A loud explosion woke me from a fleeting slumber. I opened my eyes to find a darkness scattered with stars and firecrackers spraying sparks of colorful fire into the air.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Fireworks burst in the Seoul night sky at 00:00 local time.
Amidst the festivities and the faint, distant cheers of happy people from below, I felt a vibration in the pocket of my long black pants.
A new message from a foreign number had just arrived—a New Year's 2023 greeting with a party horn emoji. My lips twitched, then formed a tight smile. I knew who the sender was, though I didn't know how they got this temporary phone number—they undoubtedly had their ways.
Without needing to reply, I pocketed my phone again. Remembering the brief message now etched in my mind, I calculated that five minutes had passed since the fireworks exploded at 00:00.
I put my mask back on and slipped on my gray trapper hat after ensuring my equipment was complete.
Time for action.
A concrete building sheathed entirely in black glass from the ground floor to the twentieth stood firmly in the heart of Seoul.
I stood at its peak. The winter wind blew through the black sweater and cream-colored knee-length coat I wore. I peered down through binoculars, while my other hand gripped a long-barreled sniper rifle with an effective range of 2,300 meters.
The traffic was bustling as usual. Cars came and went, heading to their destinations. For several seconds, I observed and searched. A black BMW with the license plate matching the one in the message finally appeared amidst the crowd.
I peered through the gap of the half-open rear car door. The silhouette of a bald, middle-aged man laughing heartily was visible, flanked by a sexy woman. Not just one woman, but two, clinging to him left and right.
The long-barreled rifle replaced the binoculars. I stepped to the edge of the building, one foot planted on the boundary, my body slightly hunched. Through the scope, the bald head of my target was clear.
My eyes narrowed as I locked onto the target, my finger simultaneously pressing the trigger. The sound of the gunshot was masked by the fireworks exploding in the sky.
The bullet shot out at the speed of light. It happened in an instant. The car stopped as hysterical screams from the two women, who witnessed the man's body collapse with a gaping hole in his bald head, were heard.
Mission accomplished. I smiled at the now chaotic traffic below. I put the rifle back into the golf bag, slung it over my shoulder, and left that place.
·
My name is Han Gwanghyun (광현), which means light, a name given by the woman I called eomma, someone whose presence has long since vanished from my memory.
My age... I don't know exactly, or more accurately, I don't remember. Maybe around my thirties or thirty-one. I also don't really remember since when I've seen the world. And every time I try to remember, all I see is darkness. As if the contents of my head were a bottomless pit.
The blend of espresso, chocolate, and milk flowed down my throat. The sensation was warm and pleasant. I sipped it along with a plate of pancakes for breakfast at an outdoor cafe table, occasionally observing a group of uniformed teenagers walking past after the New Year's holiday.
I finished the half-cup of warm mocha, as well as the few pieces of blueberry pancake on the plate. After swallowing, I checked the watch on my wrist. The time still showed half-past seven in the morning.
A whistle came from the right, its tone sounding like a tease. When I turned, I found three teenage boys looking in my direction. One with honey-brown dyed hair winked one eye at me. Meanwhile, the other two seemed to be whispering while stealing glances. Where else but at me.
When they realized I was also looking at them, the boy who had been whispering earlier blew a long-distance kiss, accompanied by laughter from his two friends.
Tsk, the behavior of kids these days.
I got up from the table, ending this breakfast.
One of the two friends of the honey-brown-haired teen nudged him gently as I walked closer, thinking I would greet them. All three looked enthusiastic as I approached.
My right hand moved deftly as I passed the table where the three teens were hanging out. My face remained apathetic, especially when one of them—the one with honey-brown hair—screamed, followed by startled noises from his two friends as they saw the affogato that had just arrived spill onto his lap, right between his legs. I didn't look back or care upon hearing the curses from the honey-brown-haired teen because I had deliberately spilled his drink.
·
It was only early February, but the shops along the street were already bustling, many selling flowers and chocolates with red and pink trinket decorations.
I used to like the color red because eomma said red meant love. Now, red reminds me of the blood of someone whose life I ended with my own hands.
Walking on the sidewalk, amidst the passing pedestrians, I faintly heard the scrape of a melodious sound. Its heart-wrenching tone guided my steps toward the source of the sound.
Exactly fifty meters from the intersection, a young man was playing the violin. Beside this street violinist's red sneakers lay a gig bag containing a few won bills.
Looking at him, I remembered my past self. Yes, I must say, his playing wasn't bad at all. I didn't recognize the song he was playing; perhaps it was his own composition.
I continued walking, both hands tucked into the pockets of the covert coat I wore.
He smiled as I passed by, placing a won bill into his gig bag without stopping. After walking away, I realized one thing about that street violinist: he was mute.
I kept walking, leaving the violinist and the bustling sidewalk behind. The money I threw earlier wasn't out of pity. It was payment for a brief performance that stirred the pit of my memories, churning up something that should have remained buried.
My fingers clenched inside my coat pockets. The red on the young man's sneakers, the store decorations—all of it felt piercing. Every hint of red was a mirror reflecting shadows I wanted to forget—shadows of blood on my hands, of lives extinguished by my decisions.
Yet, there was something about the violinist that made me pause briefly. Not because of his music, though that was what drew me first. Not because of his innocent smile. But because of his limitation. He couldn't speak, could only produce notes through the friction of strings. A limitation that, in his silent world, actually gave him the freedom to express what couldn't be uttered.
I, on the other hand, was imprisoned in the pit of my own memories. I could speak, but I couldn't shout about the pain I felt. I could hear, but I couldn't remember the voice I most wanted to hear—eomma's voice.
The irony of that difference was stark. He, with his lack, seemed more... whole.
Then, amidst the hustle and bustle of Seoul, a clear and cold thought emerged in my mind: Was his silence a weakness or a strength? Was my forgetfulness a curse or a blessing protecting me?
I turned around, taking one more look at the young man from a distance. He was already absorbed in his violin again, creating his own world amidst his lack of voice.
Perhaps, like him, I too needed to find my own way to 'speak.' Not with words, but with actions. Not by remembering, but by... finishing.
And the mission with Cho Seungho was my way of 'speaking' now. A way to pour all that pent-up hatred, darkness, and pain into a planned, perfect, and final action.
With more determined steps, I turned into a small alley, leaving the main commotion behind. The red and pink colors gradually faded from view, replaced by the gray hues of the city's concrete, which were more comfortable for me.
A faint, cold smile reappeared. That violinist reminded me of something: sometimes, a smile and a song could be more lethal than a bullet. And for this mission, perhaps I needed to play both.
·
A newspaper reporting the murder on New Year's Eve was placed on the table in front of me.
"Do you still remember Kim Hyunshik?" A man wearing a worsted wool black suit sitting across from me asked. I glanced at the bold letters forming the headline before answering, "Yes, I do."
Lee Hajoon, the man speaking to me, gave a faint smile. "I want you to get close to his son."
I blinked. Then stared at him intently.
"This is your next task," he said casually, yet undeniably.
In a flat tone, I replied, "Is there any task other than this?" I was refusing this assignment.
"Why?" One of Hajoon's eyebrows raised.
I had a strong reason to refuse without needing to answer.
"Is it because he's an Alpha?" he guessed.
I averted my gaze momentarily. His guesses were almost never wrong.
I heard a faint sigh escape his lips before he said, "You don't even know what kind of approach I'm assigning you as a task." Hajoon wasn't asking.
I remained silent. The next second, Hajoon laughed briefly. "Your hatred for alphas hasn't diminished, it seems."
"You know that," I retorted, refusing his order.
A short exhale was heard from him. "This is the last one. After this, I promise you won't have to deal with alphas anymore." Hajoon looked at me seriously. "Except for me," he added.
I hated alphas, and this alpha man in front of me was an exception, even though he wasn't entirely free from my hatred for his always forceful attitude.
"I promise," he declared.
·
Cho Seungho—that was the name of the man who emerged from the red Ferrari as it stopped in the cafe's parking lot. He stepped out while talking on the phone, his voice sounding deep and calm, full of authority. Once the call ended, he closed his car door with one hand and walked into the cafe.
I discreetly observed him, pretending to read a magazine I held while sitting with a glass of coffee. I deliberately chose to sit outside to enjoy the still-biting February air, mixed with pollution.
The man's gaze was straight ahead toward the entrance as he slipped his phone into the brown trucker coat he wore. I guessed he chose the indoor seating for his lunch.
From behind the magazine, my eyes kept watching him. His broad shoulders filled out the coat material perfectly, framing a slim yet muscular athletic build. His height of 183 centimeters made him tower over the other cafe patrons. His face was a perfect blend of a strong jawline and the softness of large brown eyes framed by thick black lashes. His nose was straight, and his thin lips always seemed to hold a faint smile that made anyone who saw him curious. Every movement was elegant and full of confidence, like a model just off the runway. He was standing, ordering a drink from the barista. I didn't care what he ordered.
I sipped the coffee that no longer steamed—ending in a choke because a foreign pheromone assaulted me. So strong, piercing my nose. A mix of musk, woody leather that I deeply hated, the scent of an alpha that made my entire body tense. A bit of coffee spilled on my jeans. I coughed, lucky the coffee was already cold.
When I turned, I found a man placing his lunch on the table next to mine.
Cho Seungho. That name slipped slowly from my lips.
The owner of the name glanced in my direction; I realized it even though I wasn't looking at him. Damn, his woody leather scent stabbed my nose along with the sweet aroma of waffles and macchiato.
The next second, I was startled to find the man now standing in front of my table with his meal. Up close, his features were even more striking. His skin was clear and bright, contrasting with his impeccably styled, jet-black hair. His direct and confident gaze felt like it could penetrate every layer of defense.
"May I sit here?" His bass voice sounded friendly yet authoritative as he asked.
I looked at him with a stiff smile. "Yes."
Cho Seungho then sat down and began eating his waffle. If it weren't for Hajoon's orders, I would have left the moment I choked earlier, and wouldn't have to endure this man's pheromones, let alone hide my disgusted expression from him. But he seemed to notice the feelings I was hiding.
The man stopped eating his waffle, sniffed his arm briefly, then looked at me. "Am I making you uncomfortable?" he asked, his large, clear eyes radiating a sincerity that put me slightly on edge.
I hurriedly denied it. "No, of course not." Trying to convince this man not to leave. Even though I really wanted him to leave.
"You sure?" He was about to pick up his meal to move.
"Yes." I quickly extended my hand and said my name, "Gwanghyun." The next second I cursed myself—why did I give my real name?
Seungho took my hand hesitantly, uncertain whether to accept the introduction or... I don't know. His grip felt warm and strong, clasping with the same confidence as his way of living. He nodded slowly and continued eating. When only half of his waffle remained, he said, "I thought I had suppressed my pheromones completely, but you can still catch a whiff, however faint. Your sense of smell is very sharp."
I gave a short laugh. Deep, elegant, luxurious. The woody leather blend of sandalwood and oud was indeed elegant, but to me, it was a scent that made me nauseous. And it was all because of that man, the man who had the same pheromones, though with a noticeable difference. But there was a musk I hated. His strong, dominant alpha pheromones, like a scent of petrichor mixed with amber and burnt oak wood, kept pressing on my air, triggering my omega instincts to submit—something I deeply despised.
"Is there something you want to say?" he asked, looking at me with his pair of brown irises.
"Huh?" I blinked in confusion. Of course, I wasn't thinking about what to say next. I didn't know what topic would be pleasant to discuss. The subtle vanilla and agarwood scent, my omega pheromones which I usually suppress with special medication, seemed to have leaked slightly due to my discomfort.
"Ahaha." Seungho laughed brightly. "You're an introvert, huh," he said, his handsome nose twitching almost imperceptibly, as if catching something in the air.
His relaxed attitude only made me more confused about how to behave. Awkward, of course. During a pause in our conversation, I drank the remaining sips of coffee until it was gone to hide my awkwardness. I hid my face behind the cup, hoping the bitter coffee scent could mask my own scent that might be detectable.
"Are you new here?" Seungho asked, "It's my first time seeing you here." His eyes blinked, and there was a different focus in his gaze now, as if analyzing something unspoken.
Wow, does he recognize every person who comes to this cafe?
"Not really, I drop by here sometimes, but not at this hour."
Seungho nodded, finishing another bite of waffle along with his macchiato. Afterward, he looked at me, who was still pretending to drink from an empty cup. Subtly, his musk scent grew more intense, as if challenging or seeking an answer to something.
"What?" I asked, confused why he was staring like that.
Seungho himself seemed slightly startled, as if just realizing something that made him space out. "That..." His voice was hesitant as he fished something from his pants pocket. "May I have your phone number?" His pheromones, which earlier felt pressuring, now felt more... interested, curious, like the warm scent of damp earth after rain.
I was just as surprised. It seemed impossible—my plan to get close to Seungho could be this easy. Opportunity wouldn't come twice. Honestly, I wasn't interested in this man, especially since he had a scent I hated. But what could I do? This was the mission.
I put down the empty cup, then took the phone from his hand and began typing the number I had memorized before handing it back. A faint cheerfulness appeared on his face. Seungho immediately called my number, and my phone rang. When our fingers briefly touched, there was a small static shock, and his warm, earthy pheromones seemed to envelop my hand for a moment.
"Save my number," he requested with a smile, his pheromones now feeling softer.
I nodded. Oh my, is this alpha interested in me?
"May I call you in my free time?" There was no hesitation in the tone of this question.
I nodded again as an answer.
"Thank you." Seungho looked very pleased. The smile on his lips widened by two centimeters. "By the way, would you like another cup of coffee?" The alpha's eyes glanced at my empty coffee cup. "My treat." He even offered. His scent now felt warm and welcoming, like heated sandalwood, trying to make me comfortable.
I didn't answer immediately. I glanced around; several young girls, especially those sitting at tables near the indoor entrance, had glanced our way several times. More precisely, at Cho Seungho. They would have immediately accepted this alpha man's offer. But not me.
"Thank you, but not today." My lips curled into a smile while holding my breath against his pheromones. Unable to bear it, I stood up, still acting friendly towards him. I felt my own scent become sharper, like burning agarwood, a 'stay away' signal I hoped he could catch.
Seungho understood I was leaving. He didn't say anything else except, "See you later tonight," he said, bending his three fingers with his pinky and thumb spread apart. "Over the phone." His pheromones still felt warm and full of enthusiasm, as if undisturbed by my defensive scent.
I smiled. "Over the phone." Repeating what he said, then turned and left the table. Cho Seungho—I knew he was still there, still watching my back with a faint smile still etched on his lips. I could feel his gaze and his persistent earthy scent following me, clinging to my clothes, like a brand newly given to me.