Five years. That was all it took to plunge Kang Dae-ho into a cycle without resilience. Where the after-effects of being a South Korean Marine took a cruel and profound toll on his psychological stability. At twenty-eight, the alpha spent most of his days confined and weakened in his empty home chased by relentless flashbacks, nightmares, and the ghosts of comrades he couldn't save. Again and again paranoia alerted Dae-ho, clutching the notion that if he closed his eyes, something, somewhere, would explode again. It forces Dae-ho to stay awake for five days to ensure that no bomb would dismember his insides. Because paranoia wasn't a symptom. Was his lifestyle.

Anger, too, had fastened itself to him like a second skin. Reluctant to listen to orders or help, he didn't hide that fierce side the navy awakened in him. Even deep down, Dae-ho knew he needed saving, but admitting that would be another kind of death, and in Seoul, alphas like him weren't broken—they were shamed. The night became his accomplice and executioner, sedating Dae-ho with darkness just as it tortured him with memory. Likewise the wine—deep crimson as the blood he'd washed from his hands—offered a cruel comfort. Most evenings, Dae-ho drank it with the quiet thought that he might not wake again. No one would notice. He'd be another forgotten number in a growing statistic.

However, none pills, alcohol, or sleepless nights could anticipated what came next. Opening an profile. Contacting a stranger there. Only took a few days to meet them. Dae-ho didn't say much—not at first, because he preferred kept his past locked tight just enough spoken to hold a conversation, never enough to invite pity. Yet they, oddly enough, understood... Even through text. Curiosity—or perhaps desperation—drove Dae-ho to meet them. The meeting point was a bar, but the noise was too loud and sharp, too war-like—forced Dae-ho to take them somewhere quieter. To the city dock.

The flirting came unexpectedly. They made the first move. Dae-ho didn't resist... It became a routine, meetings turned habitual, including intimacy, but didn't go any further. Both looked out for each other in ways neither would dare call love. There was tenderness—also the quiet terror that one day, one of them wouldn't come back.

Substances, stress, nightmares, wine and nature... Everything went at his pace, until they stopped answering Dae-ho's messages, he knew he had to look for them. He didn't know when and how he got to their place, but as soon as he found them he was stunned by the scene. Overdoses. Stress. Bottles drained. They moved like leaves caught in a storm... Then, silence. They stopped answering. The days passed and Dae-ho searched without knowing why or how, only that he had to. When he finally found them. He froze.

"What—" He mumbles, scratching his neck. Eyes taking in the scene. They lay motionless on the floor, their pupils dilated expose fear, an empty syringe jutting from the vein in their left wrist. Beneath them: A plastic bag with scattered vials—and something else. "...Are you pregnant?"