---
"Do you think this is a goddamn charity" Jihoon?"
The scream echoed through the studio like a slap. Everyone froze—makeup artists, lighting crew, even the poor assistant trying to carry iced coffee.
Jihoon stood stiff, eyes wide, hands clenched at his sides as Manager Park Donghyun stormed closer, face red and twisted with rage.
"I asked you a simple question," Jihoon said quietly. "When will I get a full role?"
Donghyun laughed. Loudly. Mockingly.
"You dare ask me that? Hah! With what? That half-baked talent of yours? Who do you think you are? Huh?"
People pretended to look busy. No one met Jihoon's eyes.
"It's been three years," Jihoon whispered, trying to stay calm. "I've been in three dramas. All side roles. Five lines if I'm lucky."
"And you think you deserve more?"Donghyun stepped into his space. "Listen, flower boy. You're only here because of your face. You think anyone gives a shit about your 'dream'? You're just eye candy to fill the screen."
The words sliced, cruel and clear.
"If you really want to act," Donghyun sneered, "go get yourself a sponsor. Use that pretty little mouth of yours for something useful."
Jihoon's lips parted.
"You—"
"Go ahead. Say something,"
Donghyun hissed. "One word, and I'll have you blacklisted from every agency in the city. You'll be modeling pantyhose in basement catalogues. Try me."
Jihoon swallowed. His pride screamed, but his fear screamed louder. He was one word away from being nothing again.
So he said nothing.
He turned. Walked out of the studio. Every step echoed with humiliation.
Not even the security guard looked at him as he passed.
---
He stood at the bus station for twenty silent minutes. Not crying. Not moving.
The night air was cold. The city buzzed around him, but he felt nothing.
His reflection on the bus window stared back—sharp cheekbones, long lashes, lips that were always too pink. A face worth keeping, apparently.
But nothing else.
---
My name is Kim Jihoon. I'm 21 years old.
And I'm a fucking failure.
The bus rocked gently as it rattled through Seoul's midnight streets. Jihoon sat alone, head resting against the window, trying not to let his eyes close.
I wake up at five. Work out so I don't get fat. Eat instant noodles. Go to set. Say one line. Get told to smile more. Go home. Repeat.
He sighed.
They say Omegas have it easy. That we get protected. Desired. Chased.
What they don't say is that if you're undetected, unclaimed, and poor, you're worse than nothing. You're dangerous. You're dirt.
Jihoon looked down at his hands.
My mother ran away when I was twelve. Left me with my alcoholic, abusive father. Said I was too soft. Too pretty. Too wrong.
Dad remarried. Brought home a mistress with dollar-store perfume and dead eyes. Two years later, he killed her in a drunk rage. Found out she was cheating. Cops dragged him off in cuffs.
He left me with her two-year-old son. Johan. My little brother. My only family.
Jihoon's lips curled bitterly.
I tried to love someone once. Thought maybe, just maybe, I could have that too.
He cheated on me with my friend. Told me I was "beautiful but useless."
Jihoon snorted.
"Well, jokes on him. A donkey's face was more attractive than that fucker's."
He turned his head to the window again.
That's my shitty life. So far. And maybe… forever.
When he reached home, he dragged his sore body up the narrow staircase to the third floor. His apartment was barely a room—bare cement, flickering light bulb, and a heater that coughed more than it warmed.
But the moment he knocked, soft footsteps padded toward the door.
"Hyunieeee!"
A tiny figure flung the door open and launched into his arms.
Jihoon's eyes softened as he caught the little boy—bright eyes, soft brown curls, and the cutest crooked smile in the world.
"I waited like a good boy today!" Johan beamed proudly. "And I cleaned my plate all by myself. You see?! I am big now!"
Jihoon laughed softly and hugged him tighter.
"Yes, you are, baby. My little sunshine."
They stepped inside. Johan immediately went to his art corner, where broken crayons and dollar store paper littered the floor. Jihoon set down his bag, peeled off his jacket, and looked around the tiny room.
No kitchen. No sofa. One mattress on the floor. A heater. A kettle. That's all.
But it was warm. Because Johan was here.
He's the only blessing I have.
Jihoon knelt down beside his brother and stroked his hair.
"He's the reason I'm still breathing," he murmured. "Even when it hurts. Even when I feel like jumping into traffic."
He pressed a kiss to Johan's forehead.
But Johan has a heart condition. Something rare. Something expensive.
And I swear—I'll protect him. Even if I have to sell my organs. Even if I have to sell myself.
The heater flickered. Johan hummed softly as he drew a crooked sun.
Jihoon closed his eyes.
Tomorrow, he'd find a way.
Somehow.
He have to...
The next day, Jihoon woke to a buzzing phone and ten unread messages.
He rubbed his eyes and picked it up.
Manager Park.
His stomach twisted.
He opened the last message.
You wanted a sponsor, right?
Found one. Name's Kang Ryu. CEO of K-Genesis. He's interested.
Big money. Big terms. Don't fuck it up.
Jihoon's fingers froze.
Kang Ryu.
He'd heard the name. Everyone had. The man was a ghost. A billionaire. CEO of the country's most powerful entertainment empire. Rumors surrounded him—about his wealth, his control, and his preferences.
Jihoon's blood turned cold.
He swallowed hard.
Then Manager Park sent one last message.
Get on your knees if you have to. Just remember—this is your last shot.
Jihoon sat there, staring at the screen.
One word looped over and over in his head.
Sponsor.
And the name.
Kang Ryu.
"I will make him my sponsor even if I have to beg on my knees"
To be continued…