Three days had blurred into a haze of fluorescent lights and endless keystrokes inside Kaelus Tower.
Seo Hyun had thrown himself into the work with quiet desperation, adapting the only way he knew how: head down, smile on, never complaining.
The soft sky-blue long-sleeve shirt he wore today clung slightly to his slim frame from the stress-sweat that never quite dried. It was a pretty color, gentle against his snow-white hair and porcelain skin, but it still made him look like a porcelain doll dropped into a den of wolves. He smiled through every curt order, every robotic "Morning," every alpha stare that lingered too long.
The pheromone-eliminating perfume held most days, but the building's heavy alpha dominance pressed on him constantly, like invisible hands at his throat.
He was surviving.
Barely.
During his fifteen-minute break on the twenty-third floor, Seo Hyun slipped into the quiet stairwell, back against the cold concrete wall, and pulled out his phone with tired, trembling fingers, exhausted.
He hadn't seen Rui awake in two days, only managed to tuck his little boy into bed last night after midnight, pressing a kiss to blonde hair that smelled of milk and crayons. Work had swallowed him whole.
A new voice note waited from this morning, sent right before the nanny took him to Little Stars Preschool. Seo Hyun pressed play, volume low.
Rui's tiny voice filled the stairwell, switching adorably between Korean and broken English, bright and full of life.
"Eomma! Gudu morning! I ate all the rice like you said. I watched Sponge Bob… square… pan-tsu today! I draw you a big picture at school. Saranghae, Eomma! Love you big-big!"
A soft giggle, then the nanny's distant voice in the background, sharp, impatient, cutting the note short.
Seo Hyun's chest cracked open with something warm and painful.
The sound was pure therapy, the only thing keeping the exhaustion at bay. He replayed it twice, eyes stinging, a small, unconscious smile curving his lips despite everything.
My baby. My whole world. He typed a quick voice reply in Korean, voice soft and cracking: "Rui-ya, Umma hears you. Be good for Nanny Mia, okay? I'll come home soon. Saranghae."
Nanny Mia. The only option he could afford without registering as a single dad... something that would have raised too many questions at any licensed agency.
She was a tired beta in her late thirties, always smelling of cheap cigarettes and resentment, demanding an extra hundred every few days "for the trouble." He had no choice but to pay.
He pocketed the phone, squared his shoulders, and forced the smile back into place before stepping back into the office.
Adapt.
Smile.
Survive.
For him.
The team meeting room on the twenty-fourth floor felt like a pressure chamber. The strict head of department, a severe beta woman named Director Vale with steel-gray hair and a voice like snapping ice, stood at the head of the table, tablet in hand.
"Numbers are down in logistics support," she barked, eyes sweeping the room like a predator. "The underground division expects seamless integration. Any delays in the Meridian project will be treated as sabotage. Internal. Understood?"
The atmosphere was razor-wire tight. No one shifted. No one breathed too loud.
Seo Hyun sat at the far end, notebook open, pen flying across the page in neat, elegant script. He kept his head down, smile soft and professional whenever anyone glanced his way, even as his stomach twisted.
Underground division again. The words slid over him like oil, vague enough to ignore, heavy enough to feel wrong.
Alan sat two seats away. His supervisor. The early-thirties alpha had been sneaking glances at him all morning, sharp, assessing looks that lingered on the delicate line of Seo Hyun's neck, the way his white hair caught the light.
Alan's espresso-and-scorched-leather scent spiked subtly each time, then flattened as if he caught himself.
Too clean, his expression seemed to say. This one's hiding something big. Background check says Korea to Ravencroft in a single night.
Visa rushed. Employment history redacted like it was classified. Too perfect. Too fragile. What the hell are you running from?
Seo Hyun didn't notice. He just kept writing, smile never wavering.
Until his phone vibrated violently in his pocket.
Once. Twice. Three times.
He stiffened, heart jolting. Mia. She never called during work. The screen lit up under the table—Nanny Mia—again and again. Persistent.
Urgent.
Director Vale's eyes snapped to him like a whip. "Problem, Mr. Seo?"
"No, ma'am," he whispered, voice warm and soft even as dread coiled in his gut. He silenced the phone with a trembling thumb, ignoring the next three calls that buzzed against his thigh like angry hornets.
His smile stayed plastered on, polite and angelic, but inside his chest his heart hammered harder. Please not now. Not here.
The meeting dragged on with more shaded talk, Vale casually mentioning "cleaning up loose ends in the eastern warehouses" and "reminding our police contacts who signs their bonuses."
Alan's glances grew sharper, nostrils flaring once as if catching something delicate in the air.
Because of Seo Hyun's stress, his pheromones was leaking.
His faint winter-milk scent, pure, sweet, almost addictive, slipped past the perfume in thin, terrified threads. It curled through the room like fresh snow melting on skin.
Alan's eyes darkened. Two other alphas at the table shifted, chairs creaking, their own heavy pheromones rising in unconscious response, territorial, hungry. One of them cleared his throat roughly.
Director Vale ended the meeting with a curt "Dismissed. Fix it by EOD."
The second the door clicked shut behind the last person, Seo Hyun bolted for the stairwell again, phone already at his ear. His hands shook so badly he almost dropped it.
Mia finally picked up on the fifth ring, voice clipped and cold. "I'm done. Quitting. Effective now."she says after ranting excuses of why she won't continue.
Seo Hyun's breath caught. "Mia... wait, please? just help me pick Rui up..... I can pay more, just—"
"No. I'm not dealing with your weird schedule and the Korean kid anymore. I'm out. Don't call me again."
Click.
The line went dead.
Past preschool closing time. Forty-seven minutes ago.
Seo Hyun's world tilted. He called Little Stars Preschool with numb fingers, voice cracking on the first ring. "This is Rui's father... Seo Hyun. Is he still there? The nanny was supposed to... "
The teacher's voice was kind but strained.
"Mr. Seo… he's no longer on the premises. We thought the nanny picked him up. He was waiting outside the gate. I'm so sorry... we tried calling you."
Rui was gone.
No.
The phone slipped from Seo Hyun's hand and clattered to the floor. A broken sound tore from his throat—half-sob, half-whisper. "No… no, no, Rui-ya…"
His winter-milk scent exploded outward, sharp with raw fear, sweet and desperate and completely uncontrolled. Tears burned his pink-rimmed eyes as he snatched the phone and ran... white hair flying, sky-blue shirt rumpled, legs trembling down the emergency stairs.
What if they found us?
The shadows from Seoul…
the ones who wanted him…
the ones I ran across an ocean to escape…
He burst through the lobby doors into the pouring rain, phone clutched like a lifeline, whispering frantic Korean pleas under his breath. "Rui… where are you? Eomma's coming…"
★★★
High above, in the penthouse office that smelled of chilled steel and old blood, Darius placed a slim black folder on Alistair's desk without a word.
Alistair leaned back in the leather chair, inky hair tied neatly, blue eyes flat as he opened it. The new albino admin's file.
No family listed.
No dependents.
Clean on paper... too clean.
Severe albinism with documented complications: light sensitivity, suppressed pheromone output that read as unnaturally "pure," history of failing heat suppressants back in Korea.
A sealed medical incident from three years ago, emergency care, details redacted under private request. Visa rushed. Financial trail showing a ghost-like exit from Seoul.
Alistair's expression never changed. Not a flicker. But his alpha pheromones thickened the air like smoke, dark leather, chilled steel, the metallic bite of fresh blood, pressing down until Darius adjusted his glasses and took one instinctive step back.
Fragile. Secretive. With that smile.
The rare curiousity coiled slow and hungry in the dead space behind Alistair's eyes. I want to see what breaks first.
He closed the file with a quiet snap. "Deeper dig. Surveillance. No contact. Yet."
Darius nodded once and left.
Alistair turned toward the wall of one-way glass overlooking the lobby far below. Rain streaked the glass like tears. A small, frantic figure in sky-blue was rushing out into the downpour, white hair glowing even through the storm.
His lips curved the barest fraction...the closest thing to a smile his psychopathic face ever allowed.
Interesting.
End of Chapter 3.