“Ha…”
Jin-yong lifted his bowed head and sighed.
“Something happened in the VIP room? The director’s heading up to the fourth floor?”
The dancer who’d been talking with him a moment ago suddenly appeared beside Jin-yong, a cigarette dangling from his lips.
“I heard they’re entertaining a newly arrived prosecutor from Seoul today. An Alpha. A total natural Alpha.”
“A ‘natural Alpha,’ my ass. What’s so great about being born horny? Prosecutors are always such show-offs.”
Jin-yong chuckled in agreement. There were only six prosecutors at the Oseong Branch, three of them Alphas—and the one non-Omegaverse woman deputy chief had refused all courtesies. Now there was an extra male Omega prosecutor—how delightful. Everyone with local interests was evidently jockeying to cozy up to the newcomer.
“Hey, by the way—do you know where Joo-seong lives? You guys were in a group together, right?”
As they headed back to the green room, Jin-yong asked suddenly.
“Sure.”
“Then why didn’t you give his address to the director earlier?”
The dancer chewed on the cigarette’s end and glared at Jin-yong, as if to say, “Are you serious?”
“If I check the ledger in the office, it’s all there anyway. Why make things easier for that jerk?”
“You hate the director that much?”
“He rubs me the wrong way. An Alpha Omega, yet he’s running errands for Owner Yang like a lackey. Then he strolls around acting all high and mighty—it drives me nuts.”
He dug in his pocket for a lighter. Jin-yong frowned in disbelief.
“When has the director ever strutted around like that? He’s really kind. He even gives us pocket money.”
“That’s exactly what pisses me off. Why the hell does he pretend to be so polite? He’s probably scheming under the surface. And every poor sap who chases after him ends up getting burned. The Omegas sent up to the rooms always hit on him too. He won’t tell you anything personal. Damn—where’s my lighter?”
Jin-yong, watching the dancer rummage through his clothes, crouched slightly and asked:
“But is the director really an Alpha?”
“Can’t you tell? Tall build, pale irises… sometimes I catch a wet-wood scent—must be his pheromones, right?”
“Come on. How would we smell pheromones? We’re both pure Beta humans.”
“Betas can smell pheromones too. Didn’t you hear about that guy in England who showered in Alpha pheromones and turned into an Omega? It was on ‘Unbelievable Stories,’ even.”
“I thought that show was all bullshit!”
Annoyed at the tease, Jin-yong grumbled. Yet he half-believed Marvin might be an Omega—his appearance and physique were exactly like the Type A Omegas.
“But I’ve never seen the director go into rut.”
“Why would you? He’s not advertising his arousal. Of course he’s got someone to handle it. Damn—found it!”
The dancer struck the lighter with a loud click and ignited his cigarette. Jin-yong glanced again toward the elevator where Marvin had vanished.
“Maybe he’s taking the drugs…?”
He muttered to himself, and the dancer scoffed.
“Why would an Alpha take suppressants? Does he have money to burn?”
“The boss might cover more for him.”
“These drugs aren’t covered by insurance—one shot costs hundreds. Yang Jin-man isn’t that kind of guy. Even the popular Omegas he’s been replacing are expensive. He keeps bringing in newbies to avoid raising deposits.”
He exhaled a plume of smoke and continued: “And yet today he went to the Daejeon Branch begging for more allocation. The guy’s greed—look at him, pigging out like a damn hog. Hey, what’s that? Joo-seong’s here?”
The two froze at the sight of an unexpected arrival in the green room. The missing singer had shown up—pale, sweating profusely. He didn’t look well.
“You okay?”
“Huh? Yeah. Can I go on now?”
“Sure.”
His expression was distant and his pupils dilated, but he said he could perform. Jin-yong didn’t entirely trust him, but if he said he was fine…
Jin-yong pulled out his phone and messaged Marvin: “Cancel sending up Omegas. Start the show as scheduled.”
“Let’s get ready.”
“We’ll be on in three minutes!”
Jin-yong’s shout echoed through the green room. He signaled OK to the DJ booth, and the DJ—after an hour of force-fed tracks—threw him a thumbs-up.
Crisis averted. They just hoped the singer wouldn’t blank on the lyrics like last time.
Marvin checked his phone and found himself at the fourth-floor VIP room. He stared at Jin-yong’s emoji-laden message confirming the performance could proceed, then tucked his phone back into his pocket. One annoying matter resolved—good.
Knock knock.
“I’m coming in.”
Without waiting for permission, he opened the door. The room was already half in session. Two or three more people than booked had squeezed in. Among them were familiar faces: Yoon Jo-beom and Hwang Woo-tae. One was a famous local magnate, the other a dilettante pretending to champion civic causes. Both were nuisances.
“Oh—Director Kim’s here? We’re on for round two. Bring in two people at a time, rotate them. And those—these guys don’t communicate. Get rid of them, please.”
Hwang Woo-tae jabbed a finger at the lineup of staff chewing on apples like scenery. Marvin’s gaze swept over the guests. One of them glanced at him and shook his head—apparently pre-briefed by phone that a non-Omegaverse guest was present.
Providing Omegas to a non-Omegaverse individual was blatantly illegal; they could face business suspension. It had been quiet for a while, but troublemakers inevitably surfaced. Marvin masked his irritation and proceeded with the formalities.
“Certainly. I’ll guide you to the rooms immediately. May I have each of your IDs, please?”
Hwang Woo-tae scowled at this buzzkill.
“What’s this? We’re not strangers. Why the sudden ID check? It’s embarrassing.”
“Yes, but we have some first-time guests. It’s purely procedural.”
Marvin forced a courteous smile and bowed. Beyond any other concern, admitting civilians was too risky.
“Never mind—just send up the folks. I vouch for their identities. We brought precious guests. Why hassle us?”
He gestured toward the man sitting beside Yoon Jo-beom. Marvin’s bowed gaze rose to the left sofa, where an unfamiliar man reclined, listening to Yoon’s animated chatter. He seemed unfazed by the intrusion, focused entirely on their conversation.
“So, Prosecutor, once we have your approval…” Yoon Jo-beom spread his hands and leaned forward as he explained.
Over and over, Yoon mimed lifting a giant platter, spittle flying, while the man sipped his drink serenely. Occasionally he nodded, feigning surprise, “Is that so? I didn’t know.” He set the stage with practiced ease.
Yoon Jo-beom, thrilled, twisted at the waist to lean in. The man looked down on this robust older figure—twenty years his senior—with an inscrutable smile. Sometimes disdainful, sometimes pitying, his emotions were unreadable.