The boardroom was silent, suffocating under the weight of Kang Jisoo's presence.
He sat at the head of the table, posture immaculate, black suit crisp as if woven from steel itself. His gaze, cold and unblinking, cut through the directors lined up before him. The only sound was the faint ticking of the antique clock on the far wall.
"Your proposal is weak," Jisoo said at last, voice calm but edged like a blade. "You want to invest billions into an idea you can't even defend for five minutes. Do you think Kang Group was built on hesitation?"
The man across from him flinched, words drying on his tongue. Jisoo's expression didn't shift. To the board, he was the perfect Alpha: unshakable, dominant, commanding. The kind of man whose approval or dismissal could decide the fate of empires.
But beneath the polished exterior, a dull ache stirred low in his stomach, a too-familiar pull. His jaw tightened imperceptibly. Not now. He forced his breathing steady, fingers curling slightly under the table as if to tether himself.
The door opened quietly. Seo Minjae slipped in, holding a sleek leather folder.
"Apologies for the interruption," Minjae said with a polite bow. His voice was warm, light, almost teasing despite the heavy air. "The revised numbers you asked for, sir."
He placed the folder in front of Jisoo with practiced ease. Unlike the others in the room, Minjae's hands didn't tremble in his presence. His movements were unhurried, confident, even playful, as though he found it amusing to step into a den of wolves without fear.
Jisoo accepted the folder, eyes flicking briefly to his assistant. Minjae's gaze met his, unafraid, lips curved in a ghost of a smile. It was the only smile in the room.
"Continue," Jisoo ordered the directors, though his voice had softened ever so slightly.
When the meeting ended, the directors filed out with relieved expressions, their backs damp with nervous sweat. Minjae lingered, stacking documents into neat piles.
"You didn't eat breakfast again." His tone was matter-of-fact, but edged with that infuriating familiarity only he dared to use. "Your hands were shaking."
"They were not." Jisoo didn't look up from his laptop.
"They were," Minjae replied easily, slipping the folders under his arm. "If you faint in front of the board again, I'll start carrying smelling salts like an old auntie."
Jisoo's jaw tensed. "Mind your place."
For a moment, Minjae said nothing. Then he leaned forward over the desk, just close enough for Jisoo to feel his warmth, to hear the low murmur of his words.
"You don't scare me, sir."
The words hung between them like static. Jisoo looked up sharply, but Minjae had already straightened, the smirk gone, replaced by his usual professional mask.
By the time evening came, the office was deserted. Seoul's city lights spilled through the glass walls, glittering against the darkened sky. Jisoo sat alone in his office, jacket off, tie loosened, one hand pressed subtly to his abdomen.
The ache was worse now. Suppressants could only hold so much at bay, and he had been pushing too hard again. His breathing grew shallow. He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and withdrew a small, sleek bottle of pills. The last dose rattled against the plastic.
He stared at it for a moment before swallowing it dry. The bitter taste coated his tongue, the familiar cold relief seeping in. Within minutes, the pulling ache dulled, replaced with the sharper, more traditionally "Alpha" musk that would mask what he truly was.
Behind him, the door clicked open.
"Still here?" Minjae leaned casually against the frame, holding two takeaway cups. "I figured you'd skip dinner again. So I brought coffee and sandwiches."
"I told you to go home after the reports were filed." Jisoo's tone was even, though irritation pricked at him. He hated being seen like this—tired, vulnerable, needing.
"And I told you I don't listen." Minjae walked in, placing the food on the desk. His gaze flicked briefly to the pill bottle before Jisoo could push it back into the drawer. He didn't comment, but his eyes lingered, sharp and calculating despite the smile curving his lips.
Jisoo's pulse jumped. For a fleeting second, he wondered if Minjae could smell past the suppressant's false cover.
He forced his tone colder. "Don't presume familiarity. You're my assistant, nothing more."
Minjae chuckled, soft and infuriatingly unbothered. "Of course. Just your assistant."
But when Jisoo finally looked up, Minjae's eyes were already on him—bright, knowing, as if he saw straight through the mask.
That night, long after Minjae had left, Jisoo found himself staring at the city lights from his office window.
He told himself the ache in his chest was just exhaustion. That the tightness in his throat was only hunger. That his assistant's gaze hadn't unsettled him, hadn't felt like the first crack in a glass mask he'd worn all his life.
But as his reflection stared back at him in the glass, he didn't see the unshakable Alpha the world worshipped.
He saw a man holding himself together by pills and lies.A man one step away from shattering.
And in the faintest, cruelest whisper of thought——he wondered if Seo Minjae already knew.