACILITY: 11 months
SCHEDULED ENGAGEMENT: Today – Session 1, 0930
ASSIGNED HANDLER: Beta – Park Jihyo
MEDICAL STATUS:
– Current Heat Cycle: Day 2
– Suppression History: None (intolerant to suppressants)
– Sedation Schedule: Minimal (reactive to heavy sedation)
– Last Physical Exam: 3 days ago
– Notable Conditions: Delayed hormonal stabilization, scent sensitivity
SCENT PROFILE:
Primary – floral, sweet
Secondary – Vanilla (dominate when aroused)
AGGRESSION INDEX:
– Baseline: Low
– Heat-Triggered: Moderate
– Known Triggers: Prolonged eye contact, loud noises, sudden movement
– Behavioral Notes: Displays high touch-seeking behavior during cycle; becomes nonverbal during peak. Responsive to calm, low-frequency vocal tones. Avoids direct confrontation but has lashed out when overstimulated.
San stares at the profile, reading through it again even though he’s already memorized half of it. The scent description. The aggression index. The warnings. The photo. It all feels like too much and not enough at the same time.
His thumb hovers over the screen like maybe, if he doesn’t scroll down, the session won’t happen.
Seungmin watches him for a moment, then speaks—his voice softer than before, but steady.
“Sunoo?” he says, like he’s just now seeing the name. “That’s good. He’s not too bad.”
San looks up slowly.
“He’s one of the calmer ones,” Seungmin continues. “Quiet. Doesn’t like eye contact, but he’s responsive. We usually start new alphas with him. He’ll be good for your first time.”
There’s no teasing in his tone. No irony. Just a quiet kind of reassurance—gentle, but grounded in something real. Experience. Pattern. Control.
San nods slowly, eyes still fixed on the screen, but his chest hasn’t loosened at all. The weight is still there.
“Come on,” Seungmin says suddenly, glancing at the time. “You’re gonna be late— and it’s your first engagement—shit.”
He’s already on his feet, grabbing the tablet from San’s hand and shoving it back into his chest.
San scrambles up, heart jolting into motion.
Seungmin moves fast, pushing the door open and waving him forward as they head into the hallway. “Let’s go, rookie.”
They move quickly through Level 2’s corridors, passing scientists, doctors, betas with clipboards. None of them look at San twice.
When they reach the elevator, Seungmin pulls his ID from his pocket and scans it against the panel, followed by his thumbprint and a retinal scan.
The machine chimes. He doesn’t wait.
He hits Level 3.
And San takes one deep breath.
The elevator hums softly as it descends, the sterile walls closing in like a slow exhale. San doesn’t speak. He just unlocks the tablet and pulls up Sunoo’s profile again, eyes scanning every detail, locking it all into memory.
He reads it again. And again. Until the words stop feeling like text and start feeling like fact.
Level 3 feels strange the moment they step out of the elevator.
It’s quiet. No chatter, just the low hum of the overhead lights and the faint hiss of air through vents. There’s a lot less people—just a few betas moving down the halls with tablets in hand, all of them focused, silent, heads down.
Everything is white. The walls, the floor, the doors.
And every door is sealed shut, thick and locked tight.
It’s colder down here too. Not freezing—just enough to raise goosebumps along his arms. The air smells sharp, sterile, laced with something chemical and faintly bitter that stings the back of his throat when he breathes too deep.
They pass one checkpoint. Then another. Seungmin’s credentials get them through every door.
Finally, they round a corner into one of the engagement wings—and she’s already waiting.
A beta handler stands outside one of the containment rooms, arms crossed, foot tapping against the floor with practiced impatience. The second she sees Seungmin, she exhales sharply, rolling her eyes.
“A minute longer and Dr. Park would’ve had all our heads,” she huffs, clearly annoyed. “You know how that man is!”
Seungmin offers a faint, unapologetic smile. “San’s first day. Cut us some slack.”
She turns to San, eyes flicking down to his badge.
“Choi San,” she reads flatly. Then she looks him in the eye—sharp, assessing, not quite hostile, but not soft either. “Starting with Sunoo.”
Her expression shifts, just slightly, as she glances toward the door. There’s a softness there now, one that wasn’t for Seungmin, and most definitely not for San.
“Sunoo is a good boy,” she says, firm. Almost with a bite. “He’s nervous with new scents, and he gets overwhelmed easily—but he’s not violent. Not unless you do something stupid.”
She looks back at San, her gaze sharper now. “Don’t do something stupid.”
San stiffens. Instinctively nodding as if his own mother was scolding him.
“You let him decide the pace. You don’t touch unless he allows it. You keep your voice calm. You keep your scent even. If you push him before he’s ready, I will pull you out myself.”
It’s not a threat. It’s a promise, and for once, San is more afraid of this short female beta than any feral omega behind a locked door.
Jihyo glances back toward the reinforced door, and her tone softens again—her throat bobbing.
“He’s had a good morning. Ate all his breakfast and hasn’t had any fever spikes. We kept the room quiet, dimmed, just like he likes it. He’s prepped, vitals stable. You’re lucky to start with him.”
Then her eyes flick back to San, and she’s glaring again, voice clipped.
“I’ll be right outside. You so much as breathe wrong, I’ll know.”
She steps aside, keying in a code at the panel. The door lets out a low click as it unlocks.
San doesn’t move right away. Instead, he glances over at Seungmin—one last look, nerves flickering behind his eyes. And it’s not about the omega behind the door. Not entirely.
Seungmin sees it instantly and just chuckles under his breath, the sound soft but knowing.
“You’ll learn soon enough,” he says, “handlers can get a little overprotective sometimes.”
Before San can respond—
“Get inside there, now!” Jihyo snaps, irritation sharp in her voice as she jerks her chin toward the door. “He’s waiting.”
San jumps slightly, swallowing hard.
Then he turns to the door and steps inside.
San’s not sure what he expected.
But the moment the heavy door seals shut behind him with a thud, he’s hit with it—
The air, thick and warm, laced with the cloying scent of overripe fruit and soft, lingering vanilla. It’s heady, too much, and it hits the back of his throat like syrup. His body reacts before his brain can catch up—muscles tensing, jaw clenching, breath hitching just slightly.
It’s not completely unpleasant. But it’s strong. Nothing he’s ever been exposed to before.
His eyes adjust quickly to the dimmer lighting, and then he sees him.
Curled up on the bed in the corner of the room, knees pulled to his chest, is Kim Sunoo.
A mess of soft blonde hair, fair skin that looks nearly translucent under the fluorescent lights, and cheeks flushed a delicate pink. His lips are raw—clearly bitten or chewed, swollen at the edges—and his eyes are huge when they land on San.
They lock eyes.
And for a long second… nothing happens.
No movement. No reaction. Just a tense, motionless silence as the two of them stare at each other across the room—neither knowing what to do next. Sunoo doesn’t lunge. Doesn’t hiss. Doesn’t retreat. He just watches, like he’s trying to decide if San is safe, or a threat.
San’s body stays perfectly still, but his brain is spiraling.
Do I say something?
Am I supposed to greet him?
Hi there, I’m San. I’m going to fuck you now.
He nearly groans out loud and physically stops himself from face-palming.
Jesus Christ, get a grip.
He swallows hard, eyes flicking briefly back to Sunoo—who hasn’t moved an inch. Just lying there, curled up, watching him with something unbelievably vulnerable in those big, glassy eyes. He looks more confused than anything.
He looks… tired. Foggy, maybe. But coherent. A little dazed, sure, but aware.
He doesn’t look feral.
Not like Felix.
San keeps a tight leash on his scent, locking it down completely. Controlled. Muted. Not even a hint.
He takes a careful breath, then says softly, “Hi… I’m San. I’m the alpha assigned to you today.”
His voice barely echoes in the quiet room.
Sunoo doesn’t move—just blinks, slow and heavy, eyes still fixed on him.
But he doesn’t hiss. Doesn’t growl. Doesn’t look afraid.
San takes that as a win.
Sunoo blinks again. Then shifts. Just barely—his legs uncurl a little, his knees relaxing from their tight hold against his chest. He doesn’t sit up, doesn’t speak, but something in his posture softens. A flicker of recognition, maybe. Or curiosity.
Still no aggression.
San resists the urge to exhale in relief. He’s not safe—not yet—but the room hasn’t exploded, and Sunoo hasn’t tried to claw his face off. So far, that’s more than he could’ve asked for.
He takes another step forward. Slow. Careful.
Still no response.
“I, um…” he falters for half a second, then continues, “I read your file.”
His voice is calm, but his hands are clammy, and his heart won’t stop pounding.
“They said you don’t like sudden movements,” he adds. “So… I won’t.”
Sunoo doesn’t answer. But his gaze drops—briefly—to San’s feet. He’s watching his movements. Tracking them.
San takes that as permission to keep going.
“I also read that you don’t like strong scents, so…” He takes another breath, this one deliberate—softly rolling just the faintest trace of his pheromones into the air. Barely there. Warm, mellow, sweet.
Sunoo’s nose twitches again. His lashes flutter. Then, to San’s surprise, he breathes in a little deeper—just once—and exhales through parted lips, a tiny huff of air.
Still silent. Still watching.
San doesn’t know what to say next.
Everything in him is screaming to do something—say something—but nothing feels right. Not when he’s standing across the room from a heat-sick omega on a bed, knowing what he’s here to do. Knowing where this is going.
So he just stands there, scent low and steady, and waits.
The silence stretches. It’s thick, almost suffocating. Sunoo hasn’t moved, but his breathing’s changed—slower, deeper. Like he’s sniffing the air without meaning to.
San figures… he might as well keep talking.
“I, uh…” he starts, awkwardly, “I don’t actually know what I’m doing yet. If that wasn’t obvious.”
Sunoo doesn’t react. Other than the stare he has pinned San with.
“So I guess I’ll just talk. Until I figure it out.”
His voice stays soft. Non-threatening. Just noise to fill the stillness.
“I like iced americanos more than hot coffee, even in winter,” he says, shifting his weight. “My dad was a taekwondo instructor. I really like plushies, and um— my favorite color is purple and black.”
He keeps going—little, harmless facts. Random, stupid things. And while he talks, he slowly, slowly releases more of his scent into the room.
Not all at once. Just a gradual build. Warm, sweet, a little fruity at the edges. It folds into the vanilla-heavy air already clinging to the walls, mixing gently until it’s everywhere.
And it’s working.
Sunoo shifts again, almost unconsciously. His eyes are glassy now, body swaying slightly, like he’s floating somewhere just above awareness. His breathing gets shallower. He blinks slow. His lips part, and a soft, shaky sound escapes him.
Sunoo pushes himself upright, knees sinking into the mattress, trembling hands pressing into the sheets for support. He looks dazed. Flushed all the way to the tips of his ears. Sweat dampens his temples. His chest rises and falls in quick, short breaths.
His mouth opens. “A-alpha?” he whispers, like the word is a struggle. Like it hurts to say.
San freezes—but only for a second. “Yeah,” he says quickly, carefully. “Yes. I’m an alpha. I’m here to help you, Sunoo.”
He steps forward slowly, like approaching a cornered animal. His voice stays soft. Gentle.
“Can I get closer?”
Sunoo nods.
It’s small at first—barely a twitch—but then he nods again, more urgently this time. His breathing quickens, shallow and shaky, lips trembling as a small whimper escapes him.
San takes another step forward.
And that’s all it takes.
Sunoo moves—crawling forward on shaky limbs, eyes locked on San with open desperation. He reaches the edge of the bed just as San stops, and then he’s leaning down, practically collapsing against San’s chest, arms wrapping tightly around his waist like he needs to be there.
The sound he makes is somewhere between a moan and a sigh—high-pitched and almost relieved. His face buries in San’s chest, nose pressing hard into the collar of his scrubs, inhaling like he’s starving for it.
Sunoo clings harder, nuzzling into him with frantic little movements, like he can’t get close enough. He lets out soft, whiny sounds every time he exhales, and then—licks. Just a small swipe of his tongue against the skin at the base of San’s throat, tasting him like his body needs confirmation of what he’s already smelling.
“Alpha,” Sunoo pants, voice trembling.
His fingers curl into the fabric of San’s scrubs, gripping tight. His hips shift subtly against the bed, rocking into the sheets with a slow, instinctual rhythm, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
San swallows hard, forcing himself to stay still. To stay calm.
Sunoo’s scent is overwhelming now. Vanilla, heat-heavy, dripping with need. His entire body is flushed and trembling, mouth still brushing against San’s neck in soft, desperate little touches—licks, nuzzles, open-mouthed breathing.
He’s completely overtaken. Obsessed.
And San hasn’t even touched him yet.
Sunoo’s scent is everywhere now.
It’s dizzying. Overly sweet. Like the room’s been sprayed with something artificial and cloying, except it’s not artificial at all—it’s him. The vanilla clings to San’s tongue, thick and sticky, almost like he’s swallowed perfume. His chest feels too full, head light, like he’s breathing through syrup.
It’s not bad.
It’s just… too much.
Sunoo whines against his neck again, hips rocking forward in small, shaky thrusts, desperate and unaware.
San sways slightly, instinct tugging at something low in his stomach.
He fights it back—shaky breath in, slow breath out—and then gently, deliberately, pushes his own scent into the room. He doesn’t dump it all at once, just rolls it out in heavy waves. Richer. Muskier. Thicker than Sunoo’s sugar-sweet vanilla, and strong enough to start masking it.
Within seconds, San feels a little less dizzy.
The cloying haze begins to ease, dulled slightly by San’s presence. He focuses on the feel of it—the pull of his scent glands engaging, spreading heat and alpha weight into the space. His scent coats the room like a grounding blanket, dulling the high pitch of Sunoo’s desperation.
Sunoo notices immediately. He gasps, body jolting. His hands fist tighter in San’s scrubs, and he presses even closer, rubbing his cheek against San’s chest like he’s trying to roll himself in it.
He lifts a hand—slowly—and rests it against the back of Sunoo’s head. The omega shudders. Melts. His breath hitches, hips twitching against the bed again.
Something primal is beginning to take over—not violent, not out of control, but heavy and intense. A heat rising in his chest, humming in his bloodstream. His scent continues to roll out slowly, steady and grounding, but his heart won’t stop pounding.
He’s always been protective. Even as a kid, he’d step between people and things they were afraid of. He couldn’t help it—something in him always pulled toward the ones who needed protecting. The smaller kids, the quiet ones, the ones who flinched when someone raised their voice. It was just how he was.
And right now—Sunoo is everything he’s ever wanted to protect.
Small. Trembling. Overwhelmed. Suffering.
San can feel it—how much pain Sunoo’s in, not just physically but deep inside, like something has been gnawing at him for years. Like his body has been screaming for something it was never allowed to have.
And now San is here. And he can give it to him.
The ache in his chest is sharp. Emotional. Almost too much.
San’s always been a little sensitive himself. A bit of an empath, even if he doesn’t admit it out loud. And right now, his heart aches—physically aches—thinking about how long Sunoo has spent like this. Deprived. With no relief. No comfort. No one strong enough to help him.
He doesn’t want to fuck Sunoo.
He wants to help him.
Wants to ease it.
Wants to make sure when this is over, Sunoo isn’t hurting anymore.
San lowers his voice to a soft murmur and lifts a hand to gently guide him.
“Come here,” he whispers. “It’s okay. I got you.”
Sunoo lets out a tiny whimper, curling closer immediately, breath stuttering against San’s throat.
“I’m going to lay you down now, alright?” San says gently, hand smoothing over the back of Sunoo’s head. “Just breathe. I’ll take care of the rest.”
It’s not thought-out, not rehearsed. He’s never done this before—never touched an omega, never even smelled one in heat. But somehow, his body knows what to do. It’s like something buried deep in his blood wakes up and guides him.
Every time San undresses him, peels away another layer of sweat-slicked fabric, the omega moans. Soft, helpless sounds that make San’s chest ache and his cock twitch with the weight of it. Sunoo trembles, hips bucking up for more, eyes fluttering, lips parted in fevered gasps.
San frees himself, breath catching as his cock springs heavy between them. He’s hard—of course he is. Not because of lust, not entirely. But because this is what he’s meant to do. Because Sunoo needs him—his body—to make this stop hurting.
San presses forward, lining himself up, whispering softly—
“You’re going to be okay. This’ll make you feel better. I promise.”
Sunoo nods, eyes fluttering shut, lips parted in a shivery gasp as San pushes inside.
San guides himself forward, the head of his cock nudging into slick heat. Sunoo gasps, high and soft, as San breaches him slowly—inch by inch, careful and steady, holding back everything that tells him to take.
San sets a steady pace. Careful. Rhythmic. Guided more by Sunoo’s reactions than his own desire. Every time he goes deeper, Sunoo lets out a sweet, whimpering sound, hands clawing at San’s back—not to push him away, but to pull him closer. Every thrust draws soft, broken moans from Sunoo’s throat. The omega clings to him, thighs trembling, nails dragging over his back like he doesn’t know how to hold on without gripping too hard.
And when San feels his knot beginning to swell, he tries to slow down—to give Sunoo a second to adjust—but the omega just clings harder, nodding frantically, legs wrapping around his waist, spreading himself open like he needs it.
San groans, locking his arms around Sunoo’s trembling frame.
Sunoo gasps, head tilting back, eyes flying open and then squeezing shut as his hips jerk up to meet him. His body clamps down, greedy and desperate, and his arms wrap tight around San’s shoulders as he whines, nodding frantically.
San doesn’t speak. He just keeps going until the knot slips deep and locks.
And then Sunoo goes completely still.
A soundless exhale escapes his lips, and his body melts beneath San’s. His expression softens into something peaceful, almost drugged—eyes half-lidded, mouth open just slightly, as if the tension has drained out of him all at once.
He looks…
Relieved.
Like, for the first time in a very long time, Sunoo’s body is no longer trying to kill him.
He’s still trembling faintly, skin dewy with sweat, but his expression is soft now—serene. Lips parted in sleep, brows finally relaxed. No tension in his jaw. No pain in his breathing.
San holds him close for as long as he needs to, letting his knot gradually shrink until he’s able to ease out without hurting him. Sunoo doesn’t even stir.
He just exhales, a small puff of warm air before he drifts deeper into sleep.
San stays where he is, still and quiet, his hand resting gently on the blanket over Sunoo’s waist. His body is tense, humming with heat that has nowhere to go, but he barely notices. Release never even crossed his mind. It wasn’t about that.
This wasn’t about him.
Not even a little.
He moves quietly, tucking the blanket higher around Sunoo’s body, careful not to disturb him. The omega doesn’t even flinch—just curls tighter into the warmth, sighing softly in his sleep.
San lingers for a moment, making sure Sunoo is okay, and then, slowly, he turns and slips out the door, shutting it behind him with a soft click.
Jihyo is standing just outside, eyes down, thumb scrolling over a tablet screen. She doesn’t acknowledge him at first.
San glances at the screen.
It’s Sunoo. A live feed. Peacefully asleep.
Jihyo looks up finally, and when her eyes meet San’s, there’s none of the edge she’d had before. No glare. No judgment.
Just a softness he hadn’t seen from her yet.
“Thank you,” she says, voice quiet. “You helped him.”
San doesn’t know what to say to that. Doesn’t think he can say anything that’ll make sense.
This is only the first omega he’s engaged with, but San feels like he’s starting to understand what Seungmin meant by everyone being here for a reason.
The enormity of what they do at the facility—the impact they can have—it’s sinking in. It goes far beyond anything San might need personally.
And it’s with a new found invigoration that he makes his way to his next engagement.