The Seoul Philharmonic Symphony's rehearsal hall smelled of three things: dust, old wood, and the bitter resignation of failure. The once-gleaming parquet floor was scuffed and scarred and seeping winter's cold, a map of a thousand missed notes and a thousand quiet departures.
Kang Do-hyun stood at the front, his violin resting on his shoulder like a natural extension of his arm, his scent—a sharp, commanding cedar—a jarring scent against the melancholic winter air. He was a pillar of defiance in a crumbling temple.
His gaze swept over the musicians, counting the empty chairs. Twenty-three. Twenty-four. At this rate, they wouldn't even be able to continue calling themselves a symphonic orchestra. He felt a now familiar surge of fury. Every person who had walked out was a betrayal.
They had left because the music had died, strangled slowly but surely in the hands of their music director, who had waltzed out on them after almost ten years of lazy incompetence. Once a grand symphonic orchestra with hundreds of musicians vying to make the cut, they had barely scraped through the last three seasons stutteringly, clinging desperately on the ragged coattails of the few substitutes they could. Their last show three weeks ago, which had supposed to feature a triumphant Ode to Joy, turned out to be more like a funeral dirge.
After that shameful performance, the orchestra had been abandoned, was being abandoned, and although he and many others had stayed on—a stubborn, battered group of misfits held together by pride and little else—there was little they could do to try and bring it back all on their own. They had had to cancel the rest of their season, refunding subscriptions with their deepest regrets. He didn't even want to think about how much money they were bleeding. That was Manager Park's problem.
Today, they had gathered back in the musty rehearsal hall, none of them wanting to address the shame of not performing during what should have been a season filled with glorious music, because another stand-in was coming.
Or at least, he was supposed to.
"He's late," someone from the percussion section grumbled loudly enough for half the orchestra to hear. "I heard he's not even an alpha. Probably some weak beta from some podunk conservatory. We're doomed."
Yoon Hyeonwoo, the principal cellist, an alpha from the old guard, grunted. "We've had nothing but betas for ten years. Look where that got us." His scent of old leather and tobacco was a heavy, cynical presence.
Han Chaewon, the second chair violinist, shot a pointed look at the older man, a silent challenge in her beta gaze. "Perhaps a new perspective is exactly what we need, Yoon Hyeonwoo-ssi. Not all of us want to play the same funeral song forever."
"I've heard of him before," said Kim Seojun, the oboist, his voice a thoughtful murmur. "On the news, a few years back. They said he was a prodigy. Maybe he's just what we need."
Do-hyun ignored them all. He was too busy feeling a low thrum of dread in his chest. A beta conductor? The orchestra had been flailing without a strong alpha presence since their last one had retired. He had done his best, pouring every ounce of his energy and his very alpha nature into holding them together, but a symphony needed a conductor to lead, to command. It needed a soul to guide its body. And that soul had to be powerful.
The hall door finally opened, and a hush fell over the room.
The man who entered was a walking contradiction. He was tall, but with a lean, almost slender frame that seemed impossibly fragile. He wore a simple, tailored suit in a deep navy, the fabric a heavy wool that seemed to hold against the cold around them. He had unwound a long, charcoal-gray scarf from his neck, folding it neatly over his arm, and his cologne was so mild it was practically non-existent—a faint whisper of sandalwood, a scent so common to betas it was the very definition of unremarkable. His face was what the music critics would call "soft," with a pointed chin and large, dark eyes that took in the room from under a wave of dark honey with an almost shy curiosity.
Removing his coat, he walked to the podium without a trace of swagger, and Do-hyun's instincts screamed in confused rejection.
This man was not what he had been told. This man was not a leader.
"Good morning," the conductor said, his voice quiet but clear. "My name is Seo Jaemin. I know you've been through a difficult time. I believe our music is not yet gone. It is simply sleeping."
A few musicians shifted uncomfortably. The words were nice, but his presence wasn't commanding. He didn't smell like an alpha. He didn't look like one, either. Do-hyun watched him, his jaw tight, feeling the slow burn of contempt rise in his gut. This beta was going to lead them? This man was going to save them?
Jaemin placed a slender white baton on the stand, his movements precise and economical. He looked at Do-hyun, his eyes locking on the alpha's with an unnerving calm. He didn't flinch. He didn't look away.
"We'll begin with a warm-up. First violins, please."
His command was direct and simple, but the quiet authority behind it was a challenge. Do-hyun stared back, the unspoken accusation in his eyes as clear as day.
You don't belong here. You can't lead us.
Jaemin held his gaze, a quiet fire in his dark eyes. He didn't say a word. He didn't have to. The silent battle had already begun. The music was still sleeping, but the discord was awake, and it was singing a loud, angry song.