A year earlier, September.
Marvin sat in the hotel office chair, popping an aspirin between his teeth and leaning his head back. His jet-black hair fanned across his forehead. A sigh escaped through his parted lips, betraying his annoyance. The unwelcome guest was on its way.
He’d assumed it was just fatigue since he’d had a slight headache all morning, but by after lunch he felt it clearly. His senses sharpened to every odor, and a mild fever rose. This was a hit.
‘You know the timing has to be perfect, right? You can’t inject too early. It has to be just when your rod is trembling. Got it?’
Every time Yang Jin-man handed over the drug, he repeated that instruction. Accompanied by the usual nagging to behave himself, since it was precious.
Behave myself…
It symbolized a kind of helplessness he couldn’t avoid even though he knew better. That’s why he always felt uneasy.
It felt different than when he was an Alpha. Back then he’d have wanted to smash bricks; now he only wanted to lie down.
His body felt like a mollusk—limp, sliding off the chair like melted ice cream. He wasn’t in pain; “drained” would be more accurate. Marvin stared blankly at the ceiling as if his brain had shut off.
Ugh, I still can’t get used to this.
Every time the unwelcome guest arrived, Marvin’s mood plummeted. If only he could go out and have sex to shake it off, that would be simpler. Instead he trembled like an addict, utterly dependent on the drug. And the headache that tormented him the whole time was excruciating.
He squinted at the ceiling, then lifted his left hand to check his wristwatch. Eleven o’clock. Once past midnight, accidents would start happening—drunk guests fighting or aroused ones dropping their pants in the wrong place. He wanted to get some sleep before then.
But not even a minute after closing his eyes, his phone rang again. His smooth brow creased.
“Why?”
“Boss, sorry to bother you, but the singer still hasn’t arrived in the hall.”
The youngest waiter’s anxious voice crackled through the receiver. Marvin sighed. Trouble had broken out somewhere he hadn’t expected, and he’d have to go. With the owner away today, all chores fell to him. Reluctantly he opened his eyes and sat up.
“Understood. Hold on.”
He hung up and stood, about to leave the office when he caught his reflection in the mirror by the door. His irises were already fading. He glanced at the locked desk drawer, then shook his head.
It’ll be all right for now—just not trembling yet, as Yang said. If things get worse, I’ll wait until after service ends and then inject. The later it stops, the later the next cycle comes.
Of course, there was no medical evidence for that. Maybe there was, but Marvin knew little of physiology. Having spent so long here, he’d learned to trust his instincts. The thought that he was slowly becoming like them terrified him.
He closed the office door and headed for the emergency stairwell. He pushed open the thick steel door, and muffled music pounded up from below. His long legs carried him down when he spotted an employee lingering by the door to the basement floor.
The man straightened at the sight of Marvin and greeted him hastily. Marvin saw he was holding a blood-soaked tissue to his forehead.
“Got hit?”
“Ah, nothing much. An excited guest swung a beer glass at me from behind!”
The waiter peeled off the tissue to reveal a superficial gash—thankfully not deep enough to need stitches. He must have sat on the stairs waiting for the bleeding to stop.
“Go home.”
The employee waved him off.
“It’s fine, really.”
“How can you serve drinks looking like that? Go home. Get disinfectant at the pharmacy.”
Marvin pulled a fifty-thousand-won bill from his wallet and handed it over—not for the antiseptic but as a consolation. The waiter stood, torn between gratitude and embarrassment. If the boss finds out… he hesitated to speak the words.
Marvin patted his shoulder and swung open the steel emergency door. A rush of noise and music spilled out.
“Table eight, ready to go.”
“Good evening!”
“Table twenty-four!”
The hall was packed. Not a single empty table in the back. Even if it was just a tourist hotel in a small city, with nowhere else to go on weekends, people flocked here.
The hall—converted from a 1990s nightclub—looked tacky but was at least minimally modern. A stage stood at one end. They held performances and events often, so the Daegyeong Hotel was always the go-to for company gatherings.
There were quite a few guests staying over too. Since being designated as a special Allocation System hotel, Chinese visitors arriving by ship had joined the clientele. Prostitution was illegal, but the Allocation System’s duty to provide Omegas to Rutting Alphas was lawful. The government’s explanation—that it rescued economically struggling Omegas who had neither partners nor access to expensive suppressants—had convincing appeal.
Naturally, it attracted abusers: those who pretended to be in rut, even when they weren’t, or ordinary people scheming to sleep with an Omega. Seoul was relatively restrained; it was the poorly regulated provincial hotels that met this demand.
Daegyeong Hotel thrived in that gray zone. Local residents paid token sums, but real profits came from high-rolling regulars.
Legally, sex with allocated Omegas had to be at a fixed rate, but in practice bookings were nearly impossible without extra bribes. Since the Omegas themselves chose whom to accept, wealthy clients always got priority.
On hit days, prices could double or triple—and they still clamored to pay. Omegas who came for “pocket money” often tasted the money-making allure and rented nearby rooms. Splitting fees with the hotel still left them with substantial earnings.
So since last year, Daegyeong specialized in physically fit male Omegas. Even at lower rates, high volume made up the difference. Some did two or three sessions a day, keeping turnover high.
Though it was a blatant cash-grab, Oseong County imposed no sanctions. Instead, they designated the hotel a model establishment, awarding it another Mugunghwa last year.
Marvin managed hall operations. Officially, he was introduced by the owner. Staff saw him as a parachute hire, but Marvin felt it was forced labor. Since he couldn’t explain his background, he behaved as ordinarily as possible.
For months they’d been curious about him, but after a few, they stopped caring beyond his name. Marvin himself had adapted to this life.
He crossed the hall toward the stage. Tables were full of ordinary guests unable to join the Allocation System—sitting, drinking beer, killing time. When the scheduled performance didn’t start, insults rained down on the DJ. Someone lobbed an apple slice to the floor; Marvin bent to pick it up and placed it on a waiter’s tray.
“Oh—Director.”
“Where’s Jin-yong?”
“He’s over by the dance team, near the green room.”
Marvin nodded and moved on, weaving past people closely packed in the curtained-off tables, heading backstage. The youngest waiter stood by the singer’s waiting room, talking with the dance crew.
“Joo-seong’s been quiet, then pulls this stunt again.”
“Maybe his boyfriend’s rut hit him? He always takes leave around now.”
“The thing is, he said he was moving a few days ago. That he’d really broken up with that guy.”
“Break up my ass. How do you break up with the Alpha you begged to imprint you? He probably sulked for a few days then crawled back. Jesus, what does a Beta know about dating an Omega? Always shows up a wreck from the rut, but oh, he can talk.”
“What time’s the show?”
A calm voice cut in, and everyone turned.
“Oh—Director’s here?”
“Big brother’s here?”
“Good evening!”
They all greeted Marvin in unison. He frowned—he still wasn’t used to this rough-and-tumble culture.
Feigning ignorance, he looked only at Jin-yong. Jin-yong blinked and answered.
“The show was at ten, but he said he’d arrive an hour earlier—now we can’t reach him by phone.”
He checked his watch: already twenty minutes past start time.
“Name?”
“Joo-seong hyung. Park Joo-seong—the guy from Big City Vocal.”
Jin-yong explained eagerly, but Marvin barely recognized the name—only vague memories of an ex-idol. Most performers here had similar backgrounds.
“Do you know where he lives?”
“Huh? Uh… I don’t really…”
Jin-yong blinked at the unexpected question.
“Why would I? We met here—no point digging into each other’s personal details.”
A dancer who’d been gossiping scoffed, then peered up at Marvin.
“So what do we do? Let him go on stage or not?”
Marvin paused, then looked back at Jin-yong.
“Are the room-service Omegas on duty today?”
“Yes—when I checked, they were ordering food.”
“Then have them play rock-paper-scissors and whoever loses sings a song.”
“S-sing?”
“Yeah. Tell them to go up and sing anything they know. Even better if it’s an idol song. Can the dance team back them?”
“Uh? Yeah, sure.”
Startled dancers nodded. A performance would happen after all. The dance crew scurried back to the green room to fetch stage outfits. Jin-yong mouthed in confusion.
At that moment Marvin’s phone rang again—this time the VIP rooms.
“Yes? What is it?”
“Director, the fourth-floor guests have arrived, but….”
The urgent voice trickled out. Marvin’s expression darkened and he sighed. He could barely hide his annoyance—high-paying guests always demanded creative troubles.
“No. Follow procedure. Keep them waiting. I’ll be there.”
He headed straight for the elevator; Jin-yong hurried after him.
“Boss—today’s duty staff are all new. They’re not good at karaoke or anything.”
Jin-yong panted to match Marvin’s stride.
“They’ll be fine. They’re Omegas. Everyone’s here to see that anyway.”
“But it’s not a karaoke bar, and they’re not exactly celebrity-level….”
Jin-yong muttered what he wanted to say, but Marvin kept walking. Soon they stood before the elevator.
“It’s okay. Send up the ones who lost first, then swap if someone gets picked. You emcee. You’re good at it.”
Marvin patted Jin-yong’s shoulder, reached back, and pressed the elevator button. Jin-yong, a former finalist in a national TV comedy contest, had no comeback. He sniffled and agreed.
“Yes.”
The doors closed, and Marvin disappeared from sight.