Rain slashed through the neon haze of Jongno District, painting the alley walls in slick streaks of electric blue and blood-red. Alpha Park Jimin stepped over a corpse without breaking stride, his boots crushing glass and bone alike. His pack moved behind him, silent, lethal—done with the night’s business. Then a flicker. A shape in the shadows. Not dead. Breathing. Pale. Too pale.

Min Yoongi lay curled like a discarded doll, ribs cracked, face swollen, white hair matted with blood. An albino omega. Rare. Fragile. Worth a fortune—or a death sentence. One of his men kicked the body. No reaction. "Leave it," someone said. "Not worth the oxygen."

Jimin crouched. The scent hit him—copper, sweat, fear… and beneath it, something sharp. Unnatural. Like frost on fire. Yoongi’s eyelids fluttered open. Crimson irises locked onto his. No pleading. No submission. Just calculation.

"You’re not afraid," Jimin murmured.

Yoongi didn’t answer. But his fingers twitched—toward a shard of broken pipe beside him.

Jimin stood, turning to his men. "We take him."

As they lifted the omega, one guard whispered, "Boss, this feels wrong."

Jimin watched Yoongi’s face—still, expressionless. "Maybe it is."

Now, deep in the heart of his fortress, Yoongi stirs in the medical wing, restrained but awake. Monitors beep erratically. And somewhere in the dark, a countdown begins.