Across the city, in a world completely removed from executive offices and billion-won debts, Park Jihoon was having the worst day of his week. Which was saying something, because this week had been spectacularly terrible.
"I specifically asked for the bag in navy, not black! Are you incompetent? Can't you tell the difference between navy and black?"
The Omega screeching at him was around fifty, dripping in designer clothes and the kind of jewelry that cost more than Jihoon's yearly salary. Her hair was perfectly coiffed, her makeup flawless, her nails so long and sharp they could probably be classified as weapons. Everything about her screamed old money and new plastic surgery.
Jihoon kept his expression carefully neutral, his customer service smile fixed in place even though he wanted nothing more than to point out that navy and black did, in fact, look nearly identical under the boutique's lighting, and maybe if she'd actually used her words and specified more clearly instead of waving her hand vaguely at the display, this whole misunderstanding could have been avoided.
But he didn't say that. He couldn't say that. Because he was an Omega working retail, and Omegas working retail learned very quickly that the customer was always right, even when they were absolutely, unquestionably wrong.
"I sincerely apologize for the confusion, ma'am," he said, his voice soft and deferential. Everything about his posture screamed submission: shoulders slightly hunched, head bowed, hands clasped in front of him. It made his inner Omega want to bare its teeth, but his inner Omega didn't pay the rent. "I'll retrieve the navy bag for you right away."
"You should have retrieved it the first time! This is unacceptable! I shop here regularly, and I expect a certain level of service. This is why I prefer female Omega or Alpha sales associates. At least they have some competence."
The words stung more than they should have. Jihoon had heard variations of this sentiment his entire working life, but it never quite stopped hurting. He bowed again, lower this time, and scurried off to find the correct bag.
The boutique was one of those aggressively high-end places where everything cost a month's salary and came in a box far bigger than the actual item. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors, soft lighting, classical music playing at a volume designed to make customers feel sophisticated. The air smelled like expensive perfume and judgment.
Jihoon found the navy bag (which looked exactly like the black bag, thank you very much) and brought it back to the angry customer with another apologetic bow. She snatched it from his hands without a word of thanks and flounced toward the register, where one of Jihoon's coworkers would have to deal with her next.
His manager, a severe Alpha woman named Cho Areum who seemed to exist in a permanent state of disappointment, materialized at his elbow like a particularly unpleasant ghost.
"Jihoon-ssi."
"Yes, manager-nim?"
"My office. Now."
Jihoon's stomach dropped. He followed his manager through the back of the store, past the break room where his coworkers studiously avoided eye contact, and into the cramped office that smelled like stale coffee and crushed dreams.
She didn't sit. Instead she stood behind her desk, arms crossed, her expression as cold as her pheromones.
"That's the third complaint I've received about you this month, Jihoon."
"I apologized to Mrs. Kim immediately. I brought her the correct item—"
"The correct item should have been brought the first time. Our clientele expects perfection. They don't want excuses."
"I understand, manager-nim. It won't happen again."
"See that it doesn't. You may have fancy degrees and academic honors, but that doesn't mean anything if you can't provide basic customer service. I expect better from my employees, especially my Omega employees. You're representing not just this boutique, but all Omegas in the workplace. Remember that."
Jihoon bit down on the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood. The double standard was glaring. When Min-jae, one of the Alpha sales associates, had accidentally sold a customer a damaged purse last week, he'd gotten a friendly warning. But when Jihoon made the smallest mistake, it was a referendum on all Omega kind.
"Yes, manager-nim."
"You're dismissed. And pull yourself together. You look exhausted."
Because I am exhausted, Jihoon wanted to scream. Because I work full-time and take care of a toddler alone. Because I haven't slept more than four hours a night in two years. Because my breasts hurt from nursing and my ex-husband hasn't sent child support in three months. Because I'm twenty-four years old and I feel like I'm sixty.
But he didn't say any of that. He just bowed again and left the office, his customer service smile cracking the moment his back was turned.
The rest of his shift passed in a blur of demanding customers, judgmental looks, and the kind of bone-deep weariness that came from constantly having to prove your worth. By the time the boutique closed, Jihoon felt like he'd aged several years.
He changed out of his uniform in the employee bathroom, trading the uncomfortable heels and fitted dress for something more practical: jeans, a soft sweater, and worn sneakers. He caught sight of himself in the mirror and winced. Mrs. Cho was right about one thing: he looked exhausted. There were dark circles under his eyes, his hair was a mess, and his skin had that particular pallor that came from too much stress and not enough sleep or nutrition.
When had he started looking so worn down?
His phone buzzed with a text from his best friend, Taeyeon: 'OMG YOU WILL NOT BELIEVE THE DATE I JUST HAD. This Alpha was a DISASTER. I need to vent. Coffee tomorrow?'
Jihoon stared at the message for a long moment. He loved Taeyeon, he really did. His best friend was one of the few bright spots in his life. But right now, he couldn't muster the energy to hear about another bad date. He couldn't muster the energy for anything except picking up his son and collapsing on the couch.
He typed out a quick response: 'Long day. Rain check?' and immediately felt guilty. Taeyeon was always there for him when he needed to vent about his own problems. The least he could do was return the favor.
But Taeyeon, bless him, just sent back a string of understanding emojis and a heart.
'We'll catch up this weekend. Take care of yourself, babe.'
Jihoon pocketed his phone and headed out into the cooling evening air. The subway was crowded with the post-work rush, bodies pressed together in a way that would have been uncomfortable if Jihoon wasn't so used to it. He found a spot near the door and let his mind drift as the train rattled through the city.
Rent was due in a week. He'd have enough to cover it, but only if he skipped buying new clothes for Haneul, who was growing at an alarming rate and kept outgrowing everything. Maybe he could ask his mother... No. His mother had already helped so much after the divorce. He couldn't keep running to his parents every time money got tight.
Maybe he could get another job on the side? But that would mean less time with Haneul, and he already felt like he was missing everything important. His son's first steps were seen through a video by his babysitter from back then rather than in person. His son's first steps, and Jihoon hadn't been there to see it.
The train lurched to a stop at his station, and Jihoon shuffled out with the crowd. The daycare was a fifteen-minute walk from the subway, and by the time he arrived, most of the other children had already been picked up.
Song Yoonmin, the primary caregiver, an omega as well, greeted him with a sympathetic smile. "Long day, Park-ssi?"
"Is it that obvious?"
"Only a little." She disappeared into the back room and returned with Haneul, who was crying softly, his little face red and blotchy. "He's been fussy all day. I think he's teething again. Poor little thing."
"Eomma," Hanuel cried as he stretched out his hands towards Jihoon, wanting his mother.
Jihoon's heart clenched as he took his son into his arms. At two years old, Haneul was a perfect miniature of himself: dark hair, big eyes, chubby cheeks. He was wearing a matching dinosaur shirt and shorts set that Jihoon had bought him last month, and there was what looked like pureed carrots stained on the collar.
"Hey, baby," Jihoon murmured, pressing a kiss to Haneul's hot forehead. "I'm here. Eomma's here."
Haneul's cries quieted to sniffles, and he buried his face in Jihoon's neck, seeking comfort in the familiar scent of his mother. His little fist tangled in Jihoon's hair, holding on tight.
"He didn't nap well either," Miss Song continued, her expression apologetic. "And he hardly touched his lunch. I tried everything, but he just wanted you."
Guilt, sharp and familiar, twisted in Jihoon's gut. "I'm sorry. I know he's been difficult lately—"
"Don't apologize! He's two. Fussiness comes with the territory. I just wanted you to know so you're prepared for a long evening."
Jihoon thanked her and hefted his son higher on his hip. Haneul was getting heavier by the day, and Jihoon's arms protested the weight, but he didn't put him down. Haneul needed the comfort, and honestly, so did Jihoon.
The walk home was slow. Haneul was heavy, and Jihoon's feet hurt from standing all day in heels. The evening air was crisp, autumn settling over Seoul like a comfortable blanket, and normally Jihoon would have enjoyed the walk. But tonight, all he could think about was getting home, getting Haneul fed and bathed and into bed, and then maybe, if he was lucky, having five minutes to himself before passing out.
His apartment building was nothing special: a middle-income complex with peeling paint and a temperamental elevator. But it was home. It was safe. It was theirs.
Jihoon climbed the stairs to the third floor (the elevator was broken again, naturally), unlocked the door to apartment 304, and stepped into the small space that he'd tried so hard to make cozy. The living room was tiny, dominated by a secondhand couch and a small TV. Haneul's toys were scattered across the floor in a colorful mess. The kitchenette was just big enough for one person to cook in. The bedroom was barely large enough for his bed and Haneul's crib.
But there were pictures on the walls. Soft blankets on the couch. Plants on the windowsill that Jihoon somehow kept alive despite his schedule. It wasn't much, but it was more than what some people had. He reminded himself of that every time he felt the weight of his situation pressing down.
He settled onto the couch with Haneul, who was still sniffling, lifted his sweater and unclipped his nursing bra. As an omega, he had breasts, they were barely pronounced before he got pregnant, but after having Haneul, while they weren't big by any means, they were very much prominent and an obvious indicator of his subgender.
Breastfeeding a two-year-old was considered extended nursing by most people's standards, and Jihoon had gotten plenty of judgment about it from his mother, from coworkers, from random strangers on the internet who felt entitled to opinions about his parenting choices. But it was free, it was convenient, and it comforted Haneul when nothing else would.
Besides, it was about all he could give his son right now. He might not be able to afford expensive toys or trendy clothes or a bigger apartment. But this? This he could do.
Haneul latched on immediately, his little body relaxing against Jihoon's chest as he nursed. The tension in his face eased, the tears stopping as familiar comfort took over. Jihoon turned on the TV with the remote, flipping to some mindless variety show that he wasn't really watching.
His mind was already cataloging everything he needed to do: give Haneul a bath, put him to bed, meal prep for tomorrow, do laundry, maybe pay some bills, definitely collapse into bed and try not to think about how he was going to do this all over again tomorrow.
This was his life now. This was what being a single Omega parent looked like.
The knock on the door, when it came, was sharp and authoritative; the kind of knock that said whoever was on the other side wasn't planning on being ignored.
Jihoon frowned. He wasn't expecting anyone. His parents would have called first. Taeyeon would have texted. The landlord had already collected rent for this month.
The knock came again, more insistent this time.